by M J Porter
No news came that day, just as Ulfcytel had predicted. When night came, Northman slid into a dark and dreamless sleep without worries. His exhaustion had been evident since he’d slid from his horse, and he’d craved sleep but denied himself it because he had to show that he was as much a man as the rest of his father’s war band.
Altogether there were ten of them, the men Oscetel had led, the men Brithelm’s son had brought with him, and he and Olaf. It wasn’t a huge presence to represent his father, but everyone there was keen to face their enemy and if battle should be met, to show that their years of training had not been in vain.
A gentle shake on the shoulder woke Northman in the morning.
“Come, it’s time,” Oscetel murmured. For a brief moment, Northman struggled to remember where he was and why Oscetel was there, but then he remembered, and his limbs turned fleetingly leaden. This was it. Today he’d fight his first battle, and hopefully, live to the end of the day.
He readied himself in silence, as did Olaf, even his bluff nature dimmed by the struggles they’d face that day. A hasty breakfast of bread and cheese and they strode to where the shield wall was forming up, maybe four fields in front of them. On a whim, Northman raced up the hill the ancients of the land had built and looked all about him. What he saw had him speeding back down in no time at all.
Across the landscape, as if it came with the tendrils of morning sunshine just starting to illuminate the land, came a sea of shining irons and silvers. The enemy was coming.
Oscetel interpreted the look on his face immediately, and in no time at all, news had sped across the line of men, reinforced to the back by a further ten men each. It was impossible to see the full extent of the shield wall as Northman could only see the men to either side of him, but the rustle and clanging of iron were clear to hear.
Silence descended, broken when the enemy began to form up before them. Northman, not in the front row of the shield wall could see little, although he strained to see over the heads of the men in front.
“Northman, keep your head down,” Oscetel commanded, “they’ll have some bows and arrows, and they may release them if they see the odd head.”
So reminded Northman crouched down low, behind the man at the front of the shield wall, and the two who held their shield ready to go above his head and their own.
Sweat beaded Northman’s face, and he angrily wiped at it. He’d done nothing yet but walk to the shield line, and yet his body was shaking and shivering in equal measure, and for the first time he had to question whether he could do this. Could he fight as his father did and as all the men of the household troop did? Was he man enough to fulfil his obligations?
“Calm down Northman,” Olaf muttered at him, ‘it’s not even started yet, and to be honest, with this many men, I almost doubt that we’ll encounter any warriors. The men of the shield wall are trained for this, it’s only those who come behind who’re not, and they’ll do all they can to protect the skilled warriors.”
Northman nodded in understanding, although the words had barely registered in his fear-crazed mind. In front of him, one of the other men turned to stare at him, an older man, a little wrinkled and wizened in places but kindly for all that.
“This your first battle lad?” he asked, his voice kind and cumbersome with the local accent.
“Yes,” Northman forced past his dry mouth.
“It’ll be upon you soon enough, and then you’ll have no time to worry about what you’re doing. The waiting is always the worst part.”
Angry shouts were heard from in front of the shield wall, but Northman knew nothing of what happened although those in the front line did pass back details of the conversation that occurred between Ulfcytel, Thorkell, Hemming and Olaf of Norway. None of it accomplished an extension to the truce. Instead, Ulfcytel and his three warriors raced back to their places in the shield wall. With a roar of ‘attack’ that echoed up and down the lines of the thousands of men, the shield wall was correctly established, the front shields locked with their two neighbours, and above those warriors heads, the shield of the man who stood behind him, and so on. The press of bodies was terrifying and calming at the same time. Northman knew a moment of complete clarity. He’d trained for this. He knew what to do.
They didn't advance, but only moments after they’d formed up, the crashes of swords on wood could be heard, alongside the intermittent whistle of arrows flying through the air.
“Raise your shield boy,” the older man in front hissed, and Northman did as he was told, his arms screaming with the agony after not too long, but knowing that he couldn’t lose his hold.
Thumps and angry cries echoed around him, and Oscetel ordered him to push forward. Along the line, everyone was trying to do the same. The ground was bare beneath their feet. No crops had been planted on the site, and they had a good purchase on the land. And slowly, very slowly, the line inched forwards, hoping to drive the enemy backwards.
Northman strained to hear what was happening over his ragged breathing, but only a white noise filled his ears.
What felt like the entire morning passed in that position, the thunk of swords on wood never once stopping, the cries of the angry and the wounded the only sound to be heard. Men heaved and held their position, denying themselves the comfort of resting tired arms or tired feet, refusing to eat or drink, although the sun edged higher in the sky and the clouds were small and wispy, with no hope of rain or respite if they crossed the sun’s path.
“What’s happening?” Northman called to Oscetel, but he received no response. Glancing to his left, he saw Oscetel in a press of bodies, one against the other, all taking small steps forward. And then his line lurched forward, and Northman moved quickly to keep his shield in place. He had no idea of who was winning.
