A tremor, like wind through a cornfield, among the Brondings. Heads turning, anxious words.
Battle-Sun shook in Ballista’s hands. The Rugian pilot was dead at his feet, near cut in half. Ballista’s right shoulder stung. The mail was broken, blood hot on his arm. He was panting with pain, or shock, or effort.
The ring of Brondings backed away. Then, at a command, turned and ran, clambering over the ruined barricade.
Ballista and the survivors stared at each other, not yet daring to hope.
‘Look, out to sea.’ It was Maximus, keen-eyed as ever.
Ballista looked, struggling to comprehend the turn of events. The seaworthy Geat longships were retreating, the Wylfings following. On the far shore, Dauciones were running back to their boats.
‘Fuck me,’ Maximus said. ‘You never would have thought it.’
A great forest of masts out at the entrance to Norvasund. Any number of longships, under oars, coming down the Little Belt from the north. Banners flew above them: the White Horse of Hedinsey, the Deer and Fawn of Varinsey and the Three-headed Man of the Wrosns. Four of the Bronding reserve were swinging out line abreast to delay them. But the largest enemy ship, the one with the huge black flag showing Fenris the wolf in silver, was pulling out of Norvasund and away south into the Little Belt. Unferth was fleeing from the fleet of the Himlings.
Morcar stood at the edge, where solid ground gave way to mud. The other leaders of the fleet stood a little apart; his brother Oslac, eorl Eadwine, Hathkin son of Heoroweard, and Hrothgar of the Wrosns. The marsh was no distance inland from Norvasund. As they and the crowd waited for the cowards, he listened to the wind hissing through the alder scrub, and turned things over in his mind.
Mercy, in the two days since the battle, had been on everyone’s lips, along with forgiveness and reconciliation. Morcar had used the words as assiduously as any. It had been necessary. Half the Geats had got away, and three ships of the Wylfings, but not a single vessel of the Dauciones had escaped south down the Little Belt, and the only Bronding longship to win clear had been that carrying Unferth himself. Conspicuous mercy and many assurances had been required to bring some three thousand defeated and trapped warriors and their eorls back into allegiance to the Himlings. But mercy was a virtue which all too easily could be interpreted as weakness. It had to be balanced by severity. Politics had precluded severity to the losers, but it had to be exhibited. The cowards among the victors would provide that display.
Morcar felt strangely alone. It was not so much that the other leaders were standing at a slight distance, the crowd further away still, more that neither his two particular confidants nor his son were at his side. It had been essential that Glaum, son of Wulfmaer, stay on Hedinsey. Someone reliable had to be with Isangrim, otherwise the old cyning was all too susceptible to malign influences. Swerting Snake-Tongue had been a long time in the west. He should have returned by now. Perhaps it had proved necessary for Swerting to travel into Gaul to the court of Postumus. If so, that might not be good. And Mord had vanished with Dernhelm.
In the distance a guard of warriors could be seen through the oaks bringing the convicted to the marsh.
Where had Dernhelm gone? Why had Mord gone with him? The very day of the battle, Dernhelm had retaken command of his longship Warig, quietly gathered his hearth-troop, Mord among them, and slipped away. The last time Dernhelm had vanished he had returned in triumph with the head of Widsith. Now most likely he had slunk back to Hedinsey, to their father. Glaum could deal with that.
Morcar smiled. Norvasund had been a triumph to rank with any of those won by the Himlings of the past, with those of Hjar over the Franks or Starkad over the Heruli and Goths. The scops would sing of it for generations. And it was not Dernhelm’s but Morcar’s own. Morcar had ordered the beacon fires not be lit when Unferth’s fleet was spotted in the Sound. Instead he had trailed the enemy. Fast ships had summoned Oslac and Hrothgar. They had met with him off the north coast of Varinsey. Under his command, they had pursued Unferth down the Little Belt, caught him at the entrance to Norvasund, and there crushed his pretensions to the title of Amber Lord.
