Ivar Horse-Prick had accompanied Maximus and Ballista to the ship. When the three had gone aboard, they had found that Castricius had her ready. Food and water had been stowed, all clutter cleared away. The men were armed and waiting at their benches. Zeno, Amantius and the slaves had been left ashore. With no commotion, they had cast off, and soon left the coast of Hedinsey behind.
The wind had shifted that morning and set in the north. It had blown steadily on their larboard quarter as Wada the Short held their course to the south-east. They had sailed the rest of the day and through the night. At some point the next day they had sighted the chalky cliffs of Cape Arcona. Knowing the rocky spit which ran below the surface to the east, Wada the Short had given Arcona a good berth. The light had been failing when they reached the great Ouiadoua Bank, pulled into one of its many inlets and hauled the Warig up on to the fine, white sand.
The Ouiadoua Bank was a desolate place, a disputed march between the Heathobards and the Farodini. The Heathobard had led them away from the sea, around in a long detour, to come up from the south on their prey. They had been walking through the darkness for at least three hours. Maximus had slept only a little on the voyage. He knew he should feel tired, but he did not. The prospect of action was on him. Nowadays he found it banished not only weariness but thoughts he did not wish to entertain: grief for old Calgacus, a certain emptiness that had come with his own advancing years, the suspicion of a lonely old age.
The Heathobard held up his hand. The column stopped. Through the trees, at the bottom of the slope, dark in the moonlight, they could see the longship. They had not known if it would still be there. Five days before, the Brondings had raided a village to the east. In a small boat, the two Heathobards who had arrived at Heoroweard’s funeral had tracked it to this isolated mooring. Although they had said the Brondings had taken much drink and some women, until this moment Maximus had been half sure the raiders would have moved on. Carelessness or arrogance – maybe both – had left Widsith, the son of Unferth, with just one boat in this lonely place.
The longship was not beached but close moored to the shore by its stern. It lay in the shelter of a small, projecting cape. Its benches could not be counted because its awnings were rigged. But it was big; a crew of up to a hundred, Maximus thought. They watched it for a time. Nothing moved. No lights showed on the vessel. The embers of a fire on the beach pulsed in the wind. The Brondings must have eaten ashore, then gone back on board to sleep in shelter.
Ballista passed the word for them to gather round. He outlined his plan. They would divide into four groups. One – himself, Maximus, Tarchon, Ivar Horse-Prick, Wada the Short, Rikiar the Vandal, and the Rugian guide – would wade out to the prow. When Castricius saw them climb on to the boat, he was to lead six of the Romans and all sixteen Olbians in the main attack from the beach on to the stern. At the first alarm, all four Heathobards – the two newcomers and the two who had joined the hearth-troop earlier – were to board from the water on the starboard and cut the ropes securing the awnings, while three Romans led by Diocles were to do the same on the other side. The Egyptian Heliodorus said it would be better if he replaced Diocles leading the Romans in the water, otherwise, if Castricius fell, there would be no one to take over command of the main force. Ballista checked this with Castricius, who agreed.
They crept down the incline, keeping as far as possible in cover. The wind soughed through the branches, and pine needles cushioned their footfall. They halted at the tree line. Maximus looked back. The men were blackened, as they had been outside Olbia. No one had drawn his weapon yet. The banded moonlight broke up their outlines as they squatted, waiting like a band of malevolent dwarves risen from under the ground to take vengeance on mankind for some primordial wrong. The smell of resin was strong, sickly. The sound of splashing water, as nerves prompted first one then another to empty his bladder.
Ahead, thirty paces of open beach, the sand almost blue in the moonlight. Little tongues of white flame occasionally flickered in the ashes of the fire. Beyond, the dark boat sat on a coal-black sea. Its mast rocked gently against the sky. Torn, high clouds rushed across the moon. Logs ticked in the fire, water lapped the shore. Still no sound or movement to indicate anyone was awake.
Ballista stood. With the creak of leather, Maximus and the others did the same. They all waited, their breathing shallow. Once this was begun, there could be no stopping.
Ballista moved off. Maximus went behind his shoulder. Neither looked back. They crossed the beach at a careful jog. To begin with, the sand gave under their feet; then it was compacted and hard.
They slowed to a walk as they reached the water, wading in gently. At first the beach shelved steeply. The water was very cold as it lapped over the top of Maximus’s boots, up to his knees. They went past the gangplank. The bottom levelled out as they went in the lee of the longship to their right. Shallow draught, clinker-built; each overlapping plank was underscored by a black shadow.
Level with the mast, halfway to the prow, the water rose to their chests. Shield above his head, with exaggerated high steps, Maximus pushed against the resistance of the water. If the beach shelved more, the water would be over his head before they reached the prow.
‘Get up!’ A shout from the stern. ‘We are being attacked.’
‘Come on,’ Ballista said. No point in silence now.
The thunder of boots on the gangplank. The first clash of steel.
Half running, half swimming with his right hand, Maximus floundered through the sea. Muffled thumps and shouts from inside the hull.
A splash as a body fell from the stern.
