When Death Birds Fly cma-3

by Andrew J Offutt

  “Nay, he will be there,” Wulfhere said confidently. He grinned. “He expects us. Well now, ye pair, we’ll just be taking ye with us until we know whether ye lied or not. An ye spoke true, we’ll set ye free with no harm done. Even reward ye, maybe. An ye’re lying-” He made a throat-cutting gesture, and an ugly noise in his throat.

  The two fishermen were bound and stowed neatly out of the way.

  Muffled oars moved the galleys through the night, standing well out to sea from Fritigern’s Isle. Named for a chieftain now long in his burial-barrow, it was ruled-or its southern half was-by a descendant of his bearing the same name, to which had been added the cognomen Redjowl. Host to Hengist!

  Ere dawn, the Danes and Armoricans found a tiny islet barely large enow to boast a cove in which three galleys could lie hidden. Cormac despatched scouting parties to cover its every yard of ground to ensure that they had the miniature isle to themselves entire. They would bide here through the day, and move against Fritigern Redjowl’s guest in the evening.

  Mac Art spent nearly all the day in weary, stubborn debate with Wulfhere: the Gael insisted and insisted that their object was to regain Raven, and. but secondly to do death upon Hengist. Meanwhile sentries kept watch from the islet’s meagre heights, to warn should any ship come near. None did. Nor was the argument conclusive, and with dusk they put forth.

  The Armorican galleys lay to a scant mile offshore from Fritigern’s skalli. This was as near as they were to go, and men looked glumly on the ten Danes chosen by lot. These, with Cormac and Wulfhere, stood ready to enter the sea. They wore leggings and bullhide shoon only. Scabbarded swords were slung over their backs so as not to hamper them. Saxes, the wicked one-edged fighting knives of the tribe for which they were named, hung sheated at their hips. That aside, they went without shield or armour and nigh naked: twelve men, bare to the waist, against an island of foemen not known for gentleness.

  On the deck, five big casks were ballasted with stones to float with a particular side up. That had been tested. Lowered over the wales with care, they bobbed and floated as they ought. To the top of each barrel was attached an earthenware firepot in which glowing embers were snugly cached. They would last, for the water was slack and calm, between tides. Gazing upon those gently bobbing casks, Cormac mac Art showed teeth in a wolfish grin that was not handsome.

  Twelve men slid quietly into the sea. Two or three to a cask, they gripped rope loops attached, to them and commenced to swim with a steady leg-beat. The barrels provided support for the men who pushed them.

  “Fortune attend you,” Drocharl said in low tones.

  Cormac had rather the Armorican had, not said even that. Sound carried marvelously well across nighted water, which was why he and those with him had care not to break the surface with their frog-moving legs. The shore neared. Fritigern Redjowl’s skalli grew, and details became more discernible. Somewhere yonder lay Raven. She’d be drawn within the stockade sure, and guarded like a chest of gold. It scarcely mattered; they meant not to strike directly for Raven.

  The little waves of slack tide plashed gently on the beach. Cormac noted the wedge of rock that ran down to the water and out a ways. Peering, squinting, he descried a faint glitter of helm and spearhead. Shortly the scrape of a spear’s butt on rock confirmed the presence of a sentry. Cormac’s eyes sought more knowledge. Farther along the beach, four Saxon warships lay on the sand ready for instant launching, with yards lowered and sails clewed up. Eyes narrowed and feet constantly working, Cormac smiled thinly in the darkness.

  Those ships were essential to his plan. Nor had he merely guessed or hoped they would be there. Cormac mac Art was more thorough than that. He had known it. Fritigern Redjowl’s men were professional pirates no less than the Gael and this was midsummer, the height of the plundering season. Those vessels yonder would not be laid up in boat shelters until the onset of winter.

  His steadily beating legs sent him that way, silently.

  Two bored caries stood guard over the ships. Irksome or no, Cormac stood long minutes braced in shoulder-deep water with rocks under his feet, until his eyes and ears assured him that there were no more. At last he was satisfied of it. It was time to move.

  Quietly, he made his way along the edge of the rocks, squirming on his belly in the sand for the last few yards. The gritty stuff clung to his wet body and leggings. For camouflage, all the better. The sentry, standing atop the ridge of rock, did not see him coming.

