Ælric looked her straight in the eye, “You are his legitimacy.”
“I don’t understand,” Æva said, unable to quell the frustration in her voice.
“To the throne, Æva,” Idin explained. “If Bayan marries you it would give him legitimacy as king when his father dies.”
“Oh.” The small sound seemed inadequate, but Æva could think of nothing else to say. She had been his pawn, moved into position, to be used as needed. Strangely the news did not unsettle her as it once might. She had cut her ties.
“We need to move,” Ælric urged.
They ghosted through the forest, quick and quiet. Twisting and turning around the stout trunks of oaks and the slender height of alder trees, Æva lost all sense of direction. Her straining ears detected the faint murmur of the distant river, the source guiding Ælric and Idin. She did not dare ask where they were going. Ælric, she knew, had made the decision to accompany them only for Idin. She felt responsible for the danger they were all in now.
Eventually, the blanket of night began to dissolve into cluttered shadows, the shafts of the trees visible as grey bars against a black backdrop. Little by little, the gloom lifted as dawn brought the world to life. The small shrubs, rabbit holes and prickly bushes that had been tripping and tearing at Æva’s clothes began to take form, the cloaking grey giving way to muted colours, dark browns and greens.
Æva was exhausted. She had been awake for twenty-four hours and Ælric had pushed the pace hard all night. Her legs were leaden, and she had a stitch stabbing at her ribs. A hidden tree root caught her ankle, sending her sprawling forward. She caught herself just in time, but it was the final straw.
“Stop! You need to stop,” she wheezed. Bending over, she grasped her knees, gasping for breath. Her pulse throbbed, sweat glistening on her forehead.
Idin and Ælric turned to assess her, both barely breathing hard despite the heavy chain mail and leather they wore, their hands full of the accoutrements to battle.
“Æva, we can’t afford to stop,” Idin told her.
“A minute, just for a minute,” she pleaded.
Ælric made an annoyed sound in his throat, restless. His eyes constantly scanned around them, alert, watching for signs of movement. Idin, too, appeared aggravated. They had not covered enough ground to pause.
“A minute, only,” he conceded.
Æva nodded, grateful. Still leaning on her knees, she dipped her head, squeezing her eyes shut to try to stop the nauseating dizziness. Her stomach heaved. There was a ringing in her ears, sharp and piercing and driving straight into her brain.
“Shit.”
Æva opened her eyes at the word, muttered from one of the two men. She tried to focus on the earth beneath her, but it seemed blurry. She blinked, trying to clear the haze, but the tiny pebbles and grains of dirt continued to move, vibrating and dancing on the spot. The pounding in her ears grew louder, drowning out the ringing. Something grabbed at the arm of her tunic.
“Æva, we have to go, now!” Idin’s voice hissed close to her ear.
“It’s too late,” Ælric’s voice was soft. It frightened Æva far more than Idin’s frantic urgency.
She stood up, struggling to focus on the scene before her.
They had reached the end of the trees. Beyond the final line of trunks, the basin of the valley stretched out. Here the river widened, broadening the water out so that it was shallower, only inches deep. An ideal place to cross. And there, feet before them, materialising quickly in the morning light, was a moving blur. Though not quite level with them yet, it stretched backwards to the horizon, bobbing gently up and down, and with each downward beat the ground shuddered. The army was moving.
“What the hell are they doing here so early?” Idin growled, hunkering down, his eyes narrowing. “They weren’t supposed to leave until dawn.”
“It seems the plan changed,” Ælric murmured.
The first row of soldiers drew level, the men jogging at a brisk pace, legs rising and falling in tandem. In front rode a group of nobles, their fine battle gear gleaming and brilliant. Plumes of horsehair, dyed jet black with warning streaks of blood red, bounced atop their helmets as they trotted. Æva scanned each face, searching for Bayan, but the cheek pieces and nose guards of the elaborate helmets hid their features from view. The men running behind were much less finely bedecked. Few had helmets, but they all wore matching expressions of fierce determination.
