Warrior of Woden

by Matthew Harffy

  One of Eowa's gesithas shouted, "Kill it!"

  "Yes," said Eowa, "kill it." He raised his voice and repeated, "Kill it!"

  His gesithas took up the chant first, but soon all the gathered men shouted the words.

  "Kill it! Kill it!"

  Eowa had raised his hand and beckoned for the men to follow him. And so they had set off towards the lowering sun. And towards death.

  Beobrand had nodded at Eowa. The men continued the chanting for a few moments, but their voices quickly fell silent.

  "Good speech," Beobrand had said.

  Eowa had given him a twisted smile and ridden close.

  "They believe me wronged," he said, in a quiet voice. "My brother has broken his oath to me and so should be slain."

  "And that is true," replied Beobrand.

  Eowa had shrugged, a wistful expression on his face.

  "Who's to say if one oath is broken, when other oaths have been sworn in secret?"

  "You had no choice," Beobrand had said. The setting sun had made Eowa's scars glow as red as blood.

  Eowa had shaken his head.

  "There is always a choice, Beobrand," he'd said, and pushed his mount into a trot, away from Beobrand and the secrets they shared.

  In the middle of the night, the rain stopped. The wind picked up once more, chilling the wet clothes that draped the men. The clouds ripped and tattered above them, allowing the light from the moon to gild the wet stones of the road. Their footing was easier to see then, but the wind was cold. Beobrand shivered as they traipsed on into the gloom of the night.

  Bera's rolling gait and the warmth that came from the horse's shaggy back lulled him into a doze. The memory of other night-time marches came to him. He recalled the dazed, exhausted trudge through a night of pain and grief as they'd fled Gefrin in search of the sanctuary of Bebbanburg. He had been little more than a boy then. His body had been numb and heavy from the day of fighting and he remembered clearly the weight of the byrnie Acennan had thrust into his arms as they had set off. He had clung to that iron-knit shirt that had been stripped from a corpse as if it would anchor him to middle earth.

  He rubbed his hand against the wet, oiled byrnie he now wore, absently thinking of the work that would be needed to rid it of the iron-rot following this night's soaking. The iron-linked shirt had served him well all these years, saving his life on many occasions. He could still picture the sun coming up behind the crag of Bebbanburg after that interminable night and seeing the Waelisc shieldwall forming before them. That was when he had first donned the metal shirt and marvelled at its heft. Now his body was so used to its weight it could be part of his own skin. Against all odds, they had vanquished the Waelisc in that long-ago dawn before Bebbanburg. And he had finally taken the blood-price from Hengist for all that he had done.

  Hengist.

  He did not wish to think of Hengist. He pushed thoughts of his half-brother from his mind, instead turning it to Hefenfelth. Then Oswald had led them through a storm-riven night to fall upon the unsuspecting Waelisc host. That blood-drenched night had led to a great victory for Oswald, and the death of Cadwallon of Gwynedd. But Beobrand well remembered the pain that had followed at learning of the death of his lord, Scand, in the battle.

  He watched the moon-licked shapes of Eowa and Acennan as they rode some way before him. There were no other men he would rather have at his side in a shieldwall than these and his gesithas. But none save the gods knew what their wyrd would bring with the dawn.

  Would the golden light of the morning sun see them victorious over Penda? Or would it only shine its light on tragedy and grief?

  Beobrand pulled his damp cloak about him, hunched his shoulders against the cold and let Bera carry him onwards through the dark.

  Chapter 18

  When the wolf-light of dawn tinged the eastern sky grey, Beobrand called a halt. The men needed rest and to eat something before continuing. Many were almost asleep as they walked, and at the order to stop, these men flung themselves to the wet ground, groaning and muttering. Some had that skill prized by warriors of being able to sleep wherever and whenever needed, and the rasping sounds of snoring were quickly added to the lively birdsong that signalled the impending dawn.

  "Gods," said Acennan, dismounting with a grunt and leading his mare over to Beobrand, "I hope we do not rely on surprise. Those snores will alert any enemy from here to the Hibernian sea."

