by Hume, M. K.
The abbot was a young-old man with a plump, cherubic face and a pair of intense blue eyes. These same eyes scrutinised Arthur with disconcerting shrewdness.
‘Why?’ The single word filled the silence.
‘Would you prefer that you and your people should perish because of your curiosity? I am a Briton, if that means anything to you. Your distant cousins from Jutland and Saxony are burning churches and killing innocent priests and nuns because our clergy won’t fight back when attacked. The northerners steal food and precious objects, simply because they don’t perceive my people to be either courageous or even human. But I’m not Jute, or Saxon, or Geat. If you wish, you may consider that God has melted my barbarian heart.’
The abbot muttered a short prayer in Latin. Tired of denying the educated part of his nature, Arthur replied in the same tongue, except his accent was far purer than the prelate’s provincial one. The man’s eyebrows rose as he betrayed his comic surprise. A barbarian warrior who spoke the purest Latin?
‘You’re an educated man, sir. Will you give me your word on this sacred fragment of the scriptures that was brought to this place from Toulouse near to a century ago? You may be sure that God will know if you lie.’
‘I’ll know if I lie! I am the Last Dragon and, as you may have heard, the children of Lund were captured, imprisoned and raped on my account on the orders of King Heardred of the Geats. I seek my revenge on him alone.’
Arthur’s face was flinty with a suppressed fury. Like most persons of power in the kingdom of the Geats, the plump and freckled abbot, Eomar, had heard of the Dene attack on Skania and had been told of Heardred’s revenge. The pious churchman had prayed for the souls of the children of Lund out of feelings of communal guilt, feeling a deep sense of shame at what his king had done to the innocents but, for now, he eyed this young Briton with some doubt. How this Last Dragon had become the weapon of the Almighty confused Eomar – and frightened him.
‘Gold, silver and precious objects only have the value that the world places on them. These metals are good for little but human adornment or pride, since they are far too soft for practical use. You may take our chalices and plate, our reliquary cases and the boxes that contain our scrolls. Simple polished wood will suffice to replace what you have taken, but I ask that you leave us the finger bones of our saint and the religious books that bear the holy word of God. Do you agree?’
‘Happily, Abbot. Like you, I don’t lust after gold and precious stones, so the religious scrolls will remain in safe hands.’ Arthur’s stern countenance concealed his relief that so much had been won with no loss of life.
The abbot showed the Dene jarls how to access the trapdoor in the chapel floor. Below, in darkness lit only by an oil-soaked torch, the bodies of their dead brothers from the priesthood slept for eternity. Here, deep inside the crypt, the abbot had secreted several platters, chasubles and some fine golden chalices. The cavern was full of shadows and superstition, so Arthur’s warriors stripped the crypt of whatever wealth they could find in relative silence.
What an appropriate place to hide their valuables, Arthur thought. But that means the priests knew we were coming! He asked Eomar as much; the abbot smiled deprecatingly in response.
‘The ordinary people care for us insofar as we minister to their souls and their bodies. We were warned yesterday by a farm boy. He seemed to think you were odd barbarians because you only killed the populace when you were forced into doing so. After I had prayed for God’s guidance we decided to stay, but to hide our treasures. For safety’s sake, you understand.’
‘You’re a true man of God,’ Arthur replied ambiguously. ‘Collect your patients and some food, and then you may depart. You have one hour. Don’t look back when you leave, Eomar, and don’t attempt to return for seven days.’
Then he turned to Snorri.
‘Begin the search of the community, Snorri. Take a share of all their food, and confiscate any precious objects that in his haste the good abbot has forgotten to mention.’
Outside, Arthur pondered the possibility that he could have made a fatal error. His squeamishness regarding the farmers and their respective fates had allowed a warning to be sent to this small but wealthy community. But, even if Eomar sent word to the Geat king that the Last Dragon was planning a trap, the abbot had no idea that a thousand men were hidden in the woods and were no more than half a day’s march away.
