by M. K. Hume
“If I am to die in the combat that is to come, I pass on the leadership of our forces to my cousin, Jorn Oleson, and, failing him, to his son, Gorm. If any other heir is needed, then we are surely defeated. But, in such a disaster, I would advise you to follow the leadership of Arthur, the Last Dragon, who will be leading my personal crew. You can trust Arthur to save those who can be saved, just as I trust him with my own men.”
He nodded to Arthur to show his personal respect.
“If God deems that our cause is righteous, then we will prevail, although our master in Heaven seems to assist those men who are prepared to fight and die for justice. The siege on the Vagus River tells us that Olaus and his Geat forces are overconfident and ruthless. Such an affront will merely offend the gods, who hate hubris above all things. Pray tonight, for tomorrow we will teach Olaus Healfdene what it is to be a warrior and a man.
“Now, to sleep! We’ll veer to the east to enter Mirk Wood before dawn arrives.”
The jarls were very quiet as they walked away to rejoin their crews. Stormbringer had given them clear warning that any victory would be hard won.
• • •
ARTHUR WOKE HIS crew before dawn, and the men greeted him with the casual bonhomie of those who slept and toiled together. Several had fought with Arthur and Eamonn at World’s End, so they were content with their leader’s decision to appoint Arthur as their captain.
Quickly and efficiently, Arthur instructed his men to seek out water once they entered the wood and daub themselves liberally with mud to repel the clouds of insects that would send the calmest man demented within half an hour of entering the dim shadows of Mirk Wood. His men shuddered as they remembered the island created by the Vagus River, so Arthur was certain they would obey without argument.
The whole troop, and the other warriors clustered behind them, moved on silent feet and surveyed the first trees of Mirk Wood with jaundiced eyes. Because it was so swampy, the forest floor was actually lower than the areas of forest that had hidden them all the way up the Vagus from the sea. Small streams cut through it, contributing to puddles, pools, and ponds that were full of threat. The steamy summer atmosphere was close, so the warriors quickly became soaking wet from sweat. At the first clearing, a place where shallow sheets of water glimmered under a distant sun masked by heavy foliage, they scooped up handfuls of mud and began to smear every square inch of exposed flesh on their bodies.
Water ran down from the woods behind them and flowed through shallow swampy areas before finding its way to the shelving, open ground that slowly drained into the lake. Mirk Wood was useless land for woodcutting or farming, even if the land could be cleared. Many of the swamp trees grew twisted through competition with the prolific seedlings and the thick growth of forest shrubs chasing the intermittent light. And so Mirk Wood had been left to thicken, to become more brooding, and to develop a reputation for danger.
Any outlaw seeking to prey on the villages of the lake or the aristocratic holidaymakers made his home in its darkened thickets. For mutual protection, only large bands of villagers would normally enter the pathless wilderness.
When Arthur looked at Mirk Wood, he saw aged trees leaning together like old men; he noticed the occasional oak, with vivid, poisonous mushrooms nestling in its exposed roots; he ducked under trailing, twisted vines as thick as his wrist that were wound with flowering tails of white night blossoms that gave off a smell like rotting flesh; and he heard a thousand rustles and tiny noises in the thick underbrush that spoke of a hidden world of predators and prey under thick drifts of leaf mold. Mirk Wood always gave the impression that any intruder was being watched.
The day was hot under the heavy underbrush, so the Dene crew were sweltering in their thick covering of reeking mud. Adding to their discomfort was the presence of vines with wicked thorns that could tear through cloth and even pierce leather if a thorn should find its way under the sole of a boot. Seamen prefer the clean, open spaces of water and sky at the best of times; Stormbringer’s force cursed as they struggled with the landscape.
“Anyone who chose to come this way would have to be a fucking idiot,” one of the seaman said to another. Arthur overheard the complaint and clapped the other man companionably on the back.
“As a man who prefers to ride rather than walk, I agree wholeheartedly with you. There’s no way that people who know the terrain like Olaus, the villagers, and the Geat warriors would ever expect an attack from this direction. It’s no wonder their defenses are so casual.”