  Beobrand offered him a thin smile, and slid from the saddle. He stretched his back, rubbing at the base of his spine to ease the tension there. Acennan always jested at times such as these. Beobrand could feel his skin jangling and a pressure building within his head as they got ever closer to battle. He beckoned to Ástígend. The messenger rode over to them on his new steed. Eowa had ordered one of his gesithas to walk and to give Ástígend his horse. Eowa's man now led the mount that Ástígend had ridden the day before, but the beast looked as though it might never recover from the forced gallop. Ástígend didn't look much better. His eyes were dark-rimmed and sunken, his skin wan.

  "How do you fare?" asked Beobrand.

  Ástígend straightened his back and squared his shoulders. He took a deep breath, hawked and spat from where he sat in the saddle.

  "I am well, lord," he said. His voice was clear and strong. He was a proud man. "I can ride another sennight before I need to sleep."

  He looked ready to drop from the saddle, but Beobrand would not shame the man. Besides, he needed him to remain mounted.

  "Good man," he said. "Only you have seen this land before, Ástígend. I would have you be our eyes. I would know how far we are from Oswald and Penda."

  Ástígend nodded and peered around them. But it was yet dark, and there was little to distinguish one shadowed clump of trees from another.

  "The sun will be up soon," said Beobrand. "Ride with Attor to the brow of that bluff yonder and tell us where we are. I would not have us march blindly into Penda's warhost.

  They watched as the two riders cantered into the gloom. The sun had not yet cleared the eastern horizon, but the darkness of the night had receded. Around them wisps of mist hung like spectres over the land.

  "Do you think Oswald yet stands?" asked Eowa, who had dismounted and stood beside Acennan.

  "We must hope he does," replied Beobrand, "for without his host, how do you think we would fare against Penda and his allies?"

  Eowa did not reply. He rubbed his hand across his bearded, scarred face and stared after Attor and Ástígend.

  *

  Beobrand stifled a yawn and rubbed grit from his eyes. Gods, how he longed for sleep. Close by, Dreogan snored, his mouth open. His scarred and tattooed face, usually so menacing and hard, now soft and peaceful. Acennan caught Beobrand's eye and shook his head. Beobrand wished he could lie down and succumb to the tiredness that tugged at him, but he knew he could not. For the men to see him thus, slack-mouthed and snoring, would not do.

  All around them, men were slumped on the ground. Most did not have the luxury of a horse and Beobrand could well imagine their exhaustion after a full day's march followed by the dank night-time trudge through the rain and darkness.

  Acennan handed him a chunk of hard cheese and a piece of stale bread. Beobrand was not hungry, but he forced himself to chew, washing the food down with a swig of sour water from his leather flask. Woden knew when next they might be able to rest and eat, and they would all need their strength when they met Penda's host. Of that he was certain.

  "They're coming back," said Acennan, staring towards the bluff.

  Beobrand swallowed the last of the cheese and bread and pushed himself to his feet with a grimace and a groan. His back still hurt.

  The sun had risen, casting warm light over middle earth. His shadow was long and dark on the earth before him as he followed Acennan's gaze. Ástígend and Attor were cantering towards them, the breath from their horses steaming in the early morning air. Beobrand glanced up at the sky. The clouds had blown away to the south. Th
e ground mist would be gone soon, burnt away by the dawn, and it would be a warm, clear day.

  "What news?" he called, as the riders reined in.

  "We are still some way from the place they call Maserfelth," said Ástígend. "But there are many birds in the sky to the west." He was flushed, as if the ride had awoken in him a new strength. "It will take the best part of the day to walk there." He said no more, but his meaning was clear. If Penda had already attacked they may well already be too late, but if he chose to confront Oswald today, there may still be time. But every moment would count. Not a heartbeat could be wasted and they still had a long way to travel.

  Beobrand looked about him at the exhausted men.

