Fire & Steel (6 page)

“You can hit the sky!” he exclaimed sarcastically, “very impressive.”

Spearhafoc was already fitting another shaft to the string as Eofer glanced across his shoulder at the men following on. To a man they were raising their heads to follow the flight of the missile and the thegn hoped that the girl was not about to make a fool of herself. Looking back he saw that the shaft had reached the top of its arc as the head tipped down towards the earth. The arrow plummeted vertically into a thicker growth of sedge and immediately the air was filled with movement as a covey of quail exploded from cover. A shaft sped from Spearhafoc's bow and then another as the birds wheeled and climbed in all directions and Eofer watched as the first took a hen bird, its brown and tan plumage perfectly matched to its surroundings, full in the chest. As the body of the bird was punched back by the force of the blow, the second arrow plucked another from the air and sent it spinning away into the undergrowth. The quail had scattered now and Eofer watched as Spearhafoc nocked a final arrow, quartering the sky for what must be her final victim. One terror-stricken bird, its plumage a burnt orange as it caught the rays of the sun, had flown directly towards the men and Eofer watched in admiration as the girl hooked her foot into the bridle and leaned back until she was almost horizontal to the saddle. A sighting glance along her chest confirmed her aim and the arrow was away. The men of the column held their breath as the shaft and its target converged until, with a dip of its wing, the quail flashed past the arrow and made its escape.

At his side the girl spat a curse as the bird lost height and sheared off into a gully, and Eofer for the first time realised that the column had come to a halt as they watched her bowmanship. The spell broken, the men whooped and bawled their delight and Eofer turned to the girl and added his own praise at her efforts.

“That was fine shooting,” he laughed. “Was
that
the thing of wonder which you promised to show me this day?”

Spearhafoc was the centre of attention for perhaps the first time in her life, and she flushed with pride as she pointed to the road ahead.

“No lord,” she giggled self-consciously. “That awaits you just beyond that rise.”

FIVE

Crossing the stone bridge, Eofer had split the party into two and hobbled the horses. He would lead the first of the men forward along what was clearly a sacred way which curved towards the great megalith, dominating the skyline to the West. Despite the sanctity of the site and the eagerness of the men to visit its heart, he had been forced to post guards on their mounts. Ahead, in the near distance, the road ran below another of the hill forts which the old people had spread liberally across their land, and although Cerdic had assured them that the walls were held by men loyal to the house of Uther, it paid to take precautions. Hundreds of war horses would be enough to tempt any man, but the sight of three score English spears formed up in battle array should be enough to dissuade all but the most determined attackers he had reasoned.

The processional route ran from the place where the Afen took a great bow to the West, following the contours of the land as it arced uphill to the great monument. It was a plain which had clearly been one of the main centres of gods worship ever since men had walked the soil of Middle-earth. Scores of barrows littered the landscape, singly and in groups, testament to the age-old connection here between men and their gods.

Hemming walked at his side as Spearhafoc led them on, the young girl clearly fighting against the urge to move ahead faster as they travelled between the standing stones which marked the path.

Spearhafoc spoke, and the pride which she felt for the landscape shone through her words. “Have you anything to compare in your homeland, lord? My ancestors built everything that you see here with their bare hands.”

Eofer glanced at her and shook his head. “You are mistaken. Woden placed these stones here. He used spells and the great strength of his son Thunor to shape and move them into place at the beginning of time.”

The Briton looked doubtful but decided that her desire to remain within the group far outweighed any feelings of pride. There was a Jutish loom waiting for her in the South, and she decided to discover more about the beliefs of the big northerners and see how closely they tied in to those of her own people.

“Did Woden create everything, lord?”

“No, he was the son of a god and a giant.”

“So what came before?”

He looked down and, recognising that the Briton seemed to be genuinely interested in the ways of his people, decided to describe how the world had begun. The sun was hot now and a light breeze pushed downy clouds away to the North-East as he loosened his shirt and instinctively fingered his hammer pendant. A warrior life had led him to be as fatalistic as any man but it paid to ward off malevolent spirits, especially in such a place as this.

“At the beginning there was a great void, a place of silence and darkness. To the South lay the realm of fire and to the North, a world of ice. Where the cold air met the warm, the icy mist was warmed and droplets of water appeared. From these the giant, Tuisto, was born. His son, Mannus coupled with a giantess who bore him Woden. Woden killed Tuisto and created the Earth from his body.”

She pulled a wry smile. “You are not much of a story teller, lord, but I get the idea.”

Eofer exchanged a look with Hemming and the men laughed.

“No,” he admitted, “storytelling has never been one of my great strengths!” He enjoyed her company, and Eofer flashed her a smile as he finally resolved the question which he had turned over in his mind over the course of the last day. “As I have decided to admit you to my hearth troop, I will introduce you to a guda, one of our priests, when we reach Theodford. He can guide you in our ways.”

