Warrior of Woden

by Matthew Harffy

  The Northumbrians let out a great cheer. They were not toothless up here on their hill. They too could rain down death on their foes.

  Garr raised a hand in salute towards Beobrand and the king.

  "Well done," Beobrand said, "now get back in line." Beneath them, he could see the Mercians preparing another onslaught.

  "Shields!" he bellowed again. And all around him, men lifted their boards above their heads and prepared again to weather the storm of metal and stone.

  The first projectiles began to fall, with the patter of hail rattling against the wooden shingles of a great hall. Beobrand chanced a glance from underneath his shield. As he had expected, Garr's spear had goaded the Mercians into action. While the archers tensed and loosed, and the slingers swung their leather straps to fling stones, the Mercian shieldwall surged forward up the slope.

  "Shieldwall! Ready yourselves," Derian boomed in a powerful battle-shout from the centre of the Northumbrian line. "The Mercians are coming!"

  Chapter 21

  "Come to die on my blade, you maggots!" screamed Attor, darting forward from the line. He ducked beneath the wild sweep of an enemy sword and opened the man's throat in a spraying fountain of crimson. As usual the slim scout was unarmoured, moving with lithe, seemingly effortless grace to avoid the clumsy blows of his foes. He wielded a vicious langseax, almost the length of a sword, but single edged, with no guard. Attor was as fast as thought and his langseax flashed in the afternoon sunlight, silver and red, like a leaping salmon. The Mercian's lifeblood spouted forth, covering Attor in gore. Attor grinned, his teeth and eyes bright in the mask of blood.

  Beobrand shoved hard with his shield at the burly Mercian before him. The man slipped on the blood-soaked grass and Beobrand hacked down with Hrunting into his shoulder, sundering the man's byrnie and almost severing his right arm. Iron rings and gouts of blood flew into the hot air. The man shrieked and tumbled back, disappearing down the hill to join the dozens of his comrades' corpses that already rested there. Beobrand laughed aloud, the battle-joy upon him now.

  "Attor," he yelled. "Get back into the shieldwall."

  Beobrand gazed down at the slain; the Mercians who had charged against the shieldwall atop the hill overlooking Maserfelth. Many were the brave men who had attacked the Northumbrians and fallen to drench the earth with their slaughter-sweat. And yet still more came up that treacherous slope. And behind them numerous banners still fluttered in the breeze. Penda's horde seemed undiminished, despite the Northumbrian host's terrible death-dealing.

  The onslaught had been nearly continuous, with barely a moment to take a swig of water or to rest. But despite the weariness of his limbs, Beobrand could not deny the excitement that filled him. He might think he longed for peace when he awoke from the horrific dreams of terror where he saw the faces of those he had slain; blood-splattered and terrible, screaming for a mercy which he knew he would never give. But here, surrounded by the clash and clamour of battle, his nerves thrilled and he knew the truth of it. This was where he belonged. He was a killer, like his father before him. And his brother. He shuddered at the thought, but deep down he knew it was true. He lived to kill.

  All along the hilltop, the Mercians were retreating, pushed back down the slope to lick their wounds before the next assault.

  On Beobrand's right, Acennan faced a well-armoured warrior who perhaps had not realised he had been left alone before the Northumbrian host. The Mercian was broad-shouldered and powerful; a man of some means, judging by his ornate helm, with its embossed plates of decoration and the fine, pattern-bladed sword he wielded. As ever in the shieldwall, Acennan and Beobrand stood shoulder to shoulder, each seeming to understand the other's movements without words. Attor took a step towards Acennan to offer his aid against and the lone Mercian, but Beobrand held him back.

  The man was taller than Acennan, with a longer reach. But Beobrand did not doubt his friend's ability to bring him down and he knew that Acennan would not thank Attor for interfering.

  The Northumbrians fell silent as they watched the encounter between the rich Mercian thegn and the squat Northumbrian gesith.