Doubtless the scops would make much of Morcar being first to board a Bronding longship, of how he had cleared its prow, struck down five warriors with his own hand. It had been a creditable feat of arms, but it was nothing compared with the leadership he had shown.
It had always been about leadership, everything, all the hard things he had done. All of it had been for the good of the Angles. A people could have only one leader, and the theoden must be the best man. It was a fact of nature. Froda had been vainglorious and thoughtless. Froda had been their father’s favourite. A man of no substance, as cyning he would have brought disaster to the Himlings and the Angles. Eadwulf had been fickle, drunken, intemperate in all things. It would have been better if he had been executed, as Morcar had intended, but his exile for the murder of Froda had dealt with Eadwulf Evil-Child. Morcar claimed no credit for Dernhelm being sent away into the imperium. It had been luck, or the will of the Norns. But the betrayal of Arkil in Gaul had been a second masterstroke. It had been a difficult decision, not reached without consideration. That so many valuable Angle warriors had had to be sacrificed with Arkil had been unfortunate. Yet leadership was indivisible. It demanded hard choices. When Isangrim stepped down, as the old man soon must, Oslac would stand aside. The Angles would be united under one Himling ruler. Morcar knew he would give them the leadership they needed.
All had been in place, and then Dernhelm had returned. Isangrim doted on his youngest son, doted on Dernhelm in a way their father had never doted on Morcar himself. Dernhelm had to be removed again. Unsurprisingly, Oslac had shown himself weak. Morcar had arranged for his brother to find his whore of a wife alone with her old lover outside the feast, and Oslac had done nothing but whine and quote gloomy lines about betrayal from the verse of the Romans. Still, the Norns had given Morcar a new thread. Back on Hedinsey, the imperial envoy Zeno had made a clandestine approach. The repulsive little Greek claimed Dernhelm was carrying secret orders from Gallienus, orders to overthrow their father and take the throne himself. When confronted with documentary evidence of such treachery, of attempted parricide, the senile affections of Isangrim must give way. There could be no punishment for the hateful crime except death.
The condemned were herded down through the poles which marked the sacred site. Morcar felt no more sympathy for them than did the bleached skulls, the visible symbols of ancient piety, which were set on top of every one of the ash stakes. Each of the six men had hung back from the fight, had thrown down their swords like nithings. The cowardice of each had endangered their companions.
At the edge of the marsh, Morcar spoke the ritual words. ‘Deeds of shame should be buried out of the sight of men, stamped down, trodden deep. Take them.’
One by one, the bound men were thrown into the marsh. Some struggled and sobbed, others lay still; all alike again unmanned by the weakness that had brought them to this. The wattled hurdles were brought down, and they were drowned.
The crowd — the loyal Angles and Wrosns, and the Brondings, Wylfings and the rest returned to allegiance — watched in solemn silence.
Morcar turned away, satisfied. No one would mistake the Himlings’ mercy of the last two days as weakness.
XXX
The Island of Abalos
The new moon had risen. It was a clear night. From the copse, Ballista watched the isolated farm about half a mile away. Behind the dark line of the fence and the outbuildings, the high ridge of the hall was silhouetted against the azure sky. Grey smoke puffed up, smudged the stars and was pulled away to the east. Chinks of light came from the shutters. Now and then one of the doors was opened, and the sudden spill of golden torchlight threw everything else into blackness. When his night vision returned, Ballista could see the dark standard flying from the gable. He could not make out its insignia, but he knew it bore Fenris the wolf in silver.
T
hey had sailed direct from Norvasund. The wind on the starboard beam, the current had helped them south down the Little Belt. The westerly had remained constant as they steered south-east around Varinsey and the islands of Latris, then north-east past Cape Arcona and across the open sea to Abalos. It had been a fast passage, just three days.
Behind Ballista, someone smothered a sneeze. It should not matter. They had come up from the south. The wind was across their faces. Ballista raised himself on his elbow, and looked back. The men were blackened and muffled, their outlines broken and indistinct in the banded moonlight under the trees. A Black-Harii such as Wada the Short could have found little at which to complain. After Olbia and Ouiadoua Bank, even the Romans and Olbians must be becoming accustomed to night fighting. At least those who survived.
