Forged in Blood

by Ken Hagan

  *

  From the summit, before our descent, we cast one last look down over the land that bounds the three rivers to east and west. In the distance to the south near Vadrar-fiord we see the dying fires of the failed fire-ships. A heavy cloud of acrid smoke, dark as a thunder, hangs over the estuary.

  From somewhere in clear sky across the windless moorland summit an eagle calls — a screeching eagle-cry — as if sounding an alert to his eagle-mate and fledgling that wait on a distant nest. His sharp eyes are the first, besides ours, to see the battle-beacon burst rampant into flame.

  *

  Our faces black from smoke, we arrive at the head of Cluddy woodlands, where the mountain stream enters the ravine. No one to be seen. No sign of our men. We drink and go farther. From inside the woods lower down, in the undergrowth below the falls, we hear men’s whispers and whistled calls, though no louder than the distant roar of the rushing waterfall. Hakon’s face and Bergthor’s helmeted head appear above bracken at the eaves of the birch-trees. The bracken parts, moved aside by men’s hands: our men have made a covert of hedging made from cut bracken, behind which they can hide and keep lookout. There is an open view into the clearing above the river.

  Hakon beckons us in.

  *

  Behind the bracken are crewmen from Thrandt’s and Hakon’s ships. Bergthor is there too, but not his warriors. Thrandt himself is nowhere to be seen. I shout the news as we approach. Had the shipbuilder been here then, out of consideration for him and his family, I might have spoken in a different manner. ‘We’ve seen our fire-ships from the summit ablaze, but not all of them on fire. A huge cloud of smoke over the estuary at the bluffs. But who knows if it has done any good?’

  ‘Hush,’ says Hakon urgently. ‘Keep your voice down.’

  Bergthor whispers. ‘Whatever work the fire-ships did, it wasn’t enough.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asks Beyveen.

  ‘They are here!’ Thrandt comes out from behind a tree, pulling up his breeches, tightening his belt. He stoops to pick up buckler, spear and axe.

  ‘Who?’ I ask.

  ‘Hush, man,’ says Hakon. ‘We are not ready to break cover.’

  ‘Who are here?’ I repeat in a loud whisper, knowing what the answer will be.

  ‘The fecking men from fecking Linn-dubh,’ replies Cullynan the midshipman.

  ‘Iron-knee’s first long-ships reached the barrage just before noon,’ says Bergthor.

  ‘Five ships.’ Cullynan adds importantly. ‘They beached short of the boom; I sent word to Skipper Hakon, then waited for more to show.’

  Thrandt shakes his head gloomily. ‘And show they did, nineteen ships in all — eleven hundred men! The fire-ships can’t have worked. Thor only knows what’s happened to my wife and sons.’

  ‘Another seven ships by noon,’ adds the midshipman, anxious to finish the full share of his news. ‘Then five more soon after, and two stragglers, at the rear; not long-ships, but broad-beamed vessels with stock and supplies.’

  ‘They disembarked at once,’ says Bergthor. ‘No attempt to break through the barrage.’

  ‘It would take a week to haul our two sunken ships from the river-bed,’ says Thrandt. ‘And the work to shift them could only be done between tides.’

  ‘Glun is no fool,’ adds Bergthor. ‘He knew better than to try.’

  ‘Have they come ashore on this side of the river?’ asks Beyveen.

  ‘Yes, young woman,’ replies Hakon with a grin. ‘The river is running low even for mid-summer. They have beached on a gravel bed below where Cluddy water runs into an-Uir. All except the two stock-ships — their last ships to arrive — which are anchored mid-stream.’

  ‘So,’ says Beyveen, ‘the strangers will pass through our water-meadows to reach Inis-tioc.’

  ‘The fewer who pass through the better, young woman,’ Bergthor counters fiercely. ‘Some will put down roots here — under our feet. If I have my way, they will stay longer than they bargained for.’

  *

  Cully the half-blood bolts past us; he breaks cover; shrieks wildly, runs downhill, waving his cudgel in the air like a man possessed. His lone foray over the sloping ground to the river is swift and sudden, the battle oaths from his mouth echo through the ravine. He is down in the clearing before anyone can stop his loud ranting cries.