  With a bellowing roar, the Mercian stamped forward, leading with his shield. Acennan swayed to the side, hardly seeming to move, and yet the attack went harmlessly wide and Acennan hammered his own blade into the man's unprotected shin. Acennan's sword cut deeply, slicing sinew, muscle and bone. The Mercian mewled in shocked agony and lost his balance on the shattered limb, falling to the red-stained earth. Before he could begin to recover, Acennan thrust down hard into the Mercian's now-exposed groin and then leapt back quickly to avoid the man's flailing swings as his life left him. All those who watched knew the Mercian had taken a killing blow, and his blood pumped dark from the artery on the inside of his thigh.

  The Mercian screamed and cursed Acennan, but the stocky Northumbrian did not risk getting close to silence him.

  Beobrand thrust Hrunting into the earth at his feet, freeing his right hand for a moment so that he could wipe the sweat and blood from his brow. He was unable to use his forearm, as it was encased in metal strips fastened by straps of leather. More than once the armour had saved his hand, so he would put up with the discomfort. Just as he would endure the sweltering heat of wearing his great helm. He well remembered the clang of the slingshot in East Angeln. He still got terrible headaches, but the helm had saved his life that day.

  Dreogan proffered a water skin. Beobrand took a long draught and handed it to Acennan. The shorter man drank, spat, then drank again. Beneath them, the Mercians would soon begin sending up more arrows and stones, in preparation for another attack. They appeared to have few arrows and pebbles left now, or perhaps some of the archers and slingers had ventured up the hill already and paid the ultimate price for that foolhardy act. Whatever the reason, each new hail of projectiles was less vehement than the one before.

  The Mercian whom Acennan had felled still whimpered and cried out.

  "Gods, won't you finish what you started?" asked Dreogan. "The man's whining is making my head hurt."

  "He'll be silent soon enough," said Acennan. "I'll have a rest for a moment, then I'm getting that helm. It must be worth a fortune." He took another mouthful of water from the skin, then passed it back to Beobrand. "I was quite pleased I managed not to damage it."

  The man's cries were becoming faint, as he faded quickly.

  "I don't know what you will do with such a fine helm," said Fraomar. "It will never fit on your big head." The men laughed, the sound jarring against the moaning of the dying man. Somewhere from further down the slope another injured warrior wailed pitifully for his mother. It was the voice of a boy, and Beobrand thought fleetingly of Octa.

  "You may be right," said Acennan, "but it will look good on Stagga's wall. Besides," he smiled, "I would not wish to cover my beautiful face. What then would the ladies have to look at?"

  The wounded man was silent now. Acennan stepped close to him, placing his foot on the man's sword to prevent an attack. He drove his own blade deep into the man's throat. Quickly, he set about removing the fabulous helm before the next Mercian advance.

  "You think we can win, lord?" Attor said in a quiet voice.

  Beobrand looked up at the sky. The sun was long past its zenith. To the east, the ranks of unblooded Waelisc yet guarded the road, awaiting the arrival of Eowa's fyrd.

  "Aye," Beobrand said, "of course we can win." He hoped the men could not hear the uncertainty in his voice. "We are strong here on this hill. We can hold until the end of time. But we will not need to wait that long I hope." He forced a grin. "Once Eowa arrives with his host, Penda and his Waelisc allies will have a real fight on their hands."

  Acennan had retrieved the Mercian's helm and sword and returned to his place at Beobrand's side.

  "But for now," Beobrand said, tugging Hrunting from the earth and once more hefting his shield aloft, "we hold this hill, and we do what we do best."

  "And what is that?" asked Fraoma
r.

  "We kill the bastards," shouted Beobrand, as the first arrow flickered into the sky towards them. As one, they raised their boards again and readied themselves to do just that.

  Chapter 22

  The day wore on in a haze of sweat, blood and death. The steel-storm's song was the ringing clash of blades and the screams of the dying. As the sun slid towards the western edge of the world, the exhaustion of the defenders began to tell. Men stumbled and slipped, or were too slow to parry or lift their shields. The Northumbrians had held firm that long afternoon, but now, with the last light of the sun casting long shadows, the men of Bernicia and Deira began to die.

