Fire & Steel (15 page)

Ducking under the sail, Eofer was pleased to see that the dark twins, Crawa and his brother Hræfen, were already set in the bows, their helmeted heads dipped below the level of the gunwale lest any light reflect and alert those ashore that this small boat which had suddenly appeared from the gloom contained anything other than a Danish latecomer.

Spearhafoc alone wore a cap of sealskin in the fashion of a seaman as she stood, foot braced against the prow, her head moving methodically from side to side as the youth marked her targets. Any Danes watching their approach would expect to see crewmen working the ship, not least a man in the bow to guide her to her berth. Eofer's lips stretched into a smile of admiration as he crouched and watched the young woman curl and uncurl the fingers of her right hand around the bowstring, the only outward sign of the nerves he knew must be plucking at her insides at the weight of responsibility which weighed on her young shoulders. Her longbow was held low in the shadow of the prow, an arrow nocked and ready to loose, as she waited for the moment which was coming closer with every heartbeat.

Eofer stole a look behind. The men were crouched in the lee of their lord, almost panting with excitement like wolfhounds at the slips, and he took a last look up at the sail, full and taut in the following wind as it billowed like a summer cloud in the light from the shore. At its head the blood red flag of Engeln whipped forward, now in plain sight, and Eofer's head snapped back for'ard as he realised that their identity must be revealed to the sleepy guards within the next few moments.

They were close enough now to make out details on the shore, and Eofer looked on with mounting excitement as the dark shape of a watchman rose from his place beside a brazier and moved towards them. Leaning forward, he was squinting into the gloom as he attempted to understand the actions of the strange ship which came on with no sign of the crew spilling the wind from its sail. Suddenly they saw the man start as he recognised the pennant which flew proudly above the little scegth and, within a heartbeat, Spearhafoc's bow came up and a shaft sped away into the darkness. The youth fitted another and swung to the left, the arrow whickering away as the bow swung back and she nocked and loosed again.

The spell broken, Eofer stood and watched as the first arrow found its mark, the watchman shooting backwards as if tugged by the hand of a giant. The metallic chinking of mail and arms to his rear told him that the men of his troop were rising from the scuppers and forming on their duguth. Each man, his weorthman
Thrush Hemming, Imma Gold, Osbeorn, Octa, knew their task, and the men gathered the youth assigned to them like hens with their brood as they waited for the
Fælcen
to strike home.

The fat bellied hulls of the cargo ships were now a line across their bows, rotten teeth jutting up from the cold mouth of the sound, as Sæward peered around the sheet and aimed her elegant prow between two of the fattest.

Another arrow found its mark and a dark shape tumbled into the waters from the stern of a nearby hull. Eofer placed a hand on the shoulder of the girl and she nodded that she understood without a backwards glance. The Danish hulls were now a rampart before them, and they braced as the scegth passed into the shadows and shouldered them aside, the prow rising in challenge to her fiend ashore as she wedged her narrow body tightly between her victims.

With a leap they were over the sides, pouring forward along the decks of the neighbouring ships and searching for their first opponents. The high pitched twang of a bowstring sounded at his elbow and another shaft sped away. Eofer watched the flight of the arrow as, a silvered dart in the glow of the dead watchman's fire, it flew to send another Dane tumbling down into the arms of Hel. Reaching the bows the eorle vaulted the gap and braced, the first to place his feet on the soil of Daneland. Swinging his shield forward, he hunched behind the board as he hurried across the open quay towards the road which led inland. A glance down and he smiled despite the tension of the moment as he saw the body of Spearhafoc's first victim sprawled on its back, the gory shaft of the arrow which had taken his life perfectly placed between his unseeing eyes.

A flash of light appeared to his left as a door was thrown open, but a glance told him that Octa and Oswin were there and the shadowy outline of the figure it contained crumpled as the spear thrust found its mark and the English pushed their way inside the building.

Thrush Hemming came up. “How far, lord?”