And so, two buildings in the compound were quickly set alight, leaving black smoke to stain the cold blueness of the sky where it would tell Heardred that his enemy had foolishly remained within his lands. The smoke rose straight up into a windless sky as it waited to deceive the unwary. And Arthur prayed that he hadn’t brought his force to ruin.
All he could do now was wait.
CHAPTER V
THE SHIELD WALL
They have sown the wind, and . . . they shall reap the whirlwind.
The Bible, Proverbs 612:36
Can the Ethiopian change his skin . . . or the leopard his spots?
The Bible, Proverbs 605:16
Arthur had chosen the ground carefully. The landscape was flat and the soft long grasses underfoot were perfect to disguise man-traps; water was nearby, so the warriors could wash themselves and clean their hair; the land sloped upward towards the centre of the encampment, so the warriors slept in apparently random groups, but every man was only a few feet away from his proposed position in the shield wall; and Snorri had set a small pile of white stones at each corner of the planned fighting square, so the sides of the shield wall would be readily visible to each warrior, wherever his position in the formation might be.
Arthur sent out an order that all crews should light fires during the night and enjoy the edible spoils taken from the farms and the religious community. But he let all men know that any warrior who drank wine, mead, beer or cider too deeply would be shamed in the eyes of his fellow Dene forever and would be deemed untrustworthy.
‘At least we’ll die with full bellies,’ Roganvaldr joked with Beren, his much-younger second-in-command. They were lying on their backs staring up at a night sky so full of stars that midnight was almost as bright as day.
‘Do you really think we’ll die here?’ Beren asked with a slight catch in his young voice. An aristocrat, he had been blooded on the Jute borders in small skirmishes, but he was still a boy at heart. Roganvaldr remembered his own formative years, so answered Beren more kindly than was his habit.
‘Hell’s a sweet furnace, boy! We all have to die sometime, but the important questions are why, when and how. It may well be that we’ll die tomorrow for the simple reason that we intend to revenge ourselves for the murders of our brothers in Skania. And as for how it is done? I’m not too keen on allowing those fucking Geats to attack us and insult us. But even so, I won’t break the shield wall and shame my ancestors, even if it seems like a fool’s game to me.’
The stars seemed like pin-holes of different sizes in a jet-black curtain through which the argent skies of heaven could be glimpsed.
‘If we are to meet our fate in this battle, we must die with our faces to the enemy and with our wounds on the front of our bodies. Then your mother and your sweetheart . . .’
Roganvaldr almost crowed with amusement for Beren had blushed a deep red up to his corn-yellow hairline.
‘Your beloved women will weep for you and tear at their faces with their nails, but they’ll be proud, for the man they loved was honourable until his heart stopped beating in his chest.’
‘What good am I to them if I’m dead?’ Beren muttered, and Roganvaldr remembered with a pang how agonising life had been when he had been a young man.
‘They will be comforted by your courage, Beren, for they will be envied by less fortunate women and you’ll become an example to other members of your family as the courageous young man who stood with the Last Dr
agon at the shield wall, for the honour of the Dene race.’
Roganvaldr almost believed his own words.
‘I’ll take my chances, as will we all, because the Last Dragon hasn’t steered us wrong yet. Watch him, Beren. You will meet many men in your life who will seem to be his equal in skill and fighting prowess, but they’ll rarely equal him for cool-headed thinking.’
Roganvaldr examined his nails closely, and started to clean them with his eating knife.
Beren pursued his doubts, but Roganvaldr was weary of discussion.
‘He’s an extraordinary young man, so he’ll not bide in the Dene lands forever. Men such as he are born for greater purposes than to be the captain of a longboat. You would do well to learn everything you can from the Last Dragon while we have the opportunity.’
‘He’s not much older than I am, Master Roganvaldr. Besides, this ground is too flat. My old father swears that battles are fought best on high ground.’
‘Your old father never fought battles in this way, Beren, so go to sleep. I’m tired of your gibble-gabble. We won’t get any rest until Master Stormbringer relieves us, so we have to grab as much as we can while we still have the chance.’