  ‘The young fool!’ says Bergthor in disgust. ‘Your man has given the game away. He has as good as signalled where we are! ’

  Hakon’s midshipman has heard, and seen, what we haven’t taken in — until now. A rush of birds on the wing — they are wood-pigeons — above the willow woods that skirt the river, not much beyond the gravel beds, where Cluddy water joins an-Uir. The pigeons coo and squabble, flap, flutter and flitch without settling.

  ‘Cully may have gone too soon,’ says Hakon. ‘But give the lad credit. Look what he’s up against.’

  A dozen or so men, bearing arms, all in the open, have burst from the river-willows. They have run out into the clearing, their rapid, noisy movements through the trees disturbing the birds. These fighting-men are Erse-men. I can tell from their arms and their attire. They are clad alike in buffed deer-leathers, their studded bucklers held for close combat at the chest, spear-heads flashing. They are led by a man, whose ugly, tufted beard and weathered jowls I know well — to my cost.

  A dry sickness rises to my throat.

  The men advance north from the river. They are not far off, only a stone’s throw from Cluddy woodlands, where we remain hidden behind the bracken. My vision is blurred — wood-soot from the summit fire and grimy sweat from the mid-day heat. But there is no mistake. Drafdrit, slave-master of Inis-dubh, is at the head of the Erse-men. And to the fore of the dozen eager, battle-ready men, paid to kill for a purse of hack, is the blacksmith Brennan.

  In an instant I am out of the bracken. My axe comes to my hand. The welts from the slave-whip burn on my back. I am choked by a madness to do ill to these two hated men.

  ‘Thor’s sake, Thralson!’ Hakon’s voice behind me. ‘Hold back, man! Stay out of it! Cully knows what he’s doing.’

  I feel a nip at my elbow. Tugging at me, halting my mad impulse, the familiar grasp of a woman’s restraining hand: Beyveen’s, cool and dry despite the heat. ‘No, Kregin, let it be. We must hurry back. We have to warn them at the ford.’

  ‘The young woman is right,’ says Hakon. ‘You can’t stop here.’

  I free my elbow from Beyveen’s grasp, shrug off Hakon’s words. No one will deny me — I will cut down Drafdrit or Brennan, whoever comes first to my axe; but my garbled words, if indeed they were spoken, go unheard.

  Below us, near the bottom of the slope, a whooping battle-cry shatters the air. Cully the midshipman, cudgel in hand, is running hell-for-leather to face the slave-master and his men — a lone assault on twenty men that can only lead to his death.

  At sight of the crazy, whooping red-haired man the Erse-men stop in their tracks.

  Cully is fleet of foot, and he is almost on his quarry.

  A puzzled look from Brennan, a blood-hungry grin from Drafdrit; both jab out their stubby spears to threaten their attacker, but menacing only, their bucklers lowered, as if to put off the attack. Behind them, their paid thugs take a step back. Cully seizes Brennan’s moment of hesitation. At close quarters he lunges his cudgel — a side-swinging sweep into the ear of his quarry, the nearest target to his right hand. Cully’s cudgel blow loosens jaw from neck. The victim’s head wobbles; tilts awry, no longer held fast to the body. Buckler and spear fall to the ground. Brennan’s loosened head and body slump at the midshipman’s feet.

  Cully skips lightly over his victim’s head, and flees off to woodland on his left.

  Drafdrit pursues Cully, twelve Erse-men at his heels. Cully’s flight is up-slope to the cover of trees in the lower woodlands near the falls. The midshipman is not tiring, nor is he ponderous on his feet, but he slackens his pace. Frequently he glances over his shoulder to check how close the pu
rsuing men are. Cully slows again, as if teasing the pursuers to catch him. Once within throwing distance, they pause to take aim with their spears. Drafdrit falls back and lets his thugs do their work. The slave-master scans up the slope; on his face a satisfied grin seems to say: ‘Is that the best you can do?’

  Our eyes meet.

  Cully has hurled himself to the ground.

  Out of the lower woodlands to face Cully’s pursuers stride seven of our veteran warriors from Vadrar-fiord. Bergthor’s kirtle-men are well-drilled. They advance in arrowhead formation. They step over the midshipman. Kneeling in one arrowed movement, they shield his body with their bucklers. Spears fly over their heads into the undergrowth, a few fall short and thud into the bucklers.

  Cudgel in hand, the half-blood jumps unharmed to his feet. Backed by the kirtle-men, he tears into Drafdrit’s men, having lured them into a death-trap. Two Erse-men, quicker to flight than their kin, escape to re-join the slave-master at the bottom of the slope.

