Fire & Steel (14 page)

THIRTEEN

The serpent prow tasted the air as it emerged from the fog bank and sought its prey. A moment of anxiety as his hand moved instinctively to the hilt of Blood-Worm was followed by a whistle and a smile as the white dragon of Engeln followed at the masthead.

Sæward spoke. “Is that her?”

“Let's hope so,” Eofer murmured in reply. “If a ship thegn can find a scegth in this he can find anything!”

Coming about, the big snaca turned her bows towards the
Fælcen
, and Eofer watched as a crewman hauled himself onto the prow and shielded his eyes against the glare.

“Who are you?”

“Eofer, king's bane.”

“Where bound?”

“On the king's business.”

The air between them shone like mail as the moisture held suspended within it reflected the sun's rays. Eofer watched as messages were passed back and forth along the big ship. At his rear Sæward was ordering the sail shortened and Bassa and Beornwulf jumped to the task, hauling at the braces and spilling the wind from the sheet. On the snake ship two crewmen rushed forward to fit the beiti-ass to the lower edge of the sail, tautening the sheet as the ship tacked and beat to windward. The man in the bows called out again. “We are coming across, lord.”

Eofer raised his hand in acknowledgement as the stern of the longship finally emerged and begun its swing to steerbord. The steersman was visible now, and Eofer and Sæward watched as he worked the big paddle blade and brought the great ship onto its new heading. They exchanged a look as the snaca overhauled them, and the eorle chuckled as his steersman mumbled a few grudging words of praise for the work of his opposite number. With a nod to Bassa and Beornwulf, the lads squared the spar, shook out the sail and sheeted it home. The
Fælcen
leapt forward again, and they laughed for the joy of it as the fanged head bobbed up on the bæcbord beam.

Sæward spoke as the crews came abreast of each other and ribald shouts flew between them. “She's a fine ship. The
Fælcen
is no slouch, but I think that they have the legs of us.”

The steering platforms came abreast and the
scipthegn
gripped the gunwale and hailed them.

“My name is Eadward, welcome to Harrow. Are you heading in?”

“Not until we reach Wodensburh, Eadward. How far north does this fog stretch?”

The man glanced up and pulled a face. Square jawed and russet haired, Eadward’s weatherworn features told the tale of a lifetime at sea. Clad in a red leather battle-shirt and tawny cloak, the man looked every inch the tough guardian that the English coast needed during these troubled times.

“It's patchy, Eofer” he said. “This wind is getting up and will drive it away soon, but the passage here winds about like a drunken sailor. My steersman knows these waters better than any man alive. If you have no objection we will shadow you until you leave the Belt.” He shot them a grin. “The Jutes would love you to pitch up on their shore opposite. It's easily done in weather like this, even if you know these waters well.”

Eofer nodded and the snake ship's steersman widened the distance between them with a flick of the paddle blade. Within the hour the mist had left them and the English ships were shaving the crests as the wind drove them on. Clear of the Belt they dipped their flags in farewell as the bigger ship bore away, spear points glinting in the pale light of the sun as the crews cheered their countrymen and wished gods-speed.

Sæward spoke again as the
Fælcen
came about and pointed her bow to the East. “I take it all that about Wodensburh being our destination was a load of guff.”

Eofer's mind came back as images of men tumbling from ships onto the strand, forming up and moving inland as lines of smoke stained the sky, faded. Two days' sail to the South the first men had died. Chaos would reign in Heorot as Hrothgar summoned his jarls and struck out to face the invader. He tried to force a smile but none would come, the fire of battle was already kindling in his blood. Wulf, his only brother, was awaiting the Dane's blade in that famous hall but they were in for a surprise. The axe would fall on them.

A veiled lightening over their distant homeland in the West was all that could be seen of the sun as the little
Fælcen
put the island of Hesselo behind her and headed south into the bight which carried its name. The first Danes had died there, put to sword and spear despite their brave stand against numbers, but they had something which the English raiders needed, and their lives were the price. Thrush Hemming spat over the side as he shaped the feelings of the crew into words. “Tangles my guts to see that at the mast top of the old girl.”