“Do you ride horses in Britain?” the sailor asked, his curiosity overriding his natural reluctance to ask questions of an officer.
“We use horses as a natural part of our battle strategies. To be honest, we learned about cavalry from the Romans, and their tactics were the means whereby we kept the invading Saxons at bay for so long. Until recent times, the Saxons never used horses, because they chose to go into battle with the same tactics and strategies as their grandfathers.”
“You speak as if that’s a bad thing,” the sailor, Knut, retorted with an edge of resentment in his voice. “I see no fault in preserving the tried-and-true methods if they continue to work.”
“Don’t think me foolish, Knut, but if we can’t change, then we don’t learn. We really need to grasp at every good idea that comes our way and use it, if we can. What I admire most about the Dene people is their willingness to change for the better.”
Knut and his friend swatted away at a cloud of offending insects with frighteningly long, spindly legs. Then they grinned up at Arthur.
“You’re right you know, Master Arthur. I just never thought in that way before. I can see how archers could be an advantage in a battle, especially if they pepper the enemy before the first line attacks. Fewer enemies to kill our boys, so, aye, I’ll grant you that new ideas aren’t automatically bad.”
Gradually, as the sun slid down the horizon, light became stronger in front of them as the dense foliage began to thin. Arthur halted his men and sent Rolf and Eamonn ahead to scout the land before them, a task which was quickly completed as the two men returned with a new layer of mud plastered on their faces.
“Well, Rolf, what lies ahead of us?”
Rolf grinned irrepressibly. The singer’s voice held a mellifluous and pleasant sound that seemed unnatural when it was used to speak of death, especially when Rolf smiled with such a broad flash of white teeth.
“We’ve reached the far side of Mirk Wood without incident, master. Because we know what to look for now, we could see signs of movement in the margins of the forest as our men took up their positions. Shite, Master Arthur, that lake is one huge hunk of water. You really cannot see the far shore, and there were Olaus’s men swimming in the water, taking the horses for a dip, preparing food, and generally . . . well, enjoying themselves. They’ve got no idea that we are here, or that we’re looking straight at them!”
“Very good, Rolf . . . Eamonn.” Arthur could see Stormbringer approaching, and the margins of the woods were suddenly alive with hundreds of men.
“It’s time to settle the crew down, Rolf. As the helmsman, I’ll filter my orders to them through you, so that they know my requests are genuine—and that they are orders! For the moment, the men must take up their positions and stop moving about, unless movement is absolutely necessary. Tell them to make themselves comfortable, because we’ll be eating and sleeping here until Master Stormbringer decides to make his move. It will be dry rations for tonight, I’m afraid, but we’ll be after Olaus’s residence and barracks before dawn. Our job is to smash the headquarters. You can let the men know how much Stormbringer trusts us.”
“Tomorrow will be a very good day to die or, better still, to live and win huge spoils from those lazy swine enjoying themselves down on the lake.” Rolf sauntered over to the remaining thirty men of the crew, including Rufus and Thorketil, who had managed the long and tiring journey th
rough Mirk Wood despite the difficulties they had experienced with their wounds. Enthusiastic whispered comments were passed from man to man among the crew, all of whom had been impressed with the heroic efforts of these two men to arrive at their destination without being a burden on the other warriors.
When he decided that a suitable time had arrived to approach his commander, the Troll King respectfully called Arthur over to the fallen log on which he was sitting. Arthur understood how difficult it must be for Thorketil to raise himself to his feet after his long journey through Mirk Wood, so he strolled over to Thorketil with good grace.
“May I ask a boon of you, Lord Arthur?” Thorketil asked. His eyes were earnest and passionate in their protuberant sockets.
“I’d rather you didn’t give me titles I haven’t earned, Thorketil. I’m not a lord. Not yet, anyway! But you can ask for your boon, although I can’t swear that I can help you.”
