Fire & Steel

by C. R. May

  “Time to go, lord,” Hemming muttered as the first of the Jutes chased the English horse guards away into the trees, moving across to deny them any chance of reaching their own mounts. Eofer failed to respond and Hemming plucked at his sleeve as he sought to remove his lord from harms way. “Eofer. Lord. It's time to rejoin the others.”

  An insolent smile curled at the corners of his mouth and the thegn shot his duguth a wink. “Let's go and ask for our horses back, Thrush.”

  Hemming's mouth fell open before a smile crept across his own features, and the deep rumble of a laugh came from the man at the insanity of his lord's words.

  Eofer led the way past the body of the scout he had unhorsed with his second attack. Thrown by his fatally wounded mount, the scout had been stabbed into meat as the fyrdmen had crowded around like a wolf pack at the kill and the grass there was slick with the man's blood. Hemming skipped around it as Eofer started to angle across the slope. King Osea was already within hailing distance and Hemming watched out the corner of his eye as the royal party looked on with mounting bemusement. Eofer led them across the face of the Jute battle line and pushed his way between the mounted warriors lined up there before speaking in a tone which he hoped would sound far more confident than he felt.

  “Where is your horse, Thrush?”

  Hemming grabbed the reins of the nearest animal and slipped it from the line.

  “Don't push them too hard, lord,” he murmured. “They can't stay shocked forever.”

  Eofer had slipped the reins of his own mount and stood glaring up at the nearest Jute riders. They looked across in confusion to their king and Eofer was relieved to see Osea give a slight nod to let him through. Back in the open, the pair mounted and guided the horses across towards King Osea and the jarls.

  Eofer reined in before the king and inclined his head.

  “Health and happiness to King Osea. I am Eofer Wonreding. I come to ask you for the return of our horses so that we may be on our way.”

  The king's mouth slowly creased into a smile and he shook his head as the jarls glowered at his side.

  “Eofer Wonreding, the aptly named bane of kings,” he said as he lifted his chin and ran his eyes across the blackened scar which was all that remained of his jarl's hall. “You seem to have developed an unhealthy liking for hall burning. If you had lived long enough,” he added with malice, “perhaps you might have become Eofer hall burner after your exploits here and in Daneland.”

  Eofer inclined his head. “Thank you, but I like king's bane. I think that I will keep it. As for the length of my life-thread,” he shrugged, “that is in the hands of the three old ladies, as are all. We need not trouble the old girls here, their work can cease if that is our wish. Jarl Wictgils sold English lives for silver, I was sent here by King Eomær to pay the balance owed to him and his kin.” Eofer glanced back down to the ruin of the building. “As you can see the debt has been paid in full.”

  The king raised his brow and Eofer could see Heorogar bristle at his side.

  “The women and children?”

  “Are being welcomed below by their English sisters, burned and slaughtered by the Danes who came to this place to be supplied with horses and hospitality in exchange for that silver.”

  Jarl Heorogar suddenly urged his mount forward and came abreast of Eofer. Leaning forward, he shook with hatred as he spat the words. “You talk of blood price and kinship. Know that my sister was wife to Wictgils and that I hold you responsible for her death.”

  Eofer copied Heorogar's action and spoke evenly as hands moved to sword hilts and the men stared at each other with ill-disguised loathing. “Then I think that you will agree that she made a poor choice of husband,” he replied, his eyes as cold and hard as flint. Before the man could respond, Eofer sawed at his reins and turned into Heorogar's horse, making it skitter sideways. As the Jarl fought to bring it back under control, Eofer turned back to the king. “It would seem that we are to fight after all, just when we were starting to get along. I wonder,” he said as the horse moved away. “How many men have killed two kings in battle?”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  A distant rumble of laughter split the night air and Eofer came awake in an instant. Bleary eyed from the sleep which he had never expected to have, he knuckled them and blinked as he attempted to focus.

  “There are no threatening movements, lord,” Octa spoke softly. “They are still drinking.”