  Those who put up a fight are no match for the kirtle-men. They are cut down in quick order, the killing done with craft and with little effort. There is no savagery from Bergthor’s warriors, and yet they dispatch their hapless victims without mercy — many with a single axe-blow to heart or head. Safe to a man, they regain cover in the lower woodlands, and running after them — in contrast to their cool-headedness — a joyfully whooping Cully, who dances a jig of victory, his cudgel in the air.

  Having seen enough of the swift carnage, Hakon, Beyveen and I creep back behind the hedging of hazel and bracken. Once safe in hiding, when we spy down from the woodlands, a different sight awaits us. The river-willows on the banks of an-Uir have disgorged a great host of fighting men.

  *

  We cannot judge if Cully was right about the size of the invasion — impossible to tell if there are eleven hundred men, or more, in the fighting force carried by Glun’s long-ships. Men are continually on the go, running into formation, assembling into battle groups by ties of family and blood; and by service to ship and skipper.

  Word is taken along the line by runners, who bear battle orders from Iron-knee.

  And to make the count more difficult for us, two small groups of warriors — Ostmen with kempt hair and beards, with some Erse-men among their numbers — have separated from the main body of men. One section is making tracks up the slope. They have a greybeard in the lead and are heading for the woodlands. In readiness to launch or rebuff an attack, they have axes and bucklers drawn. They ignore the dead Erse-men as they pass them by, not giving a second glance to the contortions of fallen men and stains of death on the bloodied grass. Another section of Ostmen and a contingent of Erse-men with spears and staves have gone in the opposite direction. These men have withdrawn in single file back within the river-willows. They have retraced their steps to the river-bank with some plan in mind.

  The main body of invaders has assembled in the clearing. From there, Glun’s fighting-men can see the bloody end of Drafdrit’s Erse-men — corpses littered on the ground are proof of the carnage. News of how it happened — and so swiftly — has reached Glun’s ears from Drafdrit.

  Glun Amlavson strides haltingly in front of his men, showing rage and belligerence. The big man in kirtle mail has to be Iron-knee — no mistaking his height and girth and crooked, hobbling gait. King Amlav’s son pauses to gaze ruefully towards Cluddy woodlands, before striding again to and fro. While Iron-knee is on the move, he takes long, limping strides, placing his steps so wide apart that Drafdrit has to run to catch up with him. Drafdrit remonstrates wildly as he reports the grim tidings of how he has lost all but two of his men. The slave-master will forfeit the greater part of his silver. Iron-knee won’t fork out for men who die before a battle is fought.

  ‘Take Tioc’s daughter away from here, Thralson.’ says Hakon. ‘It is time you and she were gone! We need to move back beyond the falls. Those Ostmen, heading this way — they mean to search the woods. They are from the Hrafentyr and two other slave-ships. I have known the skippers for years — Farg and Gael from Brythuniog. But you recognise him in the lead, don’t you? His hair may have turned grey, but sure as hell he is your brother — that devil Einar Raffson!’

  Chapter 47

  Beyveen and I break into a run. We make our way along the winding leet-ditch, gasping for air in stuffy heat under the hawthorns, running with our heads down to dodge thorny overhanging branches. It slows our progress and saps our vigour. Beyveen’s loosened hair is dusted with dead flowerets off the branches, which fall sour and white from the haws. The petal-fall sticks to my lips and beard, and gets in my eyes. When it does, I jerk up without thinking and scratch my face on the thorns.

  Above our heads, from the summit of Slieve Bhraan, the battle-beacon sends up a plume of smoke. It has turned the sky dark to the east. A savour of smoking, sapless deadwood fills the air.

  ‘At least our beacon will be seen.’ Tioc’s daughter pants out the words. Her running feet beat farther along the path. After a while she adds. ‘Let’s hope wilderlings answer the call.’

  Beyveen and I are half-way along the path to reed-ford. We have sighted Drafdrit and his two thugs on our tail. With them at our backs, we daren’t stop any more, as we did earlier, to catch a breather and scan over the water-meadows towards the river.

  The last time I had a look, Amlavson’s men were advancing in a broad arc, albeit slowly, over the flooded meadows, heading north towards the river-isle. Iron-knee himself was in the lead. His warriors have unleashed their war-hounds and chased them to the fore of their advance. The dogs pad ahead warily on the soft mud, spreading out — each according to his own whim, moving alone at his own risk — not keeping to a pack as they do while hunting or in battle. The dogs go in all directions, their tracks fitful and meandering over the boggy ground, up-slope for a bit and then back down again.

