Fortress of Fury

by Matthew Harffy

  “Death!”

  Three paces before they reached the Mercian line, the man lunged with his spear, as Beobrand had known he would. Catching the spear’s blade on his shield easily, Beobrand deflected it over his shoulder.

  Beobrand let out a vicious laugh. Gone was all fear. He felt not the pain of the burn to his hand or the sting of the smoke in his eyes. His doubts had been dispelled by the surging, terrifying joy of battle. All that remained was the enemy and Beobrand’s overwhelming desire to slay every one of them.

  “Death!” he howled, his face contorted into a mask of rage.

  And the shieldwalls collided with bone-shaking force.

  Chapter 28

  Beobrand slammed into the Mercian warrior, pushing him backward. The weight of the amassed boar-snout charge carried Beobrand on. As the broad-shouldered man before him stumbled, falling back in the face of the Black Shields’ assault, Beobrand lashed out with Nægling. The sword’s fine blade bit into flesh and bone. The enemy’s face was instantly smothered in blood and the Mercian collapsed to be trampled by the Bernician advance.

  Blood sheeted up from Eadgard’s axe blows, showering down on Beobrand. It was warm and viscous, yet strangely soothing after the onslaught of the flames. The metallic taste of slaughter clogged his throat. Beyond the huge axe-man, Grindan blocked a spear aimed at his brother’s chest. To the other side of Beobrand, Attor parried and riposted with his two deadly seaxes. He screamed a torrent of abuse at the Mercians and they seemed to cower before him.

  Beobrand hacked Nægling’s blade down onto a shining helm. It clanged against the metal, skittering down and smashing the man’s collarbone. The Mercian fell to his knees and Beobrand thrust his sword into the man’s throat.

  All was death and chaos now. Beobrand and the line of black-shielded warriors stamped forward. A hand grasped at his ankle and he sliced down with Nægling. They would leave none alive as they passed. Their advance slowed now, halted by the sheer mass of Mercians thronging the sloped path. Beobrand was dimly aware of shouted orders from the Mercian leaders, perhaps from Penda himself. The bellowing voices called for the men to stand strong.

  This was the crucial time, Beobrand knew. If the Mercians could rally, they might be able to push the Bernicians back towards Bebbanburg. The wind howled, the heat from the fire buffeting him forward, as if a great hand was pushing him, urging him on.

  “For Bernicia!” Beobrand screamed.

  With renewed vigour his Black Shields surged forward once more, slashing and cutting, shoving against linden board and iron shield boss. Eadgard battered a man’s shield aside, splintering the wood and shredding the hide covering. The Mercian was defenceless against the force of the attack. He had dropped his spear and was frantically trying to free a seax that hung from his belt. His fingers gripped the bone handle, pulling it from the leather sheath, his eyes blazing in triumph. A heartbeat later, he was grasping at the stump of his forearm, his face white, his eyes wide. Eadgard’s axe had taken his hand and the seax had fallen into the dust, still gripped in his now-severed fist. Dismissing the injured Mercian, the axe-man stepped past him and set about hammering his way further into the enemy ranks. Thus it always was with Eadgard when it came to battle. He became filled with such a fury and thirst for killing that he ignored all danger. Beobrand had thought they might be able to train him to be more thoughtful, to use his wits in battle, but after a time, it had become clear this would never happen. And so they put Eadgard’s terrific strength and focus to good use and he relied on others to protect him. Grindan always stood at his side, shield ready, his sword-blade flickering with great skill.

  But now, Grindan was locked in a struggle with a man almost as large as his brother. Grindan was not small, but the Mercian before him was a full head taller and Grindan was fighting to keep his feet as his massive assailant leaned on his shield. Another of Beobrand’s gesithas, Ulf, a burly, straw-haired warrior, clung to Grindan’s belt, lending his weight in the battle, but even with Ulf’s help, Beobrand could see it would be a close contest.

