Warrior of Woden

by Matthew Harffy

  Garr and Acennan lowered the wounded man to the ground propping his back against the bole of an oak. Garr said nothing but hurried into the darkness and returned moments later with what seemed to be a cloak. Pulling a knife from his belt, he cut into the cloth and then ripped a long strip. The sound was terribly loud in the gloom of the night. One of the horses whinnied, quietly. If they were not gone from this place soon, they would be overheard and discovered.

  Reaching for Ástígend's kirtle, Acennan winced to feel it soaked and sticky. He peeled back the linen and between the two of them they managed to tie the bandage around Ástígend's midriff. The wound was deep and blood still welled within it.

  "Cut another strip," Acennan said. His voice was as jagged as a notched blade. His worry snagged at his thoughts. The plan they'd come up with had been simple. Simple enough to end in their deaths. By Christ's bones, how had it come to this? Eadgyth had always warned that following Beobrand would lead him to his death eventually. But who else would he have followed? No man was perfect. No hlaford either. But Beobrand had entered his life like lightning from a cloudless sky, unexpected and sudden. He had given the young man his oath, but they were more than that. They were friends, and Acennan's heart swelled with pride to think of how far his friend and lord had come. And what they had achieved together. He would change nothing. But, by God, he missed Eadgyth and the children.

  Garr tore another strip of cloth, the rasping rip pulling Acennan from his thoughts. Silently they worked to tie the new dressing over the first bandage that was already wet with fresh blood.

  Far off now, perhaps towards the south and the Maerse, Acennan could hear the angry shouts of their pursuers. It seemed Attor had led them away. But there was no time to lose. They would surely turn back when they reached the river. For he doubted they would believe their assailants had the means to cross the broad expanse of water. And it would make no sense for them to have come from the south, for there lay Gwynedd and Mercia.

  "Ástígend," said Acennan. No reply. He gripped the man's kirtle and shook him gently. "Ástígend?" A groan. Acennan slapped his face.

  "Can you not let a man die in peace?" hissed Ástígend, his voice slurred and groggy.

  "You are a warrior, Ástígend. Is it really to die in peace you wish?"

  Ástígend snorted.

  "You make a good point," he said.

  "Let's get you into the saddle," Acennan said. He nodded in approval as Ástígend grunted and pulled himself to his feet. The man was a warrior alright. They heaved him up onto his steed, and then mounted their own horses.

  "What about Attor?" asked Garr.

  Acennan hesitated for a heartbeat. He listened to the night. All was quiet now.

  "Attor will have to take his chances. We'll leave his horse here, and we ride."

  "Well, it is good to know that you value my life so," said Attor, stepping into the blackness beneath the trees and quickly swinging himself into his saddle. He had entered the copse as silently as smoke. "So tell me, what are we waiting for?" Acennan could hear the smile in Attor's voice. The man was pleased with himself and whatever fresh mischief he had dealt the Waelisc.

  Despite his raw nerves, Acennan grinned in the gloom.

  "We had heard tell that the dawn was beautiful from this spot," he said, "but since you are clearly desperate to be gone from this place, let us ride."

  Without waiting for a response, Acennan dug his heels into his mount and cantered westward.

  Chapter 41

  They reached the stream that flowed to the north of Maserfelth without incident. Beobrand held the mare in check, forcing it to walk, despite the nervous energy the beast seemed to sense from its rider. Beobrand was nervous, there was no denying that. He tried to listen into the darkness, beyond the clump of their horses' hooves on the earth, straining to hear anything more than the jingle and creak of harness, weapons and saddles.

  But he heard nothing.

  Perhaps Acennan had led his pursuers far away. But maybe he had fallen, along with Ástígend, Attor and Garr. Beobrand tried not to brood on such dark thoughts, but the night pressed around them as black as a tomb, and whenever he peered into the gloom he saw the face of Oswald, slack jaw hanging open above the ragged cut of his neck. The gaping sockets of his eyes staring accusingly down at him. He shuddered to recall the sight of his erstwhile king's head, impaled on the stake beneath the sacred ash. And now, to think that his lord's head rested within the rough sack tied to Bera's saddle filled him with sadness.

