by C. R. May
The step back reopened the gap between them but this time it was the Englishman who was on the attack and Eofer grabbed at the opportunity it presented to finish his opponent. Black beard was blinking away the blood from his eyes as Eofer snatched his short seax from its scabbard, throwing his head forward a final time as the knife came free. Movement at the corner of his eyes caused him to stay the thrust as the Briton’s cantrefs saw that their leader was losing the fight and moved to his aid, but a blur of colour and the crash of wood and metal told Eofer that his own men had finally arrived to support his attack. Blinded by the blood in his eyes, the Welsh leader never saw the flash of steel as Eofer twisted his wrist, angling the short blade to stab upwards. An explosive gasp washed over the eorle as the chieftain reeled under the attack and Eofer twisted the knife, sawing upwards to open the wound as he drew back his arm and stabbed again. He felt the Briton weakening a little more with each plunge of the short sword, and as the man began to totter he shoved him away.
The surrounding area was clear now as the duguth drove the Britons further into the fort, and Eofer dropped the seax as he prepared to finish the duel. Attached to his wrist by a short leather lanyard the handle of Gleaming was back in his hand in the blink of an eye, and the Engle swept the broad blade in a low scything cut as the man began to stagger. To his surprise and disappointment the Briton saw the strike before it connected with his knee, and Eofer tried to pull the stroke as his opponent dropped his shield to deflect the blow. As shield and sword were swept aside, Eofer’s head shot forward a final time to hammer into the ruin of the chieftain’s face. The man was blind now as blood sheeted from his temple, and Eofer moved in, sweeping Gleaming around as he renewed the thwarted attack. This time the strike got through, and the British war leader finally crumpled as Gleaming cut deep, smashing bone and severing tendons as Eofer slid the sword clear and hacked again. Already a bloody mess the follow-up blow cleaved the joint in two, and a look of disbelief crossed the Briton’s face as he finally went down.
The immediate danger over Eofer took a dozen paces aside, wincing as the pain which had plagued him since the attack on the boat redoubled. He fished inside the pouch which hung at his belt for a finger full of the honey mixture, raising his eyes to scan the compound for the first time since he had made his one man attack.
Horsa was leading Octa, Osbeorn and Einar in a frenzied assault on the remainder of the British warriors, hacking and slashing at the unarmed men as they attempted to retrieve their weapons and organise a resistance. Moving fast, Eofer could see that the four were on the brink of victory as men fell left and right under the silvered arcs of their sword swings.
Eofer scooped another dollop of the honied willow as he watched, sucking at the mixture as another wave of nausea washed over him. The fight on the right seemed to be going well, and the thegn cast a look across to the opposite side of the compound to see the results there. Finn had been entrusted with leading the youth against the workmen gathered around their cooking pots, and the thegn looked on with satisfaction as he saw that there too the fiend were being put to flight.
Suddenly a bell began to toll, the sound slight and irregular at first as the ringer fought against the inertia of rope and pulley, but within moments the bell was pealing loud and clear over the fighting in the compound below and the wider environment of the riverside itself. Eofer knew instinctively that it must be a warning signal, and he left the bloodied wreck of the chieftain on the ground as he began to seek out the source. He raised his eyes to the walkway which girded the walls of the fort, but the guards there had gone and there was no sign of any signalling device. The watchtower was still little more than the height of two men, and his mind raced as the sound of the bell continued to fill the evening air. Then he had it, and he leapt the hearth once again as he set off towards the far end of the compound.
Skirting the place where the duguth were cutting down the last resistance, Eofer saw for the first time the telltale glint of silver as his suspicions were confirmed. The church was smaller than he had expected, but the wooden cross above the gable confirmed that it must be the place as he pounded on.
Two warriors were flanking the doorway and Eofer could see immediately that unlike the men who had only a few moments before been relaxing at their evening meal, these were armed and ready, tough looking in mail and helm. He knew they would be much harder to put to flight, but the clang of the bell drew him on, and he increased his speed as he heard an answering bell chiming somewhere in the distance.
