by Hume, M. K.
‘As for the men who march with me, we are travelling to our destination like a tethered goat to draw wild cats and wolves from their winter lairs. They will want to tear us to pieces. Heardred will see the plundering of the religious community as a direct insult to his rule. He will see our number and believe that he can crush us with ease. He’ll not check the landscape, which I will have chosen to suit our requirements, rather than his. He’ll not consider that we have reinforcements at our disposal. As a commander, Heardred tends to make snap decisions based on his own values, and so he believes we have come north in search of plunder. But we have come for revenge! It is my intention to crush Heardred for the sake of Dene pride, for Dene children sold to whorehouses and for his cowardly attacks on unarmed villagers. We will survive his treachery and we will not surrender or run from his warriors until Stormbringer arrives at the battleground with his thousand men and his cavalry. We will prevail! And we will summon our collective wills until Heardred crumbles – and then we shall send him to his death!’
An involuntary cheer rose from the men spread out around him. Arthur gave his jarls the order to move out and the Dene troops with their single wagon of supplies began the long march into the north.
Thorketil had elected to make a supreme sacrifice and remain in Calmar. Knowing he could never keep up with the column, he vowed to be Arthur’s eyes and ears by commanding the small occupying force. But Arthur knew that he would miss his friend in the days to come.
The town of Calmar had possessed some horses owned by the headman and his sons, but the beasts had been badly treated and were far from young. The strongest of them had been selected to pull the wagon, but Arthur refused to use one as a mount, although he offered one to Ivar, because of the fisherman’s advanced age. Sensibly, Ivar accepted a spavined old horse, although he knew that he, the traitor, would stand out when the Dene troops were inevitably discovered.
Arthur set a withering pace at the head of the column, which was led by the crew of Sea Wife. The Dene warriors were mostly long-legged, so they could cover large tracts of land with relative ease, despite being burdened with their supplies. Arthur’s decision to march alongside his men was wise, for it earned him respect at little cost.
The whole column moved as one, while covering nearly as much ground as the legions would have done under Caesar.
Arthur watched the landscape unfold and marvelled at the difference in the soil and the terrain compared with the islands of the Dene.
Once the coast had been left behind, the plains began. Arthur saw their potential for farming and their use as rich granaries for the Geat farmers and landowners. Too many of the Geat warriors considered tilling the earth to be beneath them, but the Dene were living proof that warriors could be farmers, landowners, fishermen and artisans as well. This windswept, sighing land of long grasses, punctuated by the occasional field of stubble, should have been rich, managed and settled. But, half-wild, it brooded under a dying sun while ghostly moons rose to share the sky when night slowly settled over the land.
Undeterred, Arthur kept his men on the move, although their muscles were beginning to howl under the strain of constant movement.
‘Ivar! I want you!’ Arthur called. Within seconds, the old man had ridden up to him.
‘How may I serve, Arthur?’ Snorri took immediate offence at the fisherman’s sarcastic tone of voice. His hand strayed to the hilt of his sword, a movement that Ivar spotted immediately. ‘My apologies if I’m curt, master, but an old man’s bones hurt when he’s on a beast with a bony spine under his arse.’
‘You could always walk,’ Snorri suggested silkily.
‘Enough!’ Arthur’s words cut them off. ‘You know this terrain, Ivar, so I need you to find a place where we can set up camp for the night. I intend to use some fires tonight so we can let the villagers know our column is on the move.’
Ivar peered off to his right. The hard life of a fisherman had made his observations acute and one gnarled arm immediately pointed towards a distant smudge, a knoll that hardly rose above the plain.
‘Over there in that copse of trees. You’ll be a little higher than the rest of the plain and there’s some shelter there that’ll protect you from the rain that’s coming. I seem to remember that there’s a stream as well that cuts around the base of the rise. If you’re a Geat with a mind to notice, your fires should be seen for miles.’