  And rage.

  None of them spoke. Grindan had nudged Bera close to Beobrand's mount and Eadgard had tried to stutter an apology from where he rode behind his brother.

  "Sorry, lord," he had said, his voice shaking like a frightened child's, "I should have… I should have tied a better knot."

  Beobrand had cut him off.

  "Silence," he had hissed. "You have done enough this night, without leading the enemy to us with your flapping tongue."

  He had felt a moment's guilt at his anger. Eadgard was brave and stalwart, he had killed more than his share of enemies in the shieldwall at Maserfelth. And yet Beobrand could not hold his anger back. He could feel the beast of his ire tugging at its fetters within him, seeking a moment in which it could break its bonds and launch itself onto an unsuspecting prey. Beobrand gripped the reins tightly and led the small band of warriors onwards into the darkness.

  They splashed through the shallow stream and the horses clambered easily up the northern bank. Beobrand had judged that from this distance they would be free to gallop or canter northward. He had hoped to put as much distance as possible between them and possible pursuers before the dawn. He squeezed his horse's flanks and the mare, pleased to be allowed its head, sprang forward into an easy canter. The other riders followed him, but he knew it could not last. And after only a few moments, he slowed the chestnut mare to a trot. It was risky enough to ride in the dark, but to push the mounts that already carried two men apiece was foolish. He looked at the eastern sky. Could dawn be upon them already? He could not be certain, but he thought the first paling of sunrise brushed the eastern horizon. An owl shrieked in the darkness, making Beobrand's horse shy and step to the left. Beobrand clung to the reins and managed to hold his seat. He patted the mare's neck.

  "Easy there, girl," he whispered. "It's only a bird."

  In his mind he heard the echo from the past of those same words, in Acennan's voice, reverberating in the dark cold of a cavern, far to the north on the isle of Muile.

  Beobrand hoped Acennan had managed to escape from those who had guarded the tree and Oswald's remains. With any luck, he would be waiting for them when they arrived at the agreed spot in the north.

  He kicked the mare into a trot once more, urging the mount forward and offering up a silent prayer to any god that would listen that, come the dawn, they would be far enough away from Gwalchmei's Waelisc not to be spotted.

  Chapter 42

  Acennan ground his teeth. It was all he could do to keep his anxiety from showing. He sat astride his horse and watched as Attor rode his stocky grey stallion, slipping and skidding down the steep river bank before plunging into the cold waters. It was not shallow here. They had ridden west in an attempt to throw off their pursuers and there was no ford over the river here. But they must cross it if they were to have a chance of reaching Beobrand within the land of cloud-veiled mountains that lay on the northern horizon. Attor was the first into the river. For a moment his mount floundered, losing purchase against the rocks before kicking out strongly and swimming for the other bank. Attor clung to the horse's reins and mane and reached the far bank without incident. His horse scrabbled and kicked, sending up great clouds of spray that caught the light from the midday sun. After a heartbeat, Attor's horse clambered up the bank and at the top he wheeled it around, halting there and raising his hand.

  "I will cross with you, Ástígend," Acennan said. The messenger had been lolling in his saddle for some time n
ow and Acennan feared that he would fall. He had lost a lot of blood. They had stopped shortly after dawn and Garr had replaced the sodden bandages with which they had bound his wound. But with the constant movement, the deep cut had no chance of healing. Blood still oozed freely from it when they peeled back the dark, sticky cloth. Ástígend had winced, but had offered no complaint.

  He was a proud one, that was for certain.

  "I can cross a river without your help," replied Ástígend, his voice curt and brittle. Without awaiting a response, the injured man kicked his heels into his horse's sides and it leapt down the bank, splashing noisily into the deep water. Acennan cursed under his breath. By Christ bones, the man was full of pride.

