Gods of War

by C. R. May

  Hemming and his duguth were standing nearby, and Eofer caught the look of dismay which washed their features as the men realised that their tormenter, the man who had led the chase across Scania, might escape to fight another day. Before he was aware that the words were forming, Eofer was speaking again. ‘Lord, the leader of the Danes is Ubba silk beard. This is the man who led the huscarls against us in Scania, who oversaw my brother Wulf’s captivity, last winter at Heorot. He ran from my blade once, on a beach near here. It is a matter of family honour that he comes under my sword now.’ The king hesitated as he weighed the conflicting needs of integrity and expedience and Eofer spoke again. ‘Lord, this is the man who led the raid on Engeln last autumn, you yourself chased his war band down The Oxen Way. I have already repaid the debt owed to the Jute who aided them. Let me settle the score in full, here and now, before we leave these lands forever and he regales Danish halls with tales of daring in the war against the English for years to come.’

  Whips cracked as the first of the oxen huckled their charges to the crest of the rise, and the king pursed his lips. ‘We cannot wait, Eofer. Strung out on the march we are too vulnerable to a devastating attack.’

  ‘There is no need to wait, lord,’ Eofer replied. ‘Lend me my brother and we will follow on. There is a small island in the brook which you have just crossed, a flash of lightning revealed it to me on the march down to the coast last evening. Let me take him there.’

  The king raised a brow. ‘A holm-gang, you mean?’

  Eofer nodded. ‘Thunor sent a fire bolt to show me the place, lord. I am certain of it.’

  The king snorted with amusement. ‘Well, Eofer, I am just a king. If the thunder god wills it, who am I to argue?’

  Eofer’s lips curled into a smile. ‘Thrush, grab my herebeacn, Octa and Osbeorn find my brother and bring him here. Finn,’ he said. ‘Take the youth back to the beach. Retrieve our friend with the broken leg, and make a quick search for any of the others who went into the sea. Get him onto a wagon before they all leave and follow on. We will catch you up later.’

  King Eomær remounted, the morning sun painting his finery the colour of gold. He looked back as the gesith moved their own mounts to his side. ‘Don’t take too long, Eofer. You have about an hour, then the rearguard will have to hurry onwards.’ He indicated the men in Ubba’s skjaldborg with a jerk of his head. ‘Don’t let our new friends cut you off.’

  The king moved off as Octa returned with Wulf, the gesith’s features a picture of delight as he pushed through the crowd. As Eofer wiped the blood from fang tooth, Wulf came forward to clasp him by the shoulders. ‘Eofer,’ he said excitedly. ‘You do what you want with Ubba, but if there is a man with him called Hrok, he’s mine!’

  19

  Following the storm the water level was higher than the previous evening and the island looked far smaller than he remembered it; but the rune sticks were cast, and he collected his thoughts as Hemming worked the retaining pins free from the shoulder clasps and prised the war shirt apart. Raising his arms Eofer leaned forward, wriggling his body until the mail shirt followed with a metallic swish. Nearby Wulf was ready, his own armour folded neatly at his side, Eofer’s brother rolling his shoulders as he loosened muscles for the work to come.

  Ubba and Hrok were standing on the riverbank opposite deep in conversation, the Danes stealing glances their way as they discussed their own tactics in the death fight. Hemming’s face appeared before him, and his mind came back as the duguth lowered his own helm onto his head and moved to fasten the strap beneath his chin.

  ‘He’ll be good, lord,’ he was saying. ‘You don’t get to live long enough to become a huscarl without becoming handy with a blade. Watch that sword blade, not his eyes. And the shield, don’t forget the shield. Oh, and keep your own feet moving and don’t let him…’ Eofer forced a smile, despite the nerves which were building within him. ‘Thrush,’ he said calmly, the levelness of his voice surprising him.

  ‘Yes, lord?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  Eofer threw his weorthman a wink. ‘I am going to win, huscarl or not.’

  Hemming’s face broke into a smile. ‘Yes, lord; you are. The gods of war wouldn’t let these bastards take you from me twice.’

