I opened my mouth, ready for a torrent of furious expletives, when Wulfwaru rushed past me and threw herself down beside the Hibernian. My words died on my lips as I saw how pallid he was. His sundered byrnie and the torn kirtle beneath it were both dark with blood, and his face was as grey as Skorri’s. Wulfwaru glanced up at me with tears in her eyes. Her hands were smeared in Cormac’s blood. Beneath her fingers I caught a glimpse of the gaping wound and the obscene jumble of innards within. I understood then that Cormac was not somehow less severely injured than I had at first thought. The wound he had sustained was mortal and he would die all too soon. My anger vanished, like the blood being washed away from Skorri’s cooling cheeks by the downpour. I knelt in the mud beside them. Wulfwaru was cradling Cormac’s head, smoothing his hair.
“Wulfwaru,” he whispered and a small smile played on his blue lips. “Did we win?”
“We won, Cormac,” said Runolf sombrely. Reaching down, he turned over his brother’s body. Skorri’s left hand was revealed. In it, he yet grasped in death a slender knife that he must have pulled from his boot. Runolf nodded and caught my gaze. Perhaps Skorri had meant to attack us one final time with that knife, or maybe he wished to be holding a weapon when death claimed him.
“Look, Cormac,” I said, my mouth dry. “Skorri had a knife. You saved me.”
He did not answer. I stared down at him. His eyes were unseeing. Drops of rain splattered into them and he did not blink. Water pooled on his face.
Sorrow filled me and I pushed myself to my feet. There was so much death there. So much suffering. I staggered through the injured and dead, hurrying now to the north of the hall. The time had come to finish this; to avenge Cormac and all the other fallen.
“With me!” I shouted, and the few remaining spear-men of Werceworthe fell into step behind me.
I left Wulfwaru weeping over Cormac, her tears falling onto the Hibernian’s upturned face, where they were intermingled with the blood and rain.
Fifty-Eight
The rain had made the smoke from the fires darker and denser. The land before the hall was thick with the fug of the burning buildings. Fighting yet raged near the trench. Several bodies were strewn about the pit and many more lay tangled and bloody within the thorny grasp of the brambles.
The Norse had crossed the obstacle and the defenders had been pushed slowly backwards. But despite their inferior numbers and most of the spear-men being untrained ceorls, Hereward’s small force had acquitted itself well. The Norse dead were heaped before the shieldwall and as we ran down the slope I could see Hereward, Drosten and Gwawrddur yet stood. Only three of the villagers fought on and my heart sank to think of the great losses of the people of Werceworthe.
As I watched, Drosten, a great axe in his hands, hacked into a shield. Using his prodigious strength he pulled the hide-covered willow board down, exposing the raider behind. Hereward roared, slicing his blood-drenched sword into the Norseman’s unprotected face. Beside Hereward, Gwawrddur carried no shield. Instead in each hand he held a sword. He parried a savage stroke with his right blade and, dropping to his knee in a fluid motion, thrust his left sword beneath his attacker’s shield and deep into his thigh. The Norse fell back from the vicious onslaught, a couple of the remaining villagers menacing them with their spears.
But the third villager was not wielding a spear. The dark-garbed man bore a shield and a gore-slick sword. As the Norse line took a step back, this swordsman sprang forward and cut into the foot of one of the retreating warriors. With a gasp as if I had been struck, I recognised the figure. It was Leofstan!
My mind reeled. How could this be? And yet there was no denying what my eyes beheld. My old master was fighting in the shieldwall, and judging from the speed with which he had attacked and then jumped back into position, he was no newcomer to battle.
I shook my head. There was no time to think on this; no time to hesitate, as Leofstan had told me. Fewer than a dozen Norse remained. We would end this now.
Flanked by the spear-men who had already blooded themselves against Skorri’s warband to the south, I staggered down the hill, brandishing my sword. I had no shield now, my shoulder screamed and my left leg throbbed with the effort of running. But I would not stand by while my friends fought. Together with the ceorls of Werceworthe, we could turn the tide and overcome the Norse once and for all.