The secret was out, the warning sent far and wide, and the thegn knew now that time was against them. Already he could imagine horse-welsh throwing themselves into their saddles and spurring through the gates of the fort at Hreopedun to come to their countrymen’s aid. If mounted warriors were closer still Eofer and his men could be in even greater danger, and he prayed that the dark twins were nearby with the horses.
There was no time to take anything but the most direct route to the building, and the guards lowered their spears and brought their shields to bear as they prepared to defend the man inside. That man, Eofer knew, could only be the man he had seen at the river door, the churchman who had recognised him from the earlier attack at the farm, and Eofer cursed himself for listening to Ioan and his men and sparing the priest’s life there.
A petal of flame caught his attention off to the left, and Eofer slid to a halt as he looked across. Porta was touching a burning brand to a pile of hay as Beornwulf heaved more of the horse fodder to the base of the parapet with the tip of his spear, and Eofer cupped a hand, calling out as the easiest way to flush the priest from his lair revealed itself to him. The youth looked up as they recognised their lord’s voice, and they hurried across at his signal.
‘It may be a bit too late now that the warning has been taken up elsewhere,’ he smiled ruefully, ‘but I want to silence the bell and kill that bloody priest if I can before we leave this place. Porta, work your way quickly around the building. Touch your brand to the thatch and get it roaring as soon as you can. Beornwulf,’ he said, turning to the lad. ‘Let’s put your spear to better use. You can help me take on the guards.’ Eofer fumbled inside his pouch as another bolt of pain shot through his head, scooping another finger of Horsa’s painkilling mixture into his mouth as Porta bore away under a pall of smoke and flame.
He shot Beornwulf a look and a wink of reassurance that the pain in his head was bearable as he prepared to lead the charge, but the youth was indicating the church with a flick of his head as Eofer tightened the grip on his shield. The sound of steel on steel carried to him before his head had even halfway turned, and Eofer knew that the delay had thwarted his own attack. Horsa and the men had cleared the opposition and their momentum had carried them as far as the church, and he snorted as his suspicion was confirmed. ‘Come on,’ he said as the first flames began to eat at the eaves of the building. ‘Let that be a lesson: never pause during an attack, once your momentum stalls you quickly lose control. Let’s round up the horses, I am sure that Horsa and the duguth can take care of things there without our help.’
The garrison’s horses were corralled in the opposite corner of the fort and the pair doubled across as the fires began to take hold all about them. With the ending of anything resembling organised resistance to their attack the youth had moved on to the next part of the plan, pairing up and moving through the compound, carrying the flames of destruction as they went. As smoke and embers drifted in the warm evening air Eofer saw that the horses were growing panicky, tossing their heads, nostrils flaring at the nearness of the thing which animals feared above all other. The last thing that he needed that day was a kick or blow from a fear crazed horse.
‘Go and find Grimwulf,’ he said, ‘he grew up on a horse farm. Tell him that we need a man with his experience.’
The rhythmic tolling of the church bell faltered and then stopped completely, and Eofer glanced across in time to see the last of the guards there fall to Octa’s sword. Th
e roof of the building was ablaze from end to end, the flames roaring and leaping from a thatch which was tinder dry after the heat of the summer, but the duguth leapt the bodies of their foemen nevertheless, darting inside as Grimwulf appeared at his shoulder.’
Eofer looked at him in surprise. ‘That was quick!’
The youth smiled. ‘I was already on my way, lord. Horses hate fire, I knew that I would be needed. Beornwulf has already gone to open the gates,’ he said with a flick of his head. ‘I will handle this no problem, they are already tethered together I will have them good and safe in a trice.’
