Fire & Steel (13 page)

Æscwine crashed the staff and spoke again. “The Allfather has been invoked, not as you imagined, to guide our arms against the Dane. King Eomær and the men of his witan have discussed the depredations, both here in Engeln and overseas in Anglia, but cannot agree on the solution.” He paused and seemed to compose himself before continuing. “The matter is simply this. We are agreed that the point has been reached where we must make a decision whether the future of the English folk lies on this side of the sea or in the new settlements in Britannia. Our enemies here grow stronger and covet our ancestral lands. The Danes push us from the East and the Jutes from the North. We can recall the warriors from Anglia and smite these foe as we have always done in former days or we can move to the new lands, but the king fears that we cannot do both. The floor is open. Speak now before the Allfather, whose wisdom will guide us in our search.”

A hush descended on Eorthdraca as, even in their
giddiness
, the thegns and the men of their hearth troop sat stunned by the enormity of the choice which lay before them. Even the scops, the guardians of the folk memory of the people, agreed that the English had inhabited these lands since the days of Sceaf. Their barrows littered the land, the very soil was made from the dust of their ancestors. A thegn got to his feet and addressed his god. “Allfather, we cannot leave. You know these lands to be English lands.” He looked about the hall and his mouth curled into a smile. “The men I see before me fear no man, Dane nor…” he paused and sneered as a rumble of agreement rolled around the hall, “Jute.” He looked back to the figure on the gift stool and drew himself to his full height. “Advise our witan, lord, to bring the men home. Let us sweep these Danes back into the lakes and pine forests of Scandia from which they crawled.” The thegn regained his bench, and the hall resounded with the thunder made by stamping feet and pummelled tables.

As the noise resounded within the ancient walls, Eofer's mind began to drift. Whether it was the effects of the sacred smoke or the presence of the Allfather he could not say, but, to his astonishment he found that he was back on the windy ridge above the great white horse carving of the Atrebates. A brace of ravens rode the updraft, spiralling aloft as the woods and hills of Britannia melted into the distance. Suddenly the sharp note of iron striking stone sounded clearly in his mind and he snorted in recognition of the moment. The message was clear, and Eofer found that he was climbing to his feet. The noise drained away like ale from an upturned barrel, and Eofer's heart quickened as the hall fell silent. He faced his god and the words spilled easily. “You know as well as I, lord,” he began, “that the quality of the new land is matched only by the cowardice of its leaders and the indolence of its inhabitants. The lands of Britannia are old lands, dotted with wondrous works of the old people, the work of giants. I travelled the width of the island this summer past and I saw with my own eyes roads and buildings of stone standing abandoned, fields and woods groaning with barley and game. It is a land ripe for a vigorous people, a people accustomed to toil and victory in battle play. A people who will oust the Christ god and return the land to the old gods, the real gods, the only gods.” Eofer swept the silent hall with his gaze before steeling his nerve to look directly into the glowing eye of Woden. “Allfather, guide our people to the West. Let us replace the weeds with a hardier seed. Let us grow strong there together, gods and folk.”

TWELVE

The
Fælcen
slid easily through the narrow waters known as the throat. They passed the town of Theodford, the people's ford, and the ferry which gave the town its name with gentle strokes of the oars, its wharfs and jetties grey and deserted in the late autumn light as they struck out for the mouth itself. Here the Sley took its final turn to the East, widening out into a broad bay before the enclosing arms of land moved back to pinch its entrance. Free of the constriction and the trees which pressed it on all sides, Eofer smiled to himself as the crew cast hopeful glances at the dragon pennant which capped the mast. Within moments they were rewarded as the first breath of wind that day snatched at the banner, unfurling it with crack and sending it snaking away to the North. Their lord answered their hopes as he called down the ship with a smile. “Ship oars. Bassa and Beornwulf, hoist the yard and shake out the sail. Let's make some real progress.”

The vessel came alive as the crew moved to unship the oars from the tholepins and the spar was manhandled into position. As the crew swung the oars inboard and stacked them on the cross trees amidships, the sail filled with a sigh as the
Fælcen
took a breath and bounded forward on the swell. Eofer flicked a look at Sæward and chuckled inwardly as he recognised the joy on his friend's features as the big oar began to bite the waters and ship became a hunter once more.

The eorle turned to the South and noted the position of the sun. Placing his hand sidelong on the horizon he counted to three as he moved it up to the pale ball.

Sæward spoke. “Are we putting in at the burh, lord?”

Eofer shook his head. “No, I want us to stay as far from folk as I can. Besides,” he said glancing up at the flag, “the wind is perfect. Let's make the most of it while we have it. We will make the Bight by nightfall and be at Needham first thing.” Eofer instinctively glanced down at the hatch cover where the collection of swords, spearheads and helms had been stowed for their one-way trip. “We'll shoot the Little Belt tomorrow if it holds and swing east to pitch our final camp on the northern coast of Harrow.”

