Geirmund shored himself and leapt at the nearest Saxon, swinging his sword and seax in a fury. The warrior took Geirmund’s first sword-strike with his shield, but staggered under it, and Geirmund swung again. This time the Saxon blocked with his sword and threw Geirmund’s blade and sword arm outward. Geirmund lunged forward, shouldered the Saxon’s shield aside and drove the seax backhanded into the man’s neck.
Before he had hit the ground, another Saxon charged into Geirmund like an ox, striking his chest with the heavy boss at the centre of his shield, throwing him off his feet. Geirmund stumbled and fell hard on his back, gasping for air as the man came at him with an axe.
Geirmund rolled aside, dodging the blade as it bit into the ground, then swung his sword blindly at the man’s legs. He missed, but the Saxon leapt out of the way, which offered Geirmund time to gain his feet. Then he rushed at the warrior, striking high so the man would raise his shield. Then Geirmund dropped and swung low, slashing the man’s knee with his seax. The Saxon’s leg buckled, and in that moment of imbalance Geirmund swung his sword hard at the man’s neck. The cut didn’t take his head, but it released his blood in a torrent.
Geirmund wheeled to face his next enemy, only to find Jarl Sidroc’s Danes in full, disordered retreat, fleeing towards the river. He caught a distant glimpse of Halfdan’s Danes and the Danes on the southern dun, and both now faced their own Saxon onslaughts.
He didn’t want to run, but he had no choice. The Saxons had routed them on this front, and to stand and fight there would mean death to the last Dane. But Jarl Sidroc had mentioned another river crossing further south, which might offer a way to circle around, join with Halfdan, and stay in the battle.
Geirmund sheathed his seax and gripped Keld’s sword, then turned and charged towards the river with the other Danes.
The Saxons pursued them, cutting them down as they caught them. Spears and arrows struck the water around Geirmund as he ploughed across the ford, dragging his feet through the current. When he reached the other side, he looked back and saw dozens of Danes half submerged in growing blooms of red.
Most of Jarl Sidroc’s warriors that made the crossing fled along the track to the south, but some ran northward, back towards Wælingford and death.
“Stop!” Geirmund shouted at them. “Stop, you fools! To Halfdan!”
A few heeded him, but most did not, and Geirmund left them to their fate.
For the next two rests the Saxons harried them, and those Danes that turned to fight were all killed. Geirmund felt the rage of battle subsiding within him, replaced by fear. His body weakened, exhausted by the day’s march, fighting, and flight, but on he ran as the sun touched the tops of the duns to the west. When at last he came to the bridge at Garinges, there were Saxons upon it, and more Saxons battling Danes on the other side of the river.
“We must fight our way across!” Geirmund said to the nearest warriors, perhaps eight Danes, and together they charged the bridge.
The Saxons there stood ready to receive them. Geirmund tried with all the strength he could gather to battle his way through, but before he had made it three fathoms a Saxon bludgeon struck his head and sent him over the side of the bridge into the river below.
13
When Geirmund next remembered himself, he was half floating in frigid water, and it was dusk. He looked around, shivering, and discovered he was somewhere on the shore of the river, caught in the bony fingers of a low-hanging branch, surrounded by the sounds of distant fighting, weapons ringing, warriors shouting and crying out in pain.
He then remembered the battle and the retreat of the Danes, and then the charging of the bridge, but nothing after. He decided he must have fallen into the river, but he had no idea how far it had carried him.
When he moved to find his footing on the river bottom, a wave of disorientation crashed over him, spinning his mind, and turning his stomach. He thought he might vomit, but he relaxed back into the water and let himself float there with his eyes closed until the feeling of swimming inside his own head had passed. A painful throbbing on the side of his skull reminded him that he had been wounded.
He knew then that he was in no condition to travel by foot to Readingum. He doubted he could even stay upright for more than two paces, and he certainly couldn’t defend himself from any Saxons that might find him. The river seemed to be his only means of escape, and since it had carried him that far, he decided to let it take him the rest of the way, if it chose to.