  He watched as Ástígend controlled his steed, driving it forward through the water. He had swung himself from the saddle and clutched the pommel tightly, allowing the horse to drag him beside it through the water. Acennan grimaced to see the water billowing pink where Ástígend had passed. Surely the man would not live much longer without rest. And yet they could not halt. Shortly after they had re-bound Ástígend's wounds they had continued on their way. The sun had painted the low cloud in the east the dappled pink and grey of a trout's belly. They had slowed their pace then, hoping to be able to allow Ástígend some respite. But Attor had ridden close to Acennan and spoken the words none of them wished to hear.

  "They are following us."

  "You are sure?" Acennan had asked. Perhaps Attor had been mistaken. He turned in his saddle, gazing back the way they had come. He saw nothing there to indicate there was anybody in pursuit. And yet he did not take Attor's word lightly. The man knew what he was about, and his eyes were keen. Acennan had ridden with the man enough times to know that he was ever vigilant. He trusted Attor's judgement completely. And yet he hoped he was wrong.

  "Just now," Attor had said, indicating to the south with a nod, "I saw the sun glinting from metal. A spear-point perhaps. Or a helm. But there are armed men behind us, and I think it is likely they are not friendly." He had grinned then, showing his teeth like a wolf that scents its prey. "If they were angry after we attacked them in the night, I think my little dance with them will have annoyed them even further." He let out a barking laugh then, and Acennan had frowned. He wished he could find the mirth in the situation. He often jested with Beobrand about how serious he was, and yet now, having to lead these men, and facing the stark reality of what would befall them if they could not throw their hunters of their scent, he could find nothing to laugh about.

  "And if Beobrand and the others managed to take Oswald's body," said Garr, who had overheard the conversation, "I expect those Waelisc bastards are as angry as bees who have had their hive kicked."

  Acennan had not answered. He had stared southward at the forested slope they had passed earlier that morning. Still he saw no movement. Could Attor be wrong? And then he saw it. A flash of light. Bright against the darkness of the trees. Gone in an instant. But there was no denying it had been sunlight reflecting from a burnished piece of metal.

  "They are on our trail," Acennan had said, keeping his voice steady, despite the panic he felt threatening to engulf him. "We will lead them further west. Further from Beobrand's course. Then return north, and we will lose them in the high lands."

  And so it was that they had ridden hard into the west, veering north as they went until they reached this river.

  He sighed with relief to see Ástígend had made it to the northern bank. The horse clambered up through the bushes that grew thick along the river's edge and Ástígend tenaciously hung on to the saddle and was dragged up the bank a way. There, his strength seemed to leave him and he lost his grip, falling into the foliage. His horse, free of the awkward burden of its rider, surged up the slope to join Attor and his grey stallion.

  Perhaps Ástígend had finally succumbed to his wound, thought Acennan darkly.

  "Come on," he said to Garr. "Maybe we will lose them at the crossing."

  He kicked his horse forward through the clouds of midges that thronged the river's edge. Garr followed without a word.

  The day was warm, the air damp and heavy. Acennan's horse jumped from the bank with a great splash and Acennan was instantly drenched. He gulped in a sharp breath at the shock of the chill water. He wrapped his hands in the horse's mane and gripped its flanks with his legs. The horse snorted and rolled its eyes in fear. Beneath him, Acennan could feel its body working, its powerful legs kicking as it swam through the deepest part of the river.

  Close behind him, Garr's horse followed, swimming well.

  On the far side of the river Attor jumped down from his horse and scrambled down the bank to where Ástígend had fallen. Acennan let out a breath to see Attor help the man up. Together, with Attor pulling Ástígend, the two men climbed the bank.

  "By the gods," said Garr, "I was sure that he was dead."

  "He is a tough one," replied Acennan. He chose not to mention that he had thought the same moments before. He wondered how much longer the man could hold out. Still, it would matter little if those Waelisc caught up with them.

  His horse's hooves once again found the ground beneath them and the beast pulled itself out of the water. Acennan leaned forward in the saddle and kicked the horse onwards. It bounded up the bank easily enough, following the track through the foliage that had been left by Attor and Ástígend. Garr followed close behind.

  "We thought we'd lost you there for a moment," Acennan said to Ástígend.

