Dayraven Page 8

  A heartbeat later an arrowhead punched through the linden board and on into Ealhstan's eye socket. Hygelac gasped in disbelief and horror as the arrowhead exploded from the rear of his helm, a gruesome soup of blood, bone and brain tissue spattering his shocked friends.

  Glancing back to the front he snatched his head to one side as another shaft whickered past, the fletching gently kissing his cheek as it flew past to embed itself deep in the shoulder of the man to his rear. Hygelac dropped instinctively into a crouch as the deadly darts snatched at man after man. Thankfully the strange riders were relatively few in number and Hygelac watched as the column broke to left and right as they snatched up another arrow from the large quiver which bounced at their knees.

  The bowmen rode along the length of the Geat shield wall, marking their targets and loosing each shaft with deadly accuracy. For the men of the front ranks there was nowhere to hide from the wicked arrow storm and Hygelac watched, powerless, as some of his finest warriors tumbled forward like newly cut hay.

  A voice came at his shoulder and he tore his gaze reluctantly away from the carnage developing to either side of his position to find that Wulf had moved instinctively in to protect his lord.

  “They are Huns, lord,” he explained. “Some of the Frisian warriors described them to us when we were down in Domburg that summer with Ealdorman Beowulf.”

  As they watched, the Hun column reached the ends of the shield wall and the leading riders started to trot back to the rear.

  “Is that it?” Hygelac asked desperately, as he tried to comprehend the amount of damage which one pass had caused to their ranks. He was disappointed but not surprised to learn that the assault was far from over as Wulf grimly shook his head.

  “They will form into two great counter-rotating circles and make several passes until their arrow supply is exhausted.”

  Hygelac looked at his hearth warrior in horror.

  “We will all be dead by that time!”

  Wulf shrugged.

  “There are only two things that we can do to survive the power of those bows, lord. The obvious one is run away, and we are not going to do that are we!” he smiled encouragingly.

  The first glimmer of hope since the Huns had arrived began to kindle in the king as he realised that Wulf may have an answer to the death-dealing Hunnic bowmen, but a quick glance back to the front confirmed that the leading elements had almost completed their circle and were approaching again. He looked back to Wulf and shot him a wry smile.

  “Well, you either share this secret very quickly,” he replied, “or else you will find yourself standing at the far end of the bridge alone!”

  Time was short and although he had sent runners along the rear of the line to shout out the information which Wulf had shared with him Hygelac knew that most would never get to learn the secret, if that was what it was, of how to face down the terrible Hunnic bows before they too fell. He dropped his sturdy stabbing spear, his framea, and snatched up a handful of lighter angon from the place where they had been stacked to hand earlier. Hefting his shield Hygelac motioned to his companions to remain where they were and advanced alone onto the crest of the bridge.

  Now in full view of all on the battlefield, the Geatish king planted his feet firmly and, splaying his arms, he raised his shield and spear as he cried a challenge to the onrushing Huns.

  “I am Hygelac, son of Swerting, Woden born.

  Your arrow storm holds no fear for us!

  These are not Francs who stand in proud ranks before you now but Geats.

  Ride in to your deaths little men!

  Hygelac shifted lightly on the balls of his feet as the men in the shield wall roared their support. He had to get this right or he would resemble a giant hedgehog in moments. Moving his shield down across his body he left his head uncovered and pushed the board forward until it was one foot from his chest but moving freely and waited. Ahead, the first of the Huns nocked the arrow to his bowstring and raised the weapon as he came on. Hygelac concentrated hard as he watched the point of the arrow come up until it was aimed directly at his head. Fixing the bowman's lips with his stare, he waited for the man to take the breath which would indicate that he was about to release the arrow. He found that he really did need to blink but he dare not, it would in all probability cost him his life.

  There!

  As the Geatish king stared intently the lips of the nearest Hun pursed slightly. Hygelac knew that the bowman was gently expelling the air from his lungs as he prepared to release and the moment that he recognised movement from the bowstring he began to flick the wrist which held the shield upright. A heartbeat later the arrow thudded into the thick, leather covered board and punched through, inches from Hygelac's face.

