Bookweird

by Paul Glennon

  A wall of Saxon shields rushed to the shoreline, blocking off access from the causeway. Three of the largest Saxon warriors stood at the point where the causeway touched the mainland. Their helmets were pulled down tight now, their shields held close to their bodies, leaving room only for their spears to poke through. Then the Vikings came streaming across the causeway. Their war cry made Norman’s throat go dry and he felt his knees weaken beneath him. This knee-weakening seemed to be happening all along the shield wall, because it wavered just slightly. All it took was a rallying cry from Brythnoth to strengthen those knees.

  The Vikings could not attack en masse. The narrow causeway allowed them to cross only two abreast and gave them little room to swing their swords. The first two raced to the end of the causeway and threw themselves at the shield wall. Norman was close enough to the battle now to see their faces. Their ferocity was shocking. He had seen that look in the eyes of the wolves of Undergrowth, but never in the face of a human. Had Norman been there holding a shield, he knew that he would have turned and run, but the three warriors who guarded the end of the causeway were obviously a little more brave than him. They held their ground as the Vikings charged. The Saxon spears drew back just enough to allow the invaders to get in close, and then, much more quickly than they’d been drawn back, the spears were thrust out again.

  The two Viking attackers halted. They looked surprised, as if something completely unexpected had happened. One fell immediately into the marsh beside the causeway. The other composed himself for another attack. But his sword was met with another that came from higher ground. The Viking, already wounded, struggled with his footing and swung weakly. The Saxon’s blow was swift and decisive in retaliation, and this second Viking too slumped to his knees and keeled over into the marsh.

  Another two Vikings followed, but they were dispatched just as quickly. Wave after wave came after them, but it was no use: the Saxons stood on firmer footing and held higher ground. The Vikings were handicapped by their poor position and the muddy ground beneath their feet, and the causeway wouldn’t allow them to broaden their front. Brythnoth had his three best men at the end of the causeway, and the Vikings could not bring more than two against them.

  Carried away by the excitement of the fight, Norman and Wulfmaer forgot their own quarrel and crept close to Aetheric in rank of Saxon thanes just behind Brythnoth.

  “It’s hopeless,” Norman said gleefully. “We could hold out all day like this!” He didn’t realize how loudly he’d spoken. Brythnoth himself turned and peered at him inquisitively.

  “What’s your boy saying there, Aetheric?”

  Aetheric laughed nervously. “Praise for your battle plan, Earl. He says the sea scum don’t have a chance.”

  Brythnoth looked from Aetheric to Norman, his eyes narrowing. “Hmph,” he grumbled.

  Out on the causeway, the Vikings finally stopped their senseless attack, pulling back away from the shield wall. The Saxons on shore let out a roar of derision. “Go home, sea scum,” someone shouted. But the Vikings did not go home. The messenger stepped out onto the causeway again.

  “Mighty Brythnoth!” he shouted. “You call this a battle? You promised us a clash of swords, a test of men and metal. This is a duel for but a few. My men are eager to fight. Are not yours?”

  Brythnoth drew his sword and strode to the edge of the cliff. Aetheric and the other Saxon thanes followed immediately, anxious to show that they too were ready return this insult.

  “How can you look at the fallen bodies of your brethren and ask that?” Brythnoth growled through his teeth. “Ask them if you like. Ask them if they found us eager to fight.”

  “Oh, we can see that two or three of you are ready for it,” came the answer. “Those few stout spearmen at the end of this causeway here have shown their mettle. But what of the rest of you? Are there only three real warriors in England?”

  Brythnoth was so angry now that he couldn’t speak. You could hear the sly smile in the Viking messenger’s voice as he went on. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing. Norman could do this to Dora sometimes. His mother called it “pushing someone’s buttons.”

  “Let’s see the how you fare in an equal fight then, Englander!” the Viking continued to heckle. “In that position, any three men could hold out all day. Why, three Viking girls could do as well.”