  Two steely hands took him by the ankles and jerked him down so swiftly he had not time to yell. He struck the sand with a muffled thump. A powerful hand seized his throat, choking back any outcry, and the point of Cormac’s sax drove ruthlessly through his eye into the brain. The sentry died with hardly a spasm.

  Knud was at Cormac’s side almost before the Gael had beckoned. He donned the dead man’s helmet and hung the shield on his back to hide his bare torso. Taking the spear, he replaced the sentry atop the rocks while Cormac squirmed past him. Wulfhere came following, his brine-soaked beard sweeping the pale sand as he crawled.

  Almost, Knud felt sorry for the pair of Saxon caries guarding the ships. Almost.

  Cormac cut his man’s throat. The sand drank his blood thirstily as Cormac laid him down in the shadow of the ship. Wulfhere strangled the other; although a brawny fellow, the carle had no more chance against the terrible Dane than a kitten. Wulfhere lowered the corpse with a low grunt of disgust. He’d rather have met the wight openly, with weapons. Sneaking through the dark was not the way he preferred to fight, and he knew he and Cormac were one in that. He comforted himself by thinking of the shock Hengist was going to have, in just a little while more.

  The gates of Fritigern’s skalli were a bare furlong away. Guards paced the log ramparts. Most carefully, Wulfhere’s men carried ashore their five casks. They set to work among the ships in the concealing night. First they saw to the fire-pots. The embers were blown to redness out of their beds of ash, then fed with tiny bits of kindling. This down between the ships’ sides, where the glow was unlikely to be seen from a distance. With sailcloth to muffle the noise, they knocked the end out of each cask.

  The barrels were half-filled with pitch.

  Bundles of pitch-smeared flax, wrapped in leather for waterproofing, had been lashed to each. Men unwrapped the flax and spread it about. They positioned the barrels of pitch directly under the loosely-clewed sails. The long ash oars, forty to a ship, were stacked together in close lattices. They would add nicely to the sudden infernoes created by the firing of the pitch: no wood burned more beautifully than ash, green or old!

  With the makings of a truly splendid bonfire thus prepared aboard each of the four craft, Cormac saw no more need to wait. He’d availed himself of the scalemail shirt off the larger of the two carles, and taken his helmet and shield besides. Wulfhere remained half-naked; none of the three dead men had even approached him in bulk.

  A whistle brought Knud hastening from his place on the rocks.

  The guards at the skalli saw torches flare suddenly aboard their master’s ships. The red light gleamed on half-naked weapon-men; one, two; by the Gods! Three in each ship! Voices called through the night in Danish accents. That huge redbeard yonder; he could be none other, surely-

  “HO, LITTLE MEN!” he bellowed. “Go tell your master that Wulfhere Skull-splitterrr is come a-guesting! Fetch out that maggoty treacher Hengist, as well! Let none approach closely now, lest these ships make the finest beacons ever to light your shore! All garnished they are, and prepared to, burn like dry straw! Be sure ye tell Fritigern that! He will appreciate what it means!”

  Fritigern appreciated it all too well. The skalli gates creaked open within minutes. Fritigern Redjowl strode forth at the, head of forty warriors. A heavy, balding man was this Fritigern, with a yellow beard.

  “What bawling is this?” he demanded harshly. “Pull them out of yon ships and strike off their heads!”

  “HOLD!” Wulfhere thundered, in a voice whose s
heer volume stayed them all. “Come a step closer, and these ships burn!”

  “Aye!” Cormac seconded grimly. “It’s kegs of pitch we have aboard them, here under the sails-and the timbers be soaked in lamp-oil from stem to stern. Smell it?” The lamp-oil was an embellishment that he thought safe; an he suggested it was there to be scented, the Saxons would smell it. “We fire your ships if we must, Redjowl, and then we die fighting. It’s three of us there be in each vessel; ’tis a fine ship-burial will be ours, and slain foes to attend us as funeral sacrifices! Four fine ships! Be the price worth it to ye?”

  Fritigern’s men howled fiercely, and pressed forward. He turned on them with bellowed curses and beat them back with the flat of his sword.

  “Ye be talking, not doing!” he snarled to Wulfhere. “There’s something ye want, and ye hold my ships to ransom. What?”

  “Now there’s a foolish question! We want our own ship Raven, that Hengist robbed from the Britons of Armorica while our backs were turned! One ship, in exchange for four ye will otherwise lose! Bring her out, Fritigern, and have her launched. Then will we bid ye a peaceful good even.”