Eofer scanned the shadows for any sign of a threat as he replied. “Not far, the stud farm should be on the edge of the settlement.” He indicated a twin storied building at the head of the track, “just past that barn.”

They fanned out into a broad front as they jogged up the road to their goal. Eofer with Crawa and Hræfen proudly flanking their lord, Thrush Hemming to the right with Rand and Finn, Imma Gold to the left with his youth, Cæd and Æsc as Spearhafoc brought up the rear, her bow taut and ready to loose as she covered their backs.

The sound of crashing doors to the rear was replaced by that of splintering wood as any opposition from the houses lining the waterfront waned and Sæward and his boys hacked at the ships, preparing them for the flames to follow. Eofer passed from light back into darkness as he led the charge out of town and the flames from the watchman's brazier were left behind. The clouds were ragged now as they cleared away to the East and they caught their breath as an owl, huge and white in the light of the new moon, swept across their path with a lazy beat of its great wings. The bird foretold a death and Eofer seized the moment to round on his men with a grin. “The gods are watching us, lads. Let's give them something to remember us by.” Without waiting for a reply, Eofer rounded the barn but slowed to a halt, horror stricken at the sight which met his eyes.

FOURTEEN

Eofer glowered from beneath his battle helm. Cunningly worked, the four silvered plates depicted his moment of victory in war over the king of Swedes, beating down the old battle-boar Ongentheow, as his own brother Wulf lay prone and helpless at their feet; Woden riding down a foeman as the eagle and raven circled overhead. On the left-hand side spear men marched, shields held high to war and, above the left eye danced the wolf warriors, marking the Engle as a member of the warrior elite. Blood-Worm, the finest of blades, killer of kings, hung suspended from a magnificent baldric of fine red leather and gold, his spear, the finest in the company, pierced the sky. He looked, he was, an English eorle in his war glory. He turned to Thrush Hemming, his right-hand man in the clash of shields, the dance of spears, and spoke. “I feel an utter
cocc
!”

He glanced across to his weorthman as he shot into the air for what seemed like the thousandth time and his black mood cleared like autumn smoke. They had travelled more than a mile now and his duguth had clearly not yet mastered the rise and fall of the ass's movements. His arse was still hitting the rump of the beast each time it rose with a crash like Thunor's hammer. To add to the hilarity, Hemming's helm had worked loose under the strain and now bobbled about his head like an egg in boiling water, falling to cover first one eye and then the other as the animal trotted on. Hemming attempted to answer his lord, but the pounding on his rump defeated him. “I, I, I, I,...”

Eofer managed to gasp out a retort as he finally succumbed to the ridiculousness of the situation. “We haven't got time for singing, you arse. We are in the shit!” Both men laughed liked idiots, and the tension of the night evaporated as the laughter trailed away.

Eofer reined in and slid from the threadbare blanket which served as a saddle, massaging his rump and flexing his battered legs. He realised that Hemming's ass was still trotting on and called after him. “Thrush, I have stopped.” He watched as his duguth's arm moved up to push his helm away from his eyes and the man made a hasty grab for the reins as, already off balance, he crashed down into the animal's back again and was almost catapulted onto the track. “Stopped what?”

“I have stopped. I am standing on the roadway. I am not moving.”

Hemming leapt from the animal and gave it a vicious kick. “Thank the gods!”

He walked back towards his lord as he loosened his helm and drew it from his head. Running a hand through his hair, his teeth flashed in the moonlight. “We must be almost there, the woman said it was only a mile. Women have a habit of telling the truth when men with bloodstained spears are bouncing their bairns upon their knee.”

A shallow fold in the ground lay ahead and the men exchanged a glance. Both men knew that if the stud did not lay, as promised, on the other side of the rise they would have to retrace their steps and rejoin the men of the troop. The moon was transiting the sky and, although the dawn was still some way off, they were rapidly running out of time. The sky to the West was a crimson blush as the ships and buildings there met their fiery end, and Eofer felt a pang of remorse as his imagination threw up a picture of the harsh fate of the
Fælcen,
the scegth little more than a hulk, burned to the waterline.

