The Wolf

by Alaric Longward

  “Brace and kill them!” Heinrich called somewhere to the left.

  “Hold them!” Tyr roared.

  “Kill, kill!” Crow called and pushed to the thin lines to help his men.

  I jumped off my horse, and Ingulf followed suit. We pushed the horses off and stood with our twenty men. I was in a second rank of the far right of the center, my men a drop of water in the great lake swarming around us, and even smaller drop for the mass of Chatti that would surely crush the right flank, and then, us. Ingulf was at my back.

  “Hooold!” Ingulf hollered. We thrust shields forward.

  I leaned on the back of the man before me, and Ingulf leaned into mine. We held our spears over the shoulders of the man before me, bracing for impact.

  The enemy surprised us.

  For all the savage charge, the howling mass of the Chatti stopped just below us. Their eyes were mad with blood-lust, their hair wild and sweaty around their heads, and then, we had no time to stare at them. Many changed javelins for spears, they drew back their arms, and the arms pumped.

  The javelins flew in a shower of bone and iron-tipped death at us.

  They came at a blur, and there seemed to rise a storm of warning screams all around us, and then, horrified, pained ones. Our shields shuddered with the javelins, our men groaned as the tips found victims and many fell, even two of my men. One was groaning and trying to get up, but the Chatti gave us no chance to do it.

  “Going according to your plan?” Ingulf asked. “This is not a good plan!”

  “Shut your mouth!” I answered. “It will go well. I am—”

  “Lucky!” he called out, and then, the Chatti—savage, deadly, angry—smashed to our lines like a child would jump on an egg. Just then, right at that moment, it seemed Lok had abandoned us. There were ten Chatti champions. Half wore armor, half didn’t, save for bear’s head fur capes; few wore wolf fur around their loins, and all held heavy axes or clubs high, with their shields bashing forward first. They struck before all and took wounds from spears stoically, one or two pierced and dying. They hacked wildly with their berserk rage, pushed to the holes they had made in the lines, laying around them with deadly abandon. They were in their very own element. That moment was all they wanted. To kill, to create carnage, to be remembered in the halls of their lords forever, and to be chosen by the gods for their guests when they died. Their eyes were white with savagery, their mouths were frothy and bloody, and I knew they would eventually die, but they could also win the battle for the enemy.

  The one that came for me did die.

  He saw my armor, my Roman helmet, and my shield and smashed to the man before me. He dodged through mine and Ingulf’s spears and hacked down on the man’s neck before me.

  The man fell like a log, hair and neck carved, and the champion came for me. He crashed into me and Ingulf, and the bastard bore both to the ground. The man’s bear fur was over his face, but he was struggling to climb over me, and I knew his ax was up. It smashed down, but bit into my shield. I finally let go of my useless spear and put a finger in his eye. He howled and struggled, and then, Ingulf’s sword smashed to his head, splitting the bear’s fur.

  I tried to get up, pushing the enemy from my legs. I was spitting his blood, and the,n I found a stream of Chatti loping over me. They were howling wildly, pushing to the woods on our right flank, smashing through and surrounding us, going for Akkas and Tyr as well. They broke through our center in many other places.

  I heard Crow calling, “Fall back! Fall back!”

  Then, I heard Red Raven.

  “Hold! Hold them!” I wasn’t sure if his flank was being overrun by the Hermanduri of Cenhelm, or if he was contradicting Crow, but what resulted was a massive, deadly chaos.

  I had no time to ponder the chaos. I was in the midst of it.

  A foot caught my groin, another stepped on my face, and I saw a Chatti cock passing over me. I saw Ingulf stumbling back, shield high, and a man of mine was split on a spear next to me. Crow was near, hacking down on a wolf-pelted enemy champion, and then, he was dragged down by a trio of young Chatti, and together, they butchered the chainmailed man and his standard bearer, scattering a warband into four winds. The right flank was running like hares, what had been there to start with.

  I had no time to worry about that, either.

  A near endless mass of Chatti were rushing past and over me, and many stopped to stab at those who had fallen.

