The air beneath the yew felt heavy with its smell, and Geirmund sat down in the cradle between two roots where the soft needles of countless summers had gathered. He leaned his back against the rough bark, closed his eyes, and dreamed of Völund.
The smith was not in his forge under the sea, but in a place that looked like Wessex, with its green duns, wooded vales, and white, chalk ridges. Völund stood before the doorway of a long barrow, flanked by standing stones. He said nothing, but he looked at Geirmund, and then he was gone, and Wessex turned to fire and ash. Geirmund’s Hel-hides fought against an army of burning beasts made of birchwood, and children with fangs. Then he was alone, fleeing before the draugar of Aslef and Fasti. The fires went out, and the ground turned slippery and hard with frost. Geirmund’s breath joined a thick mist over which a blood moon rose, and then he awoke.
At first he thought night had fallen while he slept, but quickly realized the deep shadow under the yew only made it seem that way. It was evening, and the sun had not quite set.
Geirmund left the tree, blinking and scratching his head, and went to see if Rafn and Vetr had returned. He found them with Steinólfur, feeding their nickering horses, and Skjalgi looked pleased with himself for having gone with them.
“Where were you?” the older warrior asked him.
Geirmund nodded in the direction of the tree. “I fell asleep under an old yew.”
“I have heard that a yew gives strange dreams to those who sleep beneath it,” Vetr said.
Geirmund chose to say nothing about that. “What did you find while scouting?”
“No sign of Ælfred,” Rafn said. “But there is a town perhaps three rests west of these woods. We could attack there tonight, and then fall back here.”
“I agree,” Geirmund said. “But we should move on after that. A forest like this would be the first place I would go hunting for raiders of nearby towns.”
So they used what light remained to cross the woods, and then halted at its western edge to make new torches and wait for night to fall. The town they planned to attack had no monastery, so no monks would be awake chanting, and just after midnight, the Hel-hides donned their masks and moved from the forest, over fields and under stands of elm. When the town came within reach of their voices, they lit their torches and charged, and, as with Abingdon, there were no warriors there to fight them. The village was small, with a lowly hall, and it burned easily, but there seemed to be few townsfolk left within it. Geirmund watched a handful of women and children as they fled westward, frantic and crying, like wild game that expected the Danes to run them down.
“Someone warned them,” he said.
“That whelp from the bridge?” Thorgrim said. He sat on his horse alongside Geirmund and Birna, watching them go.
“It seems they flee somewhere,” the shield-maiden said. “There must be another town that way, and not far.”
“Perhaps we should press on,” Thorgrim said. “Make a second attack.”
They had plenty of night left before sunrise, so Geirmund agreed. They rode west, ignoring the frightened townsfolk they passed, and followed the road over a hundred acres or more of farmland, which brought them not to a town but to a stead with a large hall surrounded by several byres and other outbuildings. No fires or lanterns burned there.
“An ealdorman’s land?” Skjalgi asked.
“Seems so,” Steinólfur said. “Do you think he’s away with Ælfred’s army?”
Geirmund spurred Enbarr forward. “Let us find out.”
They charged towards the stead, but not all of them had torches left, so those that did rode in front. The Hel-hides roared, and two hundred paces from the hall, the shadow of a man broke away from the buildings ahead of them. Geirmund expected the Saxon to run, but instead he stood his ground, and Geirmund squinted, trying to see what manner of man faced them.
A moment later, an arrow whistled, and a horse near Geirmund screamed as it fell and threw its rider. Geirmund couldn’t see who it was in the darkness, but the Hel-hides were all within reach of the bowman’s arrows, so their attacker had to be dealt with quickly. The man let two more arrows loose before a warrior could reach him. The first struck the ground, but the second took down another rider.
Thorgrim got to the bowman first and swung his axe as he charged past. The blow shattered the Saxon’s bow and struck his shoulder, which sent the man reeling into Birna’s path, and he fell beneath the hooves of her horse.