  Brythnoth turned back quickly to aim a dark look at Norman. Norman had said almost the same thing a few minutes ago.

  “A real warrior wouldn’t stand for this,” the Viking went on. “Let us onto the shore. Let us all share in this battle. Let us have a real fight, a fair fight.”

  Norman stood speechless as Brythnoth glanced back at him. Two grey-blue eyes glinted on either side of the iron nosepiece of his helmet and settled momentarily on Norman. It reminded Norman of the judgmental, accusative look his father had given him in the study. The Earl turned away before Norman regained enough of his wits to shake his head. His throat was dry and the words came out in a hoarse whisper. Only Aetheric beside him seemed to hear.

  “No, don’t do it. Don’t let them.”

  But it was too late. The Earl was giving the order to move back from the embankment. There was only a moment’s hesitation. Then each rank of spearmen stepped back slowly. The lines were orderly and unhurried. They retreated at most six metres, but it was enough. The three men at the causeway lingered. They raised their spears and shook them defiantly at the invaders on the causeway. There was a murmur of anger in the Viking ranks, but Norman could hear the whispers telling them to be quiet, to wait for their time. He found enough courage and voice to speak up one more time.

  “Brythnoth, no! Don’t do it. Don’t let them onto the shore. You don’t have to prove anything.”

  The Earl turned back suddenly and glared, his blue eyes full of icy fury. “Get this insolent whelp out of here,” he growled.

  Norman felt the heavy hand of Wulfmaer on his shoulder hauling him back. A bow and a quiver of arrows were thrust into his hands, and he stumbled clumsily through the mud as the older boy dragged him away. The Saxon boy let go of him only when they reached the area where the archers were assembling.

  A shout from behind him made him look back where they had come from. The Vikings were charging. The defenders of the causeway had stepped back and the way was clear for the invaders. The sea warriors streamed from the narrow land bridge to the wide shore but did not halt for a moment. From where Norman stood, they looked like a single mass, like liquid pouring out from a bottle into a widening pool. This illusion was shattered when the spill hit the Saxon shield wall. The force was too obviously solid—the sound was abrupt and sickening. Steel rang against steel or thudded against thick wooden shields.

  The shield wall didn’t hold. It buckled in two, then three spots and then was breached. At each of these points, the Viking horde applied more pressure, pushing into the second and third ranks of the defenders. Within minutes the shield wall was no more. There was no separation between the two armies. English thanes on horseback rushed in to support their foot soldiers but were quickly pulled from their mounts into the hand-to-hand combat. Norman felt a sharp thud on his shoulder. Gasping, he whirled, quickly expecting blood and angry Viking faces, but it was no Viking mace but the fist of Wulfmaer that struck him.

  “Stop gawking and start shooting those arrows!” he snarled.

  Norman had been too engrossed in the enfolding battle to notice that the rest of the archers were busy firing arrows down at the Vikings who continued to stream across along the causeway from the island. Norman’s fingers trembled as he notched his arrow. A sharp twinge of pain shot down his arm when he pulled the arrow back. Wulfmaer had hit him hard. His arrow went straight, but fell short. He bit his lip and grasped another arrow. Down below in the hill, the English were falling back. Some of the banners had fallen. Norman knew what that meant: a thane had fallen with it. If too many of their leaders fell, the English would lose heart.

  Below, the
re was a mighty push into the heart of the English defence. It was as if the Vikings had read Norman’s mind and meant to crush the Saxons’ morale. Norman wished he could do something. He hauled his bow string back with all his might, grunting as he let his arrow fly. His eye followed its flight. It was long enough this time, and high, but he saw it fall harmlessly on the causeway.

  When Norman looked again at the melee down below, the English numbers seemed severely depleted and the fighting was much closer. They were in full retreat now. Some of the thanes had grabbed their horses and were fleeing to the woods.

  “What’s going on? Why are they running?” Norman asked, appalled.

