Fire & Steel

by C. R. May

  Eofer and Wonred exchanged a glance and reined in as the rider drew closer. Curbing his mount, the exhausted messenger nodded in recognition and flipped up the cover on a large leather cylinder and fumbled inside. Every man present knew what the tube contained, and the war-sword, its tip symbolically charred and blackened by fire, emerged into the light to be greeted by grins of delight. The royal messenger gripped the small wooden sword and handed it to the folctoga who rolled it between his finger and thumb as he read the battle runes inscribed upon its blade. He looked back to the man. “When are we to assemble?”

  “At Winterfylleth, lord, the first full moon of winter. There is to be a symbel of all the leading men.” The man dipped back into the container and withdrew another war-sword. Leaning across, he again gripped the blade in both fists and held it forward. “I have a summons for Eorle Eofer also. King Eomær orders that he take ship to Sleyswic by way of the carrying place. He expects that you will be with him within the month.”

  “Drizzle.”

  Eofer looked at Imma Gold. “Drizzle?”

  The duguth wiped the flat of his hand down his face and shook the drops free from his beard like a big shaggy dog. “Yes, drizzle. What a fitting word that is for this miserable shit.” They both squinted up into the murk, and laughter rolled around the ship as a voice came from the youth manning the oars. “If it's a good word, it's not one of Oswin's!”

  The pair snorted, and the eorle looked beyond the hooked prow which had given the Fælcen its name. Ahead, the River Trene took a turn to the left and disappeared in the washed out greyness of late autumn, the steady rainfall making a pock-marked road which led into the heart of the kingdom. Despite the fact that they had erected an awning amidships most of the men not pulling at the oars had given up all hope of remaining dry after enduring days of non-stop drizzle, and they had given up the space to keep their battle gear from the elements as all good warriors should.

  The weather had clamped down almost as soon as the royal messenger had left his father's lodge. Gathering his hearth troop about him, Eofer had sent word to the boat sheds at Strand that he would be making one final journey in the scegth that year.

  The Fælcen had been re-rigged and provisioned when they had arrived the following day. Sæward had had Edwin and his lads work through the long night to re-caulk any leaky seams, and the ship had slipped free of the jetty almost unnoticed by a port already dozing in its winter slumber.

  Fresh from their time on shore the youths had bent their backs to the oars, and the ship had kept pace with the pale shimmer which marked the progress of the sun as it rolled along the southern horizon. That had all changed the moment that the scegth had nosed out from the shelter of the great promontory of Hwælness. The prevailing winds were now against them, and the ship master had given the shoals around the Ness a wide berth as he had tacked the ship well out to sea before coming about. With the wind now blowing steadily from astern the Fælcen had bounded forward, sweeping into the estuary of the River Egedore as the sky had changed from slate to jet. Now, with the town of Portasmutha behind them, it was a steady row of two days to the carrying place, a further day of manhandling the scegth across the portage to the Sley and the king's hall which stood near its shore.

  The river rolled by and the men of the duguth clustered on the steering platform. A grebe, the elegance of its long white neck and tufted cap at odds with the bleak dreariness of its surroundings, disappeared beneath the surface with a splash, resurfacing only after the ship had passed by and any danger was receding.

  Octa broke the silence. “Do you have any idea why the king wanted us to come by ship, lord? It would have been quicker and easier to ride.”

  “And drier,” Beorn put in. “We could have broken the journey at Coelfrith's hall and still been at Sleyswic within two days.”

  Eofer shrugged. “You were there when I received the war-sword. The messenger said come this way, so here we are.”

  A mournful lowing came from the mist shrouded bank, and the group looked across as the disembodied head and shoulders of a lone cow appeared to hover there, its jaws sliding sideways as it chewed on a ball of cud.

  “King's bane passed me in his war glory.

  Eofer and I, both floating…”

  The men of the duguth winced as the words reached them on the steering platform, and the twins, Hræfen and Crawa, reached forward from their thwart to strike the boy about the head. Eofer and Thrush Hemming exchanged a look as it became plain that word-poor would not retaliate to the blows.