  I pulled the Roman sword, not the Head Taker, drew my shield close, and stabbed at a man rushing past. The blade dug to his thigh, and he fell. Next one came and stabbed his spear at me, while snarling over me. The shield took the blade of the heavy thing, and I sawed the blade to the man’s knee. He limped off and was pushed over by his kin and trampled on. I was kicked and stepped on, and then, a battle took place around me, when the Snake led a hundred men forward. I saw Tyr heaving about with his sword in front of Hermanduri, some of them women, and Red Raven’s men. I saw Ingulf with them, howling, but I couldn’t hear him.

  I tried to get up and was trampled and kicked, even slapped at by a wounded Hermanduri, sitting next to me, crying with a bloodied face.

  I crawled back under my shield. I sawed the blade to a leg, then another, begging in my head for the Hermanduri pushing shields to the Chatti just over me would take some more steps forward. I stabbed, kicked, and roared, until I found someone grasping my leg and pulling me back to the enemy ranks. It was a young, red-haired Chatti, and beyond him, over a line of Chatti, was Cenhelm. He was looking on. He stared at the massive butchery, while his man was beating a large drum wildly next to him. I could see little what was going on elsewhere. I did see five Chatti, one a naked champion with a toothless, bloodied grin, and a spiked hammer coming for me. Behind me, men were pushing into each other savagely. They would not be able to help me.

  The red-hair was still pulling at my leg, another man grasped my helmet, and the champion trying to stomp down on my shield. Then, I gave up on life and fought like a mad thing escaping Helheim. I kicked away the champion. I ripped away my leg, and I stabbed at a foot next to me and then cut to the balls of the hurt enemy. I struggled up, rolled to my knees, felt a terrible impact on my helmet, which spun off, and howled as I got up, dizzy. I noticed I no longer held my Roman sword and pulled the Head Taker with a fluid movement. It was heavy and deadly as I spun it around. I hacked down on the red-headed enemy. Then, I hammered my shield on a Chatti who slipped and broke a bone in his shoulder. Others came at me, spears stabbing, and I huddled under the shield and hacked down one, and another. A man appeared, a war-chief of some kind, his helmet a studded leather contraption with fur, and he tried to stab a spear under my shield. I spat and hacked down. His skull was split. I spun the weapon around. Another man lost his arm. A toothless, wild-haired man was pushing a spear into my guts, gods know for how long, and I hadn’t noticed, and I rammed my shield at him, the spear tearing off a bit of my Roman chain.

  The champion, the one with the hammer, was before me, and I was surprised, for I had forgotten him.

  “Wolf Face! Wolf Face for Cenhelm! Wolf Face for Chief Anvil!” he roared as he slammed down the hammer. I jumped away, and it smashed to my hip. The pain was terrible, and my chain was further ripped as he tore the spiked hammer off, but I managed to bang my shield to his face, rim first. I sliced my blade to his guts, first splitting his belt and leather armor. I sawed it there, and as he backed off, I pulled it out with a savage jerk, and he fell, Wolf Face of Cenhelm, dying. I danced before and amid the enemy, a winner, and, like a fool, stumbled on a severed arm.

  I stumbled to a wall of the Chatti.

  All their spears missed me.

  I grinned, banged my shield to theirs, slashed my sword into it, roaring with blood thirst, and felt how my shield was being ripped off my hands.

  I caught a glimpse of the battle.

  I saw how they enemy had pushed deep into the Red Raven’s troops. They were in places inside the woods. The Herma
nduri still crossing the ford were rushing forward, water frothing around their feet. The center was a hole of butchery, and men were mixed in a furious melee deep to the woods. It had not been cheap for the enemy. Around me, the Chatti had lost hundreds. So had we. Crow was dead. I saw Ulger pushing forward, an arrow in his eye. Tyr and Snake were not far, and I saw, behind me, the standard of Akkas and his two guards, with a war-band of Hermanduri. Akkas was terrified. He had not drawn his sword.

  I grinned.

  The Sarmatians had disappeared.

  Then, I had no time to wonder and think, for the enemy pushed around me, and I saw a Chatti in a rich silver helmet, with bronzed flowers worked to the surface, coming, and he must have been Anvil. His face was hard and flat, his nose many times a victim of a shield, and his black furred cape was bloodied as he held his spear, screaming at his men to go forth. They did and tried their best, but it was clear the Chatti had spent their men, and things were changing.