Hobbling the animals, the pair trotted up the grassy slope. Reaching the top they exchanged a look which combined triumph and relief in equal measure as the moonlight revealed their goal. Before them lay King Hrothgar's stud, the unmistakable paraphernalia of a horse farm, tack and bridles resting on the fence tops of the half dozen neatly demarcated fields. Nestling at the northern end of the pasture a small hall had been built to accommodate the king and his men when they visited with a larger, more workaday building set to one side to house the men who worked the farm on a daily basis. Barns, stables and an exercise paddock completed the scene.

“There's no horses,” Hemming said with a hint of despair.

Eofer nodded towards the stables. “No, but the dung looks fresh. Come on let's get down there.”

Angling across the back slope, the pair regained the track and jogged across. The fold petered out as it approached the entrance to the estate and the Englishmen lowered their spears and searched the shadows as they passed through a gate and into the compound. Unable to bring their shields with them on the backs of the bouncing asses, each man swept their
gar
before them as they searched out their first victim. Heavier than the
daroth
, the slim shafted javelin used for hurling at the enemy, the gar was perfect for use in constricted places, shield walls and buildings, where there was little space to swing a sword or axe.

As the pair drew up before the hall, a Danish voice caused them to spin around anxiously as it hailed them from the stable entrance. “Are you looking for a horse, lord?”

Eofer had expected to find someone awake, even during the hours of darkness. The king's horses were valuable objects, they would be under guard constantly. “A shipload of Heathobeards have fired the docks. Our horses were killed under us so we made our way here. We must ride to Hroar's Kilde, an attack could be imminent at the docks there also.”

A look of unease flashed across the face of the Dane before he managed to suppress it and Eofer felt Hemming tense at his side.

“I will go and wake some of the lads, lord,” the Dane said. “They will have you mounted and on your way in no time.”

Eofer moved to block his path as he smiled disarmingly. “There's no need, we can saddle a horse. Time is important, an attack could come at any time.”

The guard lowered his own spear and shuffled back into the shadows, drawing a breath as he prepared to shout for help. Eofer and Hemming started to make a desperate lunge to silence the Dane but they froze in surprise as a look of shock and horror crossed the man's face and the bloody point of a spear punched clear of his throat. His own spear clattered to the ground as, tottering and wheezing, the Dane's hands went to his neck as the air which would have carried his cry for salvation bubbled from the wound in a darkening froth. The spear point slid from sight as a hand clasped itself around the Dane's mouth and he was tugged bodily back into the shadows. As Eofer and Hemming exchanged a look of surprise the spear man finally emerged into the light.

“Your accent is shocking, lord, but you might have got away with it.” He turned and spat at the body of the Dane. “This one's not too bright, that's why he is guarding horses while the better warriors are in the South.” He tapped at his shoulder. “He noticed this though, you may as well have spoken in English. Danes don't wear square headed brooches, theirs are always round.”

Eofer finally found his tongue. “You're English?”

The man nodded. “Yes, lord. My name is Grimwulf.” A look of savage delight came upon him as he aimed a kick at the Dane's body. “I was a thræl here until a few moments ago.”

“Are there any more guards here, Grimwulf?”

“One out the back. I will take care of him, he won't suspect anything until it's too late.” Grimwulf indicated the halls with a flick of his head. “There are only a dozen thræls left in the hall, lord. No English, mostly Saxons. Good with horses the Saxons. The warriors left the day before yesterday.”

“Will these Saxons fight?”

He nodded eagerly. “To a man, lord.”

Eofer began to relax. The wheel of fortune was beginning to turn his way again after the shock at the first farm. To round a barn and come face-to-face with a field of turnips when you had staked the life of yourself and every man with you on finding a stock of fine hunters had been a low point in his many years of raiding, around the rim of the German Sea and beyond. “Take care of the guard and then round up your friends, Grimwulf. We will make a start saddling up the horses.”