“I can use a bow, Master Arthur. I heard what you said about archers and, coincidentally, I have my own weapon with me. I was taught to use it in my youth and spent much of my younger days hunting for game. Although some men would say it isn’t an honorable pursuit for a warrior, archery is something that I can still excel at on the battlefield without being a drag on my fellows. May I join tomorrow’s fight with the bow as my weapon of choice?”
“I thought you were going to ask for something difficult,” Arthur replied, grateful that the problem of Thorketil was so easily solved. “You may become our archer with my thanks and blessing. Between us, we’ll set fire to the headquarters building, if I ever find a bow to borrow. Go to the margins of Mirk Wood now and examine the ground closely for yourself. At the same time you can consider how best we can invent a supply of fire arrows.”
Stormbringer, Arthur, and the other captains organized their lines of communication between commanders and the officers who would lead the green, the yellow, and the red groups during the course of the battle. Then, while the last of the light remained, the three attacking phalanxes were arranged into battle lines and the men were given their strips of cloth or colored leather to identify themselves. Finally, the men of Stormbringer’s army set to work plaiting their forelocks, shining their metal, and honing the blades of their weapons. At Arthur’s instigation, volunteer scouts were selected from men who were prepared to go into the sleeping camp before dawn to release the horses from their restraining tethers. Then, once the warriors had applied a goodly layer of mud on their faces, and each man had raided the last of their food pouches and drunk the remnants of the beer supply, the officers allowed them to settle down to sleep.
“Eat everything you can find, boys. We’ll be breaking our fast in the morning when we’ll be eating Olaus Healfdene’s fine foods,” Arthur told his men before he rolled himself in his cloak and attempted to calm his overactive mind.
Within minutes the Last Dragon of Britain had fallen fast asleep.
• • •
ARTHUR WOKE A little after midnight when silence reigned over the woods and a thousand men curled into the landscape as if they were being birthed from the soil of Vastra Gotland itself. The moon had risen and the skies were clear, although Arthur scented rain in a line of clouds beginning to scud through the dark skies towards them.
“Yes, it will probably rain after dawn, but most of the bad weather will come later in the day. I’m confident your thatch will still catch fire, even in intermittent showers,” Stormbringer whispered. The Sae Dene was standing like a huge statue that brooded over the partially visible men who stirred, coughed, moaned, and snored in their sleep. “It always surprises me that men are restless before a battle, although I suppose it’s natural to be unsettled.”
“Aye! So I’ve seen.”
“I’ll be sending the scouts out in about two hours to find the horses and scatter them. Once that task is complete, we can start the battle at any time. I hadn’t mentioned it to you, but your friend, Eamonn, has insisted on serving as one of our scouts.”
Arthur squinted at the position of the moon and the horizon, so he could chart its movement. “That’s typical of Eamonn. He loves danger and living on the edge. He’ll enjoy this morning’s entertainment.” He smiled at his little jest.
Arthur could see that the commander’s face was drawn, almost as if he was already imagining the large piles of Dene warriors who would go to the gods on the morrow on his orders. Such a responsibility could crush a lesser man, Arthur decided, but Stormbringer was born to carry responsibility. This battle might be his first major conflict, but the young man was sure that it wouldn’t be the last.
Then, when the waiting seemed to be dragging his nerves over iron spikes, inch by inch, Stormbringer nodded his head to the captains, and the scouts were sent out, like unleashed hounds. Eamonn waved a negligent, muddy hand as he dropped onto hands and knees to crawl out from the tree line.
Arthur recognized the heavy presence of Thorketil behind him. “You can move yourself into firing range of your targets and light your fires, my friend. If the enemy is awake, they’ll see the lights, but we can’t have fire arrows without flame.”
The silence was still complete.
Stormbringer was standing by himself some feet away, deliberately distancing himself from everything but the battle that was about to start. Arthur supposed that his friend needed a physical space to separate himself from those men who were soon to die for him.
“But not you!” the voice in his head chuckled grimly, as it woke and extricated its substance from the roots of his brain. “You have your father’s cold nature. Be grateful for it, for men who lead usually suffer.”