  The warriors find a slippery footing forward, plodding step by step, trusting, for want of a better path, the hounds’ muddy paw-prints over the marshy meadows. The dogs’ tracks are scrawled like mixed-up runes on the wet grass. One hound — whether stupid or daring, or just plain unlucky — was lost in a sink-hole. The warriors made no attempt to save their hunting-beast. At the woeful sound of his drowning howl, another hound ran off, slithering slick-ass on hindquarters and tail. The runaway dog splashed and slid to hoped-for safety lower down at the river.

  For all we know, Glun may have lost more than a hound in the mire. After the drowning of the hound, maybe one of the advancing warriors, weighed down by kirtle and iron, has slipped to an early death. But we have yet to witness a calamity of that kind among the enemy — welcome though it might be.

  Our undivided effort goes into running from the three men at our backs. Slave-master Drafdrit and his two cowardly followers — the Erse-men who fled from Bergthor’s warriors at Cluddy woods — these three, and no others, pursue us on the summer-hardened path above the leet. The leet-ditch to our left — barely a skid and a slip away from our running feet — brims over with turgid floodwater. Flood spills from the ditch and ripples down-slope over the water-meadows into the path of Iron-knee and his warriors. The steady flow in the leet carries summer leaves, fallen fronds of yellow willow, floating oak-twigs and grassy roots loosened upriver from the sluices.

  Horseflies hide in shadows under the hawthorns. They sting us at will — nipping, sickly bites to neck or brow — and cling to our bare shins and feet. Mating midges cluster over the tepid leet-water; they hover before our eyes and stick to our sweaty, haw-petalled skin. Finches dart and dash under the branches to feast on the midges, winging past our ears. The early afternoon sun burns our bodies, though we run in dappled sunlight under the shadow of the trees.

  *

  Beyveen and I are within sight of reed-ford. I am at her heels. Her pace is flagging. We are running into the dip where we plan to cross the flooded ditch. I slow down and glance over my shoulder. Our pursuers draw closer. The two thugs, spurred on by Drafdrit, have ru
n ahead to claim first blood. The slave-master is close enough for us to hear his vile, shouted oaths; hollow promises of loot for his men; urging cries to cut us down; threats of how they will suffer if they should fail him.

  ‘Who are they?’ Beyveen cries hoarsely. ‘I don’t understand. Why have they come after us?’

  ‘They are cowards,’ I return. ‘They think we are easy meat.’

  We are at the crossing of the leet-ditch. Reed-ford is below us — a short run over the hay-field and down to safety. We can see Gil-Phatric’s clansmen standing below us on the near bank of the river. They are there to defend the ford.

  Tioc’s daughter steps down into the flooded ditch. A second step across the leet takes her up to her waist — a third step and the streaming flow touches her breasts. She stops mid-stream in the flood. Her arm lifts from the water urgently to beckon me in.

  I refuse her with a shake of the head and choke a reply. ‘They’re after me — they’re not after you. See that bastard at the rear? He is the slave-master from Inis-dubh. I am not running a step farther.’

  Axe in hand, I turn to face the Erse-men. ‘Keep going, Beyveen!’ I shout over my shoulder, without taking my eyes off the men. ‘Cross the leet on your own.’

  ‘No, Kregin,’ she yells. ‘Not without you!’

  *

  ‘Kill him.’ Drafdrit stops in his tracks; urges his men from behind. ‘Kill them both!’

  The Erse-man nearer to me, on my left — two-handed with spear at close quarters — parries the first blow of my axe. The spear-head saves his neck; splinters from the shaft under force of the axe. A spray of red, wet mist in the air, a smell of salt on my lips. Blood! His thigh spurts red, the raw flesh spiked by a flying shard from his broken spear. The man falls to his knees, eyes dimmed, dream-like. He clutches; fumbles at the heft of his sword and sinks, face-down, out cold from the shock of his wound.

  I turn towards the second Erse-man. I swing and swivel madly — swing around my head twice, bare-toed, spinning fast in a light-footed dance. It is how Cormac taught me to ward off an opponent, while wielding a play-axe in our warrior games; we were little brothers together, running wild in Thwartdale, and our ‘axe’ was a lump of flint withied to an old besom handle.