Divided We Fall

by Gareth Mottram

  Stop moaning. So, he carried a woman’s sword. He had been entrusted with a royal blade and the king had argued his case… sort of.

  Also, he had been sent on a mission, a real mission. It might be a Skirmisher’s task and not as glorious as fighting in the shield wall, but it was important to ensure the warriors didn’t walk blindly into danger. Also, he and Brant didn’t have two hundred men around them – they would have to depend on themselves to stay alive.

  Will stared at Brant’s axe head – glad it wasn’t just himself he had to depend upon.

  'Concentrate, Will,’ Brant said, his voice quiet. ‘Keep your ears open. Eyes won't do you much good right now.'

  Speak for yourself – my night-eyes just keep getting better. Perhaps he did have some uses after all.

  They turned off the road and Brant slowed his huge brown gelding, Sigurd, to a slow trot. It would keep him from breaking a leg on the rough ground in the dark.

  They drew closer to the fort. On Will's right, less than a hundred yards away now, the wall rose up, holding back the lands of the Picts behind twenty feet of tightly fitted stone blocks. Directly in front of him, the mighty fort filled his view with its towers rising defiantly into the clear, starlit sky.

  Brant steered them along the edge of a deep ditch towards the dark, low shapes of the small civilian huts crowded outside the fort's double gates.

  'I can't hear anything,' Will whispered, 'or smell any trace of cook-fire smoke.'

  'No,' Brant whispered back, 'this place has been deserted for at least a day or m...'

  Brant stopped Sigurd and pointed to the ground.

  A road cut through the small village, the Romani bricks and construction still mainly holding up, four hundred years after they were laid. The road was almost bright in the starlight. A spear, its shaft snapped in half, and a small dagger glinted dully against the road’s stone. Two small piles of clothes and shoes lay scattered around the weapons. Will chewed his bottom lip to help swallow down his emotions. One pair of sandals was tiny.

  Brant pulled his longaxe from its back strap and let the long haft of his axe slip through his hand until it dangled full length. The heavy blade almost brushed the grass.

  He nudged Sigurd forward into the village.

  Will took in a slow, calming breath and pulled out Rowenna's practise sword. Grudgingly he admitted to himself it did have superb balance. He wasn’t too bad with a sword but in practice, he had a shield to dodge behind as well.

  Brant kept to the turf around the huts to dull the clop of Sigurd's hooves. They rode close to the dark buildings, blending with their shadows, peering into broken doorways and stepping over more leavings of the dead – lots more leavings. Bolts from the small, one-handed crossbows the Picts used were embedded in many of the Angalsax clothes. Other dark-stained tunics had no weapons near them but had been ripped to shreds in what must have been inhumanly savage and frenzied attacks. All too rarely, they passed the plaid breeches, small, oblong buckler and sword or spear of a Pict warrior.

  'The Picts massacred everyone,' Will hissed, ‘they're animals.'

  Brant grunted. 'No – too few leavings for everyone. Many escaped. But something isn't right.'

  The Scandian warrior had been battle-hardened by the time he was Will's age and the remains of war never seemed to faze him.

  Will kept his voice low. 'What do you mean?'

  'I don't know yet,' Brant rumbled, lost in thought. ‘I am not sure we are alone here.'

  ‘Great,’ Will mumbled.

  Brant slapped him on the thigh. ‘Nothing for you to worry about - you are a cold-hand killer now.’

  ‘Yep, that’s me,’ Will said quietly. He was still struggling with what to feel about his first kill and he had hardly experienced the ice-cold hands real warriors bragged about after a battle where they had sent dozens of the enemy to their gods. His main worry though, was that he had never heard any of them speak about the surge of energy like the one he had experienced when finally killing the Pict. He hadn’t dared say anything about it to Brant in case it was something… unnatural. Everyone saw him as enough of an outsider already.

  They rode slowly on in silence, Will forced himself to look closer at the tattered, blood-stained leavings scattered in and out of the shadows. Brant was right – there were not enough to account for the number of huts here.

  Then Will’s sharp eyes spotted something sticking out from behind a woodpile.