Arthur tried to close the door of communication between his thoughts and the voice that was also part of his true self. He knew that his dream had been born out of some primal fear that his extra sense was the spirit of Uther Pendragon. In response, the voice simply laughed at him.
“There’s movement below, Arthur,” Thorketil called out to the commander. The time for silence was over now.
“To me, Rolf! To me!” Arthur called, without even the slightest tremor in his voice. Every time he had been forced to fight in his life, the action had felt right and natural, exactly as was happening now.
Rolf Sea-Shaper was at his shoulder immediately.
“The men must be ready to run as soon as I give the order. See that patch of ground? It slopes downwards, but it is about two hundred yards across at the closest point, and it’s all that separates us from the enemy.” Rolf was about to run to the crew who stood waiting with their comrades poised like hunting hounds to respond to the order to advance, but Arthur pulled him back.
“There will be no shouting, singing, or insults until the enemy are engaged. We attack in silence, and this ploy will add to the confusion. Do you understand?”
“Aye!” Rolf replied with a swift smile. “And I’d just learned a new song to sing.”
“You can sing it while we’re killing the Geats,” Arthur said. Rolf was a little taken aback by Arthur’s intensity, but he decided that it was no bad thing, considering what lay ahead.
The darkness stirred below them, then roiled with sudden movement. The moonlight glanced off the pale backs of several horses in a long, dark stream of running, panicked beasts, and Arthur realized that the barracks had been breached. He estimated that upwards of a hundred horses were running at speed towards the small tent city clustered to the right of the larger dwelling, a torrent of sharp hooves and tons of muscle and sinew, to scream and pound the tents out of their way in their terror. The herd of stampeding horses joined other freed mounts that had been released from the picket lines. They would run until sweet grass tempted them to stop.
A lit torch seemed to wave from the closest barracks, then arced and tumbled through the air to land somewhere in the thatch.
“That has to be Eamonn! Thorketil! Set fire to those roofs for me. Burn the bastards!”
The Hammer of Thor had used his stick to brace his ruined leg into his firing stance, and he pushed one of his arrows into the small fire. Arthur had been unable to find another bow or a cache of arrows within the whole company, so a great deal of responsibility was lying on Thorketil’s broad shoulders.
The arrow flew high. When it plunged back to earth, it burned itself out in the area immediately before the doorway of the building, just as a dark shape heaved itself out of the shadows.
“Again, Thorketil! Again! Keep firing until you’re successful.”
The next arrow also missed its mark, but the third flew high and true, and buried itself deeply into the thatched roof of the building. Within seconds, the fire began to spread as the dry roofing caught alight.
Thorketil continued to fire his arrows, even as the two buildings flamed scarlet along their rooflines. “Well done, King of the Trolls. Ignore us now and fire at will. You can use every arrow you have to set the night ablaze.”
“It shall be so,” Thorketil grunted, even as he bent over to light another arrow in the fire pit. Arthur was watching Stormbringer’s hand now, and was soon oblivious to the Troll King, who had served his purpose. The Sae Dene raised his arm, while the air seemed to quiver with taut muscles that were held in check by willpower alone. And then the arm dropped.
Along the margins of the forest, officers leapt out into the open, to be followed by their men, a ragtag army covered in drying clay and filthy mud. They were bedraggled and soiled after many miles of running—but they were an army that was fixed on destruction, and eerily silent.
Arthur’s long legs cleared obstacles at a run, and he had soon outstripped his equally long-legged warriors. His eyes were fixed on a group of half-clothed, lightly armed men assembling between the barracks buildings after abandoning their billets in confusion. They had poured out of the building with loud curses and the occasional scream when a man was set alight in his haste to flee. There, in the heart of the fray, was Olaus Healfdene, the architect of all the suffering on the island at the mouth of the Vagus. For his disregard for human life, Arthur had judged Olaus to be guilty, so his focus was fixed on the Geat commander alone. Arthur would kill whoever stood in his path until he was killed in turn.