  Hemming held up his shield with a look of pride and Eofer wound the fingers of his left hand around the handle, hefting it, feeling the weight. Retrieving his sword from the pile Hemming turned the hilt towards the eorle, and Eofer paused to admire the workmanship as the morning sun broke free of the tree canopy to breathe life into the crimson cells. The pommel sparkled as the sunlight reflected from gold and garnet, the grip itself, alternating bands of horn and whalebone polished and worn by the hands of his ancestors, only accentuating the beauty. Curling his fingers around the grip he drew the sword with a satisfying swish as Hemming stepped aside and Eofer glanced across to his brother. They were set and, with a steely look and a slight nod of acceptance, they strode forward to the edge of the bank.

  Ubba glanced across, and the Danes straightened their backs, drawing apart as they saw that the time had come. A dozen English spearmen had come down to guard the pair and they moved forward, shepherding the men towards the river bank as Ubba threw the brothers a contemptuous glare. ‘We meet again, Eofer,’ he said with an icy smile. ‘Somehow I always knew that we would.’ The huscarl dropped his eyes to the island midstream and cocked a brow. ‘There is not much space, especially for four. What happens if a foot touches the water?’

  ‘You lose. Either lay yourself open to a killing strike or my friends will see you on your way.’

  ‘The same rules for all of us?’ Ubba asked in surprise. Eofer nodded, and the Dane’s face broke into a smile. Wulf was bristling at his side, and Eofer watched as the Dane, Hrok, visibly shrank under his baleful gaze. His brother had told him of the treatment which the man had meted out to him during the time of his captivity in Heorot. His honour besmirched, the chance to take his revenge had been too good to miss.

  ‘Let us start,’ Eofer said. ‘There will be no breaks, no replacement shields. Only the men, or man, of one nation will leave the island alive.’

  Eofer splashed into the channel, wading across to the islet as Wulf followed on. Within a few paces they were there, and the pair took up starting positions at the southern end as Ubba and Hrok, their shields and swords held clear of the stream, moved across.

  Eofer’s eyes took in the surface of the small island as the Danes began to haul themselves back onto dry land. Up close it looked even smaller than it had from the bank, there would be little room for fancy footwork, despite Hemming’s exhortations. Six paces by six, the centre and southern end of the teardrop shaped area pretty much matched the dimensions used when there was no nearby island on which to stage the ritual fight known as the holm-gang, the island-way. On land a woollen sheet would mark out the area of the fight, its dimensions fixed by withies of hazel driven into the ground. Like the island-way itself, a foot which strayed from the blanket would mean instant defeat, in many cases death. The islet rose slightly at its centre, the widest point, where a scrubby bush clung to a precarious existence flanked by rounded pebbles and stones of varying sizes, before tapering away to the North.

  The Danes were set now, and the two groups glared at one another as they shifted their grip on shield and sword and awaited Ubba’s first attack. As the man who had issued the challenge to holm-gang custom dictated that Eofer receive the first strike, and the thegn raised his shield, his eyes fixed on the point of Ubba’s sword as it began to snake this way and that above the ragged bush. Ubba moved slowly into a fighting stance, his own eyes fixed wolf-like on the Englishmen opposite as he prepared to attack, but the heavy silence was ruptured as Wulf spoke for the first time. ‘How is Signy?’

  Ubba blinked in surprise as the simple question shattered his concentration, and he looked at Wulf as if he were mad. ‘Signy? You want to know how my wife is?’

  E
ofer snatched a glance at his brother and recognised mischief in his expression, a cunning which he knew well. He had suffered his brother’s taunts and jokes for a lifetime, but he knew that his kinsman was no fool. There was a reason for this madness, and he looked back to the Danes and redoubled his concentration. Wherever the question was leading Eofer knew that it was intended to provoke a response, one which would give the English pair an edge. Wulf wasted no time in landing the killer blow to their enemy’s cohesion, and Eofer watched as Ubba’s expression changed from incomprehension to fury as he realised the meaning behind the words.

  ‘No,’ Wulf said, as he switched his gaze across to Hrok. ‘I was asking him.’