  Deflected by the upward, twisted movement, the shaft of the arrow lodged firmly in the body of the shield and hung there, impotently. Hygelac shifted his weight and concentrated on the following bowman, repeating his success as the frustrated Huns moved off to left and right. Satisfied that the men in the watching shield wall would learn from his example, Hygelac weighed the angon in his right hand, shifting it slightly as he sought the point of greatest balance. Instinctively aware of the moment he found it, Hygelac swatted away the following arrow and launched his counter attack.

  The last attacker was wheeling his mount to the right as he reached down to snatch up another shaft from the quiver which bounced on his mount's fore quarter. A lightning fast glance to his left confirmed that the following Hun was not yet in a position to launch his attack , his bow still hanging down at his side as his horse trotted forward with its strange, shuffling gait.

  Now!

  Hygelac opened his body and, drawing back his arm, took aim on the Hun as he straightened up and concentrated on nocking his next arrow. The king's arm flew forward and the angon shivered across the intervening gap. As the Geats watched, a primeval sense of danger caused the rider to glance back at the figure of the king and his expression just had time to register a look of horror before the point of the angon transfixed his neck and emerged from the other side in a spray of blood. The man's hands clutched automatically at his neck as he slid slowly from view to the accompaniment of wild cheering from the watching Geats.

  As Hygelac danced back to rejoin his companions on the near side of the bridge further cheers rose into the sultry afternoon air as Geatish angon began to fly out to take increasing numbers of Huns. Soon the warriors began to pair up, one man with a shield and one with a supply of angon. Working together the Geat casualties began to fall as those of the Huns rose steadily until, finally, the Hunnic riders broke their circles and retired back towards the Francish army at the foot of the meadow.

  Hygelac removed his helm and swept the sweat soaked hair back from his face, blinking the stinging rivulets from his eyes. Thurgar grinned and held a cup of ale forward for his lord and Hygelac savoured the taste as it worked to refresh his parched throat. Finishing he belched and grinned at the crowd of smiling faces which surrounded him.

  “Well, that was fun after all!” he exclaimed. “Who wants to go and look at a Hun?”

  Hygelac led the men of his comitatus across the bridge and over to the nearest Hunnic corpse. The angon still pierced the bowman's neck as he lay sprawled upon the grass, and Hygelac indicated to Tofi that he turn him over onto his back with a flick of his head. Tofi ambled across and, with his knee planted firmly on the dead man's back, withdrew the angon with a soft sucking sound. They all crowded around as Tofi heaved the body over and snatched the man's fur hat from his head.

  “If it wasn't for you Thurgar,” Hygelac whistled, “I would have had to say that that is one of the most unusual looking bastards that I have ever seen!”

  They all marvelled at the features on the first Hun which they had seen who was no longer actively trying to kill them. The high cheekbones and narrow eyes were familiar to them from the volva, the holy woman, at the temple back in Geatland. She shared many of the bowman's features, including the h
air colour which was as black as any night. Wulf was the first to speak.

  “He looks like the volva, Kaija.” Tofi raised his eyebrow wickedly. “Well, not as beautiful!” he laughed. “Do you think that the Huns are from the North too?”

  Hygelac shrugged.

  “They could be. Not too far north though,” he added. “That is where the frost giants live.”

  They all nodded at their king's wisdom as a loud roar carried up to them from the lower meadow. They looked across as one to see that the Francs were finally set in their divisions, a rippling wall of leather and steel which shimmered in the warm afternoon sun. Above each rank clouds of multicoloured standards stirred easily in the fitful breeze of a perfect summers day.

  Hygelac glanced around his men, the men of his personal comitatus, the finest warriors on the field and found that they were almost to a man staring wistfully at the sky. He had seen the look many times before but this time, for the first time ever, he felt the same compunction to drink in the beauty of middle earth for the final time. It was as if men who realised that they were about pass from this world finally realised the beauty which had surrounded them throughout their lives while they had fretted and worried about trivial things. High above in the cobalt sky, a lone eagle circled slowly on ragged wings whilst in the treetops of the copse which anchored the Geat line to the east a murder of crows was gathering for the feast to come.

  So, not all things here are beautiful. Bastards!

  A passage from a long forgotten performance by a travelling scop came into his mind as he watched the dark birds bickering in the canopy.