“Æva,” Idin’s voice was a low whisper, barely carrying to her ears over the rolling drum beats of the men’s feet. She inclined her head towards him, to show she was listening, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sight before her. The men ran twenty abreast, their rows in neat formation. Shields hung loosely over their shoulders, spears thrusting into the sky with each forward step, their sharpened points piercing the air as easily as they would later slice through flesh.
“Æva,” Idin hissed again, this time pulling on her hand and forcing her to look at him.
“Come here,” he told her, holding up his hand.
Æva gazed at him, her expression dubious. His palm and fingers were coated in muck.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“Disguise you,” he said.
Æva pursed her lips in disgust, but she raised her face to Idin. He smeared dirt across her cheeks, planted a smudge on her forehead, ran his fingers through her hair. The mud matted her silken strands, making them lie heavy on her head. Appalled, Æva pulled back. She ran her fingers twice through her hair, trying to pull out the mud, but all she did was spread it more evenly, so that the short bob separated into tousled, dirty locks. The mud on her cheeks itched, and she rubbed at it with the back of her hand, flicking a blob onto her ear.
“Perfect,” Ælric grinned, amused at her disgusted face.
“Now,” Idin breathed, “We’ll just back slowly away.”
He lifted up into a half-crouch and, keeping his eyes fixed on the soldiers jogging along obliviously just a few yards away, began to shuffle backwards. Æva copied the movement, dragging her heels across the leaf strewn ground, searching out her way.
Without warning one of the soldiers broke off from the ranks and ran over towards them. He was dressed more elaborately than most of the ranks, with a helmet and chain mail tunic. Æva stared at him in alarm, but his face was benign, eyes scanning the bushes around them. His hand dropped to his waistband as he ran. Æva could not believe it; it would have been comical if the situation had not been so tense. They were going to be discovered by a soldier who needed to urinate.
“Oh, you have to be joking,” Ælric hissed.
He stood up – there was little point hiding, the soldier was heading right for them – and laid his hand on Æva’s back.
“Vomit,” he said under his breath.
“What?” Æva asked, lifting herself up to stare at him. His hand pushed her back down.
“Vomit,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, his face already turning to address the approaching soldier. He was nearly upon them now, his eyes narrowing as he processed the scene.
Æva looked at Idin in a panic, not understanding. His face apologetic, Idin lunged at her, thrusting his fingers down her throat.
He stood up quickly, dancing back as her body responded. The little food still residing in her stomach erupted out of her mouth. Not satisfied, her body heaved, choking her, until bile and acid spewed out, coating her tongue. Revolted, Æva spat and gagged, using her teeth to scrape the mucus from her tongue and groaning. The ground at her feet was spattered with sick, small flecks staining her shoes. The smell that wafted up, caustic and tangy, threw her into renewed heaves, her body convulsing even though there was nothing left to throw up.
“What is going on here?” the soldier’s eyes stared shrewdly at Æva, but they rose to address the two men as he spoke. He took in the finery of their clothing and helmets, realised their rank equalled his. His stance became slightly less antagonistic, but suspicio
n lurked in his eyes.
“The boy’s sick,” Idin replied at once.
Ælric’s hand on Æva’s neck kept her head down, hiding her face, keeping her nose close to the stink. She groaned again, spitting more chunks of vomit onto the ground.
“What’s wrong with him?” Æva detected a note of wariness, saw the soldier’s feet take a step back. Disease, even a simple stomach bug, could spread like wildfire, crippling an army.
“He’s just nervous,” Ælric assured him, “It’s his first battle.”
The soldier made a dismissive noise.
“Get him moving. We have no time for cowards.”