  One of Oswald's hearth-men, a fearsome fighter who stood beside Derian, took a spear to the throat and collapsed, clutching bloody fingers around his leaking throat. His mouth worked silently for a moment until he shuddered and remained still and staring.

  The shieldwall trembled like a living thing. Like a wounded animal. Beobrand could sense the signs of impending defeat. Almost imperceptibly the shieldwall had been pushed back, pace by pace away from the lip of the hill, giving the attackers a foothold on the knap of the rise where before they could find none. He had ceased speaking of victory when Eowa's host would arrive, for the atheling of Mercia was nowhere to be seen. How could it be that Eowa had not reached them yet? Was it possible that he had turned back as soon as Beobrand had ridden away with his warband? No, it could not be. He shook his head to dispel such dark thoughts from his mind. Eowa was no craven and he had given his word. He would come.

  And yet, when Beobrand looked to the east, at the Waelisc who thronged before the dark forest, there was no sign of Eowa and the men he brought with him.

  Again the Mercians attacked, and Beobrand stepped forward to meet them without thinking. Acennan was at his right, Dreogan to his left.

  "For Oswald!" Beobrand bellowed, his voice cracking in his throat. The men around him took up the chant.

  "For Oswald!" they cried in defiance of the Mercians that crested the hill.

  "For Oswald!"

  They railed against the defeat they could all scent; against the unfairness of the threads of their wyrd that would see them die here.

  A bearded man thrust a spear at Beobrand's face. Beobrand's shield felt as heavy as if it were made of granite, but he heaved it up just in time to catch the spear-point. The steel flickered bright past his eyes and, trusting to his instincts, Beobrand leapt forward. The spear haft scraped along the rim of his splintering linden board and Beobrand hunched his shoulders, dropping his head behind the shield's protection. The spear was over his shoulder now, its point behind him and no danger. Twisting his shield to the left, Beobrand drove Hrunting's point forward and felt the blade bite into flesh. Despite the weariness that threatened to engulf him, Beobrand smiled to see Acennan step forward with him to protect his flank. To his left he sensed without looking that Dreogan had also matched him. Gone was the surge of power that came with the first moments of battle-joy. In its place was the training and battle-skill that had been honed over years.

  Beside Dreogan, young Fraomar and Garr were testament to that training, both working with implacable efficacy to dispatch the enemies who dared confront them.

  Beyond them, Grindan and his brute of a brother, Eadgard, were still adding to the heap of dead before them. Eadgard lay about him with his huge axe, felling Mercians as if they were saplings that he was chopping for lumber, while Grindan leapt this way and that, parrying and lunging, killing many foe-men and also defending Eadgard, who always seemed oblivious to any danger once battle commenced.

  Beobrand's men had been in the front line of the shieldwall all that long afternoon, with the stalwart Elmer, flanked by Renweard and Beircheart at the farthest point from Beobrand. They were all deadly; solid as a cliff-face and as vicious as a winter storm on the North Sea. The ground was slick and gore-spattered before the whole of the Northumbrian host. But the bodies were piled highest on the hill directly beneath Beobrand and his warband.

  Beobrand and his black-shield-bearing gesithas were renowned throughout Albion for good reason. There was no deadlier group of warriors in all the kingdoms of the island.

  But even such formidable fighters were but men. And no mortal man is invincible.

  Renweard, his black raven's nest of a beard bristling from beneath his helm, rushed forward on tired legs to meet the latest onslaught of Mercians. But just before he struck at the warrior who came towards him, Renweard stepped upon the dented iron boss of a splintered shield. His ankle turned and he fell prostrate at the feet of the attackers. Beircheart and Elmer surged forward to his aid. But they were too late. A Mercian spear pierced Renweard's belly. The steel spear-point split the rings of his byrnie and buried itself deep in his body.

  Elmer, his usually soft face contorted with rage and streaked with blood, roared and with a savage swing of his sword slew the man who had killed Renweard.

  Beircheart did not scream or bellow his anger. He threw himself at the Mercians with abandon, hacking and beating his adversaries down with his blade in a welter of fury.

