If there were any comfort to be drawn from the view, it was the other Bronding. The yet bigger warship — fifty benches at least, a huge vessel — had still to move. The useless fuckers must have fouled their anchor. Unless they cut or slipped the rope and abandoned the thing, they would soon be out of the reckoning.
Ballista walked the length of the boat to stand next to the steering oar. He stood, feet wide, hands hooked in his sword belt, riding the rise and fall. His long blond hair streamed out from under his helm and his black cloak whipped around him. His dark mailcoat shimmered in the sun. He looked a proper warleader, the sort men would follow.
‘Boys’ — Ballista spoke in Greek. He shouted into the wind but his voice carried easily over the noises of the boat — ‘there are some islands up ahead, about a mile. The Rugian says there is one small channel through them. The Warig has a shallow draught. We should make it. The Bronding will have a tougher time. If they cannot follow us, it is a long way around. Either they get stuck fast, or they give us a lead of an hour or two.’
Ballista repeated the news in the language of Germania.
Despite their efforts in rowing, the crew gave a low cheer. Maximus hoped it carried to their pursuers. No one cares to know that their enemy are in good heart.
‘The pilot says the prevailing wind here is easterly. When it shifts later in the morning, we can hoist the sail and test my foster-father’s claim that the Warig can out-sail anything in the north, and you delicate girls can take a rest.’
Again, Ballista repeated it for those who did not have Greek. Again, it was well received. Maximus thought the crew in good spirits. If only the two Graeculi would shut the fuck up, things might not be too bad.
The northerly breeze competing with an easterly current was beginning to raise a choppy, cross sea. Some of the slaves down towards the stern were making a balls of it, but Heliodorus was a skilled oarsman and Maximus got into a good rhythm with him.
Gouts of cold water broke inboard, soaking Maximus and the foremost rowers.
‘It is warmer in the Mediterranean.’ Heliodorus timed his words to the stroke. ‘I should have joined the Alexandrian fleet.’
‘They have a good reputation. I doubt they would have had you.’
‘It is true; there were one or two misunderstandings in Alexandria.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Maximus could see the big, shaven-headed Egyptian was smiling. A good man in a corner; maybe it was as well Ballista had not killed him.
The rear benches of rowers jeered. Maximus did not know why, until he saw a bowman on the prow of the Bronding. The man drew and released. The shaft went wide and well astern. They had closed to about two hundred and fifty paces, but from a pitching deck it would take the gods’ own luck to hit anything at that distance. There were more jeers from the Warig.
‘Save your breath, boys,’ Ballista called. ‘Nearly there.’
Careful not to break stroke, Maximus took a look over his shoulder. They seemed to be racing directly towards a belt of trees growing straight out of the sea. He hoped that fucking Rugian knew what he was about, was not playing them false. Still, he was only a couple of steps away. He would not have long to get any pleasure from treachery.
The surface was calm in the lee of the island. The Warig shot forward. Trees appeared on either side, closing in fast.
‘Full pressure,’ Ballista said. ‘Keep the rhythm.’
They were rushing down a narrow creek, the oars almost brushing the banks, weeds festooned around the blades. The breeze did not play through here, and there was a foul stench of decay and dead fish.
The Warig heeled, as Wada the Short put the helm over. Maximus saw the Bronding. Throwing a fine bow wave, about two hundred paces astern, it had no intention of breaking off and going around the islands. The Warig took the bend, and the Bronding disappeared.
A tremor ran through the hull. Another stroke, and the Warig shuddered to a stop, as if clutched by an invisible hand. Maximus was thrown off the bench. He landed in the bow in the lap of the eunuch. Amantius screamed like a girl. Cursing, Maximus struggled to get up. The length of the boat, men were doing the same. Maximus gave the eunuch a shove for good measure.
‘Stay at your places. Silence.’ Ballista was vaulting the benches towards the bow.
Maximus got back on next to Heliodorus and gripped the oar. Taut ropes ran to the prow from poles in the water pulled out of true by the impact. The Warig had run into fishing nets strung right across the creek. So close to escape, and now this. It really was, Maximus thought, an absolute fucker.
‘Castricius, Diocles, Heliodorus, cut us free.’ Ballista was heading back to the stern. ‘Maximus, Tarchon, Rikiar, Wada the Tall, with me.’
