The Scathing

by C. R. May

  ‘Right,’ he breathed, as men stared at the earthen walls opposite. ‘Helms on.’

  Unhooking his own battle helm from its carrying hook, Eofer took a final look at the piece, running a finger through the road dust on the plates as his men hoist their own. Four panels set into cross bands of iron, the whole given a sheen of silver by smith-cunning: Weyland’s work back in Engeln. The full faceplate a mass of writhing wyrms, a wild boar standing silent guard over each eye. The walu, the great domed crest which ran from front to back to protect his head from sword swing or the frenzied hack of an axe, a zigzag pattern of dark and light bands running down to the head of the dragon itself and the red garnet eyes gleaming between his own.

  A metallic jangle came from either side as the men of the Mercian army heft their own helms. It was time, but the thegn took a moment to brush the smut from the dome as Horsa rolled his shoulders, warming blood and muscle for the hard work to come in the dawn. A final look around the plates as he did so, King Ongentheow falling to his old blade, Blood-Worm. He cast a thought back to a mist-filled morning back in the old country. He had left the blade there in the grave of his grandfather, as that man’s son had handed Gleaming to his own son and they had prepared to move west across the sea. Now Wonred too lay dead there; he hoped that the incoming Danes had given the old man a send-off fit for a worthy enemy. Woden riding down a fiend: the wolf-warrior dancers. He wiped the dust from his hand as he raised the battle helm, fumbling with the ties beneath his chin as the familiar weight pressed down upon his head.

  A twist to the rear. The storm front had not yet reached the horizon there, and the first glimmer was coming into the sky off to the east. Grimwulf was backing him up, and he exchanged a smile and threw a heartening wink as spears were hefted all along the line. The timing was perfect, and he turned his head back to the west and looked for a reaction. The gloom was drawing back like a receding tide as the day approached. More and more of the treelined slopes were hardening from the murk, inky black as the vale grew brighter despite the blackness of the clouds above. Shining Mane the sky-horse was approaching fast, hauling the sun back into the welkin as men shifted, chewed at lips and stared ahead.

  Horsa murmured at his side. ‘They must be blind, lord.’

  Eofer flicked a look back along the front rank. English spears were being raised, a thousand points of light flickering as they caught the first rays of the sun. He snorted. ‘Someone is about to get a nasty surprise, that’s for sure.’

  Suddenly it came, and the English line shivered in anticipation of the fight to come as the first flame winked into life on the rampart opposite.

  The need for concealment finally gone, Eofer raised his voice a touch so that the men of his troop could clearly hear. ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘no chants or war cries yet. Hold your position and keep your spear raised.’ He looked back across his shoulder and threw the youth a smile. ‘There are half-asleep men over there trying to work out why the eastern brookside has suddenly sprouted a sea of lights. Let them think that they are looking at will-o’-the-wisp awhile longer. There will be plenty of time for shitty breeks when they realise the truth of it.’

  Back on the ramparts more lights were appearing, the dancing flames moving backwards and forwards as their owners exchanged what little they knew about this phenomenon that had appeared in the dawn. A smaller flame detached itself from one of the brands, and the Engles watched as the point of light which marked the path of the fire arrow arced through the air towards them, and the first rumble of laughter came from the English ranks as they watched it plummet to earth fifty yards from their front ranks.

  Osbeorn spat in disgust. ‘As if we would stand in bowshot. It looks like today is going to be a pushover.’

  ‘More likely I will looking for another duguth before the day’s out,’ Eofer growled in reply. ‘If you underestimate your enemy, the chances are that you will end the day being scooped up by a battle-maiden and taken up to Valhall. You should know that well enough Ozzy,’ he said testily. ‘Every army contains its fair share of fools.’

  A blush of pink lit the men lining the earthen bank of Hreopedun fort, helms became gold, spearpoints flames, and Eofer knew that the sun had finally topped the trees of the spur behind him.

  In full view now, the English army came alive as the low mournful howl of a battle horn sounded from the centre of the ranks, and men laughed for the release as the answering war cry thundered out into the crisp morning air and the tensions of the night fled tight chests and fear twisted guts.