He wrangled himself free of the branch, and then the current took him, both pushing and pulling him downstream. He did his best to float with his feet first, and to avoid rocks and other obstacles, but he was largely at the river’s mercy. His body also wanted to sink, as it had in the sea. He would sometimes sputter and gasp when the water covered his face, but the river was smooth and shallow enough to mostly keep his head above it, except for his ears, which heard nothing but sloshing inside them.
Dusk turned to night, and the river turned black. The chill in the water reached Geirmund’s bones, and his mind drifted. He lost track of daymarks and distance, balancing at the edge of wakefulness and dreaming. When he looked up into the sky, he saw the stars and a moon halfway to full. He saw Steinólfur looking down at him from the ship, and the trees along the riverbank became the pillars of the drowned trees outside Völund’s hall. Then the moon was gone, and Geirmund wondered if it had already set, or if a cloud had covered it, or if it had simply gone out.
He bumped into things in the darkness, some of them immovable and bruising, some of them floating corpses, both Saxon and Dane, carried by the river just as it carried him, because the current made no distinction between the living and the dead.
The stars eventually faded, replaced by dawn’s first light in the sky, and Geirmund wondered how it could already be a new day. He heard voices nearby, and splashing, that were muffled by the river in his ears.
Then something seized his left arm, and his head came fully out of the water. “This one’s alive,” a voice said. “But not for much longer by the look of him.”
“Dane or Saxon?”
There was a pause.
“I don’t know.”
Geirmund heard more splashing and felt himself dragged against the current. He opened his eyes and saw the dim shapes of two men standing over him.
“He’s no Dane,” one of them said.
“He doesn’t look Saxon either.”
“He’s got a Saxon knife.”
“What should we do?”
“Same as the others. Take what we can use and let the river have the body.”
They were Danes.
Geirmund opened his mouth. “Northman,” he said.
“Did you hear that?”
“I don’t know; he–”
“Not Saxon,” Geirmund said, as forcefully as he could, but still barely a whisper. “I am... Northman. Geirmund, sworn to... Guthrum.”
There was a pause.
“Better take him to the tent,” one of them said. “Find out who he is.”
“Right. You take that side?”
Geirmund felt himself lifted, and his head lurched violently. Hearth-sparks and embers flashed in his eyes, and a pain assailed him as though some cursed blacksmith used his head as an anvil. He squeezed his eyes shut, and, when he opened them, he caught glimpses of an encampment, and then he was inside a tent.
“Lay him down there,” a new voice said.
The world tipped, and then Geirmund felt firm ground against his back instead of the soft river.
“I’ll tell Jarl Guthrum,” a voice said, and then one of the shadows moved away.
“Will he live?” another asked.
Geirmund felt someone touching the side of his head, reigniting the searing pain there.
“I don’t think his skull is cracked. I’ll bind the wound, but, yes, he sh
ould live.”
Those words were enough for Geirmund to finally release the weak hold he still had on his mind. He closed his eyes and fell into a vast and empty nothing.
When he awoke, the ferocious full light of day struck his eyes. He brought his hand up to cover them and felt a wrapping of linen around his head.
“It’s you,” a familiar voice said. “How are you here?”
Geirmund peered up, squinting, and saw Guthrum standing over him.
“When last I saw you,” said the Dane, “you had stepped into the sea. And now we pull you from the river. How?”
“That tale will–” Geirmund’s voice felt as though it dragged sand through his throat, and it sounded too loud in his head. “That will take some time to tell.”
“You should not be alive.” Guthrum looked at Geirmund just as he had when they were last on his ship, but with even greater doubt and suspicion, and even fear. “You should be dead, Hel-hide. So, I must ask, what are you?”
Though they were no longer at sea, Geirmund still faced the same mistrust and danger, but his ragged mind struggled to find the words to explain himself. His head pounded against the bindings constricting it, and he wanted only to keep sleeping. He had to do something to prove himself to Guthrum. He had to win the Dane’s trust.