  The field flowed with the blood of warriors, from sun up in the morning when the glorious star gilded over the earth, till that noble creation sank to its seat.

  There lay many a warrior by spears destroyed, northern men shot over shield, weary, war sated.

  They left behind them to enjoy the corpses the dark coated one, the horny-beaked raven, and the dusky-coated one, the eagle white from behind, to partake of carrion, greedy war-hawk, and that grey animal the wolf in the forest.

  Grimly Hygelac retrieved the angon which had been pulled from the neck of the Hunnic bowman and turned to go. It would make a fitting gesture to Woden, the Lord of Battle, if he used a weapon which was covered in the fresh blood of his enemy and dedicated the coming slain to the god with it. He did after all hope to feast in Woden's hall this night. He called to the others and started to walk back to the bridge.

  “Come on boys, back we go. It looks as though we will have more guests to entertain soon.”

  Thurgar pulled a roguish grin.

  “I hope that they have brought their own ale. I don't think that I laid enough in for that many guests, lord!”

  They all gave a fatalistic laugh. None of them expected to see another day but, if they had been asked at any time in the past how they wished to end their days then fighting at the head of the army in a foreign land, shoulder to shoulder with their friends and king against impossible odds would have been most warriors ideal.

  Thurgar squinted over to the West where the sun was beginning its long dip down to the world's rim. The ships of the fleet were just over there, safely coasting the waves of the German Sea, but in reality they may as well have been back in Geatland. Even if they could return they would most likely die alongside their trapped countrymen and the nation would fall as one of their neighbours, the Swedes, the Jutes or even the Heatho-Reams could gobble them up in their weakened state.

  “Do you think that we will make it to the night, lord?” Thurgar asked as they regained their old position. Hygelac rubbed his beard as he thought. The time for soothing words of encouragement had long gone by, his men knew and deserved the truth, he recognised.

  “It's difficult to say, Thurgar. The wolf does seem to chase the sun down earlier here but it is just past the solstice so...” he shrugged as he left the conclusion hanging in the air. In truth he doubted it, but it was possible.

  “If Hromund can hold the lower bridge, maybe. If not…”

  The ealdorman passed around the barrel of ale and waited patiently as his most experienced warriors drank their fill. The fighting had been heavy at the bridge all day as the Frisians, bent on revenge for their humiliation earlier in the summer and the depredations which they had suffered during the campaign, threw themselves repeatedly at Hromund's dwindling forces. Finally the barrel had completed its circle and Hromund hungrily gulped down the warm sticky liquid, closing his eyes in pleasure as the drink sated his raging thirst. Fighting was tiring and thirsty work and it felt as though they must have been fighting forever.

  Hromund tossed the empty barrel to one side and looked gravely at the four dishevelled warriors gathered around him as he began.

  “We can't hold here much longer, we all know that. None of us will see this night but the Allfather has given us the chance to decide the manner of our deaths. You four are the most experienced warriors here and I would value your opinions.” He flicked his head in the direction of the man on his immediate right. Ulf had fought in the great battles against the Swedes outside Edet, the battle they came to know as Sorrow Hill. Later he had been one of the warriors of Beowulf's 'brotherhood' which had sailed to Dane Land and killed the monsters. Ulf still proudly wore the ring on his sword hilt which marked him out as one of that famous band and he shrugged and looked about him before turning back to Hromund with a wry smile.

  “This looks as good a place as any, lord. If we pull the remaining men back to the bridge we can deny them passage to the king for as long as possible.”

  Hromund nodded thoughtfully as each man had their say. Finally they had all spoken and he looked around them and smiled.

  “Well I agree with all of you, this is as good a place to die as any.” He cast a look to either side as he spoke. The Fris were preparing to launch boats filled with warriors about one hundred yards up and downstream of the bridge and he had to grudgingly respect the thinking behind the move. Their numbers were too few now to defend the entire stretch of the bank and to send men that far away from any means of support would only invite their annihilation and weaken the main position at the same time.

  “Ulf, spoil the food in the wagons and get as much of the ale onto the bridge as you can. We may as well go singing!” he laughed. “When I give the word pull the remaining men in from the flanks and form a perimeter around this side of the bridge. At least we can force them to use boats to get their army across the river