The other Hel-hides galloped among the byres and circled the hall until they felt sure there were no other warriors lurking in the shadows. Geirmund sent Steinólfur and a few others back to see to the fallen, while he climbed down from Enbarr and stalked towards the Saxon.
He found the man folded and broken, unmoving but still alive, and older than he would have expected. The bowman had a hoary beard and spotted bald head, and with the last of his strength he cursed the Danes for pagan devils.
“King Ælfred will send the lot of you to hell!” he hissed with blood between his teeth.
Geirmund crouched down next to him. “I have already been there. For that I am called Hel-hide.”
“Then Ælfred will send you back where you belong.” The man laughed, but it sounded wheezy and pained. “You are fools, the lot of you. Ælfred was born in these lands, and you dare defile them? He will slay you and plough you under like pagan shit and none shall remember you.”
“Who are you?” Geirmund asked.
“I am Sæwine. I fought with–” A sudden cough racked him, and he spat a great gout of blood onto his chest, but he kept speaking. “I fought with Æthelwulf of Bearrocscire when he thrashed you Danes at Englefield.” The Saxon closed his eyes. “Now that I am dying, my only regret is that I was too old to fight for Ælfred a second time and thrash you again.”
A few of the Hel-hides who had gathered around chuckled at that, but their laughter held some admiration, and Geirmund shared it. “Where are your people?” he asked.
The man clamped his mouth shut.
“You were warned, yes?” Geirmund said. “By a whelp called Esmond?”
The Saxon opened his eyes, and they were full of tears and hatred. “One boy of Wessex is worth more than a war-band of Danes. And now I will say no more.”
Geirmund knew the old man meant it. “Then I have no more use for you.” He pulled out his knife and stuck the man in the chest, right to the heart, to end his pain and quicken his death. The Saxon’s eyes widened in shock, and his open jaw worked a bit as he let out one last ragged breath.
Geirmund wiped his blade on the man’s sleeve and stood. “Do not burn this place.”
“Why not?” asked one of his warriors.
“This Saxon loved his king,” Geirmund said. “He may be known to Ælfred. Tie up the corpse before the door of the hall.”
Then he went to see about his fallen Hel-hides and found that luck had favoured the first warrior, who had lived through his bruising tumble, though his horse had not. The second warrior, a man named Løther, had taken an arrow to the chest, which would have been the end of him within a day had he not broken his neck when he hit the ground. Geirmund ordered the dead horse left in the road after stripping it of its saddle and tackle, and he gave the dead warrior’s horse to the Hel-hide who had lived.
“Bring Løther’s body with us,” Geirmund said. “We will bury him away from this place.”
He then returned to his Hel-hides at the hall, where the corpse of the Saxon now appeared to stand before the doorway, head drooped, arms outstretched as if he waited to greet his visitors with an embrace.
“Well done.” Geirmund hoped that the old man’s loyalty to Ælfred was widely known, so that all would see the cost of that loyalty. “Let the ravens begin their harvest.”
Then they left that place and galloped back towards the forest, racing the dawn, and after they had reached the he
art of the wood, Geirmund went to Rafn and Vetr to send them scouting once more.
“Take some rest,” he said to them, “but then I need to learn something, if you can find it out.”
“What is it?” Vetr asked.
“That dead bowman said Ælfred was born in these lands. I would know where.”
Vetr looked at Rafn, who narrowed his eyes, and then nodded. “I think that is something we can learn, no matter how unwilling the Saxon.”
27
Before Rafn and Vetr returned with Skjalgi, a hard rain set in that raised a fine mist from the forest floor and soaked Geirmund’s Hel-hides even under the shelter of the trees. They buried Løther near the old yew and made offerings to the gods. The storm clouds pressed down all day and into the evening, and when the scouts finally returned, they looked like sea-dwellers come ashore. One of Rafn’s sleeves had torn, and blood seeped through a linen binding around his arm.
“You fought?” Geirmund asked them.
Rafn glanced at his arm and shrugged. “It is nothing.”