‘Well done, Ivar. You’ve managed to anticipate my needs.’ He smiled across at Snorri. ‘Pass the word, my friend. We’ll eat and sleep on the knoll tonight.’
With renewed enthusiasm, the Dene troop set their sights on the distant slopes and the promise of rest.
With long, loping strides, the column devoured the miles to the knoll, where the crews set up their individual bivouacs with the speed of hungry and tired men. After a full year under the command of the Last Dragon, they knew his ways well and individuals from each crew began the perimeter patrols that would ensure their security. Within fifteen minutes, the balance of the warriors had begun preparing their encampment by raising tents, finding suitable stones for fire pits, collecting clean water and foraging for firewood. Arthur watched with satisfaction as his junior officers carried out their tasks with pride and skill.
‘They’ll never respond to the beat of their officer’s commands like the ancient Romans did, Snorri, but in their individualistic fashion they show the same sense of discipline. I’m confident now that our gamble is actually going to work. Would you tell the jarls to ensure we place some of our sentries in the trees? It’s hard to sneak up on a lookout when he’s above you. Once the sentries are in position, they must remain there and only come down on the orders of their own jarl. There must be no exceptions to these instructions. Is that clear, Snorri?’
The helmsman nodded, but his expression suggested that he was affronted his commander deemed such precautions necessary.
‘If the men should query my orders, tell them I lack all trust in the vagaries of good fortune.’
On a sudden whim, Snorri asked an impertinent question. ‘How old are you, master? You always speak like a seasoned warrior, but your face is still unlined.’
Arthur had to think about his answer for a few seconds. He had been eighteen when he had been captured on the road to Onnum, while his dead friend, Eamonn, had only been seventeen. The girls had been twelve. ‘By my calculation I’m barely twenty-two! Not that age makes any difference in this world in which we live. I was in my first battle at thirteen and I killed my first Saxon when I was still a young boy of seven.’
Snorri winced and said no more, but he wondered where the joy in Arthur’s young life had fled. On odd occasions, the helmsman saw a wicked sense of humour in his commander’s eyes. He had also viewed Arthur’s generosity to defeated enemies again and again. Snorri was far more observant than many of his contemporaries would believe. Arthur’s sense of humour, his acute sense of analysis and his generosity told Snorri that his captain was a very unusual young man.
A cold, wet night followed their warm evening meal, but inside their leather tents the Dene warriors mentally thanked their commander for forcing them to lug their equipment on their backs in the Roman fashion. As consistent rain fell during the early morning, the warriors remained snug and dry on pallets of freshly cut grass.
Even the cries of a hunting owl lacked the menace that would normally crush their optimism. Although they knew that death was on the wing, it came for other, less-provident souls, for they had placed their trust in Arthur as the Last Dragon and Fortuna’s favourite.
Three days of marching improved nobody’s mood because the autumn weather had decided to worsen in a concerted rush. Light, freezing rain told the Dene column that this whole enterprise was being conducted far too late in the year. The sun was scarcely in the sky by mid-morning when it would finally break through the charcoal cloud cover. The wet wool rubbed
unhappy thighs raw, and the dampness crept under leather tunics, cuirasses and even penetrated the men’s heavy gloves.
Because their presence had probably been noted already, Arthur permitted his men to draw what comfort they could from fire. Hot food always gave a warrior a more cheerful view of a campaign, and every nearby farm was a potential source of fresh provisions. His jarls would obey him if he forbade pillage, but that route led to resentment. Better that he should instruct his warriors to take only enough to meet their immediate requirements and leave the farmers the bulk of their livestock to ensure that the families survived the coming winter. Arthur had no desire to foment life-long enmity between the Dene and the Geat populace.
The Geat farmers, after an initial period of terror, were pathetically grateful for the Dene forbearance. Heardred had allowed his men to strip the farms bare and left famine in his wake, so the farmers hoped that all future invaders would pursue Arthur’s generous policies.