Even before the prow swept up, they could not quite reach the gunnels. Ballista passed Maximus his shield, told Wada to lift him. Maximus handed both shields on to Rikiar. Hands gripped under his armpits hoisted him. He got a good grip on the top plank, but his sodden clothes and mail dragged him back. There was a huge shove from under his arse. Ivar Horse-Prick grinning up at him.
Maximus slithered over the side. The quickest of glances showed the fight raging at the afterguard. Forward, the awnings were still drawn, no immediate threat. Maximus leaned over the side. Rikiar was passing the shields up to Ballista. Maximus reached down, and helped Wada aboard.
‘On me,’ Ballista said. He gave Maximus his shield. They stood shoulder to shoulder with Wada. Water sluiced off them, pooled around their boots. It was very cold. The sounds of the other four clambering up the side.
The awning was pulled back. A man came out, blinking foolishly. Ballista stepped towards him, Battle-Sun in his hand. A backhand to the shoulder, a howling forehand to the head. The man crashed away to the far side.
Maximus could see other faces, pale under the awning. They hung back.
The fight at the rear was fierce. Men falling underfoot, another off into the water.
Men swarmed over both sides. Their blades shimmered in the moonlight. They moved along the gunnels, swords sweeping in great arcs, ropes parting. Towards the stern, the awnings sagged and collapsed on to the crew. Yells of consternation and fury. The warriors on the sides were striking down at movements under the canvas, like men killing rodents in a sack. Maximus could see the bald pate of Heliodorus; the blacking must have washed off in the sea.
Somewhere, women were screaming, and what sounded like a child.
In front of the mast someone had taken charge of the disconcerted Brondings. The awnings were being hauled aside, before they could entrap the men there. The warriors wedged into a tight shield-burg, leather-bound boards facing in all directions. Maximus thought there must be about thirty of them.
‘Break them, and it’s over,’ Ballista said. ‘On three.’
‘One, two …’
They shrieked down the deck. The warrior in front of Maximus tried to flinch. Close-packed, there was nowhere for him to go. He jabbed, with no real conviction. Maximus watched the blade, punched it aside with the boss of his shield, thrust down overhand. His sword plunged dow
n over both shields, caught on the man’s chest, slid, slicing down his front.
The wounded man dropped his weapons, stood tottering, impeding those behind. Maximus leapt high, bringing his sword down on a man in the second rank. The heavy edge cut down into his skull.
‘Rally!’ Ballista called.
Maximus fell back to his friend’s right shoulder. Horse-Prick was to his own right, Rikiar the Vandal behind.
‘Surrender!’ Ballista shouted.
The Brondings huddled, indecisive, almost overwhelmed by the magnitude of the surprise.
Heliodorus loomed above and behind them on the rail; bald, streaked with blacking, like one of his bestial native deities. At the stern, the massacre continued.
‘Surrender!’ Ballista demanded again.
‘Never!’ A tall young warrior emerged from the Brondings. ‘Never.’ He was unarmoured, his arms bright with gold. His hair was long and black; a man from the south. He had a blade in each hand.
‘Widsith Travel-Quick, I will give you the lives of your men.’ Ballista spoke almost conversationally.
‘I will not take them from you, Oath-breaker.’ The son of Unferth spat, then yelled at his men. ‘Clear the prow. There are only seven of them, many more of us. Follow me.’
Widsith leapt forward. Only one warrior, off to Maximus’s left, came with him. In a second the latter was dead, impaled on Wada’s sword.
Ballista took the first blows on his shield, giving ground. Sharp fragments of wood spiralled through the air. Widsith drew back. As he went to pounce again, Wada’s sword bit into his right arm. The weapon in that hand clattered to the deck. Too late he brought up the blade in his left. Ballista, his whole frame twisting behind the blow, sheered Widsith’s left arm off below the elbow.
The young son of the Amber Lord staggered sideways, until the side of the ship brought him up. He stared at the blood pumping from the stump.
Ballista went after him, stepping carefully on the slippery deck. ‘No need to look, it’s just as you think, the arm is gone.’
Battle-Sun blazed in the moonlight. It nearly severed Widsith’s neck. The young leader collapsed half over the gunnels. Ballista raised his blade. It took two more blows before Widsith’s head came away from his shoulders. Ballista rolled the body into the water. Gripping the long, black hair, Ballista held the grisly trophy aloft. ‘Surrender.’
It had gone beyond that, beyond reason. The Brondings tried to throw themselves over the sides. There were men everywhere, hacking at them. There was no holding the bloodlust.
Maximus went and stood by Ballista.
The killing spilled over into the shallows. Perhaps some got away.
Rikiar came back to Ballista and Maximus. The normally taciturn Vandal spoke:
‘The warrior’s revenge
Is repaid to the King
Wolf and eagle stalk
Over the King’s son
Widsith’s corpse flew
In pieces into the sea
The grey eagle tears
At Travel-Quick’s wounds.’
Maximus looked at Rikiar in surprise.
Rikiar said nothing, then took the head from Ballista.
