Gods of War

by C. R. May

  Eadward laughed. ‘Smoke us a few for our return.’

  A grin and a wave and they were past, the tall stern posts drawing apart as the unknown steersman returned to his charge. Eofer looked across at the little fleet as they made their way home with what, he realised suddenly, may very well be their final catch in these waters. A few had already moved to the head of the Sley, ready to begin the overland trek to the River Trene. More would follow as the Sley emptied of snake ships, and Eofer gave a snort as he thought of the reeve at Old Ford and his men, labouring to move a war fleet one way and then back again with a bevy of smaller craft. Eadmund had got his wish, the king had responded to the raids along The Oxen Way the previous year with the greatest ship army ever seen in northern seas, and he recalled with pride that he had played a part in that decision.

  His own men were hailing their countrymen and Eofer glanced outboard. The fishermen had taken a break from fish gutting, their bloody knives glinting as they lined the little ships to wave the warriors on their way. Tough men, their weatherbeaten faces almost indistinguishable from the long sealskin smocks and caps which marked them out to other men, even from a hundred paces. Eofer had always marvelled at their skill, harvesters of the trackless wastes. Each and every haul was the result of generations of accumulated experience and knowledge, know-how gained at a heavy cost in silver and lives as the little boats reaped the shoals on the prow-plain.

  As the little fleet moved away the Hwælspere cleared the shallows, and Eadward’s steersman drew the big steering oar to his chest, hauling her head around to the south-west as silvered droplets swept the deck. A hush had descended on the crew, and Eofer saw that they had gathered amidships and were staring aft. Turning to follow their gaze, the thegn looked beyond the stubby grove of masts. The little boats were already hull down as the sea grew choppy, lines of spindrift snaking away to the North, and he watched in silence as the necklace of dunes which lined the shore were swallowed by the gloom. He exchanged a look with Eadward at his side. Their homeland was behind them. Only the gods of war would know whether they would lay their eyes upon it again.

  2

  Draining his cup, the prince slammed it into the ale spills as he firmed his resolve for the thing to come. The king was ailing no less than his kingdom; new blood was needed or Daneland would fall to the wolves which forever snapped at her borders. The action had stilled the room, conversations axed in mid sentence as the men there came to know that the deed was afoot. Hrothulf swept the hall with a look as he pulled himself upright, firming his jaw as wood scraped on wood and benches were forced back. As the other drinkers stared into their cups, each man mulling on thoughts of shame or hope, the huscarls rose to file through the door without a backward glance.

  Passing from the gloomy interior to the harsh light of the northern spring, they instinctively cast their eyes towards the place where the royal hall had stood in its glory. The fire ravaged timbers had all been removed now but the blackened earth mocked them still, shameful, a scar on land and honour alike. Hammers rang at the base of the mound as the smith and his apprentice beat the misshapen bronze tiles, warped and twisted by the heat of the inferno, back into shape; a dog moved away, sensing their mood, fearful of a kick.

  It was no small thing he had set his mind upon, but the kingdom needed strong leadership and if not from him from whom? Hrethric and Hrothmund were fools, but dangerous fools nonetheless. He would not make the same mistake that his uncle had made when his own father had died.

  Caught up in his thoughts, he realised with a start that the hall of the king was before him. The guards flanking the doorway smiled in welcome, and he painted his face with a grin in return as the king’s favourite wolfhound crossed to nuzzle his outstretched hand. ‘Not joining the hunt today, lord?’ the friendly guard asked as the prince began to unfasten his baldric. ‘Word has it that those woods shelter a boar as large as a horse.’

  Hrothulf tousled the ear of the dog as it wagged its tail happily. ‘Not today, Arnkel,’ he replied, flicking a meaningful look up at the summit where Heorot had stood in its splendour. ‘We have weightier affairs in mind.’

  The sentinel nodded knowingly. ‘The men who did that will get what’s coming to them soon enough.’

  A thrall came forward to take the weapons, stacking them with the others as the group moved into the hall. Swords, spears and ale-fuelled bluster were never the easiest of bedfellows; faced with the choice the warriors always chose to forego their weapons, prized heirloom or not.