He stood and watched, waiting, so Idin had no choice but to lift Æva by the arm and pull her past the soldier. Under his watchful gaze the three of them exited the tree line. Æva’s face was drained of colour, her head still reeling from throwing up. She panicked as they approached the jogging troops. Her legs buckled under her, her body violently trying to resist joining the running soldiers. Ælric grasped her other arm and he and Idin half-dragged, half-carried her across the short stretch of open ground. They fell into line with the army as they hit the shallow water. The troops did not break pace, but drove through the river, splashing water up high with their pounding feet. It drenched Æva, soaking the front of her tunic and spraying up into her face. She shut her eyes, shaking her head as the droplets mixed with the mud and slithered into them. Unable to see, she stumbled. Only Ælric and Idin’s firm grip on her arms kept her upright.
“You need to move,” Ælric growled at her, aware of heads turning in their direction.
Æva tried to force her eyes open, tried to focus. Her stomach was twisted in knots, threatening at any moment to erupt into renewed heaves; her feet dragged and tripped on the ground, jerking her against Idin and Ælric’s unforgiving grip. Their fingers bruised her skin, making her arms ache. These pains, though, were minor. Minor compared to the real terror facing Æva. She was heading into war.
“I can’t,” she cried. She tried to stop, but Idin and Ælric refused to let her, lifting her so that her feet skimmed the ground.
“You have to. Come on, Æva,” Idin voice dropped so only Æva heard him when he said her name. Even Ælric, inches away, could not make out the words. “I know you can do this,” he told her.
Taking a deep calming breath, Æva turned back to the front. She tried to push down the panic, fixing her eyes on the soldier in front of her. She concentrated on finding her feet, matching her steps to the rhythmic thumps of the men around her.
“Good,” Ælric murmured out of the side of his mouth.
It was hard, though. She was a clear head shorter than most of the men surrounding her. Each stride they took was worth two of hers. What to the soldiers was a brisk jog was close to a flat out run for Æva. With no food in her stomach and a sleepless night heavy on her brow, she functioned only on adrenaline and nerves, and she dreaded the moment when these last reserves of energy failed her.
ᛝ
A mile later Æva hit the wall. Her muscles screamed and her limbs refused her orders to move. Her only thought was to keep going. She focused her eyes firmly in front of her, seeing nothing, repeating a desperate mantra in her head. One, two. One, two. With each count she dragged her legs forward another step. By sheer force of will, she kept her breathing even. Idin and Ælric jogged silently beside her. They had stopped muttering encouragement. There was nothing left to say.
Æva could only hope it was nearly over, that they were almost there. She refused to allow herself to think beyond that. But with each step – her only way to count their progress as she could see nothing in front of her but soldiers – she edged closer to her doom.
Her natural response was to slow, to draw out the inevitable, but she was aware of the thousands behind her. The soldier directly at her back had already clipped her heels twice, his irritated complaints earning him a blood curdling glare from Ælric that had since quietened him. In the midst of the pack she felt claustrophobic, like one of a million rats deserting a ship’s fire, unaware that they were about to fall into the ocean.
At last the pace slowed. The brisk jog decelerated into a trot that became a walk. Moments later, the soldier in front of Æva halted. For a brief second, she knew only relief. She wanted desperately to lean against Idin, who stood solid as a rock beside her, but she did not want to draw any suspicious stares from the men around her, who had nowhere else to look. She clenched her fists, locking her knees and ankles firmly in place.
Now they had halted, outbreaks of low conversations began to whisper.
“Idin, why have we stopped?” she murmured.
“We are here,” Idin responded. “Eboric lies just over that rise,” he pointed with the hand holding his spear, but Æva’s view was impeded by the men in front.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
Idin caught Ælric’s eye over her head, causing nerves to flutter in her stomach. Both of their faces were grim with foreboding.
“Just stay close to me,” Idin said. “I will protect you.”
“We’re going to fight?” Fear edged her voice higher. Several heads in front of her twitched, their ears turning subtly to listen.
“We may not have a choice,” Idin murmured.
Æva tried to stay calm, but it seemed like the men around her were crowding in on her. They filled the space, muscles bulging, hands clutching deadly weapons. Their faces were set with resolve, chins lifted.