On the third night, the column halted on a low ridge overlooking a long valley. Off to the left in the far distance, Arthur could see a large lake, while to the right a smaller but still substantial finger of water obviously provided a plentiful supply of fresh water to the rich countryside. Narrow trails of smoke rose from a fold in the long plain.
‘Does that smoke rise from the homes of your little fathers, Ivar?’ Arthur pointed towards the densest concentration of smoke.
The gnarled fisherman had dismounted and was in the process of checking his limbs to ensure his muscles still worked.
‘Aye, boyo, that’s where the little fathers have their hospice and their apothecary. Only Loki knows where the folks in this place would be without them. They cure as many as die, which is more than can be said for their prayers. Hold to your word now, boy!’
As this was the longest speech that Ivar had made so far, Arthur decided that the old fisherman genuinely cared for the members of the religious community.
The men ate cold rations for the evening meal, for fires would now be clearly visible during the long night. Immediately afterwards, the jarls were instructed to attend Arthur’s tent so he could outline the final details of his plans of attack. The commander’s accommodation was cramped and reeked of wet fur, wool and sweaty feet but the leaders came willingly, knowing that the tent would be lit by an oil lamp.
‘We’ll attack the community at dawn. As I have outlined before, this attack is a feint and has only one purpose, although any plunder we find will be nice.’ The jarls laughed politely, but Arthur could tell that they were pleased.
‘We are using this attack to draw Heardred out from the safety of his northern fortress to fight us on ground of our choosing. We have no reason to kill harmless farmers and priests to achieve our ends, so we’ll only take sufficient life to secure the surrounding village and place it under our control. The plunder that is ours for the keeping includes any gold, silver or reliquaries that come into our hands. We will also take enough food to augment our supplies. But I stress that we will leave most of the community intact. For effect, we shall burn two buildings only, namely the barn used for the animals in winter and the priests’ refectory. They don’t need these buildings for their survival during the winter, but the damage will look far worse than it is. We don’t kill any of Ivar’s little fathers, the women or children. I’ve given my word to the Geat fisherman – and I’ll not knowingly break my oath.’
Rufus Olaffsen raised his dishevelled head with its new threads of white. His tightly curled beard was bristling with indignation.
‘None of our warriors will cause you to break your oath, Arthur, for these men know what is required of them. But what of Heardred? Or, more to the point, where is Lord Stormbringer?’
‘Stormbringer’s column made their landfall before we came ashore, so he reached his base earlier than we did. He plans to beach his longboats to the north of Calmar at a place which is much closer to our destination than our starting point. Stormbringer’s out there . . . in the forest to the east of us, so his warriors are dug in, invisible and waiting. They can be here by forced march in half a day – no time at all.’
Several of the jarls grinned like grizzled wolves and licked their lips as if they could taste blood on their muzzles. Others considered how long half a day might seem if they were locked in combat within the confines of a shield wall.
‘As for Heardred, he’s coming to meet us! His pride won’t allow him to overlook an attack so deep within his lands, or the burning of his trade fleet. Judging by his actions at Lund, Heardred expects us to act as he would, if he were in our boots. He thinks we’ll make a lightning-fast raid into his lands and then retreat with our spoils. When he discovers that our force is fewer than six hundred in number, he’ll be convinced that he has us between his thumbnails, to crack like lice.’
Several of the jarls winced.
‘But we won’t crack, will we?’ Rufus answered dourly.
The other jarls were more animated and raised a tentative cheer.
‘No! For Heardred’s amusement, I’m prepared to play the part of a foolish barbarian, and lure him to engage with our force. He’ll come roaring at us from at least two sides, just like the Geat warriors did at the mouth of the Vagus River. But that won’t matter to us, for our warriors are aware of what they have to do.’
‘Aye, Arthur,’ Snorri agreed. ‘Rufus has drilled our warriors mercilessly and each man knows that the success of our defence will depend on individuals acting in concert.’
Arthur felt relief that his complex plan would soon be put into action, for he was tired of the cold weather. Strangely, he was missing Ingrid and her children, and he longed to see Blaise and Maeve again.
