Gods of War

by C. R. May

  A soft grunt came from the shadows and the duguth lifted his gaze, watching as the first of Spearhafoc’s shafts sped through the darkness to take a Dane, and he nodded appreciatively as he saw the man clutch at his lower back and spin away from the fight. By aiming low, the youth was ensuring that the Danes would be unaware of the danger stalking them from their rear until the last possible moment. Not only would the sight of a bloody shaft emerging from the mouth of a hearth mate alert even the most heavily pressed warrior to their presence, but any shafts which missed their intended victim would be a danger to their English companions and seen by all as it flashed through the glow from the guttering torch. The next arrow was already speeding on its way, followed quickly by another. Hemming knew that Spearhafoc had a solitary shaft remaining which had any hope of hitting the enemy and he pushed on as the path began to widen and the two youth came forward to take their places at the ends of the line. The final arrow sped away into the gloom, and the woman skipped aside as the heavily armed shield hedge broke into a run.

  Four of the Danes had fallen to the shafts, and Hemming watched as a fifth and then a sixth fell to the blades of Eadward’s men. The pale oval of a face turned his way, the dark circle which appeared within it marking the moment when the Danes realised that their fate was to die here, and Hemming roared his battle cry to Woden and slammed into the enemy. His sword slashed in the night and the blade bit deeply into the shoulder of a man who fell aside as other blades hacked and chopped around him. Within a very few moments the killing was done, and Hemming’s teeth showed white as he exchanged a smile of victory with the scipthegn and their men moved among the bodies which littered the path, stabbing down mercilessly at any who still showed signs of life.

  Spearhafoc was up and moving among them, tugging each arrow from its victim, wiping the blood and gore from the tip before replacing the arrow into her quiver. Hemming saw Grimwulf among Eadward’s men and gave him a hug as the English celebrated their easy victory over the men who had chased them over sea and land for the good part of a week. ‘Look around you,’ he smiled at the beaming youth. ‘This victory belongs to you.’

  Eadward came across as the men of the reunited war bands rifled the dead for food and valuables. ‘The victory belongs to Grimwulf Harefoot here and his quick thinking duguth,’ he said with a smile. They laughed at the description, a nickname which the ætheling, Icel, had bestowed on the youth after he had beaten him in a footrace the previous year. Hemming quietened as he thought back to that day outside Eofer’s hall. So much had happened in the few months since that happy day. The war on Juteland and the defeat and capture of King Osea; the raids against the Danes and the loss of his thegn. Only the Dane, Hrothmund, looked ill at ease at the slaughter of his countrymen, and Hemming found to his surprise that he felt the first stab of pity at the young man’s plight. Of all the people on the path, he had lost the most during the upheaval of the past few days. His world had been turned upside down by the events in Daneland, as far as they knew his entire family had fallen under the new king’s blade. The big duguth had struggled against the growing realisation, but the truth was he wasn’t a bad lad for a Dane.

  Hemming pursed his lips as the celebrations swirled around him, throwing a look across to the West. Eofer would be in Daneland now, a prisoner with a short and gloomy future as the English army of King Eomær ravaged the land. He had to rescue his lord and soon, he had thought of little else as they had pounded the road north. Turning away with a heavy heart, Hemming stooped to retrieve the brand which lay spluttering in its own death throes on the soggy path. Cupping the embers with a hand he gently blew them back into life as he allowed himself a final smile of self-congratulation at the victory, before forming the men into a line and resuming the trudge north.

  10

  Despite the hart flag which snapped at the mast head, the Danish guard ships arrowed in as Starkad’s dragon rounded the final nib of land and approached the entrance to the great sound. Splitting up they moved apart, their sails taut and full in the following wind, sweeping out to either side as they doubled up on the incoming vessel.

  Starkad threw Eofer a look of pity. ‘You did get your chance, it’s too late to change your mind now.’

  The Englishman shrugged as a passage from a long forgotten verse came into his mind, and he spoke as the Danish shipmaster hailed them across the swell:

  ‘Wyrd often spares the man unmarked by death if his courage holds.’

  Starkad looked downcast, and Eofer was surprised to hear the sadness in his words as he replied with a verse of his own:

  ‘As the eagle who comes to the ocean shore,

  sniffs and hangs her head;

  dumbfounded is he who finds at the thing,

  no supporters to plead his case.’

