Warriors of the Storm (2015)

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘Remember Eardwulf?’ Finan suddenly asked.

  I half smiled. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Eardwulf?’ Sigtryggr asked.

  ‘An ambitious man,’ I said, ‘and he had us trapped like this. Just like this. And moments before he slaughtered us the Lady Æthelflaed arrived.’

  ‘With an army?’

  ‘He thought she had an army,’ I said, ‘in fact she didn’t, but he thought she did and so he left us alone.’

  ‘And tomorrow?’ Sigtryggr asked.

  ‘There should be a Mercian army following Ragnall,’ I said.

  ‘Should be,’ Sigtryggr said flatly.

  I still hoped for that Mercian army. I told myself that it could be two hours’ march away, somewhere to the west. Perhaps Merewalh was leading it? He would be wise enough not to light campfires, clever enough to march before dawn to assault Ragnall from the rear. I had to cling to that hope, even though every instinct told me it was a vain hope. Without help, I knew, we were doomed.

  ‘There are other hostages,’ Finan said unexpectedly. We all looked at him. ‘My brother’s troops,’ he explained.

  ‘You think they won’t fight?’ I asked him.

  ‘Of course they’ll fight,’ he said, ‘they’re Irish. But in the morning, lord, lend me your helmet, your arm rings, and all the gold and silver you can find.’

  ‘They’re mercenaries,’ I said, ‘you’re going to buy them?’

  He shook his head. ‘And I want our best horse too.’

  ‘You can have whatever you want,’ I said.

  ‘To do what?’ Sigtryggr asked.

  And Finan smiled. ‘Sorcery,’ he said, ‘just Irish sorcery.’

  We waited for the dawn.

  A small mist greeted the wolf-light. The fires in the far wood faded, though they were still there, dim among the misted trees. Finan tried to count those fires, but they were too many. We were all counting. We had just over three hundred and eighty men fit to fight, and the enemy had to have three times that number, maybe four times. We all counted, though no one spoke of it.

  The first horsemen came soon after dawn. They were young men from Ragnall’s army and they could not resist taunting us. They came from the trees and cantered till they were squarely in front of our northern wall, and there they would simply wait, usually some thirty or forty paces away, daring any one of us to cross the ditch and fight in single combat. I had given orders that no one was to accept such challenges, and our refusal prompted more of Ragnall’s young men to provoke us. His army was still hidden in the trees that were a half-mile away, but he permitted his hot-headed warriors to confront us.

  ‘You’re cowards!’ one bellowed.

  ‘Come and kill me! If you dare!’ Another trotted up and down in front of us.

  ‘If you’re frightened of me, shall I send my sister to fight one of you?’

  They were showing off to each other as much as to us. Such insults have always been a part of battle. It takes time for men to form a shield wall, and even more time to summon the courage to attack another wall, and the ritual of insult and challenge was a part of that summoning. Ragnall had yet to reveal his men, he was keeping them among the trees, though every now and then we would see a glimpse of metal through the far leaves. He would be haranguing his leaders, telling them what he expected and how they would be rewarded, and meanwhile his young men came to mock us.

  ‘Two of you come and fight!’ a man shouted. ‘I’ll kill you both!’

  ‘Pup,’ Sigtryggr growled.

  ‘I seem to remember you taunting me at Ceaster,’ I said.

  ‘I was young and foolish.’

  ‘You haven’t changed.’

  He smiled. He was in a mail coat that had been scoured with sand and vinegar so that it reflected the new sunlight. His sword belt was studded with gold buttons, and a gold chain was wrapped three times around his neck and from it hung a golden hammer. He wore no helmet, but around his fair hair he had the gilt-bronze circlet we had discovered in Eoferwic. ‘I’ll lend Finan the chain,’ he offered.

  Finan was saddling a tall black stallion. Like Sigtryggr he wore polished mail, and he had borrowed my sword belt with its intricate silver panels riveted to the leather. He had braided his hair and hung it with ribbons, while his forearms were thick with warrior rings. The iron rim of his shield had been scraped free of rust, while the faded paint on the willow-boards had also been scraped down to make a Christian cross out of the fresh wood. Whatever sorcery he planned was evidently Christian, but he would not tell me what it was. I watched as he cinched the stallion’s girth tight, then just turned, leaned against the placid horse, and looked out through the thorn-blocked gateway to where a half-dozen of Ragnall’s young warriors still taunted us. The rest had become bored and had ridden back to the far trees, but these six had kicked their horses right to the ditch’s edge where they sneered at us. ‘Are you all so frightened?’ one asked. ‘I’ll fight two of you! Don’t be babies! Come and fight!’