They walked forward into the stable as Grimwulf stooped to slide the dead Dane's dagger from its scabbard before melting into the darkness. Hemming let out a low whistle of appreciation. “If this is where he keeps his horses, I can't wait to see Heorot.” The central passageway was lined by dozens of stalls, the sweet equine smell adding a pleasant air to the place. The tack room led off to one side of the big double doors, and Hemming threw a saddle across each shoulder as Eofer examined the mounts. Most were awake now and they lowered their heads as the eorle passed by with a gentle stroke of their muzzles. He made a quick calculation: “Thirty.”

Hemming came up and shifted the weight of the saddles he carried on each shoulder. “We'll need them all, lord, if we have just doubled the size of our war-band. Wait until Grimwulf returns and he can show us the king's two horses.” He shot his eorle a smile. “Hrothgar's bound to have a remount, and we did do all the hard work!”

They were away as soon as the horses were ready. The men who had come from the hall, despite the bemusement at the sudden change in their fortunes which had stolen upon them in the night, looked a tough bunch. Eofer was elated as they thundered back through the gateway and took the road towards the smear of red which marked the death of the dockyard. Pausing only to let a gleeful Hemming stop to give his previous mount a parting kick, they were back with the men of Eofer's troop in no time. The unexpected arrival of a dozen mounted men caused a moment of panic among them, but Eofer looked on with pride as Imma Gold formed a bord-hedge with a clatter of shields and roared out a challenge. Imma beamed as the brawl of riders cantered into the light and he recognised the men at their head. He strode proud of the line. “Welcome back, lord.” He ran a questioning gaze across the new additions to their ranks and looked back to Eofer.

“More spears for our wall,” he explained as he ran a calming hand along the neck of his mount. “Saxons mostly, but Saxons with a score to settle. Dangerous men if you are Dane.” He called out to Grimwulf and the man urged his mount forward with a practised squeeze of his thighs. “Yes, lord?”

“Grimwulf, This is Imma Gold, my duguth. How disciplined are your Saxon friends?”

“Many of them have fought in the South, in Frankland and Britannia. They were all free men so they are used to spear work, but they are all first-rate horsemen too lord.” He pulled a wolfish smile. “You can count on them, they are good lads.”

“And you?”

“I grew up on a horse farm among the Mercians, but got bored and ran away to sea when I was a youth.” He screwed up his face in embarrassment as he finished his tale. “A big storm and we were wrecked on the shore here. So I ended up back with the horses, except now I get to sleep on the floor and eat leftovers.” He gave an ironic chuckle. “You can't cheat your wyrd, lord. I was meant to look after horses and that's that.”

Eofer nodded, satisfied, and walked his mount back to the Saxons, stifling a smile at the look of wonder which still painted their features. They had gone to sleep a few short hours ago as thræls, the lowest of the low. Now they were saddled on the Danish king's horses and free men once again.

“I can use your spears. Are you with me?”

The men roared their acceptance as one, and Eofer pointed out Imma as he mounted his stallion.

“That man is Imma Gold. He will lead you tonight against our common enemy. Mark him now, you will follow his every instruction.”

Eofer turned back to Grimwulf. “Do you know the fastest road to Hleidre?”

Grimwulf flashed a smile. “Fastest or quietest, lord?”

Eofer pursed his lips and looked at the moon. It was a good way across the star scattered vault but the sky horse, Frost Mane, still had a way to go before it had finished its work for the night and hauled it beyond the Earth's rim. A quick glance to the East confirmed that no light yet fell from the shining one's mane to colour the horizon there. Imma Gold had barked out his instructions and he led the Saxons away with a noise like thunder. The flash of a grin, and a cry for gods-luck swallowed by the din.

Eofer regarded his own troop, now set in their saddles awaiting his word, and his heart swelled with pride. He touched the hilt of Blood-Worm and swore that he could sense the eagerness in the blade as it awaited the night's work to come. His eyes narrowed as he caught the mood. “Let's go the quick way.”