The hearth-troop had been hit hard at Norvasund. Twenty-three had fallen there: Dunnere Tethered-Hound and another three Heathobards, the Rugian pilot, four Romans, seven Olbians and seven of the young Angle nobles. All had been cut down around Ballista on the hill, except two Angles who had met their end fighting under Wada at the palisade, and another lost from one of the boats commanded by Ivar Horse-Prick. When all those left had been gathered, just thirty-six men had filed on to the Warig, several of them carrying wounds.
The previous afternoon, they had put in at a deserted stretch of coast near the main port of Abalos, hidden the Warig in a creek. Mord had volunteered to go on foot into the settlement. His grandmother was a Bronding. He had relatives there who would not betray him. Eadric, son of Eadwine, had gone with him. To look peaceful, they had taken off their helmets and coats of mail, left behind their shields and bows. It had taken much courage from both of them.
The young men had returned in the gloaming. The news they brought could not have been better. Unferth had withdrawn from the port. He was with his sworn companions in his hall on Gnitaheath.
Mord had led them to this concealed vantage point. Ballista looked up through the branches at the moon. They must have lain here for four hours or more. At first, messengers had come and gone up the road to the hall, riding hard. Unferth must be trying to gather what support remained to him, plan his next move. After Norvasund, Ballista could not imagine what that might be. But a cornered animal was always dangerous.
Now the doors of the hall had not opened and there had been no movement for some time. The light seeping around the shutters had dimmed to almost nothing.
Ballista whispered for Castricius, Ivar Horse-Prick and Wada to come close. He outlined his plan. Like those at Gudme, the hall had two main doors. They were situated opposite each other in the long walls. Ballista would take the one facing west with ten men. Castricius with the same number would take the other. There might be smaller doors. Ivar and five warriors were to ring the north of the building, Wada and the remaining five the south. They should stay at a distance and be vigilant. Some halls had underground passages designed for those inside to escape. When they were all in position, Ballista would call on Unferth to surrender, or those around him to give him up. Most probably, these would be refused. If the defenders were so minded, Ballista’s men would let any women and children leave. Then they would break open the doors. They had brought axes, but it would be better if they could find timbers among the farm buildings with which to batter down the doors. If all else failed, they had tinderboxes.
With not much noise, they separated into the four groups. Huddled around Ballista were Maximus, Tarchon, Rikiar the Vandal, the Romans Diocles and Heliodorus, and Mord, with four other young Angles. There was no telling how many fighting men were in the hall with Unferth. The thirty-four of Ballista’s party might be outnumbered, possibly by some margin. Surprise would be lost by the summons, but it could not be helped.
Ballista smiled at Mord in the gloom. The youth grinned back. Ballista thought of what lay ahead of the atheling. Vermund the Heathobard and Hieroson the Olbian were back at the boat with the prisoner. When they returned to Gudme and the court of the cyning, when finally the captive was unmasked, the words he would be forced to repeat would strike at the heart of Mord’s young life. If, of course, Mord or any of them lived to return to Varinsey. Ballista put it all out of his mind.
There was nothing to be gained by delay. Do not think, just act. Ballista got to his feet. The others got up, too. He led them out of the wood.
In the blue moonlight, they jogged along a hedge which divided two meadows. They could hear nothing over the thump of their boots, the creak of leather, their grunted breathing. Ballista’s bow and quiver banged against his back, his shield dragged at his arm.
Silent on great white wings, an owl glided overhead.
From nowhere, Ballista half remembered a line from Plato: ‘The greatest hunting is the hunting of men.’
The ridge of the hall loomed closer.
No alarm rang out.
Ballista reached the fence. With his dagger, he cut the rope securing the wicket gate. He slipped into the farmyard, the others at his back.
The homely smells of woodsmoke and animal dung, the reek of a midden. Hard-trodden earth underfoot. The sounds of a horse shifting in its stable. Still no outcry. No dogs or geese loose to give a warning. Ballista angled to the left, close under the overhanging eaves. He stopped before the western door. Dark shapes around him. Ivar and his men passed behind.