Maximus ripped off his cloak, grabbed up his shield and, drawing his gladius, clattered aft.
The five warriors clustered around Wada the Short at the steering oar. Ballista pointed at four on the rear benches. ‘Get your weapons. With us.’ The three Romans and an Olbian obeyed.
The bend in the channel was thirty or so paces astern. The Bronding was not yet in sight. Those at the prow were hacking at the stinking tangle of ropes and nets.
Nine armed men, four of them unarmoured; it was not many to hold the Brondings. Still, the narrow creek meant the enemy could not come alongside. It would be close work, stern to prow.
‘How is it coming, Castricius?’
‘Getting there.’
Neither Ballista nor Castricius betrayed any emotion, beyond an understandable urgency.
‘The rest of you, ready to row on command.’
The tall, curved prow of the Bronding came around the bend. Her crew howled. Warriors rushed forward, thick on her deck.
‘Get ready,’ Ballista said. ‘We will take the fight to them.’
A last glance back. Swords flashing, slimy ropes being hauled free and cast into the water. Tense faces staring up from the benches.
The figurehead of the Bronding loomed above. The bearded, implacable face sliding towards the left of the stern post of the Warig. Wada the Short hauled the steering oar onboard.
A Bronding leapt before the ships closed. Wada the Tall swung a great two-handed blow into his shield. The wood split. The warrior was knocked aside. Arms wide, he fell into the water. The prow-idol forced him under his own keel.
The deck bucked under Maximus’s boots. He staggered back a step. Wood ground against wood. The longship’s gunwales were a foot or two higher than the Warig. The Bronding stopped six paces beyond her stern. Maximus gained his balance, stepped forward, gathering himself to jump.
A Bronding slammed into him, shield to shield. Maximus was driven down on one knee. The Bronding brought his sword down overhand, like a man chopping wood. Maximus got his shield up at an angle, jabbed the point of his blade out low at shin level. The inside of Maximus’s shield crashed down on to the top of his helmet. His head rang, his arm dead with the impact. The Bronding was on one leg, the other bright with blood. Maximus surged up and forward under his own ruined shield. He thrust the steel under the hem of the mailcoat, into the crotch. The warrior fell half on him. He shouldered him aside.
Ballista was on the prow of the Bronding longship, the enemy all around him. Maximus went to cross over to help. A sword sliced at his face from the left. Still numb, his shield arm was too slow to block. Desperately, he brought his blade up and across. The hilt took the blow a hand’s breadth from his nose, drove his own fist into cheek. Rolling back on his right foot, with his left he kicked the man in the left kneecap, then whipped his gladius around and down into his assailant’s left shoulder. Sharp cracks as rings of mail broke. A grunt of pain and surprise. The wound was not deep. Maximus dropped nearly on to his right knee and cut into the Bronding’s left calf. As he doubled up, Maximus straightened and finished him with a neat blow to the back of the neck below the helmet. Fuck, he had been careless; fucking lucky to get away with it.
Maximus checked the situation. Shouts. Screams. Boo
ts stamping on the deck. Steel on steel. Steel on wood. Too many men fighting in too small a space. As the battle calm descended, Maximus could take it all in, order it correctly. Four Brondings on the deck of the Warig fighting five men. Ballista and Wada the Tall on the prow of the enemy longship preventing more warriors getting to the Warig. The Brondings jostling each other trying to get at the Angle and the Harii. Their numbers must tell in the end, but now they were hindering.
A sidestep, four balanced steps forward, and a jab into the back of a distracted Bronding’s thigh. Maximus twisted the blade, withdrew it and danced clear. Make that three Brondings fighting on the Warig. Maximus grinned. Some men could understand philosophy, others interpret a poem, but Maximus could read a fight, the most difficult text of all.
Maximus went to the side of the boat. His left arm was still numb, the shield dragging it down. Better without the thing. He dropped it, hoping it would be there later. There were some expensive ornaments on its face. He waited until Ballista attacked and moved forward a little. Shifting his gladius to his left hand, with his right Maximus grasped the gunwales of the longship and swung up.
Landing on the balls of his feet, he took a two-handed grip on his sword. A gap opened to the right of Ballista. A Bronding moved to get at the Angle’s flank. Maximus lunged at the warrior’s face. Instinctively, the Bronding flinched back. Maximus took his place at Ballista’s shoulder.
