by Hume, M. K.
They had toyed with him then, burning the wrinkled flesh over his ribs so that every breath would have been agonising. Another torturer had used a hot iron on the old man’s genitals, but all their efforts were eventually fruitless. Arthur had seen the blue lips and fingertips before, when an old retainer in Arden had died after crippling pains in the chest. Ivar’s body had defeated his spirit, and a premature death had robbed his torturers of their victim. Arthur smiled.
‘Stand the old man upright, and we’ll lash his body to the longest piece of timber we can find. We’ll set it into the ground so he can watch as we destroy his murderers.’
When Eamonn and Arthur had first come to Skania nearly two years earlier, they had seen the lifelike stuffed hide of a dead horse set on poles at the entrance to one of the smaller Dene settlements; the two Britons had been impressed with the symbolism, for the horse appeared to be flying unaided through the wind in order to protect the village. Now, Ivar’s corpse would fill the same role for Arthur’s defensive square.
When no suitable timber could be found for the task, Arthur opted to drive the carthorse to the copse of trees, although Snorri raged at him for risking the whole campaign by leaving the perimeter of the encampment.
‘I used Ivar for my purposes, Snorri, so any risk should be mine. I became fond of that old reprobate and I know he’d long to have his revenge on the cowards who enjoyed every scream they wrenched from his pain-filled body. No! I’m going to find him a suitable throne from which his spirit can watch the coming battle. The last thing the Geats should see as they die is Ivar, standing over them and damning their souls for his murder. You may come to the copse if you wish – but you won’t dissuade me!’
And so, in a darkness lit by a hollow and ghostly moon, Arthur cut down a young oak with the height and strength to raise Ivar’s corpse high above the shield wall. Horse and man dragged the twelve-foot length of timber back to the Dene camp where Arthur supervised its elevation.
On a cross piece that was lashed into place to hold Ivar’s arms, the old fisherman hung in greater majesty than he had ever possessed in life. Arthur had slipped a red cloak around the old man’s shoulders, a piece of rich fabric that he had kept in his pack to remind him of the hellish battle of Calleva Atrebatum. In that battle, his king had tried to draw attention to the young Arthur, hoping that he would be killed and, therefore, save King Bran from the possibility of an heir to his throne making an unwanted claim. Bran could never accept that Arthur wasn’t interested in power, for each man judges others by the weight of his own soul. But this cloak had almost brought an early death to Arthur, so when he gave the cloak to Ivar’s corpse, he intended to alert Geat eyes to the cruelties inflicted by Heardred on a harmless old man. He knew his symbol would neither be ignored nor misunderstood.
Then, with his preparations complete, Arthur went to sleep. The sentries had been warned. Heardred would almost certainly attack before dawn.
After the skirmishes that had taken place during the last eighteen months, Arthur was convinced that a large group of Geats were already crawling through the darkness to get into attack positions, whereby they could outflank the Dene encampment. He said as much to the jarls during his final briefing, suggesting that they should inform their warriors of likely Geat strategies to reinforce their sense of purpose and sacrifice.
‘Remind them of who we are and who we speak for. We are the voices of the dead,’ Arthur explained in a hollow voice. ‘We are the arms that can no longer lift a sword to protect the innocent; we are the legs that cannot stand four-square to stop the cruel thieves who steal our children but, most importantly, we carry the spirits of the dead, the dying and those lost innocents with us in our righteous cause. Our motives are just.’
The jarls shivered to see that his eyes appeared to be silver in the moonlight.
‘Your rallying cry for tomorrow will be: For the dead: For the unsleeping dead. I have placed the peasant, Ivar, above us to warn the enemy that the dead will judge each and every one of them. The Dragon’s Brood cries out to avenge his innocent blood.’
One of the jarls snickered, but his friend elbowed him sharply, for no right-thinking man should find any amusement in the prospect of the coming conflict. One by one, they took their final embraces; who could know how many warriors would still be living when the next night came?
Once again, certain that the sentries would keep a sharp watch, Arthur stretched out on his pallet to gain a few hours of sleep. He had tried to anticipate all eventualities, so the outcome of the coming battle was in God’s hands.
Volunteers spent the night in hollowed-out advance posts, scanning the darkness with their senses alert for any sign of movement within twenty spear lengths of the man-traps. Finally, breathless, bathed in sweat and swathed in black from head to foot, the first Dene sentry to see the enemy movement raised the alarm with a prearranged password.
Smoothly, after many hours and long days of tiresome practice under Rufus’s tutelage, the warriors moved into their fighting positions so they could face the onslaught of the Geat army that was spreading across the plain.
Arthur watched as men moved in near-darkness to smoothly engage their shields together while forming lines that faced outwards towards the four cardinal points. Several cooking fires continued to burn, for he had issued orders during the previous evening that the encampment should appear to be perfectly normal throughout the night. Then, at a nod, Snorri cupped his hands and replicated the distinctive call of a snowy northern owl, the signal that would summon the sentries back to safety. Eager now for the action to start, Arthur’s eyes scanned the heavy, shadowy plain to the north as a man materialised out of a pool of shadows and ran fleetly towards the Dene lines.