“Bloody hell,” Olaf shouted from his right, “this is hard work.” He puffed with exertion, his shield above the head of the man in front, sweat dripping from his helmet down his nose, and into his half-formed beard.
Brithnoth overheard his words.
“This is a test of resolve as well as a test of strength. I don’t think the enemy have started to attack yet.”
A cry greeted his words, and then a great surge forward sent Northman further in front than any of the other men. Confused he glanced around, wondering what had happened. The body he stepped over was testament to what had happened. The man at the front of the shield wall was dead, a spear through his neck. Grimacing at the slight flailing of the corpse, Northman noticed the bloody grime on the spear point, and the dark red blood that pulsed from the open wound. The spear had passed right through the man’s neck.
A grunt from the man in front, and they were back in line and matched up with the others to the left and right as they should be. Only it was no longer Olaf to his left and Oscetel to his right, but new men he didn’t know and who didn’t even notice the change, so intent were they on the task they faced.
And now the attack began in earnest. The hammering of weapons on the shields sent reverberations flowing backwards along the press of shields so that his own, already tired arms, quivered painfully, and there was no let up in the attack.
The screech of iron on wood filled his head, the cries of men in agony filled his ears and slowly but surely, he shuffled ever closer to the front of the shield wall.
To either side of him, Oscetel or Olaf would occasionally catch him, until he’d be forced to move on again without them. Somehow he just knew that of them all. He would be the one who had to take a more prominent role in the shield wall. The men in front of him seemed to be enduring a brutal attack, and Northman wondered how many men slashed and hacked at the shield that protected him.
He stepped over another body, eyes staring dully at the sky, a huge gash all down the right side of his face, still pulsing bright red blood, and Northman was pressed further forwards.
Another agony of shaking wood and howling bows and he stepped forward again. Another discarded body lay before him, this
one exhibiting a fatal blow to the head. The man must have had no helm. Only this time Northman took the time to stare at the man. He was starting to see a pattern.
He was now fourth in line to the shield wall, and he tried to get the attention of the man who he’d spoken to at the beginning of the battle, but the man was infused with battle fury, insensible to anything he said, focused exclusively on his imminent attack.
Another step over a fallen body, arms dangling uselessly by the side, and Northman was pleased to note that it was the right arm. If he got to the front of the shield wall or rather, when he did, he knew he’d be facing a left-handed warrior, and unluckily for the man, Northman was capable of fighting just as well with either of his hands. He was the envy of his father and brothers for his skills, but he’d worked hard to master them.
A cry of pain cut short mid scream and Northman moved ever closer. A wound to the head again. A deep slash of purple blood and the gore of an eye half in and half out of its socket.
Northman swallowed hard trying to banish the image, but he knew it would haunt him for the rest of his life.
A heave of effort and he was third in line. The blood and sweat were more overwhelming now, the tang of blood heavy in the air, the heat and sweat of men even heavier. He could taste only his dry mouth and other men’s fear.
And then there was no more time for thought. He was second to the front. The man of earlier was armed well with his shield, but he seemed fazed by the slashing of the weapon before him, not even looking over his shield to see whom he fought.
Thunderous blows landed on the shield that Northman held above his head. Northman risked a glance from below his shield and was greeted with the bloody face of a grinning Norse man. He was slippery with blood and sweat and gore, but his eyes burned bright, and Northman knew that this warrior was filled with battle rage. Clutching his sword in his left hand, his shield in his right, he attempted to shout encouragement to the man in front.
“Left hand, use your left hand,” but his words were unheeded.
Beside him Olaf slipped into his line of sight, his eyes a little crazed, blood flowing freely down his right arm. Northman wondered how he’d gained such an injury but had no time to ask.
A thud, a crunch and a howl of rage, and it were Northman’s turn to hold the shield wall. He stepped forward, affording his enemy a close look. He was scattered with small cuts, a nick to the face, and a gash on his right arm, a half cut where his lip was. This he licked with his tongue, and his eyes alighted with joy to see such a young adversary. Northman met his eyes, and behind him felt a shield crash into place above his head.
His shield firmly in his left hand, he took the initiative, lashing out from below his shield to strike at the man’s legs. A howl of rage greeted his actions, and when he pulled his sword back, it glistened with the man’s blood.
His first blood. Pride surged through him.
In response, a hail of angry hammer blows landed on his shield in front, and the shield above his head. And a voice shouted encouragement. Oscetel. It could be no other.
When his assailant paused for a moment, Northman quickly shifted his hands and lashed out with the sword on the other side of the man’s legs. A grunt of pain and Northman had his sword back and swapped back to his left hand. He wanted to confuse this brute of a man who’d claimed so many lives by using his other hand for the killing stroke.
Northman felt the sting of sweat in his eyes, but could do nothing about it. He couldn’t let go of his sword or his shield and so blinked repeatedly in the hope the sweat would continue to slide down his cheeks.
