There must have been at least sixty horsemen following Sköll’s group. They were not quite the last, because a quarter mile or so behind came a straggling bunch of women and children, guarded by nine horsemen. Some of the women limped, others were carrying small children, while the riders were using spears to goad the captured slaves, who numbered some thirty or forty. “I want prisoners,” I said, and looked at Finan. “Tell the Christians to hide their crosses.”
Finan hesitated, as if tempted to warn me against trying something rash, then abruptly nodded and wriggled back downhill. “What will you do, lord?” Beadwulf asked me nervously.
“I need prisoners,” I said. “I need to know what happened at Eoferwic.” Did I really need to know? The appearance of the Norsemen suggested they had failed, and that was surely news enough, yet I wanted to know more. I wanted to know the full story of their failure. So I would take prisoners.
I looked westward. The road crossed a lower spur some half a mile away, and then dropped out of sight. If I timed my approach right, then Sköll and his men would not see what was happening behind them. And if they did? It would take them time to return and fight us, time enough for us to retreat, and I doubted they would want to pursue us far into the waning afternoon.
Behind me my men were mounting their horses. I went back and joined them, pulling myself into Tintreg’s saddle. “Rorik!” I called. “You have that flag we took from Arnborg’s hall?”
“Of course, lord.”
“Put it on our staff!” One of our packhorses carried my wolf’s head banner on a pole, and Rorik now untied that flag and laced on the captured banner. I did not want to charge recklessly down the hill and so risk breaking a horse’s leg, but if we went slowly then the few men guarding the prisoners might send a warning to the warriors ahead. A familiar banner would reassure them that they had no need to raise the alarm. Or so I hoped. And, I thought, if I took just a handful of men, then the ruse would be even more convincing.
“Berg,” I called, “choose eight men.”
“Eight?”
“Just eight. All of them Norsemen or Danes! Rorik! Bring the flag.”
“What about me?” Finan asked, reluctant to be left out of any fighting.
“I need you up here. Wait till we’ve captured the bastards, then show yourself if you need to.” Finan was the only man I trusted to understand what I planned. If it all went wrong, if Sköll Grimmarson turned around and threatened us, then the sight of almost a hundred warriors on a hill crest might give him pause. It seemed he had failed to capture Eoferwic, so why would he want to lose more men? Warriors were valuable, even more valuable than the cattle and slaves he was driving westward.
“We go slowly,” I told Berg. “No shields. I want them to think we’re scouts returning to the road.”
“They didn’t have scouts, lord,” Berg pointed out.
“Maybe these men at the rear don’t know that,” I said, then nudged Tintreg up the slope and saw that the larger mass of horsemen had disappeared across the western crest, while the small group of prisoners, guarded by the nine horsemen, were alone on the road. “Let’s go,” I said.
And so we walked the horses up the slope and then along the skyline. The wind blew harder, but our captured flag was heavy with rainwater and did not unfurl, and so I ordered Rorik to wave the staff. One of the horsemen below looked up. I watched the man, but he showed no alarm. Scouts normally carry no flags because they do not want to be noticed, but the horseman who stared up at us appeared to see nothing strange. He did not spur his horse ahead, but just looked away and kept the same slow pace, and so we angled down the hill. “You and I get ahead of them,” I told Berg, knowing the other eight men, four of them Norsemen and four Danes, were listening. “The rest of you follow the captives. Don’t alarm their guards! We’re all friends.”
Henkil Herethson laughed. He was a Danish Christian, a rarity in Northumbria, who had served in my cousin’s garrison at Bebbanburg. He had fought us there, but had sworn allegiance to me and had proved himself loyal. He liked to fight with a double-bladed ax that now hung at his saddle. I noted that his cross was hidden.
“Don’t draw swords,” I went on, “till I beckon you. Then ride alongside them and watch to see when I draw Serpent-Breath. That’s when you attack. And I want prisoners. Two prisoners at least. And Rorik!”
The boy grinned, knowing what I was about to say. “I’m to stay out of the fight, lord?”
“You’re to stay out of the fight.”