Eofer looked up at the white boar flag of Daneland as it whipped out to the East in the gusting wind and felt a tinge of shame, almost as if he had dishonoured an old friend. The scegth had been a gift from his father the day he had danced the dance and become a wolf-warrior. She had carried him far and wide across the sail-road through wind and storm, always emerging unscathed when bigger ships, grander ships, had been reduced to driftwood. The men of his duguth clustered around their eorle as they reminisced on old times, sharing memories of raids into the heart of Frankland and Britannia, the shallow draught of the ship taking her to places where no English raider had a right to be and bringing them safely away, rich in plunder and reputation. His fingertips lovingly caressed the gunwale as they began their final voyage together and the banter swirled around him.

The weather had turned as the wind had shifted and serried ranks of cloud, dolphin grey, pressed about the masthead. Suddenly a spear of light stabbed through the murk to paint the distant coast of their enemy as the little ship drove on, and a passage from the work of a scop came into his mind.

Then a light shone from Logafell and from that radiance came bolts of lightning;

wearing helmets at Himinvangi came the Wælcyrge.

Their byrnies were drenched in blood;

and rays shone from their spears.

The fighting in Daneland had already begun. Tonight he would stab at its heart.

Sæward chewed his lip as his eyes flicked from left to right and back again. Pumping the big wooden handle of the steer bord he almost whimpered in his anxiety. “It's going to be tight.”

The thin white line had rapidly grown to fill their vision as the breakers dashed the shore with a noise like thunder. Pushed south and west by the unfamiliar currents, the steersman had had to use all of his skill to even wrestle a chance of life. They were the gods' plaything and Eofer watched as Spearhafoc, braced in the bows, sent a silvered object spinning into the darkness. The
Fælcen
shuddered as her keel scraped the bottom, but the next wave lifted her off and she slid over the rocky finger of land as she shot the point and entered the bay.

Sæward exchanged a look with his eorle as the blood-drained faces of the crew showed white in the gloom. “Never a doubt.”

Eofer laughed and clapped his duguth on the shoulder as the shallow hulled scegth gave them their lives and put the headland behind her.

The last tack to the West, although almost fatal, had carried them clear of the fortress which crowned the promontory opposite. Lights flickered beyond a grove of masts, and Eofer's gaze picked out the figure of Spearhafoc as the youth settled back into her place by the mast step. The gods could not have brought them safely through the Danish defences any better if Wade himself had been steersman and he called across to her. The girl pushed herself to her feet and skipped the thwarts to the steering platform.

“Yes, lord?”

“What did you sacrifice?”

Spearhavoc pulled a wry face. “My seax, lord.”

“The one I gave you?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I bend my knee at no other gift-stool but your own, lord. Besides,” she offered with an impish smile, “whether Wade took it from my dead body or as a willing sacrifice, he seemed set to own the blade anyway.”

Eofer snorted at the youth's black humour. Unbuckling the scabbard from his belt he handed his own seax across to the wide-eyed girl. “Here, strap this on. You may need it tonight.” She made to protest but he held up a hand as the men of the duguth looked on in admiration. “I will take one from a dead Dane. It is in my mind that the friendship of the gods is far more important than any blade, and you deserve it. Well done.”

As the youth proudly buckled on her new blade and returned to her friends, Eofer caught the eye of Thrush Hemming and saw his own thoughts reflected there. The young woman promised much, he would make a point of watching her actions in Daneland and decide then. If she survived.

The fortress was well astern now and no challenge had carried to them across the calmer waters of the bay. Points of light showed along each shoreline as the fjord opened out to its full extent, and Eofer marvelled at the width of the inland sea. He turned to Sæward but the steersman anticipated his question as his eyes strained to pierce the darkness.

“About ten miles at its widest, lord,” he said. “It will narrow down in about an hour to a big, low lying island. Skirt that and we are into the run in.”

Eofer nodded. “I am going to run through things with the youth. When we pass this island I will relieve your boys at the lookout and braces and let them know that they will be walking home.” He flashed a mischievous smile. “That should please them!”