“I have…” He reached into his tunic and pulled out Völund’s arm-ring, which he held out to show Guthrum.
The Dane said nothing, but he took the arm-ring and looked closely at it.
“I have a gift,” Geirmund said.
“A fine gift,” Guthrum said. “Never have I seen an arm-ring like it.” He turned it over, the light of its gold shimmering across his face. “I accept this gift, Geirmund Hel-hide, and I look forward to the tale of how you came by it.”
“I–” Geirmund had not meant the ring as a gift for Guthrum. He had only meant to say it was a gift to him from Völund, but now the Dane had it and believed it to be his, and Geirmund could think of nothing to say to change that without causing confusion and dishonour. “I–”
“Rest now,” Guthrum said. “Heal. I will tell your oath-man of your return.”
That meant Steinólfur was alive, at least. But then Guthrum left the tent, and Geirmund didn’t know how he would get his arm-ring back, or whether he should try, or whether he wanted to. The gift had seemed to change Guthrum’s mind towards him somehow, so perhaps there was a reason of fate why Geirmund had thought to present it to the Dane.
He could think no more about it. His mind frayed, and he closed his eyes again. When he next awoke, he felt more himself. The sun had gone down, and Steinólfur and Skjalgi knelt on the ground next to him.
“Did you enjoy your visit to Valhalla?” the older warrior asked. “Or were you in Hel?”
“Neither.” At the sight of his friends, tears of exhaustion, relief, and joy formed in Geirmund’s eyes. “I’m very glad to see you both.”
Steinólfur placed a hand on Geirmund’s shoulder. “I’m glad to see y–” His voice started to break, but he grunted it back into place and paused for a moment. “Welcome back, Geirmund Hjörrsson.”
Skjalgi took Geirmund’s hand and squeezed it hard. “I can’t believe my own eyes.”
“I thought Guthrum must be lying.” Steinólfur shook his head and wiped one of his eyes with his stubby thumb. “Or mistaken somehow.”
“How did you come here?” Skjalgi asked.
“I… don’t think I can tell that tale yet,” Geirmund said. “Not properly. My skull is afire. I don’t think I can even sit up.”
“Don’t try. You took quite a blow.” The older warrior gestured towards the right side of Geirmund’s head. “The swelling has gone down a bit now, but for a day or two you looked like you were sprouting a second head.”
“A day or two? Where am I?”
“Readingum.”
“How long have I been here?”
Skjalgi gave Geirmund’s hand another squeeze and let go. “They pulled you out of the river four days ago.”
“What?” Geirmund tried to remember the passage of that much time, but all was night and mist between the present moment and the battle at Ashdown. “Four days?”
“You were here and there,” Steinólfur said. “In and out. Lucky for you, your stubborn head refused to crack, or we might have known for certain whether you’ve a brain in there. I’d still wager you don’t. Why else would you have thrown yourself into the sea?”
“You know why,” Geirmund said. “There would have been a fight, and none of us would have lived to speak of it now.”
“So be it,” the older warrior said. “Or are you confused about what it means to be an oath-man?”
“I’m not confused about what it means to you,” Geirmund said. “That’s why I didn’t ask your permission before I jumped.”
Steinólfur looked truly angry with him, but it felt like the frightened anger of a parent towards a reckless child, and Geirmund didn’t know if the older warrior wanted to shout at him or embrace him.
Skjalgi spoke instead. “No matter why you jumped,” he said, “we thank the gods for your return.”
Though Völund had not claimed to be a god, the boy’s gratitude did not strike Geirmund as misplaced. “What has happened in the last four days?” he asked. “What occurred at the battle?”
The boy looked at Steinólfur, who clenched his teeth. “The Saxons held the field at the end of the day. The Danes slew many of them, but also suffered great losses.” He paused. “Bersi is dead.”