“It is deep,” Vetr said, scowling.
Skjalgi looked at the ground, appearing shaken.
“What happened?” Geirmund asked.
“We met with a few of Ælfred’s scouts,” Vetr said. “There were five of them, so we thought we could slay them easily enough and keep one alive for questions.”
“We did slay them easily,” Rafn said. “But the one we spared had more claws than we thought. And he was also… strong-willed.”
“Did you learn anything from him?” Geirmund asked.
“Yes.” Rafn looked down at his hands. “My will proved stronger.”
Geirmund noticed blood under the Dane’s nails, but thought better of asking what tortures Rafn had used on the Saxon prisoner.
Vetr glanced at Skjalgi. “There is a hall south-west of this wood that belongs to the king,” he said. “Five or six rests from here. It stands near the foot of a great ridgeway. It is called Wanating, and Ælfred was born there.”
“What of Ælfred’s army?” Geirmund asked.
“He marches up that ridgeway from Readingum,” Rafn said.
That news pleased Geirmund, for it meant Ælfred had perhaps taken the bait the Hel-hides had offered, but it also brought dread. If the Saxon army caught them, there could be little doubt they would all be slain.
“How far?” Geirmund asked.
“Two days,” Vetr said.
“Guthrum should reach Wareham in three.” Geirmund wiped away the cold rain droplets that had gathered in his eyebrows. “We need Ælfred to keep his march this way.”
Rafn chuckled. “An attack on the place where his mother shat him out should catch and hold his anger.”
“That is the plan.” Geirmund looked again at the warrior’s wounded arm and thought of something Steinólfur had said to him back in Rogaland. “Take care of that limb. I think your Miklagard sword would miss it, and none of us know how to feed that blade.”
“He will take care of it,” Vetr said.
“Go and see Steinólfur.” Geirmund pointed off into the trees towards the older warrior. “He has some skill with healing, but I warn you now the scar will be ugly.”
“Ugly scars are better for bragging,” Rafn said, and then he and Vetr walked away into the forest drizzle, leaving Geirmund with Skjalgi.
The boy was sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, leaning against a thick broken branch that stood upright like a post.
Geirmund sat down next to him. “Are you well?” he asked.
Skjalgi nodded. “I am well.”
Geirmund knew he was not well, and he guessed the reason had to do with the way Rafn had learned what he needed to learn from the Saxon. A moment passed, and he asked, “Did you keep your oaths? Did you slay any who raised no weapon against you?”
Skjalgi shook his head.
“Then you have kept your honour and need feel no shame. No man answers for the deeds of another. See to your fate alone and let Rafn see to his. Understand?”
The boy looked up for the first time, and his shoulders seemed to lift a bit. “I understand.”
“Good. Then I will leave you to rest,” Geirmund said, and he allowed all his Hel-hides to do the same until the storm seemed to lift, and the rain slackened, though leaden clouds remained. They moved out of the wood when they still had some light, and then they rode south with their torches lit against the darkness of the moonless and starless sky. The mud and water in the road slowed them further, for no warrior wanted to risk laming a horse, and after travelling four rests, the rain returned as heavy as it had fallen all day, soaking and chilling them from skin to bone.
When they finally reached the hall at Wanating, they found it a hold with high walls of wood, surrounded by a deep ditch that had gathered a foot or two of rainwater at the bottom. It was a large enough fastness to house a small army, and Geirmund watched the tops of the walls for movement, but saw none, nor any light, nor did he smell any woodsmoke.
“It looks empty,” Birna said.
“It’s too wet to burn,” Steinólfur said. “The rain will put out any fire we manage to start.”
Skjalgi pointed. “The gate is open.”
Geirmund tried to peer through the dark and the slanting sheets of rain to see if the boy was right but couldn’t quite say. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” Skjalgi said.
“Perhaps they heard of us and fled,” Birna said.
“Let us go in and find out,” Thorgrim said.