Free for the moment, Eofer looked back into the centre of the fort as the youth went about their tasks. The smaller gate, the one which had been slammed shut on them at the beginning of the attack, had been opened by the first men to follow him across the wall. Through it the youth had flooded in to wreak havoc among the workmen as they relaxed at the end of a long day, and Eofer felt a pang of pity at their plight. He would have spared them if he could, just as he had the men at the bridge, but they were the reason why the blow had fallen here. Deprived of the use of his skilled artisans and the means to finish his forts, Cynlas Goch and his army should delay their march until replacements could be brought east. He had bought his own prince and folk precious time. Bodies lay where they had fallen, pooling blood reflecting the flames which now surrounded them in a vision of the Christian hell.
A thought came to him then as he reflected on a fight now won, and he gathered up a small ale barrel and a pair of cups from its unseeing owner and walked back through the smoke. A flash, brighter, more intense than the rest caught his eye, and the English eorle raised his chin to watch as the flames consumed the red dragon flag of Powys.
The man was where he had left him of course, mortally wounded men usually are. Eofer set himself down onto a dead man’s stool, filled two cups and handed one across to black beard as he waited for the signal that they were ready to leave.
15
They paused at the tree line and looked back. Even at a distance the heat from the flames brought a blush to their cheeks, and the men of Eofer’s hearth troop stared in wonder at the destruction they had wrought. Horsa was the first to speak as the flames cast a glow over the darkening meadow and turned the river beyond to bronze. ‘It’s an amazing thing, fire,’ he breathed, putting into words the thoughts of them all. ‘It’s almost as if it is alive.’
Eofer nodded in agreement as he watched the fort burn in silence. As dry as old bones after the summer heat, the wood had come ablaze as soon as the torches were brought near. The palisade which crowned the earthwork banks was already a perfect ring of fire, the flames, red, orange and yellow, leaping and curling in the soft evening airs. At the centre of the fort the flagpole was now a flaming wand, as movement across the river caused Eofer to raise his gaze and look to the north. He motioned with his head. ‘A few more moths drawn to the flames.’
A mile or so from the northern bank of the Trenta, the age polished sets of Ryknield Street ran as straight as any spear shaft. It was the main route east for the army of Cynlas Goch, and a detachment of riders were walking their mounts down towards the river as they too became bewitched by the sight of the fort’s fiery end.
‘Well, that should help spread the news well enough,’ Horsa replied, ‘that and the bell.’
‘And the smoke,’ Eofer added as he switched his gaze skyward.
The pair watched as waves of smoke as black as night billowed and boiled above the dying fort before the higher winds teased it apart and carried it off to the east. ‘That will be the supplies.’
Eofer smiled to himself and sucked his teeth at the thought of a job well done. They had made a pile of all the building materials and tools they could find. Most of the ironwork, hammers, saws and the like, had disappeared beneath the surface of the Trenta, but the larger items had joined the rest of the supplies; soaked in the pitch and tar of the woodworkers’ trade, they had added to the roaring inferno as they led the last of the horses through the gate. If he had the right of it, Eofer had now denied the army of Powys not only their skilled artisans but the tools and supplies essential to their work. The next fort along the chain, the big one at Hreopedun, was little more than a shallow ditch and bank as the men there waited for the carpenters and smiths to complete their defences. With those skilled workers now gone, the fort would remain little more than a four cornered earthwork deep in enemy territory.
‘It was a shame that he got away, though. Who would have thought that a church would have a rear door for the priest’s personal use?’
Eofer looked at his weorthman. ‘Gildas?’ He raised his chin towards the river. ‘It would seem that he is a hard man to kill.’
Horsa let out a long, low whistle. ‘The bastard has got more lives than a cat.’
Beyond the fort a familiar bedraggled figure was hauling itself up the far bank and waving frantically to the horsemen there.
The eorle shrugged. ‘I have a feeling that our paths will cross again, I should have hit him harder that first time. Come on,’ he said, as the riders on the far side grew nearer. ‘We have given the hive a good shake, let’s be on our way before the bees swarm. We have a far sadder duty before us.’