The enemy plainly suspected nothing because they had paused, waiting for us. We reached the road and spurred toward them as the prisoners collapsed at the road’s edge. I could hear a child crying and saw one of the mounted men smack the infant’s mother across the head with his spear shaft. “It is a horrible noise,” Berg remarked to me.
“You’ll hear it often enough,” I said. “Is Hanna pregnant yet?”
“She might be, lord. We try hard enough.”
I laughed, then held up a hand to check the men following us. They curbed their horses just a few paces from the rearmost enemy, while Berg and I went on. I nodded companionably to the nearest spearman and spurred Tintreg on past the prisoners to where a glum-looking man with drooping gray mustaches slumped in his saddle. His cloak, mail, and helmet looked better than the rest, and I assumed he was the leader. “It’s cold!” I called.
“Almost lambing time,” he said. “It should be warmer than this.” He frowned, perhaps realizing that he had never seen me before. Water beaded the rim of his helmet. “You’re one of Jarl Arnborg’s men?”
“I’m his uncle,” I said, “his father’s brother.”
“You were at Jorvik?”
“We were too late,” I said. “We just came from Ireland. Folkmar,” I introduced myself.
“Enar Erikson.” he responded.
“We should keep going,” I said. “There are Saxons over that hill.” I nodded south.
Enar looked alarmed. “Following us?”
“Just searching. They were far off and didn’t see us. But keep going anyway.”
He waved his men on. Some of the women cried as they were prodded with the long spears, but they stood and shambled on reluctantly. “We should just kill them,” Enar said, looking sourly at the prisoners. “We have enough slaves,” he grumbled, “these ones are sick and slow.”
“They’ll still fetch silver,” I said.
“Where? Dyflin has more than enough slaves already.”
Dyflin, I knew, was the largest Norse settlement in Ireland, and the largest slaving town in the west. Most slaves were carried to Frankia or else sold in Lundene, but those markets were far away and difficult to reach from Cumbraland. “Slaves are slaves,” I said vaguely, “they’re all valuable.”
“Then we should just kill the damned children,” Enar said. “We can always give the women more.” He chuckled at that.
“Why don’t you?” I asked. He looked startled at that suggestion. “If they’re slowing you down,” I went on, “why not just kill the little bastards?”
He grimaced. “Young ones are valuable.”
“They do make a horrible noise though,” I said, then paused because four horsemen had appeared on the skyline ahead; four horsemen who were spurring back toward us. “Who are they?” I asked.
Enar muttered a curse, then twisted in his saddle. “Hurry them!” he shouted at his men, who responded by thumping their spear staves on the women’s backs.
I wanted to curse too. I had deliberately brought a small number down the hill, relying on surprise to give us an advantage in the fight I knew lay ahead, but now the ten of us would face thirteen. I saw that all four of the approaching horsemen wore the gray wolf-pelt cloaks. Were they the úlfhéðnar? They rode fine horses, wore bright mail beneath the pelts, and had helmets crested with wolf tails. Their leader, or at least the man at their head, rode a tall black stallion, had a long fair beard, and his helmet was chased with silver. He looked young, but
he had an arrogant confidence that spoke either of noble birth or early achievement. “If you can’t keep up,” he called to Enar as he came closer, “we’ll abandon you. Make the bitches move faster!”
“We’re trying, lord,” Enar answered.
“Then try harder. Kill the ugliest bitch as an example.” He reined in and frowned at me. “Who are you?”
“Folkmar, lord,” I answered humbly.
He must have noted the quality of my bridle, mail, and helmet. “Where are you from? I haven’t seen you before.”
“The Ribbel, lord.”
“He’s Arnborg’s uncle, lord,” Enar put in helpfully.