  Eofer settled back and rubbed his face as vigorously as he could without waking the others. He glanced across to the East and was surprised to see the first signs of the dawn as his mind began to replay the events of the previous evening. The grey tinge to the horizon could very well be his last, and Eofer watched with newfound interest as the light there slowly widened into a band of iron.

  Despite the presence of the Jutish royal army mere paces away, Eofer and Hemming had walked the horses unhurriedly back down the meadow to the English position. Slipping from the saddle near the scene of the skirmish with the scouts, he had retrieved his shield and driven the horse away with a slap of its rump.

  The confrontation with King Osea and his jarls had eaten up valuable time as he had hoped that it would. The sun had been low in the West and, confident in his numbers, the old king had clearly decided to delay the attack until the following day. Every moment which he could snatch from the situation would help, and he had shared out the remaining food and posted the guards as the Jutish fires had flickered into life like a hundred suns and they had caroused into the night with all the vigour of men on the cusp of a crushing victory.

  Osbeorn shifted and yawned as the first whiff of cooking drifted down to them from the head of the clearing. Raising his head he sniffed the air, like a hound catching the scent. “Bacon,” he sighed, “the bastards. I can face a charging boar snout, no problem, but that's just cruel.”

  Eofer chuckled. “I have got some dried pork left if you feel up to a good chew.”

  Their backs swayed gently in time as his duguth shook his head and replied.

  “No thanks, lord. I will wait until we take their camp and help myself.”

  A round of sniggers rolled around the group and Eofer realised that they were all awake. Sat in a circle, resting against each other back-to-back, every movement was felt by the others; it was a rare night that anyone could slumber on once his friends began to stir. It was a trick which they had learned together while raiding in the depths of Britannia. With one duguth always on guard, Eofer and the remaining four could face in every direction, supporting each other as they dozed. The slightest movement would be felt by their hearth companions and any sudden movement would have the group instantly awake and reaching for their weapons.

  Eofer looked over his shoulder and recognised the familiar outline of Imma Gold at the causeway, flanked by the dark figures of Crawa and his brother Hræfen. An untidy knot of fyrdmen made up a solid wall there. Satisfied that all was well, the eorle settled back.

  “What would you eat if you could choose anything, Ozzy?” he spoke into the gloom.

  “Anything?”

  “Yes, if you could have anything to eat, right now, what would it be?”

  Osbeorn sighed as he thought, but Eofer could sense the amusement of his hearth troop through their backs as they imagined the torment which the question would be causing their friend. Finally he said the word which they all knew that he would.

  “Bacon…” As a rumble of laughter came from the others Osbeorn went on. “Bacon and pork are very big things in my family. My cousin,” he continued as they all listened in amusement, “puts bacon in bread.”

  They all chuckled and a patter of laughter came from those in the fyrd nearest to them. It would seem that most were awake now that the sun had risen to light the edge of the fjord, its pale light dancing on the wave tops and throwing the troughs between into a jet-like blackness. Above them the first gulls glided and called, their raucous cries harsh in the chill air as the creatures of Middle-eart
h came back from their slumber.

  Hemming sighed as he finally gave up any hope that he may have harboured of sleep. Once the men started to discuss food, he knew that only an enemy charge could stop them. “Why does he do that?” he asked. “That's just...well...weird.”

  “He doesn't like his fingers getting greasy, Thrush,” Osbeorn offered as they all laughed again, “or too hot.” Osbeorn's voice trailed away as the image came into his mind. “Come to think of it,” he decided finally, “he is a bit weird.”

  Folk were beginning to rise now and make their way to the riverbank to take the first piss of the day, but there was a tangible feeling of anticipation hanging in the air as Osbeorn defended his kinsman. “It makes sense when you think about it, though, weird or not. Bacon can get really hot, especially the rind. Also, you can cram lots of rashers in if you use both hands to hold the bread. You get more that way.”

  A great sigh went up as the real reason for his cousin's inventiveness was revealed.