  A wave of Hermanduri crashed around me, trying to bowl over the Chatti. Ingulf was there, his sword bloodied and notched, and so bloody was he in face, I though he was terribly hurt. I thought he actually had a tooth embedded in his cheek. We hacked and pushed to the Chatti line, pushed more, roared to find the strength to push even once more, and ignored what was taking place in other places. We all looked at Anvil, at Cenhelm, and at his drummer and standard bearers. Their best men were there, looking anxious. Some were falling to javelins thrown by the Hermanduri, but they were getting ready to charge us if their lines broke.

  They fought hard not to.

  The Chatti pushed back at us, and again. I hacked down feebly, but their men kept pushing, like they were impervious to death.

  And then, a clear note rang in the air.

  It was a horn of the plains, a horn clear as thunder, and it pushed your belly into knots of fear. It rang in the air like a prayer, and most eyes looked below.

  A hundred Sarmatians were charging for the ford. They were mostly armored in black leather. Twenty held bows and released arrows and were hitting men in the back. The rest held their long lances, tall as two men, and they rode in lines. Tamura howled, and they spurred their small, powerful mounts forward.

  Those men and women turned the day into our advantage.

  They tore to the ranks of Hermanduri marching from the ford. Many had not even noticed them. I could see the blood splashing to the river and the field, the surviving flowers turning from white to red as the line of riders plowed to the columns of the Hermanduri. They rode through them like knife cutting leather, their archers killing and wounding dozens. They simply made themselves a road of corpses and rode through and began turning and regrouping. Many had lost the lances and were pulling swords, but the effect of that attack had left two hundred of the Hermanduri and ten of the Sarmatians in a mangled mess of bloody death on the field, and there was a momentary silence in the ranks on each side.

  And that’s when I moved.

  The Chatti before me was looking away.

  Then, his skull was split.

  I pulled my sword back and stepped on him, stumbled forward, and pushed my blade to the next man. Others followed suit. We all went forward and broke through and over the enemy, and there, suddenly before me, was Anvil, his horse wild with battle anger. The stallion was kicking the air, the chief was pushing his spear down, and I was late to block or move away. I saw a shadow, and Ingulf stepped before me. The spear smashed to his shield, and then through it, and slashed into his armored chest. He howled and fell against me, and I cursed as he fell and spat as I nearly did. The horse was turning before me, and I jumped forward and hacked my sword at the man. The blade sung, it struck his horse, the neck showing a gaping wound.

  Then, it fell.

  So, did Anvil.

  I stepped on the shivering horse, bashed my shield into the man coming to rescue Anvil, the standard-bearer, and crushed his face. He fell.

  I looked down on Anvil and saw him trying to get up, clutching at an ax. “Wait! I—” he called out, while trying to find something to hit me with, but I spat on his face for Ingulf and pushed the sword crudely to his throat. It grated on a chain that hung from his helmet and then went in deep, and he howled like a woman.

  I looked up at Cenhelm, who was looking back down to the Sarmatians, then at me and then at dying Anvil, and he cursed as turned his horse. The drumbeat fell off, his chiefs were screaming, and the mass of the enemy rushed away. They went by tribes, they went by clans, and they ran down as families, or rode, in the case of some of the chiefs. I watched as some of the Sarmatians were surprised, and five, and then ten more were pulled from their horses and stabbed dead. Led by the armored Tamura, the riders slunk to the sides, pulling bows, and the archers were spending all their arrows on the foe, gleefully killing tens of them.

  A ragged line of corpses and wounded on the left flank showed where the enemy had failed to penetrate Red Raven’s shields. Some of our women were already helping their men or those who needed it.

  Behind us, there was nothing but a mass of our men, standing amid a bigger mass of fallen, the wound writhing in pain, and that mass reached deep to the woods. Crow and Ulger were dead, and Tyr wounded. Blood was coming down the slope in rivers, and we walked forward, dazed, as we watched the enemy splashing back to the ford by hundreds. Many drowned, and others just sat down, wounded, exhausted, hoping to die in peace.

  We went down, the living and the victors, and gathered around our lords. I stood with four of my men and watched Ingulf being lifted. He was barely coherent. I shook my head with tears and looked up to see Akkas still alive, screaming at the Sarmatians who were returning to guard him. They ignored him, and Akkas finally went quiet, for the enormity of the butchery didn’t escape him after a while. I saw Red Raven riding with his son as well.