  ‘Fur,' Will said and pointed at a fallen axe with a slice of furry flesh sticking to it. 'Looks like the wolves moved straight in to attack the survivors.'

  Brant slipped off Sigurd for a closer look. He peeled the flesh from the axe head with a dry, crackling sound.

  'This is an ear – a large one. It has come from a wolf as big as any I’ve seen in Scandia, perhaps bigger.' Brant examined the flesh in the faint moonlight for a moment then tossed it to one side and mounted Sigurd again. He squinted into the nearby shadows. ‘I wonder if it survived with one side of its head sliced off?’

  ‘It must have,’ Will said. There was no big wolf carcass to be seen. Animals weren’t taken by the gods. Branding a beast over its heart with the mark of a chosen god like a human would have been an insult to any deity.

  The Pictish druids were different, of course. They had no god, but rumour had it that they took an animal’s body and soul to feed their own dark power. Filthy heathens.

  Brant remounted and they passed two more huts then turned directly north straight for the fort.

  The ditch ran across their path, filled here with thick stakes driven deep into the earth. A narrow bridge forded the ditch where the main Romani road cut through the huts. On the far side, the Anvil's mighty double gates lay wide open with nothing but the indistinct mass of buildings visible in the deep shadows beyond.

  Squat towers rose up to either side of the gates. Their narrow, arched windows were pitch black, staring down in grim silence, daring the living to pass beneath. The night wind gusted between the merlons and through the open gates as it had for the last four hundred years. It brought with it a faint clacking sound, a drumming from within the fort.

  It was growing louder.

  'Horse,' whispered Brant. He kicked Sigurd forward across the bridge and veered to one side of the gates to draw up tight against the outside wall. Quietly, Brant sheathed his axe and unstrapped the short bow from his saddle. Scandians used bows a lot - they didn’t seem to have the Angalsax disdain for missile weapons. It was partly because of Brant that King Godric had championed the use of bows in the lobber ranks, adding greater distance and shots to their arsenal of javelins and throwing axes.

  Will’s hands were beginning to sweat despite the cold as he gripped the hilt leather of Rowenna’s sword even more tightly. He almost regretted not having a bow himself. He was actually a very good archer but didn’t show it in training in case they marked him for the lobbers. Shields, of course, never touched the weapon again after passing through general warrior training.

  How do I swing this from back here without chopping Brant’s arm off?

  The clattering grew louder, now clearly the rhythm of galloping hooves on Romani stone.

  Will raised his sword high, ready to strike. He breathed in slowly, calming himself.

  Osbert burst out through the gates and onto the bridge.

  Will breathed out and lowered his blade. Brant waited a moment for any sign of pursuit then unnocked his arrow and nudged Sigurd out of the shadows.

  'Hey, Osbert,' Brant shouted as the king's champion cleared the bridge, oblivious to their presence.

  Osbert wheeled his horse around sharply, one hand reaching for his sword. He let it slide back into its scabbard when he recognised them.

  'So that's where you've been hiding, clinging to your little bow. Were you too scared to enter the fort, Scandian?'

  Brant didn't bother to answer as he urged Sigurd across the bridge.

  Osbert carried on in his usual sneering tone. 'I've s
couted the whole fort while you’ve been cowering in the shadows. It's deserted - the whole place. North gate’s barred shut but there are leavings everywhere. The filthy Picts must have sneaked in, run through slaughtering the whole garrison and left. They took all the horses too, just like with us.'

  Osbert yanked his horse back around. 'Try to keep up,' he shouted over his shoulder and sped off along the road towards the dark mass of the warbands waiting at the forest edge.

  'I think we'll make a bit more of a thorough search first,' Brant said quietly. He turned Sigurd around and they rode into the dark, wind-whipped fort.

  Chapter 6

  What’s Out There?

  It took less than twenty minutes for the warbands to enter the fort, quickly check the buildings and form up in the Northgate square. There was no room for the lobbers and skirmishers, so they filled the streets and rooftops and lined the wall parapets above.

  Will stood with Brant, near to the royals as always. Like everyone else, he wondered just what they were going to do now.