As we neared the fighting, I heard Runolf’s bellowing cry from atop the hill behind me.
“Your jarl is dead!” he screamed in his native tongue. “Skorri Ragnarsson is dead!”
Turning, I saw he held his brother’s severed head by his mane of red hair. Gore dripped from the ragged neck.
The Norse hesitated. Their morale, already weakened by the terrible losses they had suffered, threatened to leave them completely at the sight of their leader’s disembodied head.
Hereward and the defenders paused too, taking a few steps backward to distance themselves from the attackers. Hereward could see me approaching with more men and was glad of the respite and reinforcements. His teeth flashed in a savage grin. He could scent victory now where not too long before he must have been sure all he would reap from this bloody harvest was the bitter fruit of defeat.
With a shock, I saw that one figure had not pulled back with the other men of Werceworthe. Gwawrddur sprang forward into the gap between the two lines of fighters. His blades flickered as he hacked and lunged. What was he doing? Was he mad? And then I understood.
While Drosten, Leofstan and Hereward had been distracted by Runolf’s gory prize, the Norse had quickly renewed their attack. As quickly as their morale had weakened, so their rage flared into a searing flame of fury and they came on again, blood-soaked blades dripping, intent on vengeance for their jarl and their fallen comrades.
Alone, Gwawrddur had seen the danger and he rushed to meet it. I screamed out a warning, but it was lost in the noise and distance.
The slim Welsh swordsman, his two blades flashing, leapt high, climbing the shield of the central man in a move that I would not have believed possible, if I had not witnessed it with my own eyes. His blades sliced down and he took the man’s head from his shoulders. Blood spouted high into the air. Leaping from the dying man’s shield, Gwawrddur spun towards the man on his right, his long sword flicking out and piercing the second enemy’s eye.
Gwawrddur cut into the forearm of a third man, who stumbled away from the Welshman’s glimmering blades. This was the stuff of legends. Scops would sing of Gwawrddur’s sword-skill in halls throughout the land. Such was his speed and prowess that for a heartbeat it looked to me as though he would slay all the remaining raiders unaided.
But alas, this was no bard’s song and Gwawrddur was but mortal. No man can tempt his fate forever. As Gwawrddur turned to face the fourth warrior, another slammed a short axe into the Welshman’s back. Gwawrddur spun around, slashing the sword in his right hand across the axeman’s eyes. He advanced on the remaining Norsemen. But his wound was deep and streamed blood. His strength would wane quickly. Even a warrior with his skill and bravery could not hope to be victorious standing alone against such odds.
But Gwawrddur was not alone.
Drosten let out a Pictish war cry and jumped forward, with Hereward and Leofstan on either side. A moment later, I reached them and together, with the spear-men of Werceworthe, we dispatched the last of the Norse warriors in a welter of slicing sword cuts, hacking axe blows and piercing thrusts of wood-tipped spears.
Gwawrddur had collapsed to the ground in the final assault and for a terrible instant I believed he had been slain. Then, with a groan, the Welshman began to push himself to his feet. Drosten stepped forward and helped him up.
“You are a selfish man, Gwawrddur,” said Hereward, removing his helm and running a bloody hand through his sweat-drenched hair.
Gwawrddur gave Hereward a twisted smile.
“How so?”
“Did you think to leave none of the bastards for the rest of us?”
&n
bsp; Gwawrddur winced with the pain from the cut to his back.
“Well, I had seen how slow you were, Northumbrian,” he said, his face expressionless. “You needed all the help you could get.”
Hereward grinned and Drosten laughed. But I could not bring myself to smile as I gazed about me at the destruction and death.
We had won, but at what cost? Was this victory worth what we all had lost? So many had died and the minster and houses yet burnt, coughing out thick belches of black smoke into the rain-hazed morning.
I panted, dragging in deep breaths of air. The smoke stung my throat. I stared about me at the blood-smeared corpses of men I had known as peaceful farmers. There was Freothogar, who was always cheery and baked mouth-watering cakes. There was Garulf, the smith. Their corpses now were twisted and broken where they had been slain. They were barely recognisable as the men I had known.