  Akkas and Heinrich rode down with Tyr, their mass of bodyguards, and stopped near me and watched Cenhelm as he was screaming for his men to gather around him on the far edge of the ford. There, they would make a camp and stand their ground.

  Akkas looked at the standard of the Chatti at my feet. There, near it, I saw the wolf banner as well. I had not noticed it.

  “You took them?” Akkas asked, looking at me with squint.

  “We took it,” I said, and nodded at poor Ingulf. “They are ours. What now? Hermanduri chiefs must speak? Will they speak?”

  “It is the custom,” Akkas said. “We send men forward, and we settle a discussion. We cannot easily kill him. He cannot push us away. There will be a White Tent, and I shall go there, and he shall be there, and some chosen chiefs will follow us. We shall parlay, and perhaps, we will get their oaths to go away and never to return. They will leave, at least that. Perhaps more.”

  Red Raven rode forward. “I will be there.”

  “Only if I tell you can be there,” Akkas said acidly.

  “I will be there,” the Raven snarled, and Akkas blanched and turned away, the Sarmatians and his guards following him.

  Red Raven shook his head. “It was a close one. The Chatti… Akkas lost so many of his men. He never even fought. I did. You did, most others did. He just…stood there. See how worthless he is?”

  “I know he is worthless, Heinrich,” I said. “He is of no worth, indeed. He is not worthy of Woden’s blessings or mercy.” I watched Cenhelm. “He fought very well.”

  “He did,” he agreed. “I am lucky we survived to hate him another day.”

  “I’d give him his standard back,” I told him. “Send me to set up the negotiations.”

  He nodded. “I shall stay behind and start making camp. We cannot stay for long. Who knows what the Romans are doing.” He looked at Tamura and her armored riders. “Magnificent. They did well. Is her daughter there as well? The one I released.”

  I nodded.

  “The daughter survived, I hope,” he laughed. “She might carry my son.”

  He whipped his horse away, yelling at his men, and I grasped the standards. I watched th
e enemy crossing and waited until I was found a horse.

  I rode down to the ford, and the enemy was still crossing. I waited patiently, bleeding and hurt, as they crossed over, carrying their wounded. I sat on the saddle and held the standard across it, respectful and solemn, and looked as Cenhelm looked back at me. I saluted him.

  He rode back and forth, nodding his head, as his men were dispersing to break a camp, and their women were taking the wounded to the rear. They had lost a thousand men. One in four. We had lost at least that many.

  I waited.

  In an hour, after he had overseen the work on the camp, he rode to the river. He guided the horse forward, and it drank greedily as it made its way slowly forth. I nodded and passed the dead and the dying on our side.

  I let my horse splash to the soft bottom of the Black Fox ford and guided the thirsty beast for Cenhelm, who was making steady time to our side.

  There, in the middle, we met.

  He was young, young as I was. He looked glorious in his blood and mud-spattered armor, and there was a mischievous glint in his eye as he removed his helmet.

  “I saw you lose your helmet,” he said softly. “It should have killed you. Must have been Roman helm, that, or you stole it from a Celt?”

  “Roman,” I said. “I stole it from a Roman.”

  He smiled. “You bastards surprised us. Akkas was supposed to be dead. Red Raven as well. The Sarmatians shits were supposed to join us, and not trample us. That was my wife to be? I’m not sure I love her any longer.”

  “I know,” I laughed. “She didn’t want to do it, but had no choice.”

  He frowned. “No choice? That is odd. You are not from here. North?”

  “As far as you can get, nearly,” I told him.

  “Frisii, Langobardi?” he asked, curious.

  “Goth, from beyond the sea,” I said.

  He nodded. “They call it Mare Gothonia in Rome.”

  “And you have seen Rome?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “I don’t want to talk about that now. I doubt you can explain this battle to me. None of it was what was agreed on.” He gnashed his teeth as he watched Akkas and Red Raven. “Why do they live? I heard Heinrich had soiled his honor, and Akkas was supposed to die yesterday.” He winked. “You, no doubt, have no idea what I am talking about.”