  Unlike normal people, Osbert was not prepared to let his betters decide on the best course of action.

  'Since when did the Angalsax cower behind locked doors, afraid of the dark?' the Champion demanded, banging his fist on one of the Anvil’s thick northern gates. 'I say we go out there and hunt down any of the savages left in their cursed land. They need to pay for what they've done here - now.'

  There were grunts of approval from many of the warriors assembled in the courtyard. Will shook his head but stayed quiet. Full marks for saying exactly what the soldiers want to hear; zero for making any tactical sense whatsoever.

  'No one is afraid, Osbert,' Captain Cenhelm explained for a second time, 'but out there, we won't see anything beyond our torchlight. We need to fully secure the fort and find out exactly what happened here.'

  Will nodded to himself - Cenhelm, clear-thinking and unflappable as always, was right. He thought he knew part of the story though.

  He and Brant had checked the northern gates were securely barred and quickly searched the fort and wall whilst Godric led the warbands in. The nearest watchtower, just a little over three hundred yards from the fort, had clearly been breached. Pict ropes and ladders were lying on the wall-walk but there hadn't been many leavings in the tower or along the wall top – not nearly as many as in the barracks. The Picts must have silently killed their way past the wall guards, opened the gates then streamed into the barracks and murdered the Angalsax in their beds.

  Why had they locked the gates behind them though and pulled up their ropes and ladders for that matter?

  It looked like this square was where the remains of the warband had made their last stand. By a rough count of leavings, almost the entire fort garrison were dead, and less than a hundred Picts had fallen.

  Osbert was not interested in finding out anymore, however. 'Fine, old… warrior – you stay here and sweep up and I'll lead the real men outside.' He reached for the heavy cross beam.

  Here we go again. Will swallowed. This was another thing that Osbert always did – fight anyone who didn’t do exactly what he wanted.

  King Godric grabbed Osbert’s shoulder but didn't attempt to pull him back – few men could shift the Champion without a battering ram.

  'Who will lead the men outside?' Godric asked, his voice low.

  Brant edged a little closer to his king but didn’t touch his weapons. Araldor, the leader of the huscarls, laid a hand on Brant’s arm and shook his head.

  Osbert turned back from the gate to face his king and for a long moment said nothing.

  Finally, the Champion dipped his head in a brief bow. 'You will lead, of course.'

  The king grunted then turned to address the gathered warriors. ‘Cenhelm is right but there’s no harm in having a little sortie to see if there is anyone out there worth drawing back in.

  Dunstan, First Spear of the skirmishers, and his second, Gwen, stepped up. ‘How many skirmishers, sire?’

  Osbert sniggered. ‘Does it matter?’

  King Godric ignored him. ‘If the Picts are watching the gates, you will be too exposed, Dunstan – they’ll follow your movements and pick you off. I’ll just take the Shields this time.’

  Dunstan’s face showed no emotion, but his bow was stiffer than normal. He shot a poisonous glance at Osbert as he and Gwen backed away.

  ‘Lobbers to the wall top, huscarls and First Section with me,’ Godric shouted. ‘Cenhelm, have the rest of the Shields readied in the square to greet any uninvited guests who might follow us back in. Hrothgar, have your warband search thoroughly for any little tartan-clad surprises hiding in the buildings – my Skirmishers can help out.’

  Godric looked around and his eyes fell on Rowenna. He lowered his voice. ‘Brant – stay close to my daughter who will no doubt want to come out for a walk with us. Let's go.'

  Will glanced over at Rowenna, quietly holding the reins of her big bay mare, Wildwind. She caught his eye and gave a quick smile.

  Osbert opened one of the north gates whilst Bragg and Randolf rushed over to lift the heavy locking beam from the other. King Godric moved to the fore and, in moments twenty Angalsax were marching forward, their burning torches held high.

  Rowenna quickly passed the reins of her horse to one of the apprentices, nodded up at Brant and followed the shield-wall elite. Brant and Will fell in behind her, with another ten Shields behind them. Brant was often given the job of protecting the princess. The huge swings and sweeps of his long axe made him deadly but didn't exactly fit in with the close-packed shield-wall formation.