  Three more horsemen came from the northern trees and cantered to join the six. ‘I’d love to go and kill some of them,’ Sigtryggr growled.

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘I won’t.’ He watched the three horsemen, who had drawn their swords. ‘Aren’t they eager?’ he asked scornfully.

  ‘The young always are,’ I said.

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘I remember my first shield wall,’ I said, ‘and I was scared.’ It had been against cattle raiders from Wales and I had been terrified. Since then I had fought against the best that the Northmen could send against us, I had clashed shields and smelled my enemy’s stinking breath as I killed him, and I still feared the shield wall. One day I would die in such a wall. I would go down, biting against the pain, and an enemy’s blade would tear the life from me. Maybe today, I thought, probably today. I touched the hammer.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Sigtryggr asked. He was not looking at me, but at the three approaching horsemen who had spurred their stallions into full gallop and now charged the men insulting us. Those men turned, not certain what was happening, and their hesitation was their doom. All three newcomers unhorsed an opponent, the one in the centre charging his enemy’s horse and throwing it down by the collision, then turning on a second man and lunging with his sword. I saw the long blade sink through mail, saw the Norseman bend over the blade, saw his own sword drop to the grass, then watched his attacker gallop past and almost get pulled from the saddle because his sword’s blade was buried in the dying man’s guts. The attacking rider was wrenched backwards by the blade’s suction, but managed to drag the weapon free. He turned his horse fast and chopped the blade down on the wounded man’s spine. One of the six men who had been jeering us was racing away along the ridge, the other five were either dead or wounded. None was mounted any longer.

  The three turned towards us and I saw their leader was my son, Uhtred, who grinned at me as he trotted towards the thorn fence that barred the fort’s entrance. We dragged a section of the fence back to let the three men through and they arrived to cheers. I saw that my son was wearing a big iron hammer amulet about his neck. I held his horse while he dismounted, then embraced him. ‘You pretended to be a Dane?’ I asked, touching his hammer.

  ‘I did!’ he said. ‘And no one even questioned us! We came last night.’ His companions were both Danes who had sworn oaths to me. They grinned, proud of what they had just done. I took two rings from my arms and gave one to each of the Danes.

  ‘You could have stayed with Ragnall,’ I told them, ‘but you didn’t.’

  ‘You’re our oath-lord,’ one said.

  ‘And you haven’t led us to defeat yet, lord,’ the other said, and I felt a pang of guilt, because surely they had galloped to their deaths by crossing the wide pasture.

  ‘You were easy to find,’ my son said. ‘Northmen are swarming here like wasps to honey.’

  ‘How many?’ Sigtryggr asked.

  ‘Too many,’ my son
said grimly.

  ‘And the Mercian army?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘What Mercian army?’

  I swore and looked back to the pasture that was empty now except for three corpses and two lamed men who were staggering back towards the trees. ‘Lady Æthelflaed didn’t pursue Ragnall?’ I asked.

  ‘The Lady Æthelflaed,’ my son said, ‘pursued him, but then went back to Ceaster for Bishop Leofstan’s funeral.’

  ‘She did what?’ I gaped at him.

  ‘Leofstan died,’ Uhtred said. ‘One minute he lived and the next he was dead. I’m told he was celebrating mass when it happened. He gave a cry of pain and collapsed.’

  ‘No!’ I was surprised by the grief I felt. I had hated Leofstan when he first came to the city, arriving so full of a humility that I thought must be false, but I had come to like him, even to admire him. ‘He was a good man,’ I said.

  ‘He was.’

  ‘And Æthelflaed took the army back for his funeral?’

  My son shook his head, then paused to take a cup of water from Berg. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘She went back with a score of men and her usual priests,’ he said, when he had drunk, ‘but she left Cynlæf commanding the army.’