  Ubba’s nostrils flared as he saw the look of horror cross his companion’s face and, although Hrok quickly set his expression into a snarl, the truth was out, the damage done. Already wounded before a blow had been struck, Wulf’s words struck home again as Ubba reeled. ‘Thræls know everything that goes on, Ubba, especially the women. Just because you choose not to see them does not mean that they are not there. As you know,’ he smiled, ‘women like nothing better than to discuss which ploughman is working which field, especially if that field belongs to another farmer. I turned over a few furrows myself while I was King Hrothgar’s guest and got to know the girls quite well.’ He shrugged and pulled a face. ‘Forget that I mentioned it, Ubba,’ he said before throwing the Dane a mocking smile. ‘It was probably just women’s talk after all; tittle-tattle.’

  Eofer had been watching the exchange keenly and moved to seize his chance, pouncing as Ubba’s thoughts whirled. Darting forward he made to land a blow but pulled the strike at the last moment. As he had expected, caught off guard, Ubba reacted by swinging his own sword across in a desperate attempt at parrying the blow. Eofer rolled his wrist, sweeping Gleaming aside as he took Ubba’s counter on the face of his shield. The blade slid across the leather facing, gouging a runnel before clattering off the shield boss and away. It would count as a first strike and, the demands of honour satisfied before gods and men, Eofer moved to attack in earnest. As the Dane’s body was dragged forward by the momentum, Eofer swept Gleaming down and back as Ubba’s eyes went wide at the realisation that the wild lunge had opened his flank to a counter stroke. Off balance and pulled across by the weight of his shield, Ubba’s mouth gaped in horror as Eofer danced past. In a flash the Englishman’s sword was slicing through flesh, scoring the bones of the huscarl’s ribcage as he drew the blade up and away in a mist of hot blood.

  Ubba staggered sideways as a red furrow opened in his side, blood sheeting out to soak his midriff and trews. Wulf was there, and the gesith drove the edge of his shield into the Dane’s mouth as he swept his own blade across to drive Hrok back. Ubba staggered back under the blow, shattered shards of teeth mixing with the bright blood flowing from the ruin of his mouth. Forced back on the stony ground Ubba stumbled and fell, but he had not survived a score years and ten on the battlefields of the North to die so easily. As the huscarl rolled and jumped back to his feet, Eofer switched his attention to Hrok. The Dane’s eyes were flicking from side to side as he watched the English brothers, desperate to see an opening before he found himself facing them alone. Wulf’s attack had opened up a fleeting opportunity for a counter strike of his own and Hrok seized it eagerly, leaping forward to stab his blade at the Engle as he moved into the gap made by Ubba’s fall. As Eofer watched in horror the Dane’s sword blade cut towards his brother’s thigh, but just as it seemed as if it must pare flesh from bone the blade was stopped dead as it became entangled in the thicket. Hrok desperately tugged at the hilt as Wulf recovered, sweeping his shield across. The metal edging of the board cracked down, and Eofer watched as the sword juddered under the impact of his brother’s attack, the tremor of the strike travelling up Hrok’s arm to throw the Dane back.

  Ubba had recovered enough now to face his opponent and the pair, thegn and huscarl, glowered above their shield rims as their eyes searched for an opening. The last attack had taken Wulf across to the far end of the island, splitting the English brothers apart, and the Danes put aside their differences to move back-to-back as the Engles took up positions at either end of the islet.

  Eofer snapped a look at Gleaming, flinging a pearl of blood from the tip with a contemptuous flick of his wrist before moving his head to look at the gaping wound in the Dane’s side. ‘Nasty,’ he winced. ‘It looks like the happy days spent burning Englishwomen and children in their halls are at an end.’

  Ubba’s head had turned aside, his eyes fixed on Eofer as he whispered an instruction to Hrok. Eofer saw the merest hint of acknowledgment enter the Dane’s stance, and a quick look down confirmed what he already suspected, that he was on the very tip of the spit of land. The water was burbling past only inches away from each foot, and he knew then what the big Dane had said.