When the killing was done, and the looting underway, the cost was counted. Two Romans and two Olbians were dead, one of the former and two of the latter badly injured. One Heathobard was missing, and could only be assumed lost in the sea. Given the odds, and the unaccounted slaughter among the Brondings, it had been a low price to pay.
Maximus walked the length of the boat with Ballista. The dead still lay underfoot, grotesque in their attitudes. Six captive women sobbed near the stern. Two had bad cuts. Near them lay the bodies of two children: boys, no more than twelve winters.
Ballista stared down at them.
‘Some things just happen,’ Maximus said.
XXVII
The Island of Hedinsey
Ballista watched the men digging down into the largest barrow in Hlymdale. They had come well prepared with picks, shovels, buckets and barrows, ropes and ladders. The treasure-fire on top of the mound had been extinguished. The men had been working for some time. Only their heads and shoulders could be seen now. Already a path had been worn in the grass to where the pile of excavated earth was steadily growing. Soon they would need the ropes to draw the buckets of spoil to the surface. It would not be long before the tomb of Himling was disturbed. Suitable offerings to appease his shade were ready.
The cyning Isangrim stood off to one side with his court, Ballista among them. Ballista had been uncertain if he would return to Hedinsey in time. After the killing of Widsith, they had spent the following day burying the corpses that could be found, their own and those of the Brondings. Maximus had been evidently upset when it had come to interring the children. The Heathobard women they had released had said the boys were servants brought with Widsith. No one admitted to their killing. Most likely they had come by their death blows in the chaos of the slaughter under the fallen awning.
Ballista had been in two minds about the burials. Loitering on the deserted strand had brought disaster to the son of Unferth and his followers. Ballista had no wish that the same fate should fall on himself and his men. There were said to be other Bronding longships in those waters. He had been tempted to honour their own fallen, bury the innocent and leave the enemy for scavengers. Yet to do that would have been only one step removed from what Widsith had done at Cold Crendon. Many men found it hard to fight unless they believed their behaviour better than that of their opponents.
After a night on the beach, at first light they had heaped stones in the Bronding boat, until her sides were only a hand’s breadth above the water. They had taken her out into the deep. They had smashed holes in her hull. The coal-black water had poured in, and the longship had gone to the bottom. The rest of that day had been devoted to another act of decency. They had taken the Heathobard women back to the settlement to the east from which they had been abducted. The wind had shifted into the east, and it had involved hard rowing.
The Warig had moored there for the night. In the morning the Heathobard who remained of the two that had come to Ballista on Hedinsey had asked to join the other two of his tribesmen who were already followers of Ballista. Four more warriors from that place had made the same request. Ballista had counselled them to remain and see to the safety of their village. Cruel war was coming to the Suebian Sea. Brondings or other sea raiders might return. The Heathobards had not been swayed. The northern code of blood vengeance was too strong in them. If he would lead them against Unferth and his followers, they would gladly die for him. Ballista’s hearth-troop needed men, and he had accepted their sword-oaths.
The wind had stayed in the east. The Warig had raced across the whale road. They had made Hedinsey the previous night after two days’ fast passage. Their reception had been mixed. Isangrim had not been minded to forget his threat of outlawry. He had spoken terrible words from his high seat. His sons and their followers were as bound by his commands as any other of his eorls and warriors. As outlaws, Dernhelm and his men could be killed without recompense. From a leather bag, crusted with the salt in which it had been packed, Ballista had produced the head of Widsith Travel-Quick. The cyning had smiled. Glaum, son of Wulfmaer, had whispered in his ear. Isangrim had waved him away. Morcar and Oslac had glowered. In this one instance, the cyning had said, no penalty would be enacted. Let no other flout his words, but Dernhelm and his hearth-companions had done him a great service. They had earned their place back in his favour.
Rikiar had taken it on himself to give thanks on behalf of all of them:
‘Ugly as my head may be,
The cliff my helmet rests upon,
I am not loath
To accept it from the King.
Where is the man who ever
Received a finer gift
From a noble-minded
Son of a great ruler?’
The Vandal had come to them as a thief. He was ill-favoure
d, and in many ways kept apart from their fellowship. He remained an object of suspicion. Yet no one could deny his skill with verse.
And now a shout came from the top of the grave mound. The labourers had dug down to a row of timbers. It would not be long before they broke through these rafters.
This would be the third time the Angles had turned to their long-dead hero in time of need. Starkad had first opened the tomb of Himling when the Heruli came. As a youth, Isangrim had been with Starkad the second time, before they led the alliance that drove the Goths from the north. Like war itself, it was not a thing to be entered into lightly.
‘Sure, it must be a fine sword your great-grandfather used, to go to this trouble, the digging and the disturbing the dead and all, to get it back,’ Maximus said.
‘Great-great-grandfather,’ Ballista said. ‘He never carried the sword. It was made after his death. Himling is the sword.’
‘Your dead man is the sword?’
‘When Himling was killed by the Wuffingas …’
‘I thought they were your greatest friends.’
‘It was a long time ago. Unlike you Hibernians, we are not terrible people for holding grudges.’
The Amber Road Page 28