Spearhafoc's face lit up at the revelation, and she uttered her thanks as a life spent teasing wool and stirring great cauldrons of pottage receded into the shadows. The sacred way turned sharply south and conversation trailed away as Eofer saw that the monolith was near. Seen up close the great stones glowered over the surrounding countryside, and Spearhafoc lowered her voice as she spoke again.

“They are called the ringing stones, lord,” she explained. “I will show you why when we reach them.”

A single stone stood upright in the centre of the way, and the warriors removed their weapons before passing through a bank and ditch into the interior which contained the structures themselves. The men gathered around and listened to the Briton as she explained. “The final part of the causeway leads directly down to the heart of the ringing stones themselves. Belanus, The Shining One, rises on the summer solstice directly in line with the solitary stone which we passed, and the light floods down to fill the cup made by the central ring. The outer circle which surrounds them, the ringing stones themselves, represent the circle of life. At midwinter the sun sets directly in line with the sacred way and the energy captured and held within the circle at midsummer drains away, returning to Belanus, restoring the god's strength for the coming year and completing the circle.” She crossed to the nearest of the upright columns and fished out a small iron rod which hung at her neck. “Listen carefully,” she said as she leaned closer to the stone. Spearhafoc rapped the surface with the pendant and a high-pitched ringing sound carried to the awestruck men. She ushered in one of the warriors and handed him the pendant. “Let's see who has the gift among us.”

The men shuffled their feet nervously, exchanging sheepish looks until Imma Gold shook his head and threw a look of pity around the assembled warriors. “I will go first. Wyrd decides the days left to you, not god stones.”

They strained their ears as the duguth took the pendant and gave the column a sharp tap but no sound came. Imma shrugged and shot them a grin. “I'm not spooky. Who's next?”

One by one the men came forward, and the reluctance to volunteer receded as it became plain that none of the men possessed what the girl had called 'the gift'. Finally only Eofer remained and, confident now that he would not cause the stone to ring, the eorle took the iron shank and struck the upright squarely.

Eofer glanced back across his shoulder and cried out to his banner man as the dyke came into view. “Keep that
herebeacn
high Hræfen. I have ridden far too far to end the journey impaled on the point of an English spear.”

Back in familiar territory, the men of the eorle's war-band exchanged smiles and happy banter as they grew nearer to the great earthwork of
fleama,
its high ramparts bringing back memories of distant Sorbiodunum to the travel-weary column. As faces began to appear along the palisade which ran the length of the dyke and the great wooden doors were hauled inward in welcome, Eofer's mind ran back through the journey which they had just undertaken. It had taken them three days to wend their way along the great chalk spine which carried the ancient path called the Iceni Hill Way, and he chuckled at the memory of the first night. They had pitched up at another of the hill forts which seemed to litter the countryside in the southern part of the island as the sun sat low on the horizon. The bright glow in the west had hidden their identity for long enough to enable them to enter the fort before the small force there could close the gates to them, and they had spent a safe and comfortable night among the party of Saxons who had been tasked with defending the outpost by their Atrebatic overlords. Eofer snorted with amusement as he recalled the wariness of the garrison that evening as the Engle cavorted around them. They had had the look, as Hemming had described them full of beery cheer,
'of mice caught by a party of cats',
knowing that at any moment the captors could tire of the game and the claws would slide from their sheaths. Eager to have them on their way, the Saxons had promised to show the English the great white horse which had been carved into the hillside below the camp as it caught the dawn sunlight and, despite their doubts, the figure had proven to be a thing of wonder.

The vistas from the highest points of the chalky hills had been impressive, and Eofer had come to realise that he must be among the very first of the English to see so deeply into the heart of the new lands. If he had harboured any doubts before, he was certain now that this island of rolling hills and trackless woodlands held the future for his people.

The thegn responsible for the men at the portal came forward as the horsemen approached, and Eofer flashed a grin and called a greeting as the tall Englishman before him removed his helm and cradled it in his arm. “Long shanca,” he laughed. “Did they send your ugly face here to scare the
wealas
away?” Eofer slipped from his saddle, walking to greet his old friend with a smile. They shared an embrace and he saw that the men lining the palisade were grinning happily as they parted.

“Eadweard long shanca,” he laughed, “the terror of the Britons. Who did you upset to get sent here?”

Eadweard had fought in the war in which Eofer had killed the Swedish king, Ongentheow, earning the nickname king's bane. It was the same campaign which had resulted in Eofer's father-in-law taking the Geatish king helm. To his surprise his friend's expression became sombre.