  His gaze flicked back to the man Eadgard had maimed. Blood spurted from his stump, but rather than tumble to the ground to allow death to claim him, as it surely would, the man’s face was set and grim, his teeth showing in a savage rictus of rage. Beobrand recognised the man’s expression. He had seen it many times before. It was the face of a true warrior. The man knew he was slain, but he would not be dismissed so easily from middle earth. He would take his slayer with him to the afterlife. With his left hand, the dying man snatched the seax from where it lay at his feet, pulling it from the fingers of his own cleaved fist. The Mercian spun around to stab the knife into the advancing axe-man’s back. Beobrand admired his single-mindedness, recognising himself in the man’s actions. He was almost sorry that the Mercian would have to die without tasting this final victory. But there was no time for sympathy in the shieldwall. Beobrand hacked Nægling into the warrior’s exposed neck. Blood spurted from the severed artery, spraying over Eadgard’s heaving shoulders. Truly defeated now, the dying Mercian slumped to the blood-soaked dust of the path.

  Oblivious to what was occurring behind him, Eadgard moved onward, his axe rising and falling before him, sending up clouds of splinters from shattered shields and a misting of blood from sundered enemies.

  The man holding back Grindan finally fell. Ulf had stabbed at his feet beneath the shieldwall, and a vicious sword thrust from Grindan had finished the task. The Black Shields advanced.

  Beobrand rushed forward to defend the axe-man, grunting as another spear gouged the hide and wood of his shield. Sweat ran freely down his face now, mingling with the soot and blood. His mouth was filled with bitterness. He spat over his shield into the face of the Mercian there.

  The walls were locked together; a heaving, groaning mass of bodies, wood, leather and metal. Now the real bloody work of the shieldwall would begin; the grinding down of wills and flesh in a maelstrom of killing that would see some men weeping for the release of death and others howling with the gleeful ecstasy of slaughter.

  Beobrand slid his sword down so that he could stab it under his shield. He rammed it forward, feeling it connect. But it did not cut. It scraped harmlessly against the long skirts of the iron byrnie his opponent wore. The man roared in anger, pushing hard against his shield and probing beneath the wood in an attempt to disembowel Beobrand with a wicked-looking seax. The links of Beobrand’s iron-knit shirt were well forged and the seax did not penetrate, but as the Mercian pulled the seax back, its sharp blade scored a line across Beobrand’s knuckles. Cursing with the pain, Beobrand punched his shield boss forward. It clanged against his assailant’s and Beobrand lowered his shoulder behind the board and shoved with all his strength. The Mercian slipped back a pace and Beobrand stabbed Nægling down into the man’s right foot. The warrior screamed and Beobrand twisted the blade free. Retreating a step, he glanced down at his right hand. Blood welled from the fingers that clenched Nægling’s grip. It stung as if his hand had been dipped into boiling water, but the cut was not deep and his fingers were still strong.

  The shieldwall lurched forward suddenly, catching Beobrand unprepared. Beircheart slammed into his back, pushing him once more into the Mercian shields.

  Beobrand knew instantly what had happened: the rest of the Bernician host had joined them and were pressing from the rear, anxious to wet their blades in the blood of the hated Mercian besiegers.

  “Sorry, lord,” Beircheart grunted, trying to push back on the tide of bodies that pressed them forward.

  Beobrand did not reply. The Mercian before him was still reeling from the cut to his foot. But due to the crush of men behind him, he was unable to back away from the Bernician advance and the tall thegn with the ice blue eyes who loomed above him. Beobrand used his height and weight to lever the injured man’s shield down, then, with the speed of a striking serpent, he swung Nægling up and over the shieldwall, lancing the patterned blade’s tip into the man’s face. Th
e sword penetrated the Mercian’s left eye and cut a great flap of skin from his cheek. The man dropped like a slaughtered bull and Beobrand stepped forward.

  “Let me take the first rank,” shouted Beircheart, and Beobrand nodded, slipping to one side and allowing the gesith to take his place. This was done in an instant and was only possible because of the countless days they had practised the move back at Ubbanford. Bassus was a hard man to please, and the men all resented his barked orders and incessant repetition until it came to the blood and death of battle, and then they loved him for it. Beobrand felt himself being carried forward and he saw that others of his gesithas had swapped their positions with those who had taken the brunt of the charge. Eadgard was still in the centre. He would not retreat and his axe glittered in the morning sun as it cast droplets of blood high into the hot air above them. Grindan too, remained in the front rank, protecting his brother’s flank with relentless skill and tenacity.