Eofer walked to the lip of the steering platform and called the men to him. Desperate now for an inkling of the task which lay ahead of them, the youth crowded forward as the men of the duguth, already privy to the details of the raid, hung back. Their eorle clenched his fist as he spat out the words he had ached to say openly since the day at the hunting lodge. “My brother Wulf still lives!” As the youth exchanged looks of excitement he continued. “All of you have heard the story of how he disappeared from the strand near Godmey, fighting against overwhelming numbers of Danish raiders. As you know, he was forced to launch an attack with the men of his hearth troop before help could come up. His men died bravely on the beach, but Wulf was observed from the cliffs to board the ship and take the fight to the enemy there.” The corners of his mouth turned up into a smile as he was finally able to reveal Starkad's information to them. All but Spearhafoc knew Wulf and the men of his troop well. Despite the deaths they would be almost as keen to snatch his brother away and avenge their fallen friends. “He is being kept at Hrothgar's hall until the time of the winter blod. The Danes mean to sacrifice him to the honour of the gods, but we are going to replace that offering with fire and steel.” He grinned as an animated chatter rolled through the group. At the margins, the men of the duguth beamed. “King Ingeld of the Heathobeards launched an attack on the southern coast of Daneland two days' hence. That is enough time for Hrothgar to have summoned his jarls and rushed south to meet the threat. Our task is to rescue Wulf and cause as much chaos and mayhem in the Danish rear as we can.” Eofer's eyes shone bright as the youth craned their necks and awaited the details of his plan. “Listen carefully, this is what we are going to do.”

Free of the channel, the
Fælcen
drove south.

“Bassa, get that rag down and run up the White Dragon!”

Wide grins spread across the faces of the crew as they paused at their preparations, relishing the moment that the hel-black flag of the Danes was lowered and the scarlet war flag of the English shot to the mast top. Spear tips stabbed out as the dark banner was passed around and soon the white boar at its centre was a shredded mess.

“Toss that thing overboard,” Eofer snarled as the war-fire coursed through his veins. “You know your places, go to them now.” He turned to Spearhafoc and clapped her on the shoulder. “Get yourself up into the prow, and remember,” he said. “Keep your eyes away from any lights as well as you are able. It is important that we get ashore with as little opposition as possible.” The youth rolled her eyes and he snorted as she bent the stave to the bowstring and scampered away into the gloom. She was an experienced hunter, a night stalker, and the advice had been unnecessary, but it amused him to give it anyway.

The whole success of the raid could very well depend on the initial landing. If they could fire the ships and buildings on the waterfront and make their escape they would be well on the way to fulfilling their aims. If the little scegth with its distinctive red banner was spotted on its approach by an alert guard and the alarm raised, they may have to fight their way ashore. The Danes, although reduced in number, would be on edge as they awaited news of the fighting in the South. The War-Beards' actions were a double-edged sword. They could die, there and then.

Eofer glanced up at the war flag and considered lowering it again but the pride which filled him forbade it. Rippling forward, its white dragon glimmering in the steel-like sliver of the new moon, the great arms of the beast seemed to be reaching out to grasp its enemies. He could not deny the trusty old
Fælcen
such a glorious death after all they had been through together. Dismissing the thought as unworthy, he put the fear out of his mind. If the Danes came, they would kill them; on the waterfront or in the streets it made little difference.

The course set, the wind blowing steadily abaft, Sæward was in a huddle on the steering platform with his lads. Eofer shot them all what he hoped was a wink of encouragement as they rushed to don mail and helm, their shipborne duties all but done as far as the little
Fælcen
was concerned.

The smattering of lights on each beam were rapidly drawing in on the ship as the waterway funnelled them down to the landing place. They had been told to expect to find a dozen or so small craft moored there for the winter and, as the
Fælcen
cleared the final headland and swept down on the anchorage, Eofer clenched his fist with joy as the brazier of a distant watchman revealed the dark shapes herded together at the quayside. He turned to Sæward and, gripping forearms, they exchanged a look which required no words before Eofer went for'ard. The men of his hearth troop held their spear and sword points forward as he passed, and their eorle drew Blood-Worm with a flourish, touching blades together in an act the English called
bindung
, the binding.