The defeat of the attacking raiders awoke a lust for blood in the remaining villagers, and they now hammered blows down on their enemies over and over until the Norse dead were more meat than men. I stepped back, allowing them their vengeance for they had lost many loved ones that day.
My hands shook and I wondered whether I was still the man I had been. Turning away from the death all about me, I knew I was not. I never would be that man again. Not truly. I was a warrior now, but I wanted no more of this killing. Not then. My heart quailed at the thought of fighting again. And yet, even if I were to cast aside my sword and eschew combat and return to the life of the brethren, the Hunlaf of before was as dead as the corpses scattered about Werceworthe.
I knew that to be the truth, but I pushed the thought aside. For all the while another thought whirled and fluttered in my mind, making me giddy.
Aelfwyn yet lived.
My sweet cousin lived!
But where she might be I would never know. Her whereabouts had been lost with the last Norse breath.
A voice cut through my thoughts. A man cried out in the Norse tongue, terrified and pleading. The villagers had not yet killed all their enemies it seemed. One man whimpered and wept as they kicked and hacked at him.
“For the love of Christ, stop this!” Leofstan’s stern voice sliced through the villagers’ ire, making them pause and look to him. The sight of his tonsured head and kindly face soot-smeared and splattered with blood filled me with dismay. I looked down to the blood-covered sword in his hand. As if noticing it was there for the first time, Leofstan shuddered and dropped the blade to the earth. My mind was full of questions, but I could not put words to them. I just stared at my old teacher, my mouth agape.
Runolf strode past us and into the midst of the villagers. I thought he meant to lay about him with his great axe, for it was clutched in his fist where his brother’s hair had been a short time before. But he merely shouldered and shoved the villagers aside.
“Leave him,” he snarled, his voice thick and deep.
The men of Werceworthe, blinking as if awoken from a dark dream, staggered back, pale-faced and frightened at what they had become. Runolf knelt beside the fallen raider. He whispered something to the man. The injured warrior shook his head and spat. Runolf put down his axe and then dug his fingers savagely into a deep gash in the Norseman’s stomach. The raider screamed in agony. Runolf whispered something else and the man groaned a reply that I could not hear. Runolf stood, retrieving his axe as he did so.
Looking about the corpse-strewn battlefield Runolf pointed to a discarded axe, smaller than his own, but deadly enough. Its iron head was smothered in blood. I wondered if it was Freothogar’s, or Garulf’s. Or maybe even Gwawrddur’s.
“Bring me the axe,” said Runolf.
In my confused state it took me a moment to realise he was speaking to me. I stumbled over to it, picked it up in my left hand, gritting my teeth against the pain in my back and shoulder, and went to the giant axeman.
“Place it in his hand,” he said, looking down at the stricken warrior. I could see his fresh, dark blood, wet on Runolf’s fingers where he had probed the man’s wound.
“But…” I said, unsure what words to utter, and yet certain I did not want to arm the last of the Norsemen.
“Do it,” Runolf growled. “He does not have long and I gave him my word.”
The man stared up at me, pleading with his eyes. He must have been a man of some standing, for his arms were encircled in silver warrior rings and a gold necklace gleamed at his throat. His body was full of deep wounds from spear, knife and axe. Perhaps God had spared him so that he could speak to us, for it must have been a miracle that he was not dead already.
Stooping, I placed the haft of the axe in his left hand. He gripped it feebly and a slight smile played on his features. His eyes took on a look of peace. I stood, pulling away from him and gasped as Runolf’s axe took the man’s head cleanly from his shoulders. The dead man’s legs danced, his feet further churning the earth. His hand convulsed on the axe, twitching the blade and making me start.
Blood began to pump out of his neck and into the rain-soaked earth. My stomach clenched, bile rising in my throat and I turned away. My eyes met Runolf’s.
“Now I will never know where Aelfwyn is,” I said.
Runolf had left his axe in the earth after cutting the head from the Norseman. Now he placed his right hand on my shoulder. His left hung at his side.