Beren began to speak again, but Roganvaldr had already turned away and closed his eyes. His breathing soon came in little rumbles.
Beren lay awake, beset by tangled thoughts and nameless fears.
Morning came late, long after the warriors were alert and stirring. A light rain was falling, so fires were difficult to keep alight; most of the warriors merely dressed themselves in their tents while they waited disconsolately on the water-logged plain for the enemy to arrive and engage them.
But Heardred and the Geat army did not come.
At noon, under a weeping sun, the men snatched portions of cold food while they pretended to be busy, so Arthur put them to work, digging ditches around their position.
Germanus had explained to him as a callow youth how waiting for the start of a battle required a warrior to be ready to fight and kill at a moment’s notice. The body became highly sensitive, every muscle quivering and ready to react. This state of readiness, as Germanus called it, could be dangerous and destructive if it was permitted to go on for too long, so wise commanders kept their men’s minds and bodies alert, but fully occupied.
The exercise gave the nerve-stretched warriors something to do and provided an area where attackers could be contained beyond the shield wall. To Arthur’s surprise, Snorri was aghast.
‘Have we abandoned any pretence of being simple marauders, master? Surely, if we stay in one place for days on end and continue to dig into the landscape, we are demonstrating that we are waiting for Heardred to come and attack us. Heardred may be stupid, but even he might guess a trap is being sprung here.’
Snorri was familiar now with Arthur’s constant mental gymnastics; he was accustomed, too, to Arthur’s charm so was less likely to be manoeuvred into acquiescence by his master.
For Arthur’s part, he still missed the companionship of Eamonn, his friend, after the young man’s untimely death at the Battle of Lake Wener. Now, he yearned to share his thoughts with an equal again; many people were either too intimidated or too charmed by Arthur’s size and intellect to contradict him.
Since the loss of Eamonn, Snorri had gradually become more important in Arthur’s daily life because of his irony, quick wit and sardonic sense of humour. Best of all, Snorri seemed immune to Arthur’s inherited glamour. Snorri could refuse to believe Arthur, and showed his incredulity by a simple raised eyebrow. The only drawback to their friendship was the inequality in their respective standing.
‘That’s what I like about you, Snorri, you’re blunt and you always manage to tell me in advance what other people are likely to be thinking.’ Arthur grinned and clapped Snorri hard on the back.
Gently alerted, Snorri grinned in return. He listened carefully as Arthur explained his thoughts.
‘When Heardred does come, he’ll see us dug in and presume that we’re daring him. Well! We are, aren’t we? He’ll be affronted, but he won’t be deterred. Besides, if he’s not coming immediately, we may as well make life as difficult as we can for our enemy.’
‘True!’ Snorri replied. ‘In any case, we could use some timber and tinder to set fires in the ditches and to make man-traps. If we’re going to relinquish the pretence of returning to Calmar, it makes sense to consolidate our defences as best we can. The forest is some distance away, so is it worth sending men on a foray for lumber? They could find themselves caught in the open, especially if Heardred is foxing. In any event, we must be careful, Arthur. You’re contemptuous of Heardred, but he’s ruled his people successfully for many years, and the Geats make unruly subjects. He’s not entirely a fool!’
Arthur frowned, and Snorri watched the mechanisms in his commander’s brain click over as the young man considered Snorri’s words of warning. Then his face cleared.
‘You’re right, Snorri! Our men must be kept gainfully occupied, so call for volunteers to take the wagon to that copse of thick trees over to the east. They’ll have to take about six other warriors with them to maintain a lookout. Order them to fill the wagon with straight lengths of timber suitable for sharpening into stakes. I’ll detail some of our men to work outside the perimeter digging man-traps. Then, once the stakes are inserted in the ground, they can be disguised with dry leaves and vegetation. Some of the long grass can be replaced, allowing any running warriors to fall and impale themselves. We’ll use the darkness to mask our activities. Remember that I don’t want man-traps on the eastern side where Stormbringer’s horses will be manoeuvring, and there must be no stakes in that ditch. Let’s give our cavalry a fighting chance.’