“Arnborg’s uncle was killed at—” the young man began, then snatched at his sword. I had already begun to draw Serpent-Breath and she was quicker from the scabbard than his blade, but he was fast. I swept the sword back-handed, but the young man ducked and spurred, and Serpent-Breath cut uselessly into his wolf-tail crest. He back-handed too, his blade striking my back, but without enough force to cut the mail beneath my cloak. He was on my right, but on my left one of his companions tried to ram his horse into Tintreg. The man’s sword was half drawn as I cut Serpent-Breath across his face, starting blood. I spurred forward, turned back to my right to see the young man in the silvered helmet was close behind. He was fast, he was good. I began a second back-swing as he lunged his sword at my side, and that lunge should have pierced my mail and driven deep into my belly, and the only thing that saved me was his horse stepping on one of the big stones that edged the road. The horse staggered sideways, the young man’s lunge went wide, and Serpent-Breath struck the back of his helmet hard. The blade split the metal and cracked into bone. I had a glimpse of blood and white bone, then the young man toppled from his rich saddle.
I turned Tintreg back. Another of the wolf-pelt warriors was spurring at me, sword raised to strike, and I roweled Tintreg hard, and felt the battle-rage. The stallion leaped forward, the man’s sword came down savagely, but I had closed on him too fast and his sword arm struck my shoulder just as Serpent-Breath skewered into his belly, breaking mail. I turned away, twisting the blade as I let Tintreg’s strength tug the sword free. Enar was in front of me now. He had drawn his sword, but seemed frozen by fear or indecision, and while he dithered I slammed Serpent-Breath down on his forearm with enough force to make him drop the sword, then, as I passed him I hammered the back of his helmet. I used the flat of the blade, knocking him forward onto his horse’s mane. I was not sure he was stunned, so I slammed the hilt down onto his head, then snatched his horse’s bridle and dragged it off the road. Berg, on the road’s far side, had thrust his sword into the belly of one horseman and sliced off the sword hand of another. One of the riders who had been prodding the women with his spear stave rode at me, his spear leveled, but I could see the fear in his eyes. The violence had started so quickly, none of the Norsemen had been ready for a fight, while my men were hungry. I spurred Tintreg again, slammed the spear aside with Serpent-Breath and then, because he was now too close, punched Serpent-Breath’s heavy hilt into the man’s face. I felt his nose break, saw the blood splatter, then he whimpered as Rathulf, one of my Danes, slid a sword into the small of his back. The man toppled sideways, his spear falling with a clatter onto the roadside stones. “Take his horse!” I told Rathulf.
The women were shrieking, the children bawling, and an unhorsed man was screaming as Henkil’s ax loomed above him. “Take prisoners!” I bellowed over the cacophony. Henkil must have heard me, but still slammed his heavy blade down, and a child shrieked in terror as the fallen man’s head was split in two. “Prisoners!” I shouted again, then saw that Enar had somehow recovered and was urging his horse westward. I dug my heels into Tintreg’s flanks, galloped alongside, and hit the back of Enar’s helmet again, harder still, but again using the flat of my sword. This time he fell from the saddle, and I seized his horse’s bridle. Berg came to help, dismounting and stripping away the unconscious man’s sword belt. “What about the women, lord?” he asked.
“We can’t help them,” I said. I regretted that, but we were a small band of warriors in a wide land infested by the enemy. We had to move swiftly or die. I looked back to see that my men had beaten down all the remaining enemy. The suddenness of their attack had won the small fight, but three of the enemy had still escaped and were spurring their horses westward.
We had two prisoners. Enar was one. I dismounted and went to look at the young man whose sword had so nearly wounded me. He was either dead or unconscious. Serpent-Breath had opened the back of his helmet as if it were an eggshell, and there was a mess of bone and blood in the ragged gap. I kicked the fallen man in the chest to turn him over, but he showed no sign of feeling the blow. I stooped and ripped off a golden chain that hung at his neck, then took his sword, which had a hilt ringed with gold. I undid his sword belt, tugged it free, and the violence of the tug forced a groan from him. I sheathed the precious weapon and threw it to Rorik. “Look after it! It’s valuable.” I pulled myself back into the saddle and shouted at Berg to hurry. He had managed to drape Enar over a saddle and was tying his hands and feet to the girth strap. Rathulf was securing the second prisoner, a much younger man, while the women were begging us to take them away. One woman held her baby up to me. “Take her, lord! Take her!”
“We can’t take any of you!” I hated telling her that. The best we could do for the women was to give them food we had found in sacks tied to the captured saddles. Three of the women were searching the corpses, looking for coins or food.