  Inside the hall the long hearth blazed along the centreline, the flames painting posts and men alike with a rosy glow. The young Dane’s eyes scanned the space before him, and a small surge of excitement built within as he saw that the plan was working. Skapti’s idea had been a masterstroke, beautiful in its simplicity as most good plans were, emptying the hall and removing the majority of the king’s own huscarls at the same time. Hrothulf exchanged a look with his leading man and saw the same excitement reflected there, as the other members of his comitatus hailed the few remaining warriors in the hall and ambled across to the benches. As his hearth companions joined the king’s men and called for ale, he led Skapti further into the hall. Ahead of them two more spearmen stood before the royal bedchamber, the leaf shaped blades of their weapons glinting with menace in the reflected light of the hearth. Hrothulf threw them a smile as he approached and they nodded in return. ‘I wish to see the king. How is he?’

  The answering smile faded from the warrior, and he glanced furtively across his shoulder before leaning in close. ‘Much the same, lord. Perhaps you can pep him up a bit?’

  Hrothulf gave an involuntary snort. ‘I will see what I can do.’ He glanced up at the great war flag of the Danes, the white hart standing proudly on a field the colour of dried blood, noting the marks and tears of battle with pride as he stepped across the sole-plate and entered the inner room.

  The bedchamber was small, itself a reminder that the king of Danes had fallen far from the lofty heights of his youth, despite the great victory over the Heathobeards the previous autumn. Panelled walls of finely planed oak gave the room a degree of splendour, but the few wall hangings which had survived the hunger of the flames still reeked of smoke, a constant reminder of the shame that had visited the Scyldings that fateful morning.

  King Hrothgar looked up as his nephew entered and smiled thinly as a thrall woman bent low to mop the sweat from his brow. A small hearth was placed centrally, the heat from the flickering flames adding to the oppressive air, and Hrothulf winced at the smell of disease and decay which permeated the room. ‘You are ailing, uncle,’ he said sadly as he crossed the floor, ‘and we have no time for it.’

  The old king clutched at his side and grimaced. ‘Who would have thought that something so small could lay a grizzled warrior low? I barely felt it hit, my mail all but kept it out.’

  Hrothulf leaned in closer, and his nostrils flared as he shot the slave a look. ‘Show me the wound.’

  The servant peeled back the dressing as carefully as she was able, but still the king flinched as the rotten flesh tore again. The thrall stepped back smartly, as fearful of a clump as any mangy dog, and the prince winced at the stench which washed over them. A lump the size of a man’s fist had risen from the body of the king, its flanks as red as the battle flag which straddled the door head outside. Beneath the surface of the suppurating mound, pus and blood showed clearly in an angry witches broth.

  Hrothgar shook his head sadly. ‘Wealhtheow says that a spirit has infected the wound. The cunning women agree.’ He fumbled at his side and pulled out a slim shaft of ash wood, tossing it across: ‘runes.’

  Hrothulf rolled the arrow between his fingers, shaking his head in wonder and admiration. The arrangement with the traitor had worked better than he had dared hope. Gods-cursed kings were no use to any nation, especially at such a time as this. Engeln was a low hanging fruit which the kings of Daneland had long coveted; it was ripe for the picking. His mother
was right, it had to be now.

  King Hrothgar spoke again as his young nephew tossed the rune-hexed shaft aside. ‘The guda say that they have not seen the like before, they cannot read them.’

  As the thrall ventured forward to bathe the wound, Hrothulf stood and moved to her side. He was close enough to sense her tremble at his presence, and he fed on her fear as he slipped a dagger from its hiding place. Reaching across, Hrothulf spoke softly to the girl as his hand moved to smother her mouth. ‘Don’t worry little bird. I shall be quick.’ His palm stifled her cry of alarm, and a heartbeat later the razor-sharp blade was opening the woman’s throat in one fluid movement. A hot jet of blood pulsed from the cleft to shower the face of the king, who recoiled in shock at the unexpected violence. As the thrall struggled and her hands went to her throat in horror Hrothulf pulled her close and stabbed, snuffing out the last flickers of life as he worked the blade up to cleave her heart.

  King and nephew locked eyes and an understanding passed between them as the prince cried aloud: ‘now!’