  Beside him, Wulfmaer had stopped firing too. His voice was no longer confident and gruff. “There…” He pointed to the centre of the battle, where a man slumped on one knee, his sword arm limp at his side. His helmet had been knocked askew, so that his grey hair stuck out. It was Brythnoth. Norman had not realized that he was so old.

  Though the Earl could no longer fight himself, he exhorted his followers still, rallying them to him, urging them on. Some few brave fighters stayed at his side, but more fled. Norman and Wulfmaer watched in shock as riders mounted and fled to the safety of the woods.

  The archers looked on passively now. The enemy was among the defenders. None of them trusted their aim enough to fire into the crowd that was now pushing toward them up the hill. One after another the English champions fell. With increasing desperation, Wulfmaer spoke their names as they fell. “That is Offa, there, the big man. He is down. Those are Oswold and Thurstan.” The battle was close enough now that Norman could see the faces of the dying men. Moments ago he had stood at their shoulder shouting insults at the Vikings; now they were falling to their knees in the mud. His stomach churned as he saw Aetheric fall. From the ground where he kneeled, unable to get to his feet, Aetheric looked back, fixing his eyes on Wulfmaer.

  “Be gone now. Get the boys to the woods. This day is over,” he cried hoarsely.

  Wulfmaer lunged forward, drawing a small dagger from his belt. Norman grasped his shoulder. The boy wheeled and glared at him, a wild look of grief on his face.

  The young Saxon’s face was a mask of indecision and pain. He longed to help his thane, but there was nothing he could do. When he finally turned away from his stricken master, the grief in his eyes had hardened to hatred. He knew whose fault this all was. He placed the point of his dagger at Norman’s throat.

  Norman gulped and looked around desperately for help, but all around him Saxon archers were dropping their weapons and fleeing. Then a Viking war cry turned both boys’ heads. A mass of Viking warriors surged up the hill.

  “Another day,” the Saxon boy threatened hoarsely, and they both fled.

  The protection of the forest seemed miles away. Norman regretted not having run sooner. He should have known the battle was lost as soon as he saw Brythnoth fall, but he had remained for some reason. A sense of responsibility tied him to this fight. It was his stupid comment that had made Brythnoth give up his position at the causeway.

  Wulfmaer had sprinted ahead of Norman. He had ditched his bow and arrows and would make it to the forest in time. Norman had slung his bow and quiver across his back, like he’d seen the stoat archers do, and he was regretting it now. The bow made it hard to run at full stride. He wondered if it was worth stopping and getting rid of it now. One glance over his shoulder told him it was too late for that. The pursuing Vikings were close enough to see the grins on their faces.

  Norman didn’t think he could run any faster. In desperation he reached for the pamphlet he’d stuffed in his pocket back in the library. He tore off one page and stuffed the rest back in his jeans. There was no time to slice and dice on the battlefield. He’d have to eat this one whole. He crumpled it into a ball and threw it into his mouth. It made breathing difficult and slowed him down even further. It was like trying to eat the world’s nastiest-tasting gobstopper in less than a minute. His jaw worked away at it in rhythm with his running stride. Norman thought bitterly about that old joke about walking and chewing gum—it was supposed to be simple.

  Norman reached the shallow gorge that marked the edge of the field. It was amazing that he’d made it this far. His lungs were bursting, and he still hadn’t managed to work the ball of paper in his mouth to a size he could swallow without choking himself. Three steps down the incline of the gorge, he slipped. The ground was greasy with mud here, and it was deeper than it looked. Norman felt his sneaker sink into the soft muck and heard a familiar squelch as he tried to yank it out. The mud held his shoe fast and only his socked foot emerged. He was reaching back for it when he saw the Viking over the edge of the gully. The barbarian wielded a huge battle axe that Norman probably wouldn’t even have been able to lift. There was a greedy, wide-eyed look on his face that said, “I’ve got you now!”

  Norman actually gulped with shock. With that motion, the compressed ball of paper squeezed past his tonsils and into his throat. It might have caught there, or else this is where the expression “having your heart in your mouth” came from. It certainly felt like that as his throat burned and throbbed. It was amazing the things that went through your head when you were running for your life, for he had abandoned his shoe now and was churning across the muddy gorge. If he survived this, his mother would be furious. She hadn’t been happy about the jacket, and these were new sneakers.