“Lord, we must hurry!” Berg said to me. He was right. The three horsemen who had escaped our attack were almost at the western crest of the road. It would not be long before Sköll sent men back to punish us.
“Are the prisoners secure?”
“Yes, lord.”
“Then we go.”
“Lord!” a woman called. “Please, lord!”
It hurt to leave them, but I dared not take them. We kicked our horses off the road and up the slope, leading five captured stallions and the two prisoners. Once over the crest I planned to go south until I was sure any pursuit had been left behind, then we would return to the road and hurry back east to Eoferwic.
We so nearly reached the crest. Our horses were laboring up the heather-thick hillside with only yards to go when Kettil looked back. “Lord!” he called. “Lord!”
I looked behind. Sköll’s men had turned back, and now there was a line of horsemen on the western spur, and even as I watched more men joined that line. There were at least a hundred men, and, at their center, was the big man in the white fur cloak.
I turned again as we reached the crest and saw the enemy had started in pursuit.
We were being hunted.
Five
My plan had been to ride south, and, once out of sight of the road, turn east toward distant Eoferwic. I assumed the women we had left on the road would have told Sköll’s men they had seen us heading south, and I had hoped that misdirection would be sufficient to send our pursuers toward Mercia while we rode eastward, but that hope was gone now because Sköll’s scouts were already spurring up the slope and they would soon be close enough to see which way we headed. I had wanted time to escape and I was being given none.
I decided we would go east anyway. “That way!” I shouted at Finan, pointing. I spurred Tintreg to Finan’s side. “The bastards are coming after us.”
Finan instinctively looked around, but no pursuing horsemen were in sight yet. “What do we do?”
“We’ll ride east and hope we can get back to the road.” I looked up at the still empty skyline. “They can’t pursue us forever.”
“We hope,” Finan said drily.
It was my fault. Discovering what had happened in Eoferwic could have waited, nothing I learned here would make the slightest difference to Sigtryggr. Either he was alive or he was dead, but I had given way to my impatience, and now I had a small army of vengeful Norsemen pursuing me. The curse was work
ing, I thought grimly. I should never have sought out Beadwulf, but should have ridden straight for home, and now, by attacking Sköll’s men and taking prisoners, I had made myself the hunted instead of being the hunter. My best hope was that Sköll would think I was in the vanguard of a Northumbrian pursuit and that an army was not far behind me. So far they had only seen a handful of my men, but soon the scouts would see we were over ninety strong. Why pick a fight with us? Sköll Grimmarson would just lose more men. It was a slender hope.
I swerved to reach the crest again. I was planning to slant down the hillside to rejoin the road, but when I reached the skyline I saw Norsemen racing east along the valley. There had to be fifty or sixty of them, and when I turned in the saddle I saw that even more Norsemen had reached the crest and were now following us. Two bands of pursuers, and the ones below had plainly been sent to get ahead of us. Sköll Grimmarson wanted to trap us.
So I turned south to escape his trap. I was fleeing.
My men outnumbered the smaller war-band racing east along the road, but I had nothing to gain by fighting it. We could have turned back, galloped downhill, and overwhelmed that smaller group, but I would lose men and horses in the fight. Some of my men would be wounded, and I must either abandon them to Sköll’s mercy or try to carry them with us as we escaped. If we escaped, because the Norsemen in the larger war-band were sure to follow and help their comrades. So our only hope was to flee south and pray for nightfall, which was still two or three hours away.
At least the sight of our numbers made the nearest pursuers pause. They outnumbered us, but they had as little to gain from a fight as we did until they were reinforced and thus certain of defeating us easily. We crossed another crest and found a cattle track beaten through the heather and we followed that, going faster now. Ahead of us the land dropped away, leading to fields, and I could see smoke rising from settlements. Somewhere ahead, a good long way ahead, we would pass into Mercia, but we could expect little help there. Any settler in these farmlands would be Danish, and the Danes who lived in southern Northumbria and northern Mercia had learned to be cautious.
War of the Wolf Page 13