  “This is becoming serious, Eofer,” the weorthman said. “We could have a death on our hands soon.”

  The mood among the men now matched the weather as Osbeorn asked a question of his eorle. “Just how much do you owe his father, lord?”

  Eofer still watched the youth as he rowed, head down and sullen. Hemming was right, the boy would never make a warrior, but if he refused to stand up to intimidation he would never live long enough to become a scop, either. “He died at Ravenswood, helping to shield my brother from King Ongentheow's attack as he lay wounded at his feet.”

  There were nods of agreement. A debt was owed to the man, but that was not going to be repaid by allowing his son to be harried to his death. Octa shrugged. “I will give him some of my time, teach him to fight.”

  Eofer looked at his duguth in gratitude and his man returned a wicked grin.

  “Don't thank me lord, he certainly won't. I will teach him how to fight, but he might wish that he was dead by the end.”

  It was late in the short northern day when Sæward worked the steer bord and brought the Fælcen prow-first into the slipway. Two boys, dressed identically in trews and shirts made from tough blue sailcloth, leapt up at their approach and disappeared into a hall which stood surrounded by workshops and barns. As Eofer stepped ashore, a tall figure emerged from the building and came across.

  “Welcome to Old Ford, my name is Eadmund. Of course it's not really a ford,” he smiled, “but it is old and it sounds better than 'The Ford'. Lends it a touch of loftiness, don't you think, lord?”

  Eofer cast his eyes around the riverside. Like most boatyards he had ever visited this was far from 'lofty'. The Fælcen was the only ship of any size to be seen, but the evidence of the summer trade lay scattered all around. Mounds of ballast lay where they had been discarded by the traders who had used the portage before, the roughly hewn rocks mouldering under a blanket of moss. Across the way, the big kettles which were used to boil the pitch and tar lay cold and unattended, but the evidence of their use lay spattered all about them and several frames for transporting the ships overland lined the track.

  “You'll be wanting to cross to the Sley?”

  Eofer fetched inside his cloak, and a smile of satisfaction slowly illuminated Eadmund's features as the war-sword emerged.

  “At last, lord. The bastard Danes need to remember what English steel tastes like.” Eadmund moved closer and lowered his voice as though he was imparting a great secret as the men of Eofer's troop tumbled from the ship and shouldered her onto the slipway. “A war-band burned halls within the Wolds here, not a month ago.” He hawked and spat at the memory. “They tried to come here, down The Oxen Way, but the king himself led his own hearth troop against them and chased them south.” He paused and spat again as if the very idea was unthinkable. “Danes on The Oxen Way!”

  Eofer looked across as his troop shouldered their belongings. “Can we make a start today? The king expects us to make haste.”

  Eadmund grimaced. “A dart of a ship like yours we could have taken most of the way east by way of yonder brook.” He indicated a side channel with a nod of his head. “It'll be full of rushes and pondweed at the moment, they will need clearing, so she'll have to go overland like a fat bellied trader.” The porter's lips set in an apologetic line. “Even that is not as easy as it should be. If it were earlier in the year, lord, I could have had you on your way as soon as the ballast was out of your ship, but this ti
me of year...” He tugged at his ear as he cast a look towards the lowering sun. “The men are spread all over and so are the oxen. We never usually see a ship between Hærfestmonth and Eostre.”

  Eofer pulled a face. “I need to be with the king as soon as possible. My men are not above hauling their own ship. Do we really need oxen?”

  The man nodded gravely. “Dangerous work, lord. I dare say that King Eomær would not thank me for using his warriors as beasts of burden.”

  Eofer spun the tiny sword and looked expectantly at the porter.

  Eadmund chuckled. “Spend the night in my hall, lord, while I gather the men and oxen. We will have your ship in its cradle and ready to move at first light. You shall come before the king by nightfall.”

  Muttered comments passed between the workmen and a rumble of laughter ran along the line. Eofer and Thrush Hemming crossed the open space before Eadmund's hall and hailed the man. Casting a look across his shoulder as he emerged, the porter nodded in recognition before chivvying the men back to work.