  A heartbeat later Hrok was spinning, the pair charging forward as they sought to drive the eorle into the waters before his brother could come to his aid. Eofer held his stance until the very last moment as Ubba raised his sword high to bring the great blade chopping down, but the attack was a feint and the Dane pulled the strike at the last moment as Eofer had known that he would. As Hrok drew his sword arm back ready to thrust into the eorle’s face, Ubba drove his fist forward, hooking the cross guard of his own sword over the lip of the Englishman’s shield; tugging it down with all his strength. As the rim of the board tilted Hrok’s arm shot forward, the Dane’s sword flashing in the sun as it cut the air only an inch above the rim.

  Hrok yelled out in triumph, but the cry was cut short as Eofer dropped to one knee, launching himself forward and upwards like a charging bull. As Eofer shouldered Ubba aside with the boards of his shield, Gleaming came up like a thunderbolt. Eofer knocked Hrok’s shield aside and came on, all the power in his legs and shoulders concentrated on adding to the sword’s punch. His own sword arm overextended by the stab at Eofer’s face, Hrok’s breath exploded from him as Gleaming slammed into his belly. Eofer stepped up, driving the blade upwards, slicing through liver and gut, powering up to cleave the Dane’s heart in two. As Hrok’s death rattle sounded and his eyes rolled upwards, Eofer spun away from Ubba’s avenging sweep as it whistled past his ear. His momentum carried him back to the wider part of the island, and it was Eofer’s turn to gape in surprise at the sight which met his eyes as he swung back to face his foe and Wulf came back to his side.

  As Hrok bled out into the stony soil, Ubba stood staring at the English pair from beneath the rim of his helm, a look of resignation painted onto his face. The gash in his side was still sheeting blood, soaking the left side of his trews before the waters of the brook flowed to wash it downstream. Ubba levered himself back onto dry land, shooting them a wry smile as the English spearmen came across and prepared to throw.

  ‘It’s not the end to keep the skjald’s in gold and silver,’ he said in heavily accented English, ‘but at least I have a sword in my hand.’ As the men on the bank hefted their weapons and sighted, the Dane raised a bloodstained hand to indicate they hold. ‘Can I ask, Eofer? You have been a worthy adversary, here and elsewhere. Would you show me honour by sending me onwards? I will tell your ancestors of the prowess of the sons of Wonred; that one of their kinsmen is the eorle who burned my king’s hall, the other is a loki-cunning gesith.’ The Dane lowered his head, rapping the forward plate of his helm with his knuckles as he did so.

  Eofer had already seen that the Dane carried the design of the dancing wolf-men above his left eye, he would have been surprised had he not, and he called on the spearmen to lower their ash shafts as he came forward. His own battle helm shared the design as did Wulf’s, every warrior of note in the North had passed the ritual to enter the brotherhood. He would give his enemy the death due a warrior, true to his vow the night that he had danced the dance and taken the oath. As he did so Ubba switched his gaze. ‘Wulf, you were named after the wrong animal, you are fox-cunning.’ Throwing his shield aside with a clatter, he s
norted at his own stupidity as he pointed the tip of his sword at the stony ground, opening himself to Eofer’s death blow. ‘I know that Signy would never betray me, but it sowed a seed of doubt in my mind just long enough for you to seize the initiative and win the fight.’

  Ubba inhaled deeply, raising his eyes to the sky as he prepared to pace the rainbow bridge. The beginnings of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth as the sleek lines of a tern drifted into his vision, its underside washed red by the morning sun as Gleaming clove the air.

  The roadway exited the tree line and the riders reined in, gasping at the sight which lay before them. A vast bowl of land stretched away to the horizon, the grassy valley sides awash with the tiny figures of men and horses. Below them the English camp stretched for a league or more in a great curve along the flanks of the escarpment. A mile to the North the land rose in a gentle slope, a great green ocean roller capped by the dark mass of the Danish army. Points of colour flickering above the dun coloured host showed the banners of the jarls of Daneland and, at the centre of the encampment, the great hart battle flag of the Scyldings curled lazily in the gentle spring breeze.