  Norman could hear the Viking close behind him now, laughing and taunting him. Suddenly everything seemed hopeless. What was he thinking, eating the page from the bike pamphlet? It wasn’t like he could fall asleep here. He was going to be murdered by a bloodthirsty Viking in a muddy English poem, bludgeoned or skewered with only one sneaker on. His legs were weak underneath him now and he was trudging, rather than running, up the other side of the gully. He barely noticed that his eyes were watering and his nose running. He had lost this battle for the English. If his dad ever found out, he would be furious. His poem was wrecked. This wasn’t a day that English poets would be celebrating at all. And suddenly Norman knew that he wouldn’t be seeing his father or mother. It really was over this time. He lost his footing again and lurched forward. There was a sharp pain like fire in his temple, and then everything went black.

  The Castle by the Lake

  It might not have been the cold that woke him, but it was certainly the first thing he noticed. Norman was lying in a ditch again. If he ever tracked down that Reynard dude, he was going to ask him why the bookweird always left you in ditches. Why couldn’t it be nice warm beds or sleeping bags every now and then?

  Norman remembered then that he was supposed to be dead. How had he survived the Viking attack? Had he been taken prisoner? Had they just knocked him unconscious in an English ditch and carted him off to be held in some Viking ditch for ransom? This certainly wasn’t the same ditch he’d fallen in. The ground wasn’t muddy, and he couldn’t hear the sea. The air was also much colder. He sat up to get a better look, and a bright pain flashed above his right eye, making his stomach nauseous. Somebody had hit him with something again.

  Now that he was sitting up, it was obvious that he was no longer at Maldon. The sea was nowhere in sight, and he was much higher up. The trees were all pines here, and above them he could see the tips of snow-covered mountains. Maybe he had been knocked unconscious and being knocked out was as good as falling asleep for the bookweird. But if this had done the trick, shouldn’t he be home now, hearing his mother scold him for losing a shoe and listening to his father complain in Danish? Shouldn’t he at the very least have woken up in a bicycle safety pamphlet? Some day he’d really like to learn how this actually worked.

  Norman rose to his feet shakily, gathering up his longbow and the quiver of arrows from the ground beside him. He should have dropped them when he was running, he thought belatedly. Slinging them over his shoulder, he felt reassured that he had a weapon of some sort and that he’d had at least a morning’s training in how to use it. He’d yet to wak
e up in any book where he didn’t have to defend himself.

  It wasn’t long, though, before Norman was wishing he could trade his bow and arrow for the sneaker he’d abandoned in the mud at Maldon. The ground was rocky here, and cold. He hobbled along the ridge of a hill for an hour before he found a clear path. He saw no one and heard nothing. It was strangely quiet.

  The path presented him with a dilemma. Should he go up or down? He hadn’t thought of it while he was trudging along the ridge, but the path clearly travelled up and down the mountain. Though an hour’s walk had warmed him up a little, he was still reluctant to climb higher, into even colder, less protected regions. Norman actually did turn around at one point, but something stopped him after the first step. Later he would think that it was because he had been running uphill away from the sea at Maldon and that in a way he was still running away from the pursuing Vikings.

  Another half hour’s walk made him regret his decision. The pathway narrowed considerably as it ascended and veered into the forest. The headroom continually grew lower and lower, and soon Norman found himself crouching and ducking beneath the boughs of pine trees. He scrambled though the narrowest and lowest passage yet and muttered to himself aloud, “Jeez, it’s as bad as Under—”

  He unbent himself and looked up as he spoke. What he saw on the mountainside in front of him had interrupted his thoughts: a tall, grey castle well placed behind thick battlements. Surrounded by snow-capped fir trees, its three towers loomed over the silver surface of the lake it commanded. The view was exactly like the cover…