by Angus Donald
‘Theodoric may be expecting aid from the Fyr Skola. I’d be surprised if he did not expect a powerful contingent to help him in the coming battle. Also, it will light a fire under his troops to know what the enemy has done to the sacred Groves. We must tell him the news as soon as possible.’
‘There is a powerful contingent coming to his aid,’ said Tor, making a little circling movement with her finger. ‘We are coming to rescue him.’
Valtyr laughed, a little hollowly. ‘Yes, indeed.’
‘I think I know how we can pass through them without being arrested,’ said Bjarki. ‘It will take more than a little luck but it might suffice.’
* * *
They marched in a compact group on the road north, four of them all clearly armed and armoured, no disguises, no attempt at all at subterfuge.
They were challenged once that day, towards nightfall, when they came to a castrum – a newly built one where there had once been a little Saxon village – which had several pickets posted outside the new pinewood gate.
‘Name yourselves and state your business!’ came the order from a Red Cloak officer standing in the half darkness; his spear levelled at them.
Behind him were three other spear-armed Red Cloaks. For a tiny moment, Bjarki was tempted to pull out his sword and annihilate them all. His raw anger at the destruction of the Groves was like a coal burning in his chest, which could only be quenched by buckets of Frankish blood. He knew he could do it alone, and without even troubling his gandr; and with Tor’s efficient help it could all be over in a matter of a few heartbeats.
Instead, he controlled himself, snapped to attention rigidly and yelled out: ‘Bjarki Bloodhand, sir, Trooper First-Class in His Majesty’s Auxilla, sir. Detached on special duties, sir.’
‘Auxilla, eh? I know of them. Scruffy bunch. Remind me, soldier, what is the name of your commanding officer? Captain Rollo, isn’t it?’
‘Captain Otto, sir,’ said Bjarki.
‘Oh yes, of course,’ said the officer. ‘Good old Captain Otto. Big hairy fellow, very tall, blond, massive beard, if I recall. Is that right?’
‘Small and bald, sir, begging your pardon. No beard to speak of.’
The officer chuckled. ‘Forgive my caution. Lots of spies about.’
‘Can’t be too careful, sir,’ Bjarki said.
‘So what are you doing here, trooper?’
‘I’m trying to find the front lines, sir. Scouting duties for the Auxilla.’
‘You’re a long way from the front, man. You’d better come inside the castrum and spend the night here. We’ll give you a decent bite of supper.’
‘No, sir, thank you, sir. We have orders to get forward as quickly as possible, sir. Our captain is waiting. We don’t mind a bit of night marching.’
‘Suit yourself. What is that trooper carrying in the sling. Is it a dog?’
‘Scara mascot, sir,’ said Bjarki.
‘Right. Well, carry on then. Straight up this sorry excuse for a road for about twenty miles and you will find the front lines eventually. Off you go.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
* * *
They camped an hour later in a spinney of alders and made a small fire, over which Gunnar cooked a slop of oat pottage. All of them were feeling nervous and subdued. They had been reminded during the long day’s march of just how powerful Francia was. On the journey to Regensburg, Captain Otto had told Bjarki that the king had a hundred thousand men under arms, and Bjarki had duly marvelled at the figure. But saying a big number was a great deal different to seeing the actual men who made up that huge force.
All day they had passed units of Red Cloaks, hundreds, perhaps thousands, and a few score Green Cloaks, too, the sight of which made Bjarki’s ears fill with the sound of rushing water. But he controlled himself. A company of Scholares horsemen had cantered past around noon, going south for some reason, and Bjarki had taken a moment to study their arms and armour as they thundered by. They looked truly formidable: clad in good scale-mail, ridged steel helms and greaves, bearing nine-foot lances, two swords, some with axes and maces, and big black round shields painted with the Christian cross in white. Even their horses looked fearsome; some were even covered like their grim riders in scale-mail.
They had seen hundreds of civilians, bald men, frowning at scrolls before directing gangs of slaves to start repairing the poor Saxon roads. They had passed at least three new churches, too, and heard the communal singing from inside as the Frankish soldiers raised their voices to honour their god.