  As if he had heard Beobrand's thoughts, Eowa said, "They are strong men. Their hearts doughty. They will march on and then, despite their tiredness, they will fight."

  "I do not doubt the mettle of the men, Eowa," said Beobrand. "But they are but men. They cannot fly. Nor can they run all day after marching since yesterday's dawn with little more than a moment's rest."

  Eowa sighed, but said nothing.

  "How long would it take to ride there?" asked Beobrand.

  Ástígend turned and peered into the west, as though he could somehow see beyond the hills that rose there. He closed his eyes then, muttering under his breath. Then with a nod, he opened his eyes and said, "On horseback we can reach Oswald King before the sun reaches its peak."

  "Very well," said Beobrand, "you will lead me and my men to Maserfelth." He turned to Eowa. "I cannot bear to walk when my king might even now be beset by Penda and his wolves."

  Eowa held his gaze for a long moment, and then nodded.

  "Ride then, my friend," he said. "And I will make haste with my fyrd and hearth-warriors to bring our spears to Northumbria's defence."

  "I give you thanks," said Beobrand. He was suddenly seized by the urge to embrace the atheling, but instead he held out his hand and Eowa clasped his forearm in the warrior grip.

  "I do not seek thanks for honouring my oath to your king," said Eowa.

  "You may not seek it, but I give it freely." Beobrand hesitated, and then said, "Friend."

  Eowa gripped his arm more strongly.

  "Go, Beobrand. Ride to your lord's aid. You are oath-sworn to Oswald and you must protect him. It is as it should be. But," Eowa smiled, "look to the east for your friend. For my trusty Mercians will swell your ranks and together we will rid Albion of the scourge that is my brother."

  Beobrand swung himself onto Bera's back.

  "Mount up, men," he shouted. "For we ride."

  He waved to Eowa.

  "I will drink with you this night, if my wyrd allows it," called the atheling.

  Claws of unease scratched down Beobrand's back and he suppressed a shudder. He hoped Eowa's confidence was well-founded, for they rode towards battle and death. He did not reply, but as he kicked Bera into a trot he could not shake the image of Eowa and him seated side by side and drinking fine mead. But in his mind's eye, they were not sitting on the benches of a local lord, or even in a leather tent after the battle-play was done.

  They were raising their drinking horns in the great corpse-hall of Woden, father of all the gods.

  *

  "Look, see there," Acennan pointed ahead. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the clatter and thump of the mounted warriors who rode in a tightly-packed group along the old Roman road. Beobrand strained his eyes but could make out nothing more than a wooded hill. He blinked and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. It was hard to make out details so far away. His eyes were tired and Bera's trotting made it difficult to focus.

  "I still don't see it," he said, an edge of frustration in his tone. They had been riding since dawn and the sun was now high in the sky behind them. They dared not push the mounts to more than a trot, for fear of killing them and being forced to continue on foot. Beneath him, Bera quivered and sweated. Fleetingly, he wished he had never lost Sceadugenga. The black stallion had never seemed to tire, and its gait was so much more pleasant than this cantankerous beast.

  "See," said Acennan, "Ástígend and Attor must have seen them now too."

  Beobrand saw the two men, who rode some distance ahead of the main band of riders, spur their mounts forward and speed up the rise towards the trees on the slope. As he watched they slowed and then wheeled their steeds round and cantered back down the hill towards Beobrand and the approaching warband of mounted gesithas. Beobrand did not slow. There was no time to waste. He wished he could urge the horses into a gallop, but sense prevailed. It would do them no good to close a short distance quickly, only to lose their mounts.

  Attor and Ástígend reached them quickly and fell into step beside Beobrand and Acennan at the head of the group.

  "Well?" snapped Beobrand.

  "We saw riders on the hill," replied Ástígend. His face was set, his eyes dark.

  "Who were they?" asked Beobrand.

  "Hard to say," said Attor. "But they were armed and rode fine steeds. We gave chase, but their mounts were fresh, ours…" He patted his horse's neck and shook his head, as if apologising for what he was about to say. "Ours are all but done in. We would never catch them."