  Ástígend was once more astride his mount. He was bedraggled and pale, his eyes dark.

  "It'll take more than nick from a Waelisc blade and a cold river to finish me," Ástígend said. He spat into the nettles that grew in abundance there. "Now," he said, grinning, despite the obvious pain he felt, "are we going to stand here all day talking, or are we planning on out-riding those Waelisc bastards?"

  Acennan did not return the smile. He scanned the land to the north. A few spear-throws distant lay a dense wood of beech and oak. He turned back and gazed over the river and at the hills that lay to the south-east. The sun again caught the bright iron that adorned armed men. But now they were closer and Acennan could make out a score of riders, perhaps as many as two dozen, riding towards the river. The lead horseman rode a huge black steed. His white cloak streamed behind him as he galloped ever closer. So, Gwalchmei ap Gwyar himself rode on their heels.

  Acennan looked up at the haze of cloud that hung low in the sky and cursed that they would not bring rain any time soon. A downpour might have made the river impassable, but such was not to be their luck.

  He tugged his mount's reins, turning its head towards the north. The low clouds wreathed the mountains that rose beyond the forest, hiding their summits.

  "Come on then," he said, forcing a light, jovial tone to his voice. "It seems old Ástígend thinks we can outrun them. So who am I to disagree?"

  He spurred his horse forward towards the gloom beneath the trees.

  Chapter 43

  They continued riding the horses hard throughout the rest of that long, muggy, late summer's day. They rode until their horses were lathered in sweat and the four riders could barely remain in their saddles. Attor led the way and Acennan trusted to his instincts and his sharp eyes to find the best path north and to spot any danger that may await them on the journey. Somehow, with a strength that Acennan could not help but admire, Ástígend had managed to stay conscious and to keep up the pace with the others. Acennan and Garr rode to either side of the wounded man. They made no offer to help any longer, for when they had, Ástígend had snapped at them that he was a man and not a child.

  "I can ride better than both of you, even if I left half of my blood behind at Maserfelth," he had said through gritted teeth.

  Acennan had watched him closely as the sun began to drop into the west and the shadows lengthened. Ástígend was pale, his features drawn. But his pride and his strength kept him going and it was true that even though he was clearly exhausted, weakened by b
lood loss, and in pain, he rode as well as any man, keeping his seat even when his horse was forced to jump a fast-flowing stream that traversed their path.

  They had ridden through the forest of oak and beech for a time. But it was slow going beneath the dense canopy of leaves. There were thick stands of snagging brambles and deep gullies that were hidden beneath tangles of bracken and nettles. Acennan had hoped that the woodland would allow them to pass unseen. But it soon become clear, as they had become forced to walk the horses cautiously through the undergrowth, that all that would be achieved would be to allow the Waelisc to close the distance with them. For a time Acennan had agonised over what to do, but in the end he could see no option.

  "I'm sure they will have seen us enter this wood," he had said, cursing as yet another thorn snagged his cloak.

  "What should we do then?" Attor had asked. His face was grim, his jaw set. Gone was his smirk of earlier. They all knew now that each decision they took could as easily lead them to their doom as to safety.

  "We leave the forest as quickly as we can," replied Acennan. "Our best hope is to outrun them on the open land."

  "Hiding from our hunters," Ástígend had croaked, "is a good idea. But not if they know where we are hiding."

  Acennan had gazed at the injured messenger in the dappled light beneath a broad beech tree. He looked Ástígend in the eye for a long while and then nodded. The man spoke sense. He prayed he would be able to lead them to somewhere where they could hide in secret from the pursuers. He hoped he could lead them to safety.

  But as they had ridden through the hazy heat of the afternoon, the Waelisc could always be seen riding in their wake; unerring in their pursuit. Acennan cursed silently to himself. By Christ's bones and Tiw's cock, all they needed was a little luck. Just a moment when Gwalchmei and his Waelisc dogs could not see them. And yet each time he turned in his saddle, there was the white cloak of Gwalchmei, streaming and resplendent in the sun. And behind the Waelisc warlord followed the score of horsemen