“What?” Geirmund found that hard to accept. The Dane-king had seemed a mighty warrior and had only just begun his war. “How did he fall?”
“He led the charge,” the older warrior said. “But the battle was disordered. One of Halfdan’s jarls came late to the field.”
“Jarl Sidroc.”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I fought with him,” Geirmund said.
Steinólfur looked puzzled by that, but he went on. “We weren’t there. But from what has been said, Halfdan divided his army. The jarls took one force to join with Sidroc, while Halfdan and Bersi led the second. They believed the Saxons would break quickly, having easily defeated them just days earlier.”
“Where were you?”
“Here,” the older warrior said. “One of the jarls had to stay behind to defend the ships and the encampment. That task fell to Guthrum and his warriors. Many of the jarls who went to the battle were slain.”
“Who?”
“The elder Sidroc, and also his son. Osbern, who was at Ribe. Jarl Fræna, and others. It was an evil day.”
Steinólfur’s account struck Geirmund silent. Jarl Sidroc and his son had met their fates with courage and honour, of that Geirmund would swear. Their sudden presence on the field had altered the shape of the battle, but their warriors could not have changed its outcome. The Three Spinners and the gods had decided that. He only hoped the priest had found his way to safety.
“What now?” Geirmund asked.
“Now?” Steinólfur said. “You mend. And we wait. Ships from Bersi’s scattered fleet still come up the river, bringing fresh warriors. The fight is far from lost. I hear we will attack the Saxons again soon, and we need you ready for battle.”
Geirmund wanted to nod in agreement, but his head ached, and his eyes fought to close again.
“Sleep,” Steinólfur said.
So Geirmund slept, and awoke, and ate, and slept again. For a week he rested, each day regaining more of his strength, until he was finally able to leave the tent to go and stand before Guthrum. As he crossed the encampment, he saw that it was smaller than Ribe, but much larger than Huntsman’s Hill, and, like the latter, it had been built on a wide plain at the wedge where two rivers met. Those waterways, lined with many dozens of ships, guarded the encampment to the north and south, and a wall of e
arthwork and wood had been built to the west. When Geirmund entered Guthrum’s tent, he saw Völund’s ring gleaming on the Dane’s arm.
“Geirmund Hel-hide,” he said. “I am glad to have you on your feet.”
“I am glad to be on my feet,” Geirmund said, bowing his head.
With him in Guthrum’s tent were Steinólfur and Skjalgi, while Eskil stood next to the jarl. “But now we come to the question I have waited patiently to have answered,” Guthrum said. “How is it you are here?”
Geirmund had already told the story to Steinólfur and Skjalgi several days prior, as soon as he’d recovered enough of his wits to do so. He now related the story to Guthrum, exactly as it had happened. Geirmund’s honour, and the evidence of the arm-ring, gave him little reason to lie about it, and he would suffer no man to deny it or call him mad.
Guthrum did neither, nor did Eskil. Instead, the jarl took off the arm-ring and studied it again, as if it had somehow changed in material and quality. “Hnituðr,” he said, “forged by Völund the smith?”
“Yes, Jarl Guthrum,” Geirmund said. He hadn’t yet come up with a way to ask for the ring’s return, and Steinólfur had said he would be an utter fool to try. The ring had bought Geirmund’s way into Guthrum’s favour, and that was not worth the risk of losing again.
“If you were not a true Hel-hide before,” Guthrum said, “you are now. Returned from the water as if from the land of the dead. And I hear you fought at Ashdown?”
“I did,” Geirmund said. “But I only slew two Saxons before retreating across the ford.”
“Then you achieved more than many of the frightened Danes who were there from what I hear. They say the Saxons fought like wolves.”
Next to the king, Eskil frowned, but said nothing.
“They fought hard,” Geirmund said. “The Saxons–”
“We will not suffer such a defeat again.” Anger flashed across Guthrum’s face as he put the ring back on his arm. “Are you ready to fight for me, Hel-hide?”
Geirmund's Saga Page 15