  Beobrand shoved Hrunting under his shield again to saw into the crotch of a monstrously ugly man with a bulbous nose and a toothless maw. The Mercian let out an ululating scream and clawed at the rim of Beobrand's shield, vainly attempting to pull it down so that he might at least take his killer with him to the afterlife. Beobrand leant forward and bit the man's fingers. Hard. His mouth filled with blood and the Mercian let go. Beobrand punched his shield forward, catching the man in his ugly face with the boss. Blood slathered his repulsive face from the shield boss' shattering blow. More blood gushed from the gash in his groin and splattered the ground, and yet the man remained on his feet.

  Acennan, with uncanny speed and agility, deftly dispatched the man he fought with a scything blow to his throat and then hacked a backhanded slash into the face of Beobrand's opponent.

  "My blade improved his looks," he laughed.

  Beobrand did not smile.

  He looked over at where Beircheart and Elmer stood forlornly with slumped shoulders over Renweard's body. Beobrand's chest clenched. He had brought them to this place to stand by their king. He glanced to the east. Still no sign of Eowa. Could it be that they would all die here?

  He looked down at the banners and standards of the Mercians and the horde of men amassed around the great ash tree below the hill. He swallowed, his throat dry. He feared this might well be the last battle he would stand in and he felt a great sadness. Renweard was dead. How many more would follow him to Woden's corpse-hall or to the Christ's heaven?

  He took a shuddering breath of the warm air. It was redolent of the bitter tang of death. Far off in the west, the sun touched the rim of the earth.

  Beobrand let out a ragged sigh.

  They might all die here, but not this day. For the Mercians were falling back once again. And this time they were not regrouping at the base of the hill, but pulling back to their encampment for the night.

  Chapter 23

  Beobrand sat apart from his men, gazing over the marshy land towards the shimmering expanse of the Maerse. The last light of the setting sun still burnt beyond the western horizon, but soon it would be night. He had watched as Penda's great horde lit fires and settled down for the night. The smell of roasting meat came to him on the breeze. The laughter and songs of the Mercians and men of Powys and Gwynedd were muted by the distance, but distinct enough in the evening air. The king of Mercia seemed content to allow Oswald's battered force to remain on the hill. Perhaps he hoped they would flee in the darkness. Beobrand frowned to himself at the thought. Maybe some men would skulk off in the night. He could understand why they might do so. A corpse could not plough a field or sow seeds. A dead husband was no use to any woman. A dead man made a poor father. He snorted, thinking of the brute who had raised him. Grimgundi was long dead now, and Beobrand had never missed him.

  Sometimes, he thought of Selwyn. He missed that old warrior an
d wished they'd had longer together after he knew the truth about him. But word had reached him of Selwyn's death shortly after their last meeting. Beobrand still could not think of Grimgundi's brother as his real father. Beobrand had believed the man to be his uncle for too long.

  He rubbed his half-hand over his face. It was rough and sticky with sweat and blood.

  Looking down at Penda's host, he felt hollow. He could not imagine the Northumbrian's would withstand another day's assault. Men might well flee under the cover of the night, but Beobrand would remain. He had given Oswald his oath, and his word was iron. He would stand, and he would give his blood and his life to protect the land and his king.

  How would Octa grow without a father? Would he become a warrior? Beobrand scratched at the crust of dried blood beneath his fingernails. Gods, he hoped not. Below him on the hill, in the last light of the dying sun, he could make out the black shapes of crows pecking and pulling at the flesh of the fallen. The Mercians had carried away some of their dead, but they did not seem keen to venture up the slope where they would be vulnerable to Northumbrian spears. In the morning, the bloated, bird-pecked remains of their shield-brothers would prove a stark reminder of the foe they faced. And the need to navigate around the bodies would make the climb all the more difficult.

  Beobrand spat. No. He prayed that Octa would never know the terror of the shieldwall. But who was he to wish a soft life on his son? Did he truly hope that Octa would become a merchant or a monk? Would he see the boy denied the thrill and soaring joy of victory over an enemy? Was that not a true man's wyrd?