  “You will have to forgive them, we don't see many shield maidens here, lord,” he explained as he indicated the tree line with a jerk of his head, “mostly merchants and the like.”

  The pair glanced across and snorted as they saw the cause of the men's amusement. A line of backs presented themselves, silvered arcs playing on the bracken before them. On the extreme right of the line a small figure squatted in her customary position.

  “Spearhafoc used to just mix in among the boys when she pissed,” Hemming explained, “until a few of the lads started to become a bit careless with their aim. A few sharp twists from the girl soon put paid to that little game,” he added with a chuckle, “but you can never be too careful!”

  The trio walked down to the Fælcen as Eadmund's men guided the team of oxen into position at the head of the ship and tightened their harnesses. The scegth nestled in a cradle made from tough English oak, ready for its overland journey. Thick layers of sheepskin padded out the spaces between the cradle and the hull of the ship, protecting and cushioning the finely worked strakes from damage as it was hauled down the eastern slope of the Wolds.

  Other men were doubling a rope of horsehair, weft with whale skin to increase its strength, around the upright of the stern post. Walking the rope forward they began to run it through the heavy iron eyelets which lined the flanks of the beasts as Shining Mane pulled the sun clear of the horizon in a splash of pink.

  The porter paused and pulled a pained expression. “I couldn't round up all the men I would have liked, lord. With all the raids and the like, quite a few have returned to their home villages for the winter. Safety in numbers, I guess, you can hardly blame them. I was wondering if I could use a few of your youths?”

  Eofer nodded. “We'll all pitch in, Eadmund. I told you last night, none of us are above a little hard work. There are no friendly porters to help us when we are deep inside British lands.”

  Eadmund shook his head. “I only need a few extra hands, lord. Most of the pulling will be done by the oxen and their drivers. There are a few areas where we need to use rollers where the portage crosses uneven ground and that needs the hands of men, willing or unwilling. No,” he added with a smile, “your youth will be more than enough. With your reduced numbers I will have enough horses in the corral for yourself and the men of your duguth to ride to Sleyswic. It will save you a day that way and, as you say, a war-sword demands haste.”

  Eofer could sense the smile forming on Thrush Hemming's face as he realised that a day of toil and mud looked about to be replaced by a short ride and a day supping the king's ale. He nodded. “It's a good plan. I will leave my ship master, Sæward, to keep an eye on things. Saddle up the horses and we will leave straight away.”

  Eadmund chuckled and looked across to the corral where his sons were busy saddling a group of horses. “Already being seen to, lord.”

  The trio moved towards the prow and Eadmund ran his fingers along the carvings which decorated the sheer strake of the little warship as they walked. Freshly repainted back at Strand, red falcons soared and plummeted on a field of blue and Eofer watched the experienced porter's obvious approval with pride.

  “She's a real beauty, lord,” he finally breathed, turning to flash a smile. “A bit better than we are used to seeing up here, coasters and the odd fat bellied cnarr. How far do you take her?”

  “She'll sail anywhere,” Eofer answered proudly, “but we mostly spend our summers in Britannia. She barely draws half a foot of water, ideal for moving along the rivers, deep into the heart of the place.”

  A heavy thunk told them that the youth had arrived and were loading their belongings back on board as the rising sun raked the clearing with its light. A cry came from the leading handler and Eadmund acknowledged him with a wave. “First light, lord,” he smiled. “We are ready, as promised.”

  Eofer curbed his mount at the brow of the rise and gazed back at the valley floor. The men of his duguth, elated to a man to be spared the heavy work, beamed as they circled him on their own mounts. The spear blade shape of the Fælcen was edging forward as the ox team, already growing indistinct beneath a vaporous brume, dug in and huckled forward.

  Beyond them, the Trene meandered away to become lost in the trees of the uplands which the English called the Wolds. Raising his gaze, the eorle looked out across the lowlands of the polder to the German Sea beyond. The rains had lifted there now and the wetlands sparkled like a jewel in the pale light of the early morning. A voice came at his shoulder.

  “It's a beautiful land, lord,” Imma Gold said. “Worth fighting for.”