  The big man laid a hand on Eofer’s shoulder as he paced the steering platform, cupping his hands to his mouth as his reply to the challenge carried the gap. To his surprise the mysterious volva sidled across, smearing the last of the unction onto his wound. ‘Stay strong, Engle,’ she said, before adding gleefully as excitement sparkled in her eyes. ‘The day is not so far off when you will dance with the wolf.’ He blinked as his mind tried to make sense of the prediction as she moved away, throwing him a look of amusement as she went. A cry brought him back, and Eofer watched the guard ships as crewmen rushed forward to pull the belaying pins, spilling the wind from the sails as oars slid proud of thole-pins to bite the waves. As the big woollen sheets were brailed up, the dragon ships pirouetted on their keels and took up station on their charge. Aware now that the new arrival carried none other than the man who had so recently burned the king’s hall, Eofer gave a fatalistic snort as the rowers snatched every chance to look his way. It was, he reflected proudly, a measure of his reputation, and he leaned back and smiled as he recalled a saying of the High One:

  Cattle die, kinsmen die,

  the self must also die;

  I know one thing which never dies:

  the reputation of each dead man.

  Unable to tack now, Starkad’s crew had shortened their own sail, the long pinewood oars sliding proud of the hull as the steersman pointed her prow towards the sound. Soon they had shot the gap, and as the sentinels sheared away to resume their watch on the beleaguered kingdom, the shipmaster of one caught the Englishman’s eye, grinning gleefully as he drew a forefinger across his throat.

  Eofer took advantage of his final moments of freedom as the longship entered the bay and the full power of the Danish kingdom spread out before them. It was the same bay which they had entered the previous winter, and he smiled as he recalled the little Fælcen running down the darkened fjord, her knife-sharp bows carving the waters as she raced down to keep her appointment with fate.

  Starkad was right, he would find no supporters to plead his case at any Thing here. Maybe, he snorted ironically, he should have taken up the man’s offer and become a raider, just another sword for hire; maybe he should have sailed north after all.

  ‘Well, well, well, what have we here?’ A great smile of joy spread across the Dane’s face as the warrior shoved Eofer forward.

  ‘Another Engle for your motley crew, Ulf. This one is a lord.’

  Ulf’s grin widened. ‘So I see!’

  Stripped of his armour, weaponry and arm rings it was still plain to any that the person who stood before them was a man of some importance. Taller than most and with the build to match, Eofer’s shoulder length hair and neatly trimmed beard would mark him out as an elite warrior in any company.

  ‘That’s not all,’ the escort added with an unmistakable hint of glee. ‘This is the bastard who led the attack on Heorot last Yule.’

  Ulf’s eyes widened and Eofer watched with a sinking heart as he saw a look of malicious joy come into them. ‘And sent men to burn my lord’s barn, here in Hroar’s Kilde,’ he spat in reply. Fumbling inside his shirt the man whipped out his hammer amulet and gave it a kiss. ‘Thank you Thunor,’ he said, ‘for answ
ering our prayers.’

  Ulf walked across to a table, taking up a cudgel as Eofer braced for the strike. To his surprise the first guard stepped between them, clasping the man by the wrist as he prepared to swing. ‘The guda want them all unharmed, you know that Ulf. If you must be a fool, you can wait until I have left. I want no part of upsetting gods or priests.’

  Ulf indicated a nearby stockade with a jerk of his head. ‘Over there if you don’t mind lord,’ he said with a mocking smile. ‘There’s plenty of room for you.’ Eofer winced as the club was rammed into his lower back, but he kept his posture upright as he made his way towards the wooden pen. ‘Don’t worry, Swain,’ Ulf called a parting remark over his shoulder as they walked, ‘I know just where to hit them to cause the maximum pain without leaving any marks.’ A pair of grinning spearmen flanked the entrance to the compound, and one reached out to push the gate wide as Ulf returned the smile; ‘isn’t that right lads?’ Eofer stumbled through the gate as the guards aimed a kick. One of the pair flicked out the butt of his spear in an effort to upend the Engle, but Eofer was half expecting it and he managed to kick the shaft aside as he stumbled through into the compound.