No one felt much like talking that night and, when the tasteless pottage was all eaten, they wrapped themselves in their cloaks – Bjarki and Garm sharing the big bearskin – and slept uneasily until a little before dawn.
They saw the first signs of fighting the next day, corpses and scorched crops and, once, a village where it looked as if some sort of extremely bloody rearguard action had been fought. There was a pile of about twenty dead warriors of the North, stripped of their arms and armour, white flesh, gaping red wounds and dead eyes staring into the next world. The village had been torched either during the battle or after it, and the remains of its four thatched longhouses still smouldered.
They hurried past, with Gunnar trying hard not to stare at the gashed bodies or the destruction of life. Valtyr muttered: ‘Ottersfeld, that was the name of this place. Knew a woman here who brewed fine ale, the best—’
There came the sound of brass trumpets and drums, very loud and getting louder, and the harsh clattering of a mass of cavalry approaching.
‘Off the road,’ said Tor. ‘Keep well clear of the horses.’
The four of them jogged off the track and into a small wood of silver birch. They passed round oatcakes and water skins, and watched as a grand cavalcade of Scholares cavalry trotted up the road, two hundred troopers at least. Bjarki wondered whether they knew that Lord Grimoald was dead, and guessed they did. It had been several weeks since the battle at the cave. Who, he wondered, had taken over as high commander of the Black Cloaks?
It was Valtyr who recognised the danger first. ‘Get behind the trees, you two. Now!’ He shoved Bjarki hard towards the nearest trunk.
Right there in front of them, not thirty paces away, on a magnificent black horse, was Karolus himself. Above him fluttered his eagle banner, black and gold. Tor and Bjarki kept their faces hidden behind their trees but Valtyr and Gunnar gaped like yokels as the great man, surrounded by a sea of Black Cloaks, clattered past. Beside him, on his shield side, rode the Duke of Swabia, in dark cloak and scale-mail. Gerold’s youthful face was contorted, as ever, in a petulant scowl. Beyond these two there was a flash of colourful robes, scarlet and blue and gold, a flamboyant presence amid all the black wool and iron armour and Tor caught a glimpse of the man riding at the king’s right hand, almost like an equal. It was the king’s chancellor and chaplain, Livinus, the new Bishop of Aachen.
‘Are you sure you can’t just lob a magic fireball at them and blow them all to bloody rags in a flash of blinding white light?’ whispered Tor.
‘If I could do that, girl, it would already be done,’ Valtyr replied.
The king, the duke and the bishop were past them now, and the Black Cloak escort too were disappearing in a whirling cloud of their own dust.
‘What does it signify,’ said Bjarki, ‘that the king himself is here?’
‘It means they seek to crush us all completely this time,’ said Valtyr.
An hour after that, when the shadows were lengthening, Bjarki could just make out the looming black bar of the Dane-Work on the northern horizon, two or three miles away.
Suddenly, he and the others found themselves surrounded by a ring of hard eyes and drawn bows, and a voice saying in Saxon: ‘Take one more step, big lad, and I’ll skewer you.’
Chapter Twenty-seven
A council of war
The ten-man Saxon patrol that escorted the travellers into Hellingar Fortress was one of the last to have ventured out b
eyond the Dane-Work before Theodoric gave the order that the only drawbridge over the channel – a great lumbering wooden structure on wheels – should be removed and every man who served the Duke of Saxony must remain behind its ramparts.
They told the captain on duty in Hellingar who they were, and Valtyr asked for an audience with Theodoric immediately. As the old man was led away, one of the patrol leaders, a fellow named Kundar, said: ‘If you’d like to follow me, my friends, I will take you to the rest of your comrades. They are lodged in the third quadrant, in Ash House. This way, if you please…’
Bjarki was mystified, glanced at Gunnar and Tor, who just shrugged back at him, and followed the broad shoulders of Kundar as the warrior set off at a brisk pace walking down one of the two log-paved roads that, set at right angles to each other and running north–south and east–west, neatly divided the circular fortress of Hellingar into its four numbered quadrants.
They were taken to a longhouse in the third quadrant and once they reached the door, or rather the thick piece of cowhide that hung over the entrance, Kundar, with a bow and cheery wave, left them.