Ballista whispered for Rikiar and Heliodorus to look for a timber which could serve as a ram. They disappeared into the outbuildings. Ballista waited. So far, so good. They had outrun the news of their coming, outrun all expectation. Unferth had no sentries posted. He had arrived on Abalos but hours before them. No one would have considered such close pursuit.
Heliodorus spoke in Ballista’s ear. Beams could be pulled from a cowshed, but it would make a noise. Ballista said they would do it later.
Ballista drew Battle-Sun. The serpentine pattern in the blade shimmered in the moonlight. Alone, he walked to the door. It was tall and wide. There was a pile of dry chickweed to one side. He put his ear against the boards; why, he was not sure. The sound of a man snoring, of more than one, reverberating in the big space.
Ballista straightened up and struck the pommel of Battle-Sun against the door. The boards jumped and rattled. The sound boomed into the hall, out over the yard. He struck again.
‘Unferth! You are surrounded. It is over. Surrender.’
Shouts from inside. The crash of a table or bench overturning. Feet drumming on the floorboards. The scrape of steel; weapons being tugged free.
Ballista stepped back, locked his shield with the others. They crouched in the night, linden boards well out and angled upwards. If the door opened, the first response might well be a flight of steel-tipped shafts.
Above, a shutter squealed and swung open from a previously unseen window in the thatch. So, the hall had a loft. The head and shoulders of a man in the opening. The face glittered with cold, immobile metal.
‘Who is there?’ The mask gave an inhuman quality to the voice.
‘Dernhelm, son of Isangrim, the one the Romans call Ballista.’
The carved face looked down. ‘The killer of my son.’
‘You know me then. Unferth, do not make your followers share your death. Show yourself a man. Release them from their oaths. Give yourself up.’
There was something uncanny about the silent, unmoving regard of the silvered mask.
Ballista raised his voice. ‘You Brondings and any others in there, your leader has no more luck. Hand him over, and you will go free.’
‘No!’ A shout came from the floor of the hall, behind the door. ‘We gave our sword-oath. We would be dishonoured.’
Keeping his eye on the upper window, Ballista addressed the unseen warrior. ‘There is no dishonour in renouncing an oath extracted under compulsion, an oath to an evil man.’
The voice answered from behind the door. ‘Save your cunning arguments for yourself, Oath-breaker. We stay. Every man must give up the days that are lent to him.’
The mask nodded. ‘It is not possible to bend fate, nor stand against nature. It will be as you say.’
‘Have them come out of this door, no other.’
The mask withdrew, pulling the shutters to behind it.
They heard the bar lifted, then the door opened. Only the low remains of the hearth fire illuminated the cavernous interior. A dozen figures emerged: three children, nine women, one with a swaddled babe in arms. Before the door closed, Ballista saw the dull gleam of serried ranks of helms and mailcoats. Many men would die before the hall could be cleared; perhaps too many.
‘Wada, have two of your men lead them away,’ Ballista called.
Grim and another Heathobard went up to the women.
‘Wait!’ It was Maximus. ‘That one in the middle — the big one with the broad shoulders — grab her!’
The woman threw her cloak in Grim’s face. Steel flashed from a concealed blade. It cut deep into Grim’s leg. He howled as he fell. The other Heathobard hacked down the warrior disguised as a woman.
Screaming, the women and children scattered into the night. Their cries and the ways they ran vouched for the genuine nature of their gender and age.
Grim was dragged away. As his compatriot tied a tourniquet around the Heathobard’s thigh, Ballista gave new orders to Diocles.
When the Roman had vanished around the hall towards Castricius, Ballista and his men moved back into the obscurity between two farm buildings. They unslung their bows, notched arrows and trained them on the door.
From the far side of the hall came the noise of heavy things being manhandled, of loud hammering.
Ballista knew it was a terrible thing that he had decided to do, but he could see no other way.
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