  Hrothgar quickly regained his composure, firming his mind as the body of the woman slid to the floor and blood pooled at their feet. ‘So,’ he said with a sigh of resignation, ‘this is the day of which all men wonder.’

  The younger man nodded sadly as panicked cries and the sound of scuffling carried from the outer hall. Hrothulf held the king with his gaze. ‘We cannot wait to see if you will recover any longer, uncle. Besides, who will follow a king who is cursed by the Allfather? First the troll and now Woden-spells. Soon our enemies will get to hear of our weakness and they will fall upon us like wolves in the fold. Your hall lies burnt and still you sit in your bower nursing your body and pride.’ The cries of men mingled with the crash of splintering wood as the fighting in the hall reached its bloody climax. Hrothulf gripped the hilt of his dagger and turned the bloody blade towards the king. ‘Hrothgar’s days as king of Danes have ended. The English will be only the first to feel the wrath of King Hrothulf.’

  Hrothgar took a sip of ale and looked back, the heartbreak in his voice obvious. Savouring his last taste of ale on Middle earth, the king slapped his lips and made a final plea. ‘What of my sons? They look up to you and they would give you their oath, I am sure of it.’

  Shame caused Hrothulf to avert his gaze for a heartbeat, but it was enough for the king to seize his chance. With a burst of energy which belied his years, the old campaigner darted forward as candlelight flashed on steel. For a single moment in time he felt the thrill of combat again, before an explosive wheeze erupted from his lungs as Hrothulf’s knife punched into his chest. His own knife hand was knocked aside with almost contemptuous ease, and Hrothgar felt a curious sense of peace as the realisation came that a lifetime of worry and duty was ending. As his successor hugged him close in a final embrace, King Hrothgar, shield of the Spear Danes, fixed his eyes on his kinsman as a final question left his lips: ‘Wealhtheow?’

  Hrothulf gazed back lovingly at his uncle, the man who had saved his life, raising him as his own when his father, Halga, had died all those years before. ‘She will go back to her own people or wherever she wishes, uncle,’ he replied with a voice made thick with emotion. ‘Likewise our sister, Freawaru, is free to leave or remain here with full honour.’

  Hrothgar reached out with the last of his strength, and his nephew moved the handle of the old king’s war sword within reach. As Hrothgar Halfdanson closed his fingers around the grip, an image of the doors of Valhall groaning open on their mighty hinges came into his mind. He gave a small nod as the doors gaped before him, and Hrothulf pulled his kinsman closer as he drove the blade up into his heart to send him through.

  * * *

  The boy pressed himself back into the undergrowth and listened. The sounds of pursuit were growing ever distant with each passing moment, and he allowed himself a brief smile before the seriousness of his plight threatened to overwhelm him once again. A sob took him by surprise as he took stock of his situation and the boy forced it down, angry at his own weakness as he stifled the shame. He was unharmed and alone but fully armed. In no immediate danger but stranded miles from anywhere without a horse. Every piece of good fortune seemed to be cancelled out by Loki, but he had always prided himself on his ability to overcome all that the gods threw his way, even the trickster god, the slyest of them all. He would survive this and take his revenge.

  The day had started out like so many others. Ribald cries, a toast to success, and the hunting party had galloped out from the royal compound as the first lick of pink showed in the sky to the East. Cresting the rise they had laughed for joy as the returning sun warmed their faces, and soon they had moved into a skirmish line as the heath gave way to the woodlands ahead. From the depths of the shadows the first sounds had carried to them as the beaters drove their quarry south, horns and distant shouts hanging in the still air. As the first animals began to show along the tree line their own hunting horns had sounded in the morning, and the riders had dismounted with smiles of anticipation at the killing to come and entered the gloom. Boar hunting was the finest of sports, and the boy gave a snort of irony as he recalled the surprise he had felt that his cousin had not wished to join them that morning. It had, after all, been his idea. The reason had become obvious all too soon, and he fought back tears of anger as the image of the heavy boar spears slicing into his brother’s torso flashed into his mind. Outnumbered three to one, his own men and those of his father the king had reacted with speed and vigour. Throwing themselves into a wall of spears, the huscarls had sold their lives dearly to give him a chance to escape the ambush.