‘Comrades?’ said Bjarki. Gunnar swallowed nervously. Tor loosened the seax in its sheath on her belt. Garm gave an interested little snuffle.
They lifted the leather flap and went into the longhouse.
It was very hot inside Ash House: the long fire-trough that ran down its centre had been piled high with logs as if it were the deep midwinter rather than early spring. After so many nights spent out in the cold, Bjarki immediately began to sweat. Few people took any notice of the three newcomers, not even of the bear cub poking its shiny black nose out from the swathe of cloth at Tor’s hip. Almost every eye was fixed on the far end of the hall, where a bowed figure appeared to be affixed somehow to the rough log wall, arms and legs spread wide.
The fellow on the wall, a clean-shaven man with his dark hair cut short in a military style, looked terrified, and Bjarki could see that the crotch of his once-white linen breeches were stained dark where he had pissed himself in fear. He was securely attached by leather thongs at wrists and ankles tied to heavy nails hammered into the logs. There were several heavy knives and axes embedded in the wood, some just inches from his body. As Bjarki looked on, a squat, muscular figure with his back to the doorway, a man almost as broad as he was tall, drew back his right hand and hurled a bearded axe. The long weapon spun through the air and – thunk! – smacked blade-first into the logs a finger’s width from the wretch’s face.
The prisoner gave a little cry, not far from a whimper, which was drowned out by the huge roar of approval from the watching crowd.
The squat man who had hurled the axe so successfully turned with both his bare muscular arms lifted in triumph and he was cheered to the rafters by the dozen or so folk who were crowded around him at that end of the hall.
It was Ivar Knuttson, the new Father of the Boar Lodge.
They stared at each other for a long moment. But Gunnar broke the tension by crossing between them and calling out greetings to people he knew in the hall, and being welcomed with pleasure in return. The Barda began telling the eager throng about the disaster in the Groves, and Bjarki was dimly aware of the general cries of horror and sadness – and anger too – erupting all around him. Even Tor was being welcomed by some of the inhabitants of the longhouse she knew, but perhaps with less enthusiasm.
Bjarki continued looking steadily, unblinkingly at Ivar, and then began to move towards him, pushing through the crush of folk and their questions.
Ivar dropped his eyes; then raised them again immediately, knowing he had somehow already lost the silent battle of wills between him and Bjarki.
Bjarki was closing on him, only three steps away. Ivar called out: ‘By the gods: it’s Bjarki Bloodhand, of Bear Lodge, back from the land of the dead! Welcome, Bjarki! Welcome to Ash House! Bring ale for our guest!’
Bjarki stopped one stride from Ivar. He stared at him in stony silence.
‘Where have you been, Bjarki?’ Ivar’s tone was jolly, and comradely, but with a wobbling edge of falsity. ‘We thought you killed at Thursby? I only got away by the skin of my teeth myself; had to chop my way clear. But, here you are; obviously, you didn’t get cut up with the rest. Captured, were you? Held by the Franks? Enslaved? I imagine that was very hard. But you’re back – that’s the most important thing! And you’re welcome!’
Bjarki still did not utter a word. Someone offered him a foaming horn of ale. He ignored the out-thrust hand. His blue eyes bored into Ivar’s.
Ivar’s face began to change. The false bonhomie faded away. His expression showed a flash of fear, then grew uglier, flushed with hatred.
‘Many things have changed since you left us, Bloodhand,’ he said quietly. ‘Lot of changes in our little world – I’m Father of the Boar Lodge now and, if the rumours I’ve just heard are true, I’m the most senior Rekkr left alive. I am, therefore, the leader of the remnants of the Fyr Skola – and all these people look to me for leadership. So you… you’d better watch your step. You’d better be very careful what you say to me – or about me.’
‘I know what you truly are, Ivar Knuttson,’ said Bjarki in an equally quiet voice, almost a whisper. He could feel his gandr hovering just outside of his body. It was eager to enter him, eager for the inevitable bloodshed to begin. He heard rushing water in his ears, and had to fight the urge to hum.