  Eofer turned back, shooting Grimwulf a grin as spears jabbed the air and men roared and hollered like madmen.

  ‘Harefoot.’

  ‘Yes, lord?’

  ‘Hoist the burning hart. Let them know how much trouble they are in!’

  ‘Yes, lord!’

  As the herebeacn caught the dayspring Eofer glanced to left and right, watching as the cumbolwiga of his fellow warlords followed suit, the standard bearers raising their own lord’s colours: reds, blues and golds gleaming in the dawn as they wooded the air.

  The strident blare of horns carried to them from the Welsh encampment, and the men on the earthen wall there could be seen scurrying to-and-fro as the scale of the threat which had materialised suddenly in the dawn became obvious. This was the full scale attack which both armies knew must come, neither side could dare to hunker down into halls and farms for the coming winter in the knowledge that their greatest enemy lay in strength less than a day’s ride from their hearth. They had thought to be the ones to strike, but Icel had stolen a march: the fate of Mercia now lay in the hands of the gods.

  As if to confirm the fact the first peel of thunder rolled across the valley of the Trenta, and the sunlight was extinguished as the clouds veiled the sky to the east. Hands were clasping gods-luck charms up and down the battle line as several guda led a struggling captive down the slope, but Eofer had seen it all before and he raised his eyes as he waited for the first enemy warriors to appear. A hush descended on the Engles as their priests forced the man to his knees and raised their faces to the sky, but Eofer kept his gaze fixed on the walls of the fort as the first signs of organised movement appeared there. The cries of the sacrifice ended abruptly, and Horsa noticed his lord’s disinterest in the proclamation and mumbled at his side: ‘Are you not interested in the god-signs, lord?’

  Eofer snorted, flicking a look down as the chief priest flourished a long curved blade and bent to open the victim’s chest. ‘How many fights have you been in?’

  Horsa puffed out his cheeks as he thought. ‘Countless small ones, but only four that you would call pitched battles.’

  Eofer was already looking back as the first British horsemen came from the fort, but he could hear the unspoken question in the tone of his man’s reply. ‘And how many times have the guda sacrificed to the gods between the armies and foretold the outcome in the poor sod’s innards?’

  ‘Half a dozen?’ Horsa replied with a shrug.

  ‘And of that half a dozen or so times, how many times have the priests told you to throw down your shield and save yourself while you still could?’

  Horsa’s laughter sounded unnaturally loud in the silence which had fallen on the field, and Eofer could sense rather than see faces turning their way in admiration and disbelief that they could joke at such a time. The thegn put their worries out of his mind; he knew that only fools cowered before the gods, and he watched dispassionately as the priest thrust his hand deep into the gore that had been a man.

  ‘My father once told me that the gods are powerful but fickle. Show them respect but place your trust in your own sword arm. It is good advice,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘It will serve you well if you live by it.’

  Horsa’s reaction was drowned out by a powerful wave of noise, and Eofer watched in amusement as the guda announced that the omens were favourable. The army of Powys was beginning to stream through the unfinished gates of the fort, and Eofer gave a grunt of satisfaction as h
e saw how disorganised they were. Men were still struggling into cloaks and war sarks, cramming helms upon their heads as they sought out their friends and headed across to gather beneath their lord’s banner.

  The first flash came as lightning arced, and Eofer counted in his mind as they waited for the thunder which would follow. It came soon, and he gave a snort of amusement as voices all around him confirmed his own count: Thunor’s cart was rumbling along only five miles distant and closing fast.

  The guda was facing them now, holding aloft what looked like a bloody heart, but all heads were turning to look away towards the river as the ætheling appeared there on horseback. The thunder was building as the storm approached, but Icel seemed oblivious to its violence as he hauled the reins and guided the majestic beast along the front of the shield hedge. The army quietened as the prince passed them, and Eofer studied the animal as it approached. The fine chestnut was a full stallion; he knew for sure because he had taken the horse from outside Cair Luit Coyt himself. Now its flanks shone in the gloomy surroundings, the high fronted saddle ablaze with gold and silver as it proudly paced the ground before them.