“I know where she is, Hunlaf,” he said. He glanced down at the decapitated corpse. “Haki told me.”
I felt a wave of hope.
“Where? Where is she?”
“She is far from here. Across the sea. In the land of my people. But Haki told me who Skorri sold her to. I know the man and where his steading is.” His face grew hard. “I too have a kinswoman I need to see again. She is not far from where your Aelfwyn is.”
“We must rescue her,” I said, my voice cracking. “To think of her there…” I chose not to dwell on the fate awaiting the other woman Runolf spoke of.
Leofstan stepped past me, stooped and tugged the ornate necklace free from the headless corpse. The metal gleamed, despite dripping with Haki’s blood.
“Looting the dead now, brother?” said Hereward. “I have to say, you fight like a warrior. It seems you plunder like one too.” He let out a barking laugh. Leofstan’s face clouded as he raised the necklace to the light. Ignoring Hereward, he turned to me.
“How?” I asked, still unable to form the question I wanted to ask.
Seeming to understand, Leofstan placed his left hand on my shoulder.
“I was not always a monk,” he said. “It takes a long time for some men to find their true calling.” Our eyes met and he handed me the necklace. I looked down. What I had first taken for the crimson of blood was in fact a dark red gemstone. It glittered in the early morning light. The jewel was held within an intricate nest of fine golden threads attached to a solid band of gold that had formed a torc around Haki’s neck.
“There is more than your cousin we must seek, Hunlaf,” Leofstan said, his voice hoarse with emotion.
I gazed at the trinket in my hands and my stomach lurched. This was from the cover of The Treasure of Life. There could be no doubt. Such a thing was unique, the work of a master craftsman.
“They took the book?” I asked in a quiet voice.
“If they did, we must find it. If this evil has descended upon the land because of that book…” His voice trailed off.
“It is just words, you said.” I stared into his face and saw the terrible confusion and grief there. “Just learning.”
“And if I am wrong?” he whispered. “I could not bear it.” He swallowed and rubbed a bloody hand across his face. “Perhaps there is no evil in the tome, but it must not be lost. We must find it.”
“But how?” I asked, a sense of despair threatening to overcome me. “Even if Haki told the truth,” I waved a hand at the body, not wishing to look at the accusing eyes that stared back from the severed head, “the ships are gone. Even if we had a crew to man them, we have no
way to get to Runolf’s homeland.”
Runolf grinned then and the sight of his white teeth, glinting from within his beard like the maw of a great bear, made me shiver.
“I never told you what I was known for back in my homeland, did I, Hunlaf?” he said.
His words meant nothing to me. I shook my head.
“No,” I replied, “but why speak of it now?”
His smile broadened and again I shuddered at his apparent merriment in the midst of so much death and pain.
“Trades run in families, do they not?” he asked.
“Indeed,” I said, wondering where he was going with this and wanting nothing more than to be far from the stink of blood and spilt bowels. “Often a son will follow in his father’s footsteps.” I thought then of my own father. He tilled the land, sowing seeds and harvesting his crops. Such was an honest occupation. I looked down again at the faces of Garulf and Freothogar. I was sure that their fathers had worked the land just like them. Gazing down at my own hand, I saw that it was caked in mud and blood and my sword nestled in my grasp as naturally as a plough is yoked to an ox. Some men it seemed strayed far from their father’s shadow.
“So it is with my family,” said Runolf. “My father was the best shipbuilder in all of Rygjafylki.”
At last I understood.
“And you have inherited your father’s skill?”
“No.”
Confused again, I found myself growing angry.
“Then why speak of it, man? Now is not the time for riddles.”
He laughed and the sound scratched at my nerves.
“I am not as good a shipbuilder as my father,” Runolf said and clapped me on the shoulder, making me wince at the pain. “I am better! Better than any shipwright who has come before me.” I stared at him. He had never spoken of this before. I recalled his duel with Skorri and the things they had said to each other. He had not told me he was Skorri’s brother either. I wondered how many other secrets the giant Norseman was guarding behind his piercing eyes.
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