  Fritigern scowled and went silent. He did not try to maintain that he knew not what Wulfhere and Cormac meant, or that Raven was not within his skalli. He didn’t ask angrily what Hengist’s activities had to do with him. Belike he was afraid of convincing Wulfhere that he’d come to the wrong place. An he did, his ships were just as apt to go up in a gout of fire. Was as no civilized man Wulfhere was known.

  All possible doubt was cleared away in the next moment. A towering mailed figure came astalking through the torchlit gates. The watery light seemed to shudder away from him. The tall horned helmet, the glittering scalemail corselet, the long iron-grey beard, the cruel face, and above all the immense presence of the man-these things announced him more certainly than any spokesman. He was a giant, as big as Wulfhere Skull-splitter, on whom his cold eyes were fixed.

  He bore a shield with the device of a white horse, and a naked sword.

  “Hengist;” Cormac breathed.

  The grey giant took in the situation at a glance.

  “So, fools,” he said in a voice like the crash of surf, “ye came hither to die with but a handful of men for company? I’d prefer taking ye quick, but doubtless I must be content with your corpses. In, and slay them!”

  “Stand!” Fritigern bellowed. “Those be my ships, and I rule here! Pursue your own feuds at your own cost, Hengist! They want Raven; give her to them.”

  Hengist laughed sneeringly. “Not likely! Raven has served her purpose by luring these fools here! They die tonight. Ye rule here? Why, ye seagull, I might have your head at any time I called for it!”

  “In Kent ye might,” Fritigern answered dourly. “Ye be not in Kent now. Ye came south wi’ three ships’ companies, from which ye’ve had losses. On this strand my men outnumber yours.”

  “Ye’d fight me?” Hengist asked incredulously.

  “An I’m pushed to it.”

  Wulfhere forgot the pain of the black owl’s talons in his vast, beatific joy at the look on Hengist’s face. Saxon or not, he could have hugged Fritigern Redjowl and called him brother in that moment.

  “Loki swallow your ships!” Hengist burst out at last. “I’ll replace them! Nay, I’ll give ye five! Now slaughter yon dogs!”

  “Promises!” Fritigern growled. “Nay.”

  Wulfhere roared with laughter. “Now that be the decision of a wise man! Promises? Jutish promises? The Jutish promises of Hengist especially? All men know what Hengist’s promise be worth-even his oath! Who swore an oath to serve the British king Vortigern against Picts and Scots, and later broke it to fight against Vortigern? Who lured Vortigern to a council feast to talk peace, where all present were supposed to be unarmed-and whose followers had each a knife in his sleeve?”

  Wulfhere ended his spate of rhetorical questions by stabbing a finger at Hengist.

  “Danish dog!” Hengist roared, frothing. “Step down here and fight me! Single combat between yourself and me!”

  “Ah, nay! I’ve come for Raven, not your poor ancient head.” Wulfhere was enjoying himself. “Besides, I’ll not be trusting to your oath, ye forsworn treacherous oath-breaking bastard! An ye wish to fight, step onto this ship and battle me here! Wulfhere Skull-splitter’s oath has never been broken; all men know that! I say ye shall go untouched by these comrades o’ mine, should ye accept!”

  Hengist snarled incoherently. He seized a spear and flung it. Wulfhere sprang aside; the spear hissed harmlessly into the dark, to slay sand. The old bastard aimed well, even by night and enraged to the quivers!

  “Nay!” Fritigern cried. “Don’t burn the ships! Here, ye fellows, seize Hengist and hold him!”

  The order was obeyed-but it took eight brawny caries to perform it. Hengist raved and struggled like a berserker.

  “Ye men of Hengist’s!” Fritigern called. Let none be interfering with this, else by Wotan I’ll slay him where he lies. Now fetch out Raven and launch her!”

  “Aye, Hengist!” Wulfhere mocked. “Hear ye that, old niddering? Hengist the niddering! Why, ye crazy long-toothed dotard, it’s home in your shut-bed ye should be, hugging the furs about ye, not faring asea in pretense that your aged arms can still swing a weapon! Mumble over your porridge and remember the days of your youth-when ye saw Caesar conquer Britain!”