‘And you know what I am, don’t you? I am what you only pretend to be.’
Ivar looked into Bjarki’s eyes and recognised the Beast inside him.
‘Take the h-horn of a-ale, Bjarki. Quench your thirst, my old friend. Be welcome here! We are all on the same side. There is no need for ill feeling, or petty quarrelling between comrades. You must have had a hard time as a prisoner of the Franks. Here, take revenge for your hurts on this cringing Frankish worm – we caught him on our last patrol, but he didn’t have anything useful to tell us. So I decided we should have a little fun with him. Have a turn, go on; I promise it will put you in a much better humour.’
Ivar had a throwing knife in his left hand, held out hilt-first; he was offering it to Bjarki. ‘The rules of the game are simple, my friend: you try to get the blade into the wall but as close to the target as you can without cutting him. Make him squirm, go on. It’s a fine game; here, take the knife.’
Bjarki took the hilt of the heavy knife. He thought about his options; plunging it deep into the man in front of him and ripping out his entrails seemed the most interesting idea. He could feel his gandr urging him to take the first step down this bloody path. But then he’d have to kill almost every person in this hall, all his friends and comrades, all the blameless Fyr Skola folk. No, he could not take that step. He shut his mind to the pleading of his gandr. There was a battle coming, an epic struggle for the North; they would need every hand that could lift a sword, even nithings like Ivar Knuttson.
He weighed the throwing knife in his hand and looked at the terrified prisoner hanging from the wall. Vengeance for the Groves, he thought. Yes, and he heard his gandr somewhere close chuckle darkly with anticipation.
He accepted the horn of ale, tipped back his head and drained it. Then he tossed the empty vessel to a bystander, drew back his hand and hurled the knife with all his strength at the wretch at the far end of the house. The blade flew true, spinning over and over, the dull steel catching the firelight, and it smacked hard between the eyes of the man tied to the logs, and split his skull like a walnut. The man’s brains and blood splashed messily across the wall.
There were several groans, even derisory hoots. ‘Now you’ve gone and done it, oaf,’ said a voice at his elbow. ‘You’ve ruined everybody’s fun.’
‘Sorry, Tor,’ he mumbled, looking down. ‘That was clumsy of me.’
* * *
‘We’re summoned to a council of war,’ said Valtyr. It was early the next morning, and the old man had joined Bjarki, Tor and Gunnar in Ash House for a breakfast of ham and eggs, t
oasted bread, butter and fruit preserves.
One thing the Dane-Work and Hellingar Fortress was not short of was supplies. Siegfried, King of the Dane-Mark, and Duke Theodoric had known this day would come for many months, perhaps even years, and between them they had been stocking the granaries and storehouses of the defensive line with fresh, dried and salted provisions until they were full to bursting. There was no danger of the army of the North being forced from its position by hunger. And even if they were to be pinned here for months by the hordes of Frankish troops on their doorstep, they could always bring down food from the rest of Jutland or even from further afield by ship.
‘Who else will be there?’ asked Bjarki, stealing a piece of buttered toast from Valtyr’s over-flowing plate. He and his friends had already eaten mightily that morning, after a late and fairly drunken night in the Ash House, but he found when there was food available it was hard for him to resist it.
‘The Duke of Saxony, of course, and his eldest son, Widukind, and King Siegfried and Jarl Snorri Hare-Lip, Master of Hellingar, also Ivar Knuttson, Father of the Boar Lodge – I trust, Bjarki, that you will comport yourself with the proper decorum around our good friend Ivar.’
‘I believe we came to an understanding last night,’ said Bjarki. ‘We’ll co-operate with each other while the enemy is at our gates. Afterwards…’
‘Good. And there are two other respected Fyr Skola folk who sought refuge here,’ said Valtyr, ‘both from your own Bear Lodge, Bjarki. Eldar the gothi, who is one of the finest healers I’ve ever met; and Nikka the Dreamer – a true Rekkr but one who has not fought a battle for many years.’
‘I know them both – and value them highly,’ said Bjarki.
‘None of the Wolf Lodge people survived?’ said Tor.
‘Alas, no,’ said Valtyr. There was a moment of awkward silence.