  As the gate clattered shut behind him a group of men came forward, shamefaced and hesitant. ‘It saddens me to see you in such a place, lord,’ the leader said sorrowfully.

  Eofer looked around him. There were half a dozen men in the compound, ceorls, warriors for the working day. The man who had spoken however was obviously more of a fighter, broad and muscular, the telltale scars which crisscrossed his forearms telling the tale of a lifetime of spear work. Eofer snorted in reply. ‘It would seem that we have both fallen a long way.’

  Eofer pinned the men with a look as he judged his new companions’ worth. Most were unable to meet his gaze, but a few were made of sterner stuff and he memorised their faces and noted their response as he spoke. His father had once told him that you never discovered a man’s real worth until you have seen how he responded to a setback or crisis. Their current situation certainly qualified as that, he thought with a snort of amusement. ‘We are all in the shit, it would seem. We will talk later; perhaps we can work together to find our way out again.’

  As the men moved away, Eofer’s head continued to take in his surroundings. The corral was isolated from the nearby buildings of the town, wide open spaces, dust strewn, the deep ruts which cut the surface testament to the heavy wagons which constantly passed by. He looked back and was unsurprised to see the amusement writ large on his new companion’s face. It was obvious that Eofer was already planning his escape, and the Englishman’s chin stabbed out to left and right as he described their surroundings to the newcomer. ‘It is twenty paces from here to the nearest cover, lord. That hall,’ he pointed out one of the larger buildings with a jerk of his head, ‘is the hall of a man called Ubba silk beard, although from what I can gather, he seems to have gone missing along with most of his war band.

  Eofer laughed for the first time in days at the revelation and the man raised a brow in question. ‘I have met this Ubba and I know where he is,’ he explained with a look of triumph. He pumped a fist, sure now that Hemming and Eadward must have got away at the river and were still leading the Danish huscarls away from the scene of the fighting in Daneland; his heart soared as he knew now with certainty that his own sacrifice had been worthwhile. With any luck it would be some time before they returned, time he could use to affect his own escape.

  ‘There are still a good number of warriors left in the town though,’ the warrior continued when it became plain that it was all the information that Eofer was about to divulge, ‘and not only the old or injured.’ He shot Eofer a grin. ‘It seems that the town and anchorage were attacked last year, lord. They don’t want it to happen again. There are two guards on the gate, as you know, but also two pairs which walk the perimeter of the clearing night and day. It used to be only a single guard but they upped the numbers this morning. Seeing you here, I now know why. They are relieved every hour so they are always nice and alert, but that’s not the worst of it.’ The man spat in the direction of a small crate which stood beside the stairs to Ubba’s hall. ‘That prick Ulf has got a pet which makes him look like a fluffy bunny.’ Eofer looked across and saw for the first time that a heavy chain led from the dark interior of the box to a thick oak stake. ‘Its name is Freki. It is the name of one of Woden’s wolves, the one which we call Greedy. All head and teeth he is.’ He spat again; ‘a proper bastard.’

  Eofer nodded as he listened. The warrior, despite the fact that he had allowed his honour to be sullied by being taken alive by the Danes, had obviously been planning an escape and had been astute enough to recognise the same thoughts in the new arrival. Besides, Eofer knew, it was unfair to judge the man until he learned the story of his capture. He was after all in the same position himself. He looked the man in the face and was pleased to see that his gaze held firm. ‘You seem to know me?’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ the man replied. ‘I was at the symbel when you gave your speech before the Allfather.’

  Eofer raised his brow in question, and he was pleased to see that his new companion was sharp witted enough to supply the answer he sought. ‘I am Swinna lord, a duguth. Æmma of Hereford was my own lord.’ He cleared his throat before he was able to continue as his emotions got the better of him for the first time. ‘Unfortunately the gods decided that it would be a great joke to play that I should survive while my hearth companions travelled on without me.’

  A whistle from beyond the paling drew their gaze in time to see several loaves come sailing over the top of the fence. Eofer looked across as a movement caught his eye and Ulf’s dog emerged from the shadows. He had seen the dogs which were called mastiffs before, down in the South, but he never ceased to be amazed at the ferocious mien of the breed. He had heard a tale told by a trader in Britannia that the Franks released such dogs as they charged home against Saxon shield walls, and he grimaced as he imagined the carnage a dozen or more of the beasts like the one now before him could achieve before they were cut down. With the head and neck of a bull, the dog was covered by a coat of coarse dark hair from the tip of its tail to the end of a fight scarred muzzle. Within it twin points, as dark as berries and hard as any stone, stared at the Englishmen with all the malicious intent of the goddess Hel herself.