Oscetel was shouting at him, but he couldn’t hear his words, and then he forced him to lower his shield by the expediency of forcing his own down. Northman was temporarily confused until he felt the efforts of a sword to cut at his legs. Seizing his chance, he stood abruptly, hitting his head on Oscetel’s shield, but gaining the ability to move his sword more freely. Forcing it over his head, in his left hand, he struck at his attackers head, and felt the resounding crunch of bone on iron. A howl of rage was too late, Northman swung the blade again, this time slicing through the man’s exposed neck. Blood sprayed free, but Northman had his shield back in place and was holding his own in the shield wall.
His first kill.
He’d done it, almost without thought, and he’d vanquished those brave warriors who’d fought in front of him.
Oscetel congratulated him, briefly, but his voice sounded worried, and Northman paused for a moment to gauge the time of day. The sun was high overhead. They’d been fighting all morning long.
But there was no time to enjoy his victory, quickly, another warrior filled the space of the fallen man, and Northman knew nothing about how this man fought. Would he, like his adversary before, be able to use his ability to fight left-handed against the man?
At his side, Olaf slid into view and Northman realised that while his line of men had fallen quickly, all along the shield wall, those in reserve were coming closer and closer to the shield wall. It wasn’t a good sign.
Olaf’s arm still bled, and his eyes were glazed with exhaustion and determination.
From his vantage point behind them, Oscetel spoke,
“It looks like we’re beginning a retreat. We need to stay in place and walk backwards, without falling over our dead. Can you do it, lads?”
Nodding instead of speaking, Northman felt the tension in the line around him increase. It looked as though, after all, the small incline they’d found had been little use to them, and they were now to retreat to the higher burial mound.
Trying to remember exactly where the men had fallen, Northman carefully stepped backwards, his shield arm echoing with the crashes of the enemy’s sword or hammer. After five steps back, Northman realised the man wasn’t going to stop his attack even though he was retreating. He took a moment to look at him and realised he needed to take at least another thirty steps, and every one of them was fraught with danger. And if he fell, the enemy would surge through the hole he created and attack those who formed the shield wall from the rear.
Daunted by the task before him, he moved carefully, testing each footfall before he committed fully to it. Olaf was doing the same beside him and Oscetel stayed close, offering a steady stream of instructions.
“Step to the right, now to the left, raise your shield, now to the right, now two steps are clear.”
Slowly but surely, they reached the mound, and Northman felt himself start to rise, and as he did so, he remembered to hold his shield low to the ground to protect his feet in their moment of vulnerability.
Once upon the slope, the attack lessened a little, and Northman was freer to step where he wanted and could do so even quicker. Still, the shield wall needed to move as one, and he didn’t rush although he could feel the safety the top of the burial mound would afford him.
Finally, Oscetel shouted for him to stop, and Northman did just that.
Oscetel stepped up behind him.
“Move now Northman, let me take your place. The enemy has stayed at the bottom.”
Every muscle and bone in his body ached, and it was all he could do to lift his shield and walk out of the shield wall. He looked urgently for Olaf but noticed that one of the other men was relieving him as Oscetel had done for him.
Exhausted, he found a space on the mound and collapsed to his knees. His breath was coming fast but slower than it had been, and he could see some way into the distance. The field before them was a sea of blood and gore. Shields lay discarded, mixed in with the broken and mangled bodies but more worryingly, archers were lining up ready to attack Northman and his fellow warriors. Hoarsely, he called a warning and lifted his shield above his head.
The thunk of the arrow warned him that he’d been correct to act as he did.
Still, he lowered his shield and looked around again. Where were all the warriors now? There seemed few people stood on the burial mound. Frantically, he looked again and further afield, dismayed
to see the backs of men as they ran away from the Raiders in vast swathes, almost as if it had been planned.
Had treachery befallen Ulfcytel, even with Eadric out of the way?
Absently, he raised his shield again and another bow struck it but he barely noticed. Looking out at the horde of Raiders, fear choked him. They were a small depleted force, and the Raiders were still mostly standing. Surely they’d not survive.
Ulfcytel fought on, encouraging his men from his place among the shield wall and Northman closed his eyes for a moment. A prayer for his God at his time of need.
“Thurcetel took his men,” Olaf shouted at him above the din of battle.
“What?” Northman asked, his hearing shot to pieces by the battle rage of the enemy.
“Ulfcytel’s main ally, Thurcetel, he fled the battlefield. He never had any intention of fighting to the death.”
“How do you know?” Northman queried, the tiredness of his exertion slowly leaving his body as he realised he still had much to accomplish.
“The news has been passed from man to man down the line. Ulfcytel is angry beyond words.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Northman muttered, reaching for his water skin and swilling it gratefully. He also took the time to clean his face with a handful of his water. The sweat and blood slicked away freely with his actions.
“What does he have planned now? Surely we can’t fight off all those attackers,” he pointed out towards the scene of devastation before them.
“No, we can’t. Perhaps he’s hoping for reinforcements.”
“They won’t come from bloody Eadric,” Northman commented sourly.
“No, but there are other men, and better ones at that. I would have expected Athelstan to be here. Perhaps he might come yet.”