The warrior opposite Maximus did not lack courage. You could see it in the many bright rings on his arm, the set of his face and the way he came on again. Maximus parried a cut to his right shoulder, then his left. The steel shivered and rang. He riposted with a downward slash to the leg. As the Bronding drew back, he collided with the warrior behind. Seeing the advantage, Maximus thrust to the stomach. The man managed to drag his shield into the way.
They drew apart, just beyond sword reach, panting and watching each other. Behind Maximus, someone was shouting. Ballista was still fighting. Wada, also, beyond him.
Maximus stamped his right boot, feigned to lunge. The warrior with the arm rings brought his arms up to block. In the brief time he had won, Maximus glanced over his shoulder. Tarchon was yelling something incomprehensible from the stern of the Warig. Further away, Castricius was beckoning from under her prow-idol.
To his left the warrior matched with Ballista pressed home an attack, swinging furiously. Steel flashed in the sunlight. The Bronding reeled back and across the one facing Maximus.
‘Jump!’ Ballista shouted.
With no hesitation, Maximus spun around and, one boot on the gunwale of the big ship, vaulted down into the Warig. The deck was unsteady under him. He staggered a few steps. Someone landed heavily behind him, crashed to the deck. Maximus ran into Rikiar.
‘Row!’ Ballista was roaring from down on the deck. ‘Row for your fucking lives!’
Maximus felt the ship stir as the oars fought the resistance of the water.
‘My brother!’ Wada the Short had dropped the steering oar. He moved to the side.
Tarchon grabbed the Harii, held him fast. Ballista was scrabbling along the woodwork towards the abandoned helm.
Wada the Tall was trapped on the prow of the Bronding, ringed by warriors. His sword was weaving intricate patterns.
‘My brother!’ Wada the Short fought to get free of Tarchon’s embrace. Rikiar leapt to help restrain him.
‘All bad with him. Too late,’ Tarchon said.
A tortured scraping of wood against wood, and the Warig pulled free from the longship.
Wada the Tall was surrounded. He staggered. His blade was still moving. A Bronding tottered back, clutching an arm that looked nearly severed. The others closed in. Wada took a blow, then another. Wada fell. Swords arced down over the space where he had stood.
‘He die brave,’ Tarchon said. ‘Much honour.’
Wada the Short stared out over the widening gap of water. He said nothing.
‘To your places.’ Ballista had the steering oar. ‘Get down, let me see the prow. Maximus, Tarchon, get the dead over the side.’
There were six Brondings — four dead, and two who needed finishing off — and three dead Roman crewmen. There was no time to search them. Friend or foe, Maximus and Tarchon just cut the wallets from their belts, removed any still-sheathed blades and threw them all in a pile. Gripping the dead by the feet and under the armpits, they hauled them over. As the last splashed in, Maximus noticed the mailcoat of the previous Bronding shining through the disturbed silt. He was only about four feet down.
The channel ran straight for half a mile or more. The Brondings were slower getting back to their benches. But, all too soon, Maximus saw the oars lift and dip. They had no intention of giving up.
No one spoke. There was nothing to say. A wounded Olbian who was whimpering was told to shut the fuck up and be a man.
Wada the Short had not moved. Motionless, he looked back at the Brondings.
The Warig had a slender lead, no more than a hundred paces. She was well within bowshot. No sooner had the thought occurred than the first shafts sliced down. Maximus snatched up a discarded shield and crouched over Ballista, covering them both.
The Brondings’ aim was wild. They were not shooting in volleys, but men on benches can neither jump aside nor shield themselves. Inevitably, an arrow found its mark. An Olbian screamed. He fell back off his bench. He was not dead. The shaft in his chest quivered obscenely with his breathing. No one went to help him.
Another scream. Another man down, a Roman this time. The oarsmen anxiously watched the sky. It was affecting their timing. With each stroke, one or more missed the surface or caught the bed of the creek, their wake streamed grey with silt.
Maximus peeped around the shield. The scowling Bronding figurehead was only a heavy javelin throw behind; twenty-five paces at most. An arrow came straight at Maximus. He ducked back. It whickered past.
The Warig shivered the length of her hull. The speed dropped off her. There was a slithering, sucking sound. Her keel was grounding.
‘Pull! Pull, like never before!’