  There followed more of the same. Wulfhere was hardly subtle. Hengist, roaring like a gale, froth spattering his beard, surged up from the sand and for a moment actually looked as if he might break the eightfold grip upon him. One of the carles regretfully struck him hard on the head with a bludgeon-and then had to, strike again, harder, ere Hengist would lie still.

  Raven was drawn out through the skalli gate on rollers. Cormac and Wulfhere felt their hearts race at the sight of her.

  “Let’s be sure she has oars in her!” mac Art commanded. “’Twould be awkward for us, to pile aboard in a rush and find that we couldn’t row! Display us all her other furnishings, too; mast, sail, anchors and such.’ “

  Wulfhere admired the neat way Cormac had contrived to learn whether Raven’s anchors were still in her-without betraying his powerful interest in them-by merely lumping them with all her other furnishings. The oars and the rest were displayed, after Fritigern had given an abrupt nod of assent.

  “Now let her be launched,” Wulfhere rumbled, “and then let your carles return up the beach at a run, not pausing till they reach the skalli gates, that we may go aboard! It must be done quickly, else Raven may capsize, to wallow in the surf unmanned-and must I repeat what will happen, an they move not quickly enow?”

  “Ye swear my ships will go unharmed, an your demand be met?”

  “Your ships will not burn,” Cormac answered. “I swear it by my head! What say ye, battle-brother?”

  “The ships will not burn,” Wulfhere agreed. “I make oath to that upon my beard.” He touched that bristling growth even as he swore.

  Fritigern gave the required orders, though he scowled.

  Raven was duly set out from shore. In truth, she was too seaworthy to stand in much danger of a capsize, and “surf” was an overstatement at this stage of the tide. The carles who had launched her legged it back up the beach, running past the four Saxon vessels in Danish hands.

  “Now!” Cormac bawled.

  As one, each man in his party threw his blazing torch into the tinder they had prepared. The pitch-smeared flax burned brightly; the barrels of pitch burst into vivid orange flame a heartbeat later. Wulfhere, Cormac and their ten Danes were already running hard for Raven, sand flying in spurts from their heels. By the time they reached the water’s edge, the Saxon sails had begun to flame.

  Cormac cast one glance backward, and laughed. He’d sworn that the ships would not burn. Nor would they. The Saxons were already cutting the sails free and dragging them away. Others were heaving the casks of blazing pitch into the sand, reckless of burns. They would prevent the fires f
rom doing any great harm now that each ship no longer held men prepared to fight to the death.

  He had sworn only that the ships would not burn. He’d sworn no bath to refrain from setting fires on them, to occupy the Saxons while he and his comrades departed.

  Cormac gripped Raven’s side and heaved him self up and up by the strength of his arms, streaming water. He rolled over the wale into Raven’s familiar oar-benches. Swiftly he scanned them, striding up one side of the ship and down the other again, lest Saxons should be hidden aboard. He was hardly the only man who could play tricks or employ cunning, as he knew well.

  No Saxons were there.

  His comrades too heaved themselves swiftly aboard. Wulfhere immediately took the sweep. The other ten Danes ran out oars, five a side, and bent to rowing as they had seldom rowed before. Ten oars, to move a ship usually propelled by forty! Was well indeed that Raven had newly been careened, and that her timbers were no longer waterlogged. She answered sweetly. Her prow turned to the open sea and she fled out of spearthrowing range.

  Few spears were cast. Fritigern’s men were occupied with extinguishing the last flames in their Master’s four ships. Hengist’s men the while ran cursing for their three, drawn up the beach on the other side of Fritigern’s skalli. Their vengeful yells made it clear they intended pursuit.

  Wulfhere, handling the sweep like some barechested Titan, the night wind ruffling his beard and heavy chest-hair, smiled unpleasantly.

  Cormac stood at the other end of the ship; examining the forward anchor. A mighty relief expanded in his heart. The disguised chain of pure silver remained attached. For certainty’s sake, he took his sax and scratched one of the links. The pure white shining of silver displayed itself in the starlight; through the black tarnish.

  Wulfhere shipped the sweep. After those first awkward moments of getting Raven properly headed, it was no longer needed in such calm water. He and Cormac took an oar each, to add their strength to the others’.

  “ I hear Saxon war-shouts, Wolf,” the Dane grunted. “They have their ships launched, and be bent to run us down like coursing hounds!”