With renewed activity, the short afternoon turned into night, but the preparations continued, using the minimal light to cover their labours. The Dene warriors attacked the rich black soil with gusto and cut down and trimmed saplings, embedding the prepared stakes into the sides of the ditches and the bottoms of the smaller man-traps, places where an unwary enemy could be impaled. They sweated and strained in shifts throughout the night. All the workers were stripped to the waist, despite the cold. Men grinned with white, exultant smiles as they pitted their muscles against nature in lieu of a breathing and bleeding Geat enemy.
And so, Arthur occupied the endless, terrifying period of waiting for death to appear on the horizon.
A dim morning followed, and still Heardred’s Geats didn’t come.
Arthur put on a brave face as he walked through the Dene encampment, cracking jokes about Geat tardiness and commenting on the provident natures and greed of his warriors through their accumulation of food supplies. His jokes left a trail of laughter behind him. Arthur might have difficulty calming his own terrors, but he was expert at hiding them from his warriors.
Then, an hour into the afternoon, the sun began the downward slide towards the evening darkness, and a shape appeared to the north before moving off quickly in the dim yellow light. One of the sentries cried out a warning and Arthur hurried to the northern perimeter with Snorri at his heels.
‘I saw two horsemen,’ Snorri cried, his helmsman’s eyes accurately picking out the shapes. ‘One of them has moved out fast and he’s out of sight now, but there’s something odd about the other horse’s gait. It’s coming towards us, so we’ll soon know what’s happening.’
‘Send two sentries out to cut the horse off. Don’t let it reach the ditch, or the beast and its rider will come to grief,’ Arthur ordered. ‘Move!’
Two men raced out from the perimeter and halted the lathered beast before it reached the man-traps. Arthur could see that the cowled figure of a man was tethered into the saddle. He steeled himself, for he recognised the disreputable horse and the threadbare cloak covering the bent body.
‘I fear that Ivar will never see Rugen Island.’ Snor
ri flinched at the controlled anger in the eyes of his master.
By the time Arthur and Snorri reached the horse, whose head hung to its knees with exhaustion and fear, the man had been cut down and laid out reverently on the freshly levelled sod of the perimeter. Arthur kneeled beside the shrouded corpse, sensing invisible eyes in the far distance as they imagined his shock and horror at what lay under the stained old cloak. Snorri drew back the flap of the unravelling wool and exposed Ivar’s half-naked body.
‘So unnecessary,’ Arthur murmured. ‘And so damned pointless.’
The fisherman must have been taken not long after he had left the Dene encampment, probably before they had entered the town and its central religious community.
Geat scouts must have captured him easily for his horse was neither young nor fit. And the old man could not have offered any resistance.
The cold part of Arthur’s brain expressed its relief that he had never mentioned Stormbringer in Ivar’s presence, for no man could have suffered the hideous torture inflicted upon the old body without the sufferer telling his tormentors everything they wanted to know.
Ivar’s pitiful hand lay stiff and unresponsive on the green sod. Every finger joint had been broken and twisted. His thumb had been wrenched so hard and so repetitively that the bones had broken through the skin while Ivar had still been alive.
Ivar’s other hand and his feet had suffered the same treatment. By the time his torturers had finished with his extremities, Ivar would have told them everything that Arthur intended, how he wanted Heardred to attack his pitifully small force from a strong defensive position in an attempt to gain his revenge for the children of Lund.
Whoever had ordered this torment had enjoyed inflicting unendurable pain on this hapless old man. His hand bones had also been snapped, probably with the haft of an axe, and these wounds were followed by damage to his wrists and ankles. Arthur imagined the old lungs straining for air as his vocal cords screamed in agony. The lower arm and leg bones had followed, obviously requiring more effort, and there were pitiful signs that showed how Ivar had fought. A fragment of cloth was caught between the old man’s teeth and even a trace of another man’s blood on an old canine showed how the fisherman’s strong and rebellious spirit had continued to resist even when his arms and legs were rendered useless.