“A lot has happened since you sailed south in the spring, Eofer. The British have been raiding all along the frontier. They have burned Grantebrycge and harried almost as far as Theodford itself.” As Eofer's mouth fell open in shock, Eadweard indicated the earthwork with a jerk of his head. “I am holding a forward position here at the fleama ditch while practically the rest of the able-bodied men available in Anglia are busy building what men are already calling the
miceldic
, the great ditch, six miles further up the way.”

Eofer squinted across to the West. There, a half dozen miles away, the sunlight sparkled on the nearest reaches of the great waste of the Reaping. A home to trolls, sprites, marsh goblins and the barbarous Britons known as the Gyrwe it was the perfect place to anchor a defensive ditch, but the eorle found that the need irked him like an ill-fitting shirt and his promise to Cerdic began to tug at his conscience.

A gleam entered Eadweard's eye as he looked across to the great column of horses and men which filled the Great South Road. “Your men look like they could use a drink or two. They will be pleased to discover that we have just been supplied. Come,” he said, clapping Eofer on the shoulder, “I will slaughter an ox and we will mark your safe return with a feast. It will give my lads a break from peering down the road looking for British war-bands.”

Eofer accepted gratefully, and soon the meadow in the lee of the earthwork rang with the sound of men glad to be home. As the great carcass of an ox sizzled and spat above the flames, Eadweard sank another horn of ale and shook his head sadly. “It's no good, king's bane, the time is coming when we need to decide whether we are to live in the old country or the new. We have too few warriors to defend our lands here
and
guard the homeland. The German Sea is too broad to enable one to come to the aid of the other if they come under attack.” He pointed to the edge of the great woodlands which lay to the East. “On the other side of that the Wulfings are settling the coastal heathland between the Gipping and the Aeldu and threatening to push both northwards and south towards Gippeswic itself. Even the Wealas are becoming over bold.” He spat in disgust. “I never thought that such a time would come, but unless King Eomær sends more warriors here...” He paused and held the eorle with his gaze to add emphasis to his words. “I am not the only one thinking of returning to my lands at home, Eofer, rather than skulk behind earthen walls. If that’s the only choice available to us, Anglia will have to be abandoned.”

The sea spray hung in the air as the bows rose again, a thousand droplets shimmering like pearls in the morning light. Eofer braced himself, his back resting in the curve of the stern, thrilling to the sight of the little ship as she breasted another wave before switching his gaze outboard to take in the remainder of the English fleet. Twenty ships this year would make the journey back to the motherland of the English, each ship with its cargo of warriors, hardened fighters who were desperately needed to defend the new lands, and Eofer's mind drifted back across the events of the previous week.

The summer was drawing on, the harvest in full swing, as they had rowed the
Fælcen
into mid stream and put the walls of Theodford behind them. It would still be another month or so before the apples were ripe enough to pick and he would be home long before then, ready to help gather in his own crop from the orchard which stood beside the brook. Other than the Briton, Eofer had been the only one among them who had caused the great stones to ring, and Spearhafoc had stuck to his side, doe-eyed with wonder. It had been, she had assured him, a sign from the gods of the old people that the Englishman had a great part to play in the future of the island. Eofer had assumed at first that they were confirming his decision to join Cerdic’s quest to unite the Britons, but the meeting with Eadweard had confirmed to him that it had been the Allfather and his son who had constructed the great monument after all. He was sure now that his wyrd was to help settle his own people in the new lands, even if that meant abandoning the motherland itself. Tiring of Spearhafoc’s adulation, Eofer had packed the girl off to the ealdorman's guda,
'to help you learn the ways of our gods'
. At first he had thought to leave without her, but she had proven to be a popular addition to the hearth troop and her prowess with the bow had saved her from that fate.

No word had reached the ealdorman at the town of the fate of Sæward and his youth and Eofer had begun to reluctantly accept that they were lost. The ship owners had been delighted to accept war horses in compensation for their lost vessels, and the men who had manned them had been sent on their way with purses groaning with silver and great tales to recount as they gathered about the hall fires and the winter nights drew in. It was treasure well spent, Eofer knew. Men would flock to his banner if he ever called again.

The snake ships of the homeward bound fleet had trickled away singly and in pairs from the western settlements as the leaves began to lose their summer sheen. Deep laden after the raiding season, the larger ships were forced to take the waters of the River Udsos north through the wild lands of the Reaping before sailing around the great sweep of the Anglian coast and steering a course for the South. Of a shallower draft, the
Fælcen
had followed the same river eastwards towards its headwaters, before taking the River Wahenhe directly to the East coast. The river spilled out into the great bay which sheltered beneath the walls of the old Roman fort the English called Cnobheresburg, and it was here that the fleet had assembled for the crossing to Engeln.