The pair hauled at the reins, turning the heads of their horses to the south. The others were waiting patiently for the senior men to lead them away from the scene of their triumph, and Horsa spoke to Osbeorn as the horse came up.
‘We tried to tell you mate.’
Osbeorn returned a blank look. ‘Tried to tell me what?’
‘The guard, back there at the riverside. The one you stuck at the start of the attack.’
Osbeorn still looked nonplussed. ‘What about him?’
‘His last word was Hermann.’
Dawn’s golden light was washing the meadow as they broke free from the trees. The grey line of Watling Street crossed their path a mile ahead, and Eofer turned to the scout with a smile of gratitude. ‘Well done, Einar,’ he said. ‘No hound dog could have found their way through the backwoods with a greater sense of direction.’
The Geat smiled his thanks as the others came up, the smile echoed on the grateful faces which clustered around them. ‘The backland was my home as a boy. We have places which have yet to feel the press of a man’s footfall in the forests of Geatland. That,’ he said with a shrug, ‘was an evening stroll.’
Free of the gloom at last, the war band tossed their torches aside as Eofer pointed the nose of his mount to the east. Gaining the roadway they made good time, and within the hour their destination hove into view on its mound. Eofer shielded his eyes against the glare as he took in the sight. Tamtun had grown, doubled in size it looked to him, in the first month of its existence. The rough palisade which girdled the crown had been strengthened by low watchtowers at each corner and a further wooden wall had been added, reaching down to gather in the track which meandered its way upwards from the riverside. A sturdy gatehouse guarded the entrance to this outer defence and Eofer could see the returning light glinting from the spearpoints of the sentinels on watch there. Haloed by the rising sun, the hall of the thegn of Tamtun rose high above it all, the golden thatch and painted beams bold in their newness.
The mournful note of a war horn sounded across the vale as they came into sight of the watch, and Eofer called across his shoulder as they plodded towards their destination. ‘Grimwulf, hoist the herebeacn. Let them know who we are.’ The war banner opened with a crack, and Eofer gave in to temptation, casting a backwards glance, thrilling to the sight as the burning hart caught the sun.
As he turned back Horsa was pointing ahead. ‘Do you want me to take a couple of lads and see to our friends?’
Eofer lowered his gaze and scanned the road ahead for the first time. A small group of horsemen had gathered to one side of the path, the pale oval of their faces turned towards the newcomers, and he wondered that he had not noticed them before. Horsa read his mind and snorted. ‘I only saw them w
hen one of the horses shifted, lord. Tired eyes,’ he said with a weary smile, ‘that was a long night. Shall I go or not?’
Eofer could hear the reluctance in his weorthman’s voice, so it was a relief to them both when the riders revealed their identity by their actions. Throwing themselves onto the backs of their horses, they put back their heels and raced away to the south. Eofer shook his head. ‘Men of Powys, sent to keep an eye on our boys. Let them go, it can only help our cause if they report that the number of English warriors here have increased still further.’
‘They knew our herebeacn straight away,’ Horsa said with a look of pride. ‘If they recognised us by our war flag, you know what that means, lord?’
The ends of Eofer’s mouth curled into a smile as he realised what his duguth was getting at. ‘They know our war banner either by sight or reputation and they don’t fancy meeting us if they can help it.’ A flash of wolfishness came into his eyes, despite his fatigue. It had been a full day since any of them had enjoyed a wink of sleep. The crack to his own skull at the bridge and during the fight with black beard at the fort had been draining enough, but the entirety of the night had been taken up peering into the murk as Einar had led them southwards by use of badger runs, deer tracks and the like. It had kept them safe from any pursuers bent on taking a blood price for the butchery at the fort, but a night spent under torchlight had taken its toll on tired eyes. ‘You are right,’ he replied. ‘I doubt that tales of king slaying in far off Swedeland and hall burnings among the Danes and Jutes are a staple of Welsh bards. They know us and fear us by our deeds here, in Britain.’