  TEN

  Osbeorn balled a fist and pushed it into his chest, lifting a cheek and forcing out a fart as the belch cut the air. “Two birds in a bush.” He sniffed and threw them a grin. “It must be your lucky day. The guard was right, this is good ale!”

  Eofer shook his head in mock despair as the men of his duguth laughed into their cups.

  “Good bread and cheese, too,” Osbeorn added as Imma refilled the cups from the pitcher, “pass it over.” He jerked his head towards a further bowl, “and the pickled onions.”

  Thrush Hemming pushed the bowl through the ale slops and raised a sarcastic brow. “No pickled eggs this time, lord?”

  Osbeorn belched and sniffed again. “Good idea, shove them across.”

  They were sat in a hall given over to public drinking. Most of the larger settlements in Engeln had at least one such place which offered lodgings, food and ale to travellers who were without kinfolk in that place to provide shelter. Sleyswic, situated where the portage deposited its charges into the great waterway of the Sley and near the north-south route known as The Oxen Way had at least a score of these 'ale hus'. Judging by the number of men in the place, Eofer came to the conclusion that the ale hus' of Sleyswic numbered more than just travellers among their customers.

  Arriving at the gates of the king's tun near the waterfront, the guards had politely but firmly told the eorle that the king was yet to rise and that nobody was to enter or leave the fortress until he appeared. It was little more than a distance of ten miles from the place where they had left the ship to the hall, and they had reached the town before the sun was a hand's breadth above the eastern horizon. Stabling the horses, the friendly guards had promised to report their arrival to the king's hall reeve and pointed them towards the squat building on the waterfront.

  The Barley Mow seemed to be a popular call for the workers making their way to the nearby quayside. A stone-lined hearth had been constructed against one of the outside walls of the place and an armful of faggots were blazing away merrily taking the autumn chill off the air, the smog rising to collect among the rafters before drifting out through a smoke hole in the gable. Ena, the buxom ale wyf, bustled across to stoke the flames, and Eofer and his men laughed as the conversations tailed away as she bent low and swayed rhythmically in time with every poke. Osbeorn raised a cheek and squeezed out another. “By the way that
she is moving that poker, she knows exactly what effect she is having here!” They all laughed at his observation as the woman straightened and moved back towards the kitchen at the rear. She threw them a look and wrinkled her nose as she passed by their table, and the group set their faces into masks of innocence as they pointed out the culprit. Osbeorn threw her a wink, “cracking eggs, Ena!” The men of the troop roared as Ena shook her head, muttering a good-natured curse on warriors in general as she favoured a regular with a smile.

  Imma Gold sank another cup, pushed back his chair and whistled contentedly. “This is the only way to start the day,” he sighed. “Isn't life so much easier without the children.” They all smiled again as they imagined the youth sweating the ship across the portage. “They should be just about up with those horrible ridges we passed earlier.” He upended his empty cup with a crash. “More ale anyone?” Twisting on his stool he drew a breath to summon Ena but let it out in a long sigh of disappointment instead. “Sorry lads. My fault for tempting wyrd.”

  Eofer followed his gaze across to the doorway. Framed in the rectangle of light, the guard from earlier was searching the tables of the gloomy room. Spotting them near the hearth he ducked inside and made his way across. He threw them an apologetic look. “Sorry to drag you away, lord. The king's up and about and your arrival has been reported to him. He will receive you right away.”

  Eofer studied the king's tun as he approached at the head of his men. The outer defences consisted of a wide, steep sided ditch which funnelled traffic between the enclosing outer walls of the compound. The bottom twenty feet or so of these walls had been faced with irregular creamy coloured stone to counter the use of fire by any attackers. Above this, a palisade of smooth timber shielded the guards on the inner walkway from the elements and any hostile action. A robust timber gatehouse capped the portal, above which flew an enormous red flag adorned with the white dragon of the English. The full light of day was on the land now, revealing a sky of darkest cobalt. To the North the last of the storm clouds, shredded and torn by the anger of the wind, hurried away towards the waters of the Belt.