  Just before Will passed through the gates, he noticed Puck, the king’s jester, standing in the shadows to one side. Puck shrugged his shoulders – clearly thinking this was a stupid idea – and then waggled both his ears with his long, thin hands.

  Will nodded his understanding – rely on hearing as much as sight in the dark. The jester was a strange one - another outsider but Godric seemed to trust him and even asked for his advice sometimes. Just like Brant and the other huscarls, he was never far from the king or one of the other royals. Despite this, Will and Puck had hardly ever spoken so perhaps the listening advice was meant for Rowenna’s real protectors.

  And then Will forgot about the jester. He stepped out into the land of the Picts.

  The wind hit him as soon as he walked through the gates. It seemed somehow to blow colder and harder on the north side of the wall.

  The column crossed a short bridge across the ditch in twos. Their boots clomping against the wood was the only sound to challenge the howl of the wind. Open grassland swayed in the cold blasts and the branches of the scattered copses waved like marooned sailors standing on islands in a dark unsettled sea.

  Cenhelm’s thirty shield-wall warriors spread into rows of four, every other end-man carrying a torch. Flame and smoke whipped sideways casting more shadows than light, but it was enough to show a few piles of leavings. Pict tartans, swords, spears and small, square bucklers lay scattered in and around the defensive ditch and across the bridge. There should have been many, many more out here though.

  'Cenhelm was right, of course,' Rowenna said quietly, slowing so Will caught up to her, 'you can't see a thing other than what you walk over.'

  ‘Hopefully, there’s nothing to see,’ Will answered, peering into the dark.

  They hurried to walk closer to the warriors in front. Brant and the rear-guard stepped out to keep just a couple of paces behind them. Will was very glad his master’s huge frame and massive axe were so close. Behind them, high up on the barbican walls, Godric’s lobbers were lined up to give covering fire if needed. Not that they would be able to see any targets.

  Will turned back, sneaking a long glance at Rowenna’s torchlit face as he did so. Marching into the enemy wilds was hardly the best time but this was the first chance he’d had to speak to the princess since the attack at the longhouse.

  'Thank you for telling the king I was trying to help,’ Will blur
ted out, trying to keep his voice low. ‘… you know, at the stables. I'm sorry I messed up.'

  'What,' Rowenna said, 'don't be stupid. She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘You left the safety of two hundred Shields surrounding you to find me with nothing but a seax because you thought I was all alone. If the others are too stupid to see how brave that…'

  'But you had to save my life,' Will said. ‘You had to lose a weapon to help me.’

  'I helped to save your life – from what I saw, you finished him off.'

  'Still, I was pretty useless, even when I got my hands on a sword,' Will mumbled.

  Rowenna didn't answer for a moment then she said, ‘You remember what I was saying last night before the attack… about how your military knowledge and intelligence would be really useful—’

  ‘I want to be a warrior,’ Will cut in. ‘I left the scribes, remember? You don’t think I can do it, do you?’

  Rowenna held up an appeasing hand. ‘That’s not true, Will – honestly.’

  ‘But you think I should be an advisor, keep away from any actual fighting?’

  ‘I…’ Rowenna took a breath, scanning the dark forests all around, the moon-touched mountain peaks in the distance then focussing on her father at the front of the small column. ‘You’re right – I’m sorry. I understand how hard it is to be allowed to fight when people don’t want to let you near a weapon.’

  Will followed her gaze. ‘Of course. Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.’

  Rowenna nodded. ‘I know you don’t want my help but maybe some advice. In the attack, you didn't really have the best weapons for your… you.'

  Will felt his face burn and his eyes dropped to Rowenna's light sword hanging at his side. He hated being so small and wiry.

  Rowenna saw his look. 'That's a really good sword – the best steel, light but strong and you can sharpen it properly now it isn't being used for practice.

  ‘Wall warriors have to use heavy blades to smash shields.'

  Rowenna glanced ahead at the burly warriors. ‘We can't all be built like a stone privy and swing great lumps of metal around. A warband, a whole army, needs more than the giants in the shield wall – you know that more than anybody.’