“What will happen?” Æva asked, hoping to draw some comfort from knowledge.
Ælric answered her.
“We are in the first wave, with the Gedriht. In a moment the nobles will lead us down to Eboric. We will line up opposite the city walls and wait for the Vikings to face us. It is likely they will be there already, waiting. They will have their spies.”
Æva had heard only the first words out of his mouth. The rest had been drowned out by a haze of terror.
“We will be at the front?” she squeaked.
“The best soldiers are always at the front,” Ælric told her. There was pride in his voice, and she knew he counted himself amongst them. She sneaked a look at him and saw that his eyes were alight, eager. Idin’s eyes, she noticed, were full of nothing but concern.
From nowhere, a drum began to beat.
Instantly the atmosphere changed. The conversations ceased, replaced by a tense silence that zinged with anticipation, exhilaration. Æva saw each man adjust his position, standing taller, more proudly. Testosterone fuelled the fire in their eyes, the aggressive set of their jaws. They were ready.
Rather than giving her confidence, watching this change filled Æva with fear. They loitered on the precipice; the battle so close she could almost taste the blood about to be spilled. It was really going to happen. And she was in the middle of it.
The drumbeat got suddenly louder, the rhythm changing. Without any signal that Æva could tell, the army began to move. It was a slower pace, a march. Each footstep slammed down with a purpose, making the ground rumble, announcing their approach. In time with the drum the men began to grunt, a deep, barbarian sound that made the skin on the back of her neck tingle.
She could do nothing but allow herself to be carried forwards. She felt incredibly small, frail. Her hands were empty, no shield or spear. The knife Idin had given her was tucked against her leg, but for now she let it sit. It would seem too small, too insubstantial. A token drop against a tide of violence.
She was going to die.
Flashes danced before her eyes: the boy who had crawled to the nunnery, mutilated and bleeding; the savage Viking raping the nun then hacking her violated body to pieces; the ease with which Ælric had thrown her to the ground again and again, his massive strength disarming and dispatching her effortlessly; the letch at Babbanburth who would have raped her without Bayan’s interference.
She was going to die.
The city of Eboric was encircled by a high, protective wall. It had been
built by the Romans, and though buildings had spewed outside of the gates as the city had expanded, the fortress-like walls provided shelter in times of attack. The people of Deira had put their faith in these walls when the Vikings had come, certain they would shield them from the onslaught of the barbarian attack. They would better have placed their trust in God, Æva thought, as she stared upon the devastation.
The dwellings that hugged close to the outside of the walls were now nothing more than smouldering bonfires. The earth around them was scorched, the muddy clay earth seeping through like blood. Æva found no hint of death around the destruction; presumably the inhabitants of these modest buildings had fled to within the city’s sanctuary. The high arched gates providing entryway to Eboric hung tattered and useless, the great planks of oak unable to stand firm against the Viking attack. The city had been sacked. And now, somewhere inside, Gunnlaug Snake-tongue sat, victorious.
That was their target. Between them and him, however, the Viking army stood.
They waited in thick lines, countless rows deep. Behind this great army, on the palisade, more barbarians stood, ready to defend their prize. They dressed in black, tunics of dyed leather trimmed in ragged furs. Their heads were covered with coarse dark hair, tangled beards masking their faces. They looked to Æva like merchants of death.
Still the battle drum hammered on, its pounding beat ticking down the seconds until the bloodbath began, till the end of her life.
With each thump the King’s army grunted, a base noise from the pit of their bellies. It was menacing: the controlled roar of a beast ready to be unleashed. Against this din the Vikings howled, a twisting, keening bay that seemed endless. The two noises fought for dominance, acting out their own skirmish in the air above the battlefield. The clamour deafened Æva, numbing her mind. She was oddly thankful, she could not think above such a racket, only stand and stare, as if watching a dream. It kept the paralysing fear at bay.
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