‘For now, all we can do is encourage our crews to sleep. After tonight, there will be little chance of rest until Heardred is dead and his army has been destroyed.’ As Arthur spoke the dragon’s fire glowed in the pupils of his eyes.
Snorri watched quietly while Arthur tossed Ivar a leather pouch that clinked. Ivar checked each gold coin and bit into it, showing a wise man’s distrust of glib words when actions spoke obvious truths.
‘Snorri will requisition enough food for you to travel to the coast and find a boat that will take you to Rugen Island – or wherever your heart desires. I wish you well, Ivar! You’ve kept your word and I’ll do my best to keep mine.’
Ivar stared out into a darkness lit by a large orange moon. In the far distance, white-topped mountains marked a jagged horizon that formed a prison wall holding back the glaciers and their walls of green ice and black stone. He shuddered involuntarily.
‘I wish you luck, Arthur of the Britons. We’ll not meet again if I’ve anything to do with it, because death follows wherever you travel. But you’re a good lad for all that you’re a born killer. The Geat king would be a fool to stand against the Last Dragon, but I’ll bet my left ball that he proves to be an idiot. I’ll listen for word of you!’
‘And I of you, Ivar. My hand on it, for I’ll never raise it against you and yours.’
Ivar was led away by Snorri with an anticipatory spring in his steps that belied his age and the swellings in his joints.
Arthur stared out towards the ominous line of mountains and felt danger scratch at the inner walls of his skull. That night, sleep was elusive.
The Dene attacked the religious community just on dawn, but the monks were already praying in the chapel.
The town had been easy to quell and few bodies were cast into the midden for the scavengers. Most of the Dene warriors remained in the lower part of the town to search out all items of value, while Arthur went to the church precincts with fifty men.
The Geat monks seemed to expect that they would be slaughtered at their devotions, and the air hummed with the combined prayers of thirty men.
But Arthur could still recall the small town of Spinis in Britain with a monast
ery and nunnery on its outskirts. The cruelty he had seen there was burned indelibly into his mind. He had been little more than a youth and, in company with his foster-father, had placed himself under the command of King Bran, who was attempting to relieve the siege of Calleva Atrebatum from an attacking army of Saxons and Jutes. His foster-father, Bedwyr, had shown him where the holy men and women had been tortured and slaughtered at prayer for the amusement of a war-party of Jutes.
Arthur could still remember the stink of old, corrupted death and see the agonised face of one huge priest who had protected another prelate with his own body, again and again, regardless of the blows that were delivered to cause unbearable agony. Mercifully, when the spectacle of such passive courage had palled with the Jutes, the two men had been slain to put them out of their misery. Men and women of God in many northern lands had good reasons to expect cruelty and depravity from barbarians and pagans alike.
The precincts of the community were large and the fat beasts in the fields, rows of cabbages waiting to be harvested, apple-laden trees and collections of beehives suggested a farm that was productive and wealthy. The chapel itself was small and unpretentious, much like a simple long-hall, but light flooded in from small apertures set into the walls. Men in dark-dyed homespun kneeled and prayed on the cold stone floors, their hands folded in front of them.
Arthur unerringly identified the abbot of the community as the priest stood at the simple wooden altar. The abbot raised his tonsured head to watch as the stranger approached. Abstractedly, Arthur noted the Aryan cut of the priest’s hair and realised that he rejected the trappings of Rome. The priest had no fear in his eyes, only a deep well of acceptance.
‘I’m of the Christian faith, Father, so I’ll permit you and your fellow servants of God to live, subject to you telling me where the church plate and its scrolls are kept. I command a large force of Dene warriors whose attitudes to piety are often different from mine and yours. You must remember, Father, that nothing is worth more than the service you give to the dying and diseased of this land. That is your salvation, so I beg you to obey me in this matter. In return, I will set you all free, along with every patient in your infirmary, once I have what I seek from you and your town.’