  Icel ran his gaze across the assembled men of Mercia, and the ghost of a smile came to him as he began to speak:

  ‘Well,’ he cried, ‘here we are, on the verge of our first great victory.’ He looked about him and pulled a face. ‘How do I know we will be victorious I hear you say?’ Icel cast a look across to the guda and back again. ‘Because the gods say so?’ He shrugged. ‘It can only help.’

  Eofer saw that men were beginning to exchange worried glances. This was not the type of pre battle speech they were expecting: fire and brynstān, an exhortation to grasp a chance for glory. The silence seemed to stretch forever as the ætheling’s horse walked on.

  ‘My work is already done,’ the man said finally. ‘The reason that you are here on this stormy morning made plain by better folk than I. Cast your mind back to the sights that we all witnessed in the valley of the Leir, and you will see the reason that you will win this day fixed in your memory. Greybeards, too old now to take up a war spear but not so feeble that they cannot help to put food into the bellies of their grandbairns this winter. Lines of women and children, barefoot in the stubble: Gefion and her maids, the old cider lord, King Gut-Rot himself! Now imagine that place if we fail here today. You have all heard the tales from the west, how English settlements have been singled out for destruction, their people enslaved or killed out of hand. I have been there, as have other men here, and we can tell you that those tales are true. The gods have handed us this chance to put an end to that war of annihilation, to send this Cynlas Goch to his God, where the Christian priests assure me he will answer for his sins. One of those futures will become a reality, on this day, in this place. It is in our hands. Let us make the best choice.’

  The sound of a war horn drew Eofer’s attention and when he looked back he saw to his surprise that Icel had dismounted. No cry of acclamation had greeted the conclusion of the ætheling’s speech, no baritus, the great war cry of northern folk had risen like an ocean roller to crash down onto the heads of the enemy, and Eofer feared that he had misjudged the mood. Icel retrieved his shield and spear from their carrying straps as a priest came to lead the horse away, the ætheling crossing to the men in the front rank of the English line to offer words of advice and encouragement.

  Hundreds of the enemy had left the fort in the time that it had taken him to make his short speech and the first horsemen were making their way towards the little bridge, but a slow drumming sound began to rise from the English shield wall, and Eofer felt a tingle of excitement as the steady thrum of ash shaft on lime wood board rose into the morning air. The beat pulsed with a terrible intensity and a look at the faces of the men holding the English shields told the thegn that his lord had pitched the battle speech just right. Outnumbered, the Engles and their British allies would need to fight a defensive battle until the horsemen from Lindcylene arrived to snap the trap shut on Cynlas Goch and his Powys’. A rousing speech was fine to whip up excitement in men prior to a headlong charge, to send fire coursing through their veins, but Icel’s words had produced the steadfastness, a grim determination in the thin line to hold on as they imagined the faces of loved ones back home who were depending on them to prevail. The upcoming fate of Icel’s horse would act to reinforce their resolve: their prince would stand alongside them, shoulder to shoulder: celebrate the victory with them or end the day bloodied on the turf.

  The horse had been hobbled and forced to its knees by the priests and the men looked on as the chief guda, his white robes already blood spattered from the earlier sacrifice, came forward to bring the blade of an axe crashing down upon its skull. As the horse collapsed and shook in its death throes, others were already opening the belly, scooping out great ropes of blue-grey gut as they thrust a hand inside to remove the liver. The crash of spear shaft on shield had become a deafening wall of sound, drowning out the ominous rumblings from the clouds overhead, and Eofer laughed despite the nearness of battle as Horsa leaned in and shouted above the din. ‘If I was a betting man, lord, I would lay good odds that these auspices will be taken very quickly.’