Maximus jumped to the nearest bench, added his weight to the next stroke. As they brought the oars back, the Warig was almost stationary, almost held by the mud. The oars fought to keep her momentum. For a moment the opposed forces seemed in balance. Then, with a surge, like wine out of an upended amphora, the Warig was free, rushing ahead.
‘Get back in time.’
Maximus was not listening to Ballista’s orders; none of them were. They were all gazing with wonder over the Angle commander’s shoulders. The Bronding ship had come to a shuddering stop. Her mast swayed — once, twice, a third time — then, ropes cracking, went by the board. Warriors threw themselves clear, splashing into the shallow, muddy water. Not all made it in time; screams came from the inboard.
A ragged, exhausted cheer. The crew of the Warig held their arms aloft in relief. Oars skewed this way and that.
‘Keep rowing. Bend those oars, you lazy bastards. That longship will be here a time, but there are other Brondings out there.’ Despite trying to sound fierce, Ballista was grinning in almost disbelieving delight. They had won free. The Suebian Sea lay before them: the way north was open.
XX
The Island of Varinsey
Oslac looked out over the northern sea. His mind was troubled. He loved his wife, but knew she did not love him. She loved both their children, and so did he. It was a bond. They got on well enough. Oddly, they had got on better since her son Starkad, his stepson, had been taken hostage in Gaul. But Oslac knew she did not love him. When she was young, Kadlin had loved his half-brother, and now Dernhelm was coming home.
Desperate events demanded desperate responses. Yet Oslac was not sure he was doing the right thing. Would Pius Aeneas have done the like? After duty, family had been everything to the Trojan. He had braved the horrors of the underworld to talk with the shade of his father. Surely, if her ghost had not appeared to him of its own volition, Aeneas would
have ventured the same for his wife. Oslac steeled himself. The Himlings were descended from Woden, but Aeneas was also in their ancestry.
It was time. Oslac turned away from the sea and walked back to where two of his hearth-companions waited with the horses. They had not wanted to come with him. He did not blame their reluctance; only a desperate concern had urged him to make the journey. In the winter it was the practice of the wicce to travel from one hall to another. She would have come to him. Yet it was better it was springtime, better he had been constrained to go to her. In the hall everyone would have heard what she said, not that he could have asked the questions he needed to ask, not in front of an audience, not with Kadlin there.
The previous evening had gone well enough. It had been a long day’s ride from Gudme to this desolate place on the northern coast of Varinsey. They had brought the things the aged wicce always wanted: the hearts of various animals, freshly slaughtered. Oslac had watched her cook and eat them with a gruel made from goat’s milk. She used a brass spoon, and a knife with a walrus-tusk handle bound with two rings of copper; the blade had a broken point. She had told him to return the next day at sunset. Not wanting to spend the night near her dwelling and the pond with its guardian, Oslac had decided they would ride to the shore and camp there. He had had a vague idea that the clean wind off the sea would dispel any taint.
One of his hearth-companions, the tall one, held his bridle, the other gave him a leg-up. They did not speak. He waited while they swung up on to their own mounts. His horse tossed its head and sidled. Calming the animal made him feel better. He knew he was a good horseman. The creak of leather and the jingle of the bit were part of his world. He was a warrior, an atheling of the Himling dynasty. He would not let this ritual unman him.
They set off at a walk. The day was overcast. Oslac could not have kept this journey quiet. The cook had butchered the animals. Why else would she have thought that he had wanted the hearts? She was a good-natured woman, but talkative; the news would have spread from his hall to the others: soon all Gudme would have known what he was about. This in mind, Oslac had announced he was going to consult the wicce about Unferth. It might have seemed unusual, but not out of all expectation. The situation was grave, the future uncertain. Already since the thaw, longships full of Brondings, Wylfings and Geats had harried the lands of Himling vassals on Latris. Worse, there had been warriors from the Dauciones among the raiders. The rumours had proved true: they, too, had cast off their allegiance to the Angles. Things were so bad his father had even talked of opening the tomb of Himling and bringing out the great terrible-forged sword Bile-Himling. It was said that in the direst times Bile-Himling would save the Himlings from certain defeat. Perhaps, Oslac thought, his brother, Morcar, was right. What the Himlings needed now was strong leadership, not supernatural aid. Their father was old. Perhaps it was time Isangrim stepped aside.
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