  Cynlæf, her favourite, the man marked to marry her daughter. ‘And Cynlæf?’ I asked bitterly.

  ‘The last I heard he was well south of Ledecestre,’ my son said, ‘and refusing to lead troops into Northumbria.’

  ‘Bastard,’ I said.

  ‘We went to Ceaster,’ he said, ‘and pleaded with her.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She sent orders for Cynlæf to march north and find you, but he’s probably only getting those orders today.’

  ‘And he’s a day’s march away.’

  ‘At least a day’s march,’ my son said, ‘so we have to beat these bastards all on our own.’ He grinned, then astonished me one more time by turning and looking at Finan. ‘Hey, Irishman!’

  Finan looked surprised to be called that, but he took no offence. ‘Lord Uhtred?’ he responded mildly.

  My son was grinning like a madman. ‘You owe me two shillings,’ he said.

  ‘I do?’

  ‘You said the bishop’s wife would look like a toad, remember?’

  Finan nodded. ‘I remember.’

  ‘She doesn’t. So you owe me two shillings.’

  Finan snorted. ‘I only have your word for it, lord! And what’s your word worth? You thought that tavern maid in Gleawecestre was beautiful, and she had a face like a bullock’s backside. Even Gerbruht wouldn’t touch her and I’ve seen him hump things a dog wouldn’t sniff!’

  ‘Oh, Sister Gomer is beautiful,’ my son said, ‘just ask my father.’

  ‘Me?’ I exclaimed. ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Because,’ my son said, ‘Sister Gomer has an apple birthmark, father. Right here,’ and he touched a gloved finger to his forehead.

  I was speechless. I just stared at him. I even forgot Ragnall for a moment, thinking only of that ripe body in the hay shed.

  ‘Well?’ Finan asked.

  ‘You owe my son two shillings,’ I said, and started laughing.

  And Ragnall came to give battle.

  I remembered how Ragnall had led his horsemen from the trees at Ceaster when he had taken revenge for the heads arrayed around the remnants of the fort at Eads Byrig. He had brought his men from the wood in a line so they appeared all at once, and now he did it again. One moment the far trees were bright with a sun-drenched morning’s light, their green leaves peaceful, and then they came. Ranks of men on foot, men with shields, men with weapons, a shield wall that was meant to awe us, and it did.

  A shield wall is a terrible thing. It is a wall of wood, iron, and steel with one purpose alone, to kill.

  And this shield wall was massive, a wall of painted round shields stretching wide across the ridge’s flat top, and above it were the banners of the jarls, chieftains, and kings who had come to kill us. At the centre, of course, was Ragnall’s red axe, but the axe was flanked by forty or fifty other banners bright with ravens, eagles, wolves, serpents, and with creatures that no man had ever seen except in nightmares. The shield-warriors who followed those banners came from the wood and there they stopped and began clashing their shields together, a constant thunder. I counted them as best I could and reckoned they numbered at least a thousand men. The flanks of the wall were on the ridge’s slopes, and that suggested they would wrap that great wall around the fort and attack on three sides. My own men were on the fort’s wall. They could count too, and they were silent as they watched Ragnall’s massive force and listened to the thunder of his shields.

  Ragnall was still not ready to attack. He was letting his men see us, letting them realise how few we were. Those men who clashed shields to make the thunder of challenge would see the fort’s wall and, on its summit, a much smaller shield wall than their own. They would see we had just two banners, the wolf’s head and the red axe, and Ragnall wanted them to know how easy this victory would be. I saw him riding a black horse behind his wall and calling to his men. He was assuring them of victory and promising our deaths. He was filling them with confidence, and it was just moments, I knew, before he came to insult us. He would offer us a chance to surrender, and, when we refused, he would bring his shield wall forward.

  But before Ragnall could move, Finan rode towards the enemy.