  British horsemen were across the bridge and beginning to angle upslope towards the place where the sacrifices had taken place, and Eofer smiled as the guda indicated that the signs were good, picked up the hems of their long robes and sprinted up the rise to safety. He flicked a look at Horsa. ‘They obviously opened the liver, poked about or whatever it is they do and decided that the gods were telling them, throw them a quick thumbs up and scarper!’

  The horse Welsh kicked in, their torsos already arching back as they prepared to throw the first darts of the day. English shields came together with a clatter as the horsemen approached in file before turning to canter along the length of the wall, and Eofer was pleased to see the men keep their discipline as the Welshmen released one after another. Despite the slope, the effects of height and speed would give the horsemen a far greater reach; that even the lowliest ceorl had seemed to understand the fact and resisted the urge for retaliation bode well for the day ahead. As the spears thunked into boards up and down the line, Eofer risked a look towards the bridge. The army of Powys was streaming across now, their leaders urging the men forward as they sought to make full use of the horsemen’s covering attack, and he gave a snort of irony as he saw the enemy doing exactly what they had hoped. If this was to be the battle to decide which nation ruled the valley of the Trenta nothing short of total victory would do. Already the red dragon battle flag showed where the tyrant himself had crossed to close with the English and, raising his gaze, Eofer felt a stab of hope as a lightning flash illuminated the bearskin clad figure of Seaxwulf Strang beneath his own war banner. The Saxon leader must have persuaded his paymasters that he would be best used as a reserve, and Eofer watched as he led his war band across to take up a position on the far bank of the brook.

  Made overconfident by their superiority in numbers, the army of Cynlas Goch had thrown caution to the wind in their excitement and desire to come to grips with the enemy. Despite its shallowness Hreopedun Brook was enough of an obstacle to deny a retreating army, its formation already shattered, any hope of maintaining a cohesive defence as it was chased from the field.

  Icel had instructed Thrush Hemming’s men, Hryp and Beonna, to wait at Bruidon until the men from Lindcylene arrived that morning before returning to Tamtun. Told of the new battle plan and their part in it, the mounted warriors of their allies would be perfectly placed to deliver the killing blow to Cynlas Goch’s hopes of victory. When the Lindisware did thunder along Hreopedun Brook later that morning, the British would be trapped in the field before him, unable to regain the relative safety of the fort and massacred to a man.

  Of course, Eofer reminded himself, if their allies were delayed or failed to arrive Cynlas Goch’s confidence could yet be well-found. If that was the case he could very well be looking out across his ow
n resting place.

  21

  ‘This is more like it,’ Osbeorn murmured at his side. ‘I have heard enough blather from these boys to last a lifetime.’

  Eofer watched as the bera serc strode free from the English line and planted his feet foursquare. The priests of both armies had seen him too, and Eofer snorted as he recognised the look of gratitude pass across the faces of both sets of men as they realised that their part in the day’s events were drawing to a close. It was an interesting thing, he decided as the bear shirt raised his shield and shook his spear in the first act of the challenge. Despite their hostility and bitter hatred of one another, it would seem that the holy men of both sides had more in common than they realised. Both were clearly running out of ideas and ways in which to enthuse their own worshippers, and the longer the confrontation had dragged on, the more desperate both sets of men looked for a sign that their spells were having some effect.

  The storm which had broken over them a short while before had initially been seized on as proof of the divine power of their respective gods but the men of both armies had suffered equally, sheltering beneath the boards of their shields as raindrops and large and heavy as berries had pummelled them. To the amusement of both shield walls the priests had had the worst of it, and their bedraggled appearance as the rain front passed and men reappeared from cover had caused a ripple of laughter to run through the men at both ends of the field.

  Clearly, the appearance of the champion could not have come at a better time for them, and the Christian priests thrust their crosses into the air, throwing a final curse in the direction of the accursed pagans at the top of the rise as the guda of Woden and Thunor mirrored their actions, raising rune-cut staves to hurl their own parting curses down the hillside. The stag priest of the English was last to leave the field, the horns and deer pelt shimmering in their dampness as he clouded the air with a handful of dust, cast a parting hex at the Christian fiend at the foot of the slope and followed his acolytes.