  “Your whole family are swelgend. You eat anything as long as there is plenty of it,” Hemming said. “I am almost afraid to ask, but is there anything else this kinsman of yours sticks into a loaf?”

  “Egg,” Osbeorn replied, “sometimes with bacon too! Now that,” he conceded with a shrug, “is definitely a bit weird.”

  The first war horns sounded from the opposite end of the field and they began to rise and reach for their weapons as an answering blast from the town drifted across. Eofer stretched and walked across to empty his bladder into the bulrushes as spear men appeared at the head of the causeway opposite. Loosening his clothing he relaxed as the piss arced away and he threw a look across to Imma on the causeway. “Early start, Goldy. Has it been quiet?”

  Imma nodded. “They have been moving about all night, but there has only ever been a few guards visible at the end of the causeway. They tried to lob a few arrows into us during the night but they all fell well short so I left everyone sleeping, lord.”

  Eofer finished and adjusted his clothing, walking across to his duguth as the men of his war-band rose and began to gather together in their divisions. Every man knew his place and the thegn was pleased to see that their spirits seemed high, despite their desperate situation and lack of bacon. “It's a trap,” he said as he pulled himself up onto the planking.

  Imma raised his brow in mock surprise and threw his eorle a look of beatific innocence. “Really, lord?” he gasped. “The cunning bastards!”

  Eofer snorted at his man's humour. “If we had charged across there we would have found the whole town waiting for us in arms. Trap a raiding force and leave it with an apparently lightly defended escape route.” He shook his head in disappointment at the obvious transparency of the Jutish plan. Only a fool would fall for such a ruse, and the Engle found that he was offended that they had even attempted to entice him across and onto the points of the waiting spears.

  “But,” Imma countered as he correctly read his eorle's thoughts, “if they are willing to underestimate us all day, we may yet live to see our beards turn grey.”

  Eofer clapped him on the shoulder. “You are right this is going to be a great day, a day to test the scops' skill with words. Tell Ozzy to round up some men and relieve you here. Get your lads to grab something to eat before it's all gone. We have already given King Hrothgar and his Danes a Yule gift to remember. Today we strike the first blow in the year of fire and steel.”

  The thegn unhooked his battle helm and settled it onto his head, fastening the leather bindings securely as he looked across to the northern bank. The war horns had done their work and the strand was teeming with warriors, all crowding down to the causeway. He gave a knowing snort as he thought of their night spent waiting for the panicked flight which never came as Osbeorn clattered on to the walkway with his party of men.

  Eofer threw them a welcoming smile. “How do I look?”

  Osbeorn ran his eyes over him and shook his head. “A bit grubby for a lord, but you'll have to do.”

  Eofer chuckled to himself as Osbeorn set about placing the men where they would be most useful to him. The position was vital for their defence and Eofer decided to replace them as soon as he had made his battle speech with a party taken from his father's hearth troop.

  Osbeorn's comment caused him to examine his war gear and, to his disappointment, he found that his duguth had been right, he had looked better. Spots of dried mud and blood still clung to his mail shirt from the fights against Wictgils and King Osea's scouts. The red quilted battle shirt which he wore beneath his mail was marked by smuts from the hall burning and the legs of his trews were still stained by the blood of the Jutish jarl. He had seen to his weapons of course and Gleaming was once again living up to its name and honed to a razor sharp edge, but the lining on the face of his shield had taken a glancing blow and a small strip of leather hung loose, exposing the pale wood beneath. Looking up he saw that Oswin was nearby and he called the youth across.

  “Oswin, check me over will you? Remove the worst of the grime before I address the men.”