Geirmund found that tempting, if only to get out of the rain. Returning to the woods made little sense, for they weren’t much dryer than the road, and he had wanted to be gone from that forest.
“Let us go in,” Geirmund took off his mask. “But remember that Saxon bowman and be wary of traps.”
So they rode on, and when they reached the hold, Geirmund led the way across the wooden bridge over the ditch, his gaze upon the tops of the walls. Through the gate he saw a hall standing back and to the north an open yard. Smaller buildings, byres, and sheds surrounded it, built into the defences, and there was a well against the western side. Rainwater poured from the roofs in runnels, past shuttered and darkened windows, to make mires in the corners of the hold. Geirmund saw no one and heard no sound above the rain.
He dismounted. “Rafn, Vetr, see if you can find anything amiss in these outbuildings. Thorgrim, Birna, come with me. Everyone else, be ready to fight or flee.”
He slogged across the yard towards the hall, and Birna and Thorgrim got down from their horses to follow. Before he entered the building, he drew his sword, and the two warriors with him freed their weapons also. Across the way, Rafn and Vetr entered the nearest hut through a low doorway, seaxes drawn, and Geirmund pushed the hall door inwards.
Without the torch Thorgrim carried they could have seen nothing inside, where the darkness lay thicker than it did out in the yard. The silence within felt heavier also, the rain a distant pounding on the roof.
Geirmund pressed ahead by the limited light of the torch, past tables and benches, and a hearth with cold ashes. Nothing about that place spoke of threat, whether seen or unseen.
“It seems they are truly gone,” Birna said.
Firelight swelled from a brazier Thorgrim had found and lit with his torch, showing more of the hall. A high seat stood at the far end, and there seemed to be rooms behind it through two doorways to either side, and also above on the second floor.
Thorgrim moved up the hall, past the high seat, and through the doorway to the right. A few moments later, he returned through the doorway on the left, holding a loaf of bread and shaking his head.
“The larder back there is full,” he said.
“That’s what a fear of Danes will do,” Birna said. “They left quickly.”
That was how it seemed, b
ut Geirmund took Thorgrim’s torch and found the staircase leading upwards along the northern wall to make a sweep of the upper rooms. He found beds, chairs, and tables, but nothing of any great worth, and no Saxons in hiding. From the windows facing south, he could peer down into the yard, where his Hel-hides waited in the rain, looking cold and miserable.
He returned to the lower floor. “We will stay here for tonight,” he said. “Close and bar the gate. Use the byres and sheds to get the horses somewhere dry. Then have everyone come in.”
Birna and Thorgrim nodded and left, and Geirmund found a woodpile near the hearth to build a fire. Then he went to the larder to see what Thorgrim had seen, and he found shelves sagging under the weight of cheese-wheels, bread-loaves, eggs, baskets of dried mushrooms and fruits, and barrels of ale and wine. A smoked and salt-crusted hog’s leg hung from the ceiling.
He couldn’t think why the Saxons had taken everything else with them and left such stores behind, but his mouth already watered at the sight of so much food, and his Hel-hides would not let it go to waste as the Saxons had apparently been willing to do.
He took the ham down and carried it out into the main hall as the first of his warriors came in stomping and shaking rain from their heads and their beards. They looked up at him as he flipped the leg onto the middle table with a loud thud, breaking away some of its shell of salt.
“We eat well tonight,” he said, and they did.
Long before sunrise, the larder stood empty, and every belly in that Saxon hall was full of food and drink. The rain departed, and the clouds parted before the stars, which meant they could burn that place when they left it behind, but Geirmund decided to wait until morning and allow his Hel-hides a few hours to sleep off their ale.
Sunrise found him upon the hold’s wall looking out over rich Wessex lands of field, pasture, and timber. Many of the oak trees Geirmund could see grew straight and tall, worthy of the shipbuilder’s axe, waiting to be hewn into keel, rib, and strake. On the southern horizon, a green ridge ran from east to west, the slanted light of dawn upon its brow, and misty shadows in its folds.
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