  He rode alone and he rode slowly, his horse high-stepping in the lush pasture. Man and horse were magnificent, gold-hung, silver-shining. He had Sigtryggr’s thick golden chain about his neck, though he had removed the hammer, and he wore my helmet with its crouching silver wolf on the crown from which he had hung strips of dark cloth that mimicked the horse’s tail plume of his brother’s helmet. And it was to his brother that he rode, towards the banner of the dark ship sailing on a blood-red sea. That banner was on the right of Ragnall’s line, at the edge of the plateau. The Irish carried other flags decorated with the Christian cross, the same symbol that Finan had scraped into his shield that hung at his left side above the glittering scabbard in which he carried Soul-Stealer, a sword he had taken from a Norseman in battle. Soul-Stealer was lighter than most swords, though its reach was just as long, a blade that I feared could be easily broken by the heavy swords most of us carried. But Finan, who had given the sword its name, loved Soul-Stealer.

  Two men rode from Ragnall’s ranks to challenge Finan. Their horses must have been kept close behind the shield wall, and I assumed Ragnall had given them permission to fight, and I heard his army cheering as the two men rode. I had no doubt that the two were battle-tested, full of sword-craft and terrible in combat, and Ragnall, and all his men too, must have assumed Finan would accept the challenge of one or the other, but instead he rode past them. They followed him, taunting, but neither attacked him. That too was part of battle’s ritual. Finan had ridden alone and he would choose his enemy. He rode on, slow and deliberate, until he faced the Irishmen beneath their banners.

  And he spoke to them.

  I was much too far away to hear anything he said, and even if I had been at his elbow I would not have understood his tongue. The two champions, perhaps realising that the challenge was from one Irishman to his countrymen, turned away, and Finan spoke on.

  He must have taunted them. And in his thoughts there must have been a girl lovely as a dream, a dark-haired girl of the Ó Domhnaill, a girl worth defying fate for, a girl to love and to worship, and a girl who had been dragged through the mud to be his brother’s plaything, a girl who had haunted Finan in all the long years since her death.

  And a man stepped out of the Irish ranks.

  It was not Conall. The enemy shield wall was a long way off, but even I could see that this man was much bigger than Conall, bigger than Finan too. He was a great brute of a man, hulking in his mail, carrying a shield larger than any other in the wall and hefting a sword that looked as if it were made for a god, not for a man, a sword as heavy as a war axe, a swor
d for butchery. And Finan slid from his saddle.

  Two armies watched.

  Finan threw away his shield, and I remembered that far-off day, so long ago, when I had faced Steapa in single combat. That was before we became friends, and no man had given me a chance against Steapa. He had been known then as Steapa Snotor, Steapa the Clever, which was a cruel joke because he was not the cleverest of men, but he was loyal, he was thoughtful, and he was unstoppable in battle. He, like the man striding towards Finan, was huge and hugely strong, a giver of death, and I had fought him, supposedly to the death, and one of us would have died that day had the Danes not surged across the frontier that same morning. And when I had fought Steapa I had begun by casting aside my shield and even taking off my mail coat. Steapa had watched me, expressionless. He knew what I was doing. I was making myself fast. I would not be cumbered by weight, I would be quick and I would dance around the larger man like a nimble dog baiting a bull.

  Finan kept his mail coat, but he threw the shield down, then just waited.

  And we saw the big man charge, using his shield to batter Finan away, and what happened next was so swift that none of us could be certain of what we saw. It was far away, too far to see clearly, but the two figures closed, I saw the big man ram the shield to slam Finan and, thinking he had struck Finan, begin to turn with the massive sword raised to kill. And then he just dropped.

  It was fast, so fast, but I have never known a man swifter than Finan. He was not big, indeed he looked skinny, but he was quick. He could carry Soul-Stealer because he rarely needed to parry with the blade, he could dance out of a blow’s way. I had fought him in practice often enough and I had rarely got past his guard. The big man, I assumed he was Conall’s champion, dropped to his knees, and Finan sliced Soul-Stealer down onto his neck and that was the end of the fight. It had been over in two or three heartbeats and Finan had made it look so easy. The thunder of the far shields stopped.

  And Finan spoke to his countrymen again. I never learned what he said, but I saw him walk to the shield wall, walk within the reach of their swords and spears, and there he spoke to his brother. I could see it was his brother because Conall’s helmet was brighter than the rest and he stood directly beneath the blood-red banner. The brothers stood face to face. I remembered the hatred between them at Ceaster, and the same hatred must have been there, but Conall did not move. He had seen his champion die and had no wish to follow him down to hell.