  For a moment, Beobrand felt a stab of guilt at having stepped back from the fighting. But that was foolishness and pride, he knew. He was formidable and would stand through the long day, dispatching all who stood before him, but Bassus, Bernicia’s old champion, had trained him and the rest of the warband well and they knew that to conserve their strength would aid them better than expending it all in a continuous onslaught. The Mercian host would not break easily and they would surely be dancing to the sword-song until the sun passed its zenith. In this heat, they would not be able to withstand such a prolonged assault without rest.

  The press of men was terrible. The heat and the cataclysmic crash of metal on metal assailed their senses. They jostled and shoved, all the while sweating beneath their war gear till their bodies were slick, their clothes drenched. Beobrand and the rest of the Black Shields threw off their sodden cloaks. They had saved their wearers from the worst of the fire, but now the heavy wool weighed them down. The discarded garments were trampled along with the dead and dying Mercians.

  Someone cried out for water, and what seemed like an age later, flasks were passed forward to the front ranks of the host. Beobrand drank sparingly, the warm liquid doing little to refresh him. Handing the leather flask to Attor, he prepared to take his turn once more at the front of the line where Eadgard still hacked and hewed with his hefty axe.

  And so the day wore on. Beobrand sheathed Nægling, uncaring of the blood that would congeal in the scabbard. His arm was leaden and his bloody fingers ached. He tugged his seax from its sheath and set about stabbing and chopping with its shorter blade. It was more suited to the butcher’s work of that long, dusty, broiling day than the lengthy blade of his sword. After a time, he was overcome with such tiredness that he barely bothered to raise his tattered shield, only lifting it at the last possible moment. He fought with an economical efficiency. Now was not the time for taunts or to win battle-fame by showing one’s sword-skill. This was the charnel house of battle and Beobrand killed without thought, relying on his skill and experience to find the gaps in the enemies’ defences. There was nothing else now, save for the clamour and stench of the battle.

  They fought for a long time like that, mouths too dry to spit and arms heavy, muscles screaming from the exertion and breath burning in their lungs. Before them, the Mercians fell, only to be replaced by fresh warriors. To one side of Beobrand, Dreogan received a slashing cut across his face, sending streams of crimson washing over the soot-tattoos on his cheeks. He fell back and Garr took his place. Beobrand cursed, wondering whether Dreogan would survive. Beneath the blood, the gesith’s skin had been pallid. Garr too looked pale and exhausted under the battle-grime that smeared his face. They were all on the verge of collapse.

  Gods, they had fought with the strength of wild boars, but they were but men. Soon they would be too slow to block the spear thrust, too tired to parry the striking sword. Beobrand’s mind was dazed. He tried to picture the warhost he had witnessed outside Bebbanburg’s gates. He imagined how many Mercians they had slain. Their broken bodies were heaped on the sloping path and many had been pushed to the side to tumble into the nettles and rocks. But however many they had killed, he could not believe they would vanquish them.

  The host of Bernicians led by Ethelwin might carry the day, but at what cost? Beobrand and his Black Shields would fall, he realised that now. He had not considered that the narrow pathway would mean that there would be no Black Shields standing by the end of the battle. But now he could see no other outcome. There was still a host of Mercians before them, and the amassed Bernicians behind meant there could be no retreat.

  He thought then of the crows he had seen in the sky. Was this Woden’s doing? How the All-father loved mayhem. Beobrand had oft felt like the plaything of the gods. Was this what they wanted? To see him crushed before the walls of the great fortress where his brother had died? Perhaps Ethelwin or Eanflæd would find his corpse and bury him beside Octa.

  Had he led his men from behind the walls of Bebbanburg to their deaths? This was his doing. But if the Bernicians seized the victory, was that not enough? Songs would be sung of this day; of the warriors smashing through the burning gates and hacking their way to victory. The numbers of dead would not matter. At least his queen would be safe. He was willing to die for Eanflæd.