  The guard tossed the final loaf over the fence and shot them a look of distaste as he bent to retrieve a bowl of meaty stew. ‘Meat for Freki, mangy old bread for Engles.’ he spat into the dust as the dog wagged its tail and trotted across. ‘Even bread is too good for cowards who allow themselves to be taken.’

  Both Englishmen’s hands went instinctively to the place where their sword hilt would usually be in response to the insult, and the guard looked back with a frown as their laughter cut the air. Eofer sighed. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I will be hlaford.’ The ceorls had gathered up the bread and Eofer shared the loaves equally among them as a good loaf lord should. Despite the Dane’s words, Eofer was surprised to discover that the loaves were still warm from the oven, and he eagerly broke the crust apart to get at the soft inner bread as the delicious smell made him realise just how hungry he was. The Englishmen rested their backs against the fencing as they ate, and Eofer noticed for the first time that Swinna was carrying a leg wound as the duguth lowered himself gingerly to the earth: ‘sword work?’

  ‘A spear thrust, lord. High up too,’ he added with a look. ‘Nearly cost me my bollocks!’

  Swinna carefully peeled a torn flap from the inside of his trews aside to expose the wound, wincing as strips of skin came away with the wool. The men exchanged a look as the smell of rotting flesh escaped the suppurating gash. Swinna shrugged. ‘I was thinking of escape when I first got here, just like you lord. Then this started getting worse.’ He gave a fatalistic shrug. ‘All I want now is the chance to die with my hand on a sword hilt so that I can rejoin Æmma and the lads. They should have finished me off with my hearth mates, but they kept
me alive for some reason.’

  Eofer looked along the fence. The others were eating heartily, without any of the misgivings which the duo were experiencing at their situation. He broke another piece from the loaf as he thought. ‘Well, whatever they have in mind,’ he said finally, ‘I think that it will happen soon. With that leg, you are not going to last long.’

  Swinna dropped the legging back into place, and Eofer’s lips tightened in sympathy as he heard the short gasp of pain escape his new friend’s lips. Across the clearing Freki had bolted his food and stood staring at the English prisoners, the great pink expanse of his tongue sweeping back and forth as it removed every morsel from its fleshy jowls. ‘Do you think that it wants to eat us?’ Eofer asked as the dog sniffed the air. Swinna let out a short laugh. ‘I am bloody sure that it does. When we arrived, Ulf took a piece of clothing from each man and gave it to the dog.’ He shook his head. ‘They didn’t last long, tore them all to pieces he did. He knows our scent, if he could get close enough we would all go the same way as our shirts, make no mistake.’ He shifted as he sought to take the weight off of his injured thigh, settling back with a frown. ‘Do you mind if I ask how you came to be here, lord?’

  Eofer sensed the hesitation in Swinna’s voice and he moved to allay his fears. Ubba silk beard’s weeklong absence meant that Thrush and Eadward must have managed to get the Danish prince to safety. His personal sacrifice at the river crossing had played a large part in that success and he was proud of the ongoing disruption and uncertainty that it was causing the new king and his subjects. He had handed his own king and folk a bloodless but significant victory at the very moment of greatest need. Eofer cast a glance across his shoulder to ensure that there were no Danes within hearing distance and leaned in closer. ‘I was knocked unconscious at a river crossing in Scania.’ Swinna’s brow creased in shock that an English war band could have been operating so far from home, especially given the fact that the invasion they were calling the war of fire and steel had just been launched. Eofer saw his surprise and he chuckled happily. ‘We are the reason that Ubba silk beard and his men are missing.’ His brow crinkled as a thought came to him. ‘Does the army know that King Hrothgar is dead?’ Swinna nodded. ‘We found out the first day that we landed. The Danes which we have taken have all been cocky buggers who seem to have a lot of faith in this new king, Hrothulf. They say that he was the one responsible for the defeat of the Heathobeard attack last year, leading the fightback after old Hrothgar was injured.’