  Beyond the wooded rise, dark flecks spun and gyred in the bright sky. A multitude of birds. Perhaps crows and ravens, bellies heavy with the flesh of fallen warriors.

  "How close to Maserfelth?" he said.

  Ástígend did not hesitate.

  "We are very near, lord," he said. "When we pass this woodland, we will be able to see the Maerse to the south and the hill where Oswald planned to make his stand."

  Beobrand shook his head to clear it of the cobwebs of tiredness.

  "They know we are coming now," he said. "They will be waiting for us. We cannot follow the road any longer. Ástígend, Attor, lead us by a different route to Maserfelth and Oswald's hill."

  For a moment, Beobrand wondered whether either man had heard him. They rode on for a moment in silence. A glance at Ástígend showed him the man's drawn face, eyes sunken, but bright, almost feverish. He was close to collapse. Beobrand knew he had asked much of the man. Perhaps he would have to rely on another. But before Beobrand could speak, Ástígend tugged at his mount's reins and cantered off the road to the north. Attor was an instant behind him.

  "Follow me, lord," Ástígend called. "I will find us a way."

  Without pause, Beobrand kicked Bera after them. He gripped the reins tightly. His body thrummed, as taut as a calf skin stretched over a drum. He could almost smell battle on the breeze. They were so close now.

  They rode along the base of the hill, skirting thickets of brambles and crossing a burbling stream. Beobrand hoped that the enemy horsemen had not turned back to watch them. If they were still being observed from the shadow of the trees above them, their chances of reaching Oswald without being intercepted would be slim. He pushed the worry from his mind. Without their riders' bidding, the horses had sped up into a loping canter. The animals too could scent the end of their long journey. A journey that would surely end in death and the steel-storm of battle.

  Ástígend turned his horse to the east, up the rise following an almost imperceptible track, left by shepherds perhaps. Beobrand had no idea who had made the path, but Ástígend had keen eyes and a clear sense of direction and he seemed to have no difficulty in following the route up the slope towards the trees.

  Beobrand kicked Bera's flanks and the horse snorted, powering up the incline. Despite his tiredness, Beobrand grinned at Acennan. His friend smiled back. They knew each other well. All around them, other men showed their teeth and spurred their mounts up the slope. They rode towards the clamour of the shieldwall, towards the uncertainty of a warrior's wyrd when the swords sing and the shields clash. They rode on towards chaos and the great blood-letting of war.

  And they were filled with the joy of it.

  For these men were gesithas. Hearth-warriors. Shield-men. Spear-men. Sword-men.

  De
ath-dealers.

  They rode onwards, knowing that death awaited them and they smiled and snarled at its approach.

  They did not fear the end of a life well-lived. They would kill their foe-men or they would die in battle. Either might bring them battle-glory and fame. To die well was all a man could ask for.

  Chapter 19

  They followed Ástígend and Attor for what seemed like a long time, into the darkness beneath oak, birch and pine, where they had to slow for fear of being unseated by low branches. The forest was dense. Brambles and twigs caught at their cloaks and scratched their hands and faces. Beobrand leaned forward, lowering his body and face against Bera's great neck. The horse's rough, greasy mane was pungent. Heat came off the beast in waves and the rise and fall of its chest reminded Beobrand of the bellows being worked at a smith's forge. Bera may not be as fine a steed as Sceadugenga, but it was a brave creature.

  "Come on, old friend," he whispered. Bera's ears twitched, as though in response to its master's voice.

  And then, without warning, they were out of the wood.

  Beobrand blinked at the bright light of the midday sun. Someway off to their left, was amassed a great battlehost. Banners were held high and fluttered in the wind. Beobrand recognised Fordraed's black horned bull's head on a red background, and to its right the cross of Oswald, King of Northumbria. Beobrand let out a shout of joy. The king still stood.

  "Come, men," he yelled at the riders who were leaving the cool gloom of the tree-shade. "Behold, our king."