The time for subterfuge was over.
‘Rufus? Order your archers to use fire arrows to give us some light.’ Arthur sounded calm, although his stomach had a familiar hollowness and the invisible fingernails had begun to scrape inside his skull, warning that danger was all around him.
Rufus disappeared like dissipating smoke as Arthur stood among his warriors and locked his shield into place. Before the fleet had left for Calmar, only twenty archers had been found and, although they had a huge number of arrows at their disposal, there were too few bowmen to be more than a token irritant to any concerted enemy attack. Now, in the centre of a mass of nearly six hundred men, Rufus’s archers were perched atop the wagon which had been moved to the very centre of the square.
Arthur watched as arrows flamed overhead in an arc before falling to the ground some distance from the square. Other arrows were fired to the east and the west to briefly illuminate the pitch-black ground beyond the Dene man-traps.
There, lit by intermittent flares from the fire arrows as they settled point first into the sod, shapes swathed in dark clothing were exposed as they crawled on their bellies to avoid discovery. Behind them, in the darkness too deep for human eyes to penetrate, huge shapes seemed to hover.
Arthur heard the indrawn hiss of breath as the Dene warriors began to appreciate the sheer size of the enemy force. They were outnumbered at least two to one, with the possibility of more warriors held in reserve.
‘Your men are on their bellies like snakes! Come and face us like men, Heardred! But come on your feet – so we won’t have to bend too far to find your cowardly heart!’
Arthur’s shouted insults raised a titter of laughter from the men around him, which grew as his words were passed down the line.
‘They’re coming from the north and the east, Lord Arthur, just as you predicted,’ Snorri observed, as one of the sentries re-entered the square, touched his helmet in respect to his commander and squeezed through the press of warriors to his position near the archer’s wagon.
‘Ensure your shields are interlocked on both sides, men,’ Arthur shouted. ‘Archers, fire at anything that moves. Pass the word back, men. Y
ou are to kill all enemy warriors who come towards you – but don’t break the line!’
Arthur gazed over the bare earth before him and the ditch with its stakes and, invisible, the man-traps beyond them. He saw the first of the Geat warriors as they leaped to their feet, when the fitful light of the descending moon escaped from behind the sable bank of clouds. A distant horn sounded, and the Geats responded to its call.
Here, in the shadowy terrain that had concealed them, was the Geat army. Heardred’s force was far larger than the combined companies of the Dene warriors, including Stormbringer’s reinforcements and the Dene cavalry. Only raw courage and strategy could hold off such a large and determined attack until Stormbringer arrived. The whole task would have been terrifying had Arthur not sensed the voice in his head ordering him to remain calm and confident.
You can survive, the voice whispered. The Dene can win, if you stay calm and think.
As Arthur looked out at the wall of running men advancing over the plain, he thanked the soldier god, Mithras, for the Geats were running pell-mell, without any caution or disciplined strategy except to pound their Dene enemies into the dust.
Several screams rose, as high and as tremulous as the shriek of a coney in the claws of an eagle. ‘The Geats appear to have found our man-traps,’ Arthur quipped, knowing that a controlled manner gave heart to his men as they readied themselves to fight in this strange battle formation. ‘Perhaps the bastards will watch where they put their big feet in future.’
As before, his words were repeated along the length and breadth of the packed warriors. Nervous titters and guffaws rose from behind him, then several more screams were heard, closer and more desperately pain-filled than the last.
‘They’re slow learners, Snorri!’ Arthur’s deliberate ploy was working, for he sensed some of the nervous tension slowly leaking from the bodies of the men around him.
‘Get ready, men! Brace yourselves! They’ve reached the ditch and some of them won’t impale themselves. Some of them will get through.’
Along the front line, men wedged themselves against the warriors behind them who were using their chests and shields to give a firm purchase to those who would be in direct contact with the enemy. Boots of sheepskin were anchored into the sod along the north and south walls while the warriors near the corner points used their whole bodies to support their brothers who were facing the enemy head on. Arrows whizzed over their heads and, even in this deadly half-light, the barbed points were easily finding their targets. The Geat warriors were so tightly packed that the archers could hardly miss hitting human flesh. Soon, the roared war cries of the Geats were drowned out by the screams of their wounded.
The spears used by the Dene warriors were normally very long with large heads suitable for hunting boar and wolves that encroached onto the farms and villages. When Arthur first suggested using these weapons in conjunction with the shield wall, the Dene warriors were horrified. Where was the honour of fighting an enemy who impaled himself on bristling spears while the bearer was hidden behind a series of large shields?
Arthur had mastered his irritation and showed the men how the long hunting spears could be shortened for greater manoeuvrability They listened out of respect for their commander, but their eyes told Arthur that his arguments were falling on deaf ears. He planted his spear haft onto a patch of solid earth, then wedged it with his foot to ensure it remained in place to demonstrate how its shorter length made it an even more effective weapon.
‘Would you rather have us die as outnumbered and inadequately prepared warriors than utilise a tactical advantage over your enemies? Are you all mad?’