  Hrothmund looked out into the glade before him and noted the length of the shadows there. They were long, far too long, stretching away to the West as he knew that they would. The whole day lay before him and he grudgingly acknowledged his kinsman’s forethought. A dawn start and a hunt on foot would give his men the whole day to track them down if one or other brother had escaped the carefully laid trap.

  The soft snicker of a horse dragged his mind back from its meanderings, and he squirmed further into the bush as the long shadow of the animal crept along the clearing. Within a heartbeat it had been joined by another and Hrothmund’s mind raced. Spring was all but on the land, the trees a haze of lush green shoots, but it would be some weeks yet before the foliage was dense enough to hide a man. Flight was out of the question, the slightest movement would be seen by the riders instantly, and the young prince recognised the moment when the calm descended upon him and his mind and body prepared for battle as shadow and hoof finally merged together on the track. This was what he had trained so many hours for, to wield sword and shield, to take the fight to the enemy whatever the odds. Despite the fact that he was certain now that his father must be dead, he was a Scylding, Woden born; he would stay alive to wreak his vengeance.

  The closest rider was in view now as he tugged at his reins, halting the mount not twenty paces from Hrothmund’s hiding place. The young Dane flashed a lupine smile as his enemies scanned the clearing ahead for signs of movement. Pal and Kari, Hrothulf’s men. They had been among the first to thrust their spears into the unsuspecting back of his older brother; it was fitting that they should become the first to pay the price for their lord’s treachery.

  Hrothmund inched his sword from its scabbard as the riders studied the ground around them for signs of disturbance. A charm of goldfinches took to the air on the far side of the clearing, their tawny bodies flashing scarlet and white as they tail chased through a shaft of sunlight, and the huscarls followed their antics with a smile. Hrothmund slid the blade free, tensing his legs, his body wound up and set to pounce, but froze as a hunter’s intuition whipped Kari’s head back his way. Hardly daring to breathe, the boy edged his thigh across to cover the blade of his sword lest the growing light catch its edge as his eyes narrowed to slits. The basest woodsman knew that the whites of the eyes shone like torches from the shadows; it was a lesson which his father had taught him, and it ma
y have concealed him now if the sun had not broken through at that moment to paint the forest floor with its light.

  Kari’s eyes went wide as they picked out their quarry, but Hrothmund was already on his feet, throwing himself forward as Hrothulf’s hearth warrior opened his mouth to cry a warning. Bursting from cover he raised his blade high, forcing his opponent to open his body as he brought his spear around in a desperate attempt at fending off the blow. But the move was a feint, and Hrothmund ducked beneath the warrior’s wild swing as he pirouetted past, sweeping his own blade down in a powerful arc to bite deep. The prince rolled away, drawing his blade across the tendons of the horse’s legs, the threads parting with ease as the animal screamed in pain and collapsed backwards to the floor.

  Kari was at his mercy, his unguarded back only feet away as he struggled to throw himself clear of the crippled animal, but Hrothmund ignored the death blow and danced on.

  Pal was quickly recovering from his own surprise, hauling at the reins as he dragged the head of his horse around to confront their quarry, but their intended victim was too fast, too wily, and the huscarl sensed in his heart that the predator had become the prey. Even as he dragged his spear around to fend off the blow his face betrayed his fear, and a look of triumph swept Hrothmund’s features as he powered his sword blade across to bite deeply into the small of his opponent’s back. With an expert roll of his wrist, Hrothmund dragged the blade through muscle and bone and kept moving.

  Kari’s horse was still down on its hindquarters, baying in its agony, forelegs scrabbling against the turf as it tried to rise again, and Hrothmund vaulted its back as he moved back to finish off its rider. The huscarl had recovered quickly, rolling onto his back in the short time that it had taken for Hrothmund to cripple his companion. The heavy boar spear was swinging around, and Hrothgar’s son danced aside as the barbed blade whistled through the air only inches from his belly. A quick glance across the writhing body of the horse told him that Pal was done for, his lifeless legs splayed out behind him as he attempted to drag himself to cover. Lowering himself into a fighting stance Hrothmund circled his opponent as the man watched him warily, desperate for the chance to clamber back to his feet.