  The thought of never seeing her or his children again filled him with a bitter sorrow. The sudden sadness was like the wind that blew across the embers of the fire at the gates. But the wind of his woe kindled the sparks of anger that lay deep within him, fanning them into a raging furnace of fury.

  If he was to die here, he would make the Mercians pay with seas of blood.

  “My brave gesithas,” he yelled, his voice cracking in his parched throat. “Are we truly going to let these Mercian curs hold us here?”

  “No!” came the ragged reply from Attor and Beircheart, both of whom were sweat-slick and blood-grimed. Their arms and faces were red with gore as if they had bathed in the entrails of their enemies.

  “Come, see there! Penda’s standard is near,” Beobrand shouted. “Let us take it. Now!”

  And with that, Beobrand sprang forward, stabbing and slashing with his seax, punching with his splintering shield. His Black Shields joined him, and he sensed Ethelwin’s warriors pushing forward too, lending their bulk to the renewed charge.

  Eadgard did not seem to pay any attention to his lord or the men behind him, but he must have heard Beobrand’s words, for he let out a huge roar and began to batter his axe into the foe-men as if they were so many saplings.

  Together, the Black Shields pushed forward. One pace. Two. Three. Beobrand rammed his seax into a bald man’s mouth. Such was the force of the blow that the man’s shattered teeth scratched against the cuts on Beobrand’s hand. He twisted the blade, wrenching it free with a great gush of blood.

  He was screaming incoherently now, his rage filling him with a feverish strength that could not endure. The fire would soon burn out, but until it did, Beobrand would slice through everyone who stood before him. Stamping forward, almost losing his balance on the soft flesh of the man he had just killed, he pushed with his shield, catching the edge of a Mercian board. The man was defending against Eadgard’s ferocious axe, leaving himself open to Beobrand’s attack. Too late he saw the approaching thegn, his eyes widening in fear as he watched death coming for him. Beobrand laughed and plunged his seax under the man’s arm. The Mercian’s mouth opened in dismay, but Beobrand could not hear his screaming over his own battle-cries.

  Eadgard and Grindan stepped forward, slaying two Mercians in as many heartbeats. Attor’s blades flickered, parrying a scything strike and then severing the man’s fingers.

  “Come and die on my blades, you piss-guzzling goat-swivers!” he screamed. “Die! Die!” He spun and took another Mercian in the throat.

  Garr somehow managed to trip the enemy before him as he tried to back away from the savage attack of the black-shielded warriors. The Mercian, a young man with a wispy beard and no moustache, sprawled in the blood-ch
oked dirt before Garr. The man’s head was bare, his helmet having toppled as he fell. Without hesitation, Garr hacked into the crown of the Mercian’s head, splitting it and spilling yet more gore onto the dust.

  They were close to Penda’s banner now. If they could keep up this pace, they might yet slay the Mercian king. But Beobrand could already feel his strength waning. The breath wheezed in his throat.

  “One more push,” he cried, stepping forward.

  And then he noticed there was a gap of clear earth before him. The Mercians were backing away, looking anxiously at the blood-drenched warriors and casting furtive glances behind them.

  “See, my brave warriors,” said Beobrand, barely able to get the words out, such was his shortness of breath. “The Mercian scum are retreating. They run from us.”

  He bent over, leaning against his knees while he tried to catch his breath.

  Taking advantage of the brief respite in the battle, Ethelwin and Reodstan pushed forward.

  “Lord Beobrand,” Ethelwin said, his eyes wide at the carnage he had witnessed, “you and your men have broken them.”

  “And now, we will finish them,” Beobrand panted, pulling himself up to stand straight.

  “It is our turn now, my friend,” said Ethelwin. “Drink and then follow us, for there is much slaughter still to be done this day.”

  “We will not rest,” said Beobrand. “You will need every shield, every blade.”

  He looked at where the Mercians even now were shuffling further away from them.

  “Aye, it is true, Beobrand,” Reodstan said, his red face gleaming in the summer heat. “But they no longer outnumber us as they did.”

  Beobrand shook his head.

  “We have slain so many?” he asked.