Finally, the Dene jarls had agreed to use the shorter stabbing spears as the weapon of choice.
The four lines of interlocked shields suddenly sprouted a bristling, sharp protection that looked like the wicked spines of a hedgehog. The Geats howled with mirth and threw themselves at the northern wall of Denes like a breathing wave of iron axes and swords.
The force exerted by rows of surging Geats shook Arthur’s shield, his knees and his whole body, until he began to fear he would be swept off his feet by the combined weight of five rows of sweating muscular Geats, all obsessed with smashing the shield wall at a dozen points. Using his shield’s sharpened upper rim, Arthur rammed the metal upward to cleave open the unprotected chin of a Geat who towered over him. A crunch, a rush of blood that drenched the Briton from head to toe and the Geat was gone, to be replaced by another.
The warrior rained axe-blows down on the spot where Arthur’s head should have been, but the second and third rows of Dene defenders had raised their shields over the heads of the row directly in front of them. The axe became embedded in a shield as the Geat swore and tried to wrench it free. Arthur used the Dragon Knife to castrate the fool before ramming his spear into the face of the next Geat to enter the fray.
And so the dance of death continued unabated.
But the Denes were also suffering casualties. As a man swayed and began to fall, the warrior directly behind him took his place, while the injured were passed back to the centre of the square where the archers did what they could for men with untreatable wounds. Arthur had issued an order that a defensive wall should be built with the bodies of the Dene dead, two spear lengths from the wagons so, if a final disaster befell the Dene force, the survivors could retreat to a last defensive position from which they could fight in the final, cataclysmic skirmish.
‘Götterdämmerung,’ Arthur murmured. Snorri looked at him sharply as his spear stabbed, almost of its own accord, into an open Geat mouth until the point smashed Geat brains into porridge.
‘The twilight of the gods? What does such a day of terror have to do with us?’ Snorri’s panting voice was puzzled, and some of the other men had heard his casual comment; grunting with effort and pale with weariness, they still darted the odd nervous glance at their battle chief.
Arthur’s spear-point snapped off, so he immediately pulled Oakheart, Bedwyr’s gifted sword, from its scabbard. Made by the greatest swordsmith in Britain, the iron in this weapon was reputed to have fallen from the stars. The hard metal in the blade appeared to have a blue tinge in the weak light and, within seconds, seemed both blue and red as Geat blood and teeth marred its pristine surface.
Then, as he extended his body to finish the killing blow, Arthur’s boots slipped in greasy mud. Only Snorri’s steadying left hand saved him from disaster.
Arthur raised his shield once more to slice down the side of an enemy jaw. Another Geat, smaller than his peers, slid below Arthur’s sword and dealt Arthur a long shallow gash from wrist to elbow.
‘You’ll pay for that,’ Arthur said in the Geat tongue and stepped half a pace backwards without relinquishing the firmness of the wall of iron around him. As the small Geat moved forward with a crow of triumph, Arthur lowered his shield for a second and took off the man’s head as neatly as if by a surgical incision. The corpse stood upright for a second, pumping blood all over Arthur, although his shield was immediately slammed back into its position in the line.
Then, almost as if the Geat warriors had heard him, the enemy began to pull back from the shield wall. Shaking blood out of curls that had escaped his helmet, Arthur saw that the enemy had withdrawn on all four sides to re-form behind the man-traps. The sun was higher now, so several hours had been lost during the madness of battle fever. Arthur estimated it was still two hours before noon.
‘Close the gaps in the line,’ Arthur roared. ‘Leave the Geat dead as a wall that they’ll be forced to scale. This first engagement was a battle of attrition, so the bravest and the most stoic warriors will live and win. We will not fail!’
The young prince realised that he had probably lost a third of his men to wounds or death. But Geat bodies lay nearly four feet high around three sides of the square, although there was now a space of six feet between the Dene warri
ors and the piles of Geat dead. Inevitably, their own casualties had reduced the size of the lines that made up the square.
The surviving Dene warriors must prepare for the arrival of Stormbringer’s relief column. They must trust that the Sae Dene was almost upon them, and this blessed pause in battle would allow his friend to reach them and outflank Heardred’s force.
‘If we have sufficient time, stack the Geat corpses to one side on the eastern and western lines so Stormbringer’s men can attack without becoming entangled. On the northern and southern lines, provide a narrow passageway for entry by the next wave of attackers. Those Geat fuckers will either have to climb over the corpses of their friends or enter through a gap of our choosing. If we arrange it well, our archers will appreciate having some clear targets.’
Arthur could barely be heard now, for the enemy warriors had begun to beat their axes and swords on their shields while chanting contemptuous threats. The vilification spurred the Dene to carry out Arthur’s orders with extra enthusiasm.
‘You Dene are cowards! When are you coming out to fight like men? Or will you stay like mongrel dogs, and hide behind the door to bite braver men on the heels?’ The chants were repeated, again and again, with added refinements comparing Dene women with breeding animals that resulted in the cowardice of their progeny.
‘Stand fast, men! Ignore their insults! There will be no surrender!’