  Eofer stood and regarded his forces as the youth scrubbed furiously at the worst of the grime. Penda had led the core of his men to the centre of the roadway and was already set as ord. The remainder of the ealdorman's hearth troop had fanned out to either side, curving back to anchor themselves against the wetlands which backed up their position. The men of the fyrd were still organising themselves with their friends and kinsmen behind these, but Eofer estimated that there were enough men to form at least three ranks with a stiffening to the centre and flanks where the main thrust of the Jutish attacks could be expected. The roadway on which he was standing rose slightly as it approached the causeway, its edges canted to east and west. It was the perfect position to set up his hildbeacn with a commanding view of both the main battlefield on the meadow and the fighting which would be taking place on the causeway itself as the men from the town attempted to fall upon their rear. While the youth of his troop fought to earn a reputation within the shield wall, the men of his duguth could cluster around him there, fulfilling the oath they had made to their lord and acting as a flying reserve if any part of the wall came under intolerable pressure. At the head of the meadow the Jutes appeared to have finished their breakfast and horses were being led forward as the warriors began to organise themselves for the attack which must come soon.

  “That will have to do, Oswin,” he said. “Give me a quick stanza for luck and I will address the men.”

  Oswin stood back. “A poem fit for an eorle in his war glory, lord,” he smiled as his mind worked on the rhyme. Suddenly the beginning came to him and he set his face and began.

  “Battle-play befits a thegn,

  bravery belongs to an eorle.

  Heft Gleaming, bear your shield forward,

  under steep helms in the press of enemies,

  slayer of war lords, doomed leaders…”

  Eofer looked at him in amazement. “Oswin, you have really come on.” The youth beamed happily. “One of your father's youth, Edgar, has some training in wordcræft, lord. I have been pestering him to teach me all he knows ever since I found out. It's a sort of code,” he went on. “Once you understand the structure, what scops call the metre of the wordplay, it becomes much easier. It's like another language, but once you grasp the basics the rest follows on quickly.” Out of the corner of his eye, Eofer saw Hemming and Imma waiting for their orders. A quick look up at the top of the meadow confirmed that time was pressing.

  “Oswin,” he said. “Your father was a great warrior, but I think that your strength is a rarer quality. You will never have the strength of Thunor but you can develop Woden's sharpness of mind. I want you to be my banner man today.” He fixed the youth with a stare as he explained the importance of the duty. “Stand at my side and follow me wherever I go. You will be a key target for their bravest warriors so you must promise to place the safety of the hildbeacn above that of your own life, it is the beating heart of our war
-band. Keep it upright at all times or the heart will go out of our men. Watch all that goes on in the battle and you will have the floor of Eorthdraca to yourself when you recount the great deeds of this day before the king and his gesithas.”

  Eofer left the shocked youth and paced across to the high point of the roadway as he looked to his men. “Right, here. This is our position,” he declared as he stamped the earth. “Oswin will be banner man and the five of us will form around him as a reserve. My father's men far outnumber us, so they will bear the brunt of the attack.”

  Leaving Hemming to organise them, Eofer hefted his shield and spear as he pushed his way through to the front of the wall and out into the dead land before them. As he turned to face the shield wall the white dragon was raised at the high point, and his heart leapt as the breeze gently unfurled it, the ruddy field a blaze in the early morning light. He paused as the front rank parted to allow Oswin to join his lord, the burning hart battle flag held proudly aloft.

  The sun had fully risen now and the light raked the meadow as a light wind plucked at the treetops. Above them mackerel grey clouds pushed slowly to the West on a fitful breeze, their tails painted pink by the returning light.

  Eofer ran his gaze along the line of brightly coloured shields: wolf heads, axes and dragons, as the familiar pre-battle thrill gripped him. He walked the line and the hubbub subsided as all heads turned his way.

  “The day has dawned at last,” he smiled as he walked, locking eyes with each man as he came up, “the very beginning of the day which you will remember for the rest of your lives.” Taunts drifted down to them from the Jutish battle line as he spoke and he cocked his head to listen. One cry rose above the rest and a roar of laughter followed but it was just too far away to hear, although the mocking tone to it was clear. He sniffed and shrugged. “They think that they have already won, but they are mistaken. They have spent the night sinking ale and gambling away the fortunes which they expect to take from our bodies.” He paused to add weight to his words before setting his face and repeating his conclusion. “But they are mistaken.”