A skein of geese flew low across the bows and, skimming the surface, beat their way to the South. Overhead, gulls came in ones and twos, their harsh cries cutting the air as they looked to scavenge any morsels which might find their way overboard. Eofer crossed to the steersman and leaned close. As a duguth he knew the reason for the journey and could be relied on to guard that knowledge closely. The others had yet to earn that trust, and youthful bluster had cost more then one seasoned warrior his life. “Starkad said that the Heathobeards will launch their attack one week after Winterfylleth. That leaves us little enough time to dally.” He shrugged. “Only the gods know who will win the battle, but I do know that the Danes will react with speed and vigour, despite the lateness of the year.”

Sæward sucked at his teeth as he looked down the ship. Octa was in a huddle with Oswin word-poor, his arm stabbing out an imaginary dagger as the duguth made good on the promise he had made to his lord. Spearhafoc sat with her back to the mast as she examined the fetching on an arrow. “How many do you think we will lose?”

Eofer shrugged again. “That depends how much Woden likes our gifts.” The steersman gave his eorle a pensive look and Eofer cocked his head in question.

Sæward tapped the steer bord of the ship lovingly and checked that nobody was within earshot. “If the old girl here is making a one way trip, what happens if the Danes have taken all of the horses from this stud and ridden south on them to confront the War-Beards?” He sniffed and wiped his nose on the cuff of his sleeve, almost as if his body was disowning the thought lest he be thought a nithing for harbouring a doubt at his lord's plan. “It would make sense.”

Eofer shook his head. “The horses there are Hrothgar's finest hunting mounts. They are not trained for war, he has other horses for that duty. Believe me,” he said, “the king of Danes would not let anyone use his prize hunters to attack a spear-hedge. But, if he has, then we shall form our own shield-burh and die like men.

The ship shuddered as they emerged from the shelter of the land and headed out across the Bight, but the wind was astern and the little scegth drove ahead, her tall bow sending back a shower of salty spray over man and thwarts alike. Eofer looked across to the West. The sun had left Middle-earth, the last echoes of its light shading the skyline against the dark, hard edge of the distant Wolds as a voice cut the gloom. “I hope that they don't forget to light the beacon, lord!”

Eofer clapped Thrush Hemming on the shoulder and indicated the distant shoreline with a raise of his chin. A needle of flame had appeared, growing by the moment, and Eofer imagined the men toiling there to feed its hunger. He glanced back at Sæward to make sure that he had seen the marker but the big steersman wrinkled his brow and shot him a look of pity. Eofer snorted. His old friend was an experienced seaman who knew the waters which girded Engeln as well as any man alive. Beacon or no beacon, he would have laid odds that the man could have delivered them safely to their destination through the darkest of nights.

Within the hour the waters of the Bight were behind them, and Sæward ordered Bassa and Beornwulf to strike the sail and take the way off the ship. Outside the orbit of light thrown out by the beacon, the land ahead stood out as a dense black against the star speckled sky above. A foamy iridescence lit the bow wave as the crew retrieved the oars from the cross trees once more and slipped them proud of the hull.

The moon was little more than a waxing crescent now, and Eofer's mind drifted away to the South. The War-Beards would be gathered near their ships as they awaited the horses to draw the sun back into the sky to herald tomorrow’s attack. King Ingeld would be feasting his ealdorlings and thegns on the strand as each man pledged his life for the glory and reputation of his lord. Some men would be spending their last moments with women and children before they sailed away to meet their wyrd. Others would come back a hero. As of tonight, only the norns would know which was which.

A challenge came from the shoreline ahead, and Eofer exchanged a smile with Hemming as he recognised the anxiety which laced the voice. Ships rarely travelled at night, and then only if the need was great and the moon full or gibbous. The guard and his mates would have settled themselves in as cosily as they could, ready to see out a long night of boredom laced with apprehension. Eofer had stood watch in hostile lands and he knew the fears of the lone guard, but this was far worse. Were night-walkers watching them from beyond the circle of light thrown out by their signal fire? The mire at Needham lay only a few miles inland, a place of
dæmons
and
wicces.
This could be a ship of the dead sent by Hel, the half decayed hag of the underworld.

The thegn thought for a moment to stay silent and prolong the men's suspense but decided better of it. Spooked men were apt to throw sharp objects first and ask questions later. He cupped his hands and cried out across the frigid waters. “My name is Eofer king's bane. These are the men of my hearth troop, we are journeying to Needham. The white dragon flies at my masthead, you will see it when we come into the light of your beacon.”

As they watched, a troop of warriors, armed and shield bearing, appeared from the gloom and hastened to the first man's side. Bowmen arrived, fanning out to either side as they raised their war bows, nocked, and sighted along arrow shafts.

Thrush Hemming sniffed in the blackness. “Jumpy lot.”

The
Fælcen
was soon within the arc of yellow light thrown out by the pyre, and a small group clattered down a flight of wooden steps to the waterside as the ship entered the calmer waters of Needham Sound. As Sæward edged the scegth nearer the bank, the first warrior turned and raised his spear to the men above in a sign that all was well. Leaving his companions, he trotted down the remaining steps and threw them a smile. “Welcome to Needham, lord. Sorry about the edginess to our welcome, but the Danes have been raiding up and down the coast all year.” He spat. “Bastards, they'll get what's coming to them.” A rumble of voices from the
Fælcen
told the guard that he was not alone in his wish.

Eofer narrowed his eyes and peered into the glare as he suddenly realised that he recognised the man. “You were with us in Geatland,” he said. The guard drew himself up and grinned in surprise. “I was, lord!” Eofer clicked his fingers as he thought. Suddenly he had it. “Your name is Ecgfrith. You fought with Coelnoth's men.” The warrior beamed with pride, amazed that such an exalted figure would recall his face. “I did, lord! I still bore the others here with the tale of your father's champion, that big Swæffe bastard.”

Eofer grinned at the memory. “Wulfstan.”

Ecgfrith's eyes widened in surprise, and he leaned closer after glancing back at his companions who were still lining the lip of the bank. “Don't tell them that, lord,” he said, lowering his voice. “I have been calling him Wulfsige for years. They already pour scorn on my tale, and doubt that I was even there!” He straightened again. “Will you be sharing our fire tonight, lord? We've good ale and our own freshly smoked fish.”

Eofer shook his head. “Not tonight, Ecgfrith, we have to be out on the fen by dawn.”

The guard suppressed a shudder but kept his opinion to himself as he pointed along the waterway with the shaft of his spear. “Needham is still a few miles ahead but the sound should be navigable with this amount of moonlight.” They both glanced instinctively at the sky above them and the sliver of moon which lay to the South. The pillowy clouds of the day had moved away and the stars shone bright. “Once you are past the first mile or so it is arrow straight. Rune-carved columns mark the entrance to the river which leads up to the mire, you can't miss it.”

Eofer nodded his thanks and rested his foot on the gunwale as he turned to the rowers. “Let's get going.”

The youth pushed forward on their oars and watched Sæward for the signal. Raising his arm he hesitated for a heartbeat and let it drop. As one the blades dipped, stroking the scegth forward with barely a ripple to mark the surface.

Eofer turned to the bank as the ship moved back into the shadows. Cupping his hands to his mouth he called out to Ecgfrith, now watching from within a knot of his companions.

“Farewell Ecgfrith, shield-brother. Keep the edge on your blade keen. We will fight the king's enemies together again soon.”

The guda doused the brand with a hiss, and the troop drew close about their eorle as the shadows crept closer. Away to the East the first tinge of light, steel grey against the starry sky above, drew a line on the horizon as Shining Mane hauled the sun back towards the land of the English.

Eofer moved forward with the men of his duguth and knelt on the board which the stag-priest had thoughtfully provided for them. Cold dark water seeped over the edge to soak the knees of their trews anyway, but the thought had been there and the eorle appreciated the gesture as his eyes flicked between the guda and the distant horizon and he waited for the moment. The sky was lightening quickly now as the horse approached, and Eofer studied the holy man as the shadowy figure from the night before hardened by the moment. Crowned by a magnificent set of antlers, the hide of a stag fell in folds about the priest's body. Beneath the cowl of the beast's head, the man's face was marked by the runic spells which told all, god or man alike, that he was a leading exponent of his craft. Despite his appearance, the guda smiled warmly and gave the briefest of nods as the first spark of light told them that the sun had returned after the long night of the northern autumn.

Huge statues of the gods, deep carved and rune spattered, ringed the sacred space. Thunor, Ing, Woden the Allfather himself, their stern faces glowering over the worshippers below as the first glimmers of the dawn painted them pink.

The men of Eofer's troop placed their foreheads onto the offerings and closed their eyes as the priest's voice floated across the barren waste, dedicating them to the gods and asking for their favour in return. Opening his eyes again, Eofer leaned forward and lowered the sword blade beneath the blackened surface of the mere. As the waters closed about the weapon and it began to grow indistinct, the light played on the Christian cross which had been fixed into its hilt, and a memory of the Briton who had owned it flashed into his mind. A chieftain of his people, he had been a fool to place his faith in such a weak god. Not even a mail shirt and helm of the finest quality had saved him from the Englishman's fury, and Eofer hoped that the gift of such a fine blade would cause the true gods to smile on the adventure they were about to embark upon.

As the blade passed away from the realm of men, Eofer stood and placed his sword hand onto his brow, washing it with the sacred waters of the mere. As he stepped back the youth moved forward from their places and made their own offerings to the gods. Less impressive than those offered by their lord and the more senior members of the hearth troop, a wolf tooth charm, a treasured comb made from the antler of a hart, the items were valuable to their owners and the gods would recognise their sacrifice for what it was.

The sky above was changing by the moment as the horse galloped on. A hard magenta marbled pink to the East, the stars had been chased away there leaving the sole point of light which men called the morning star to wrestle for supremacy with the returning sun. Eofer sniffed. The tussle would soon be over, the day was upon them. A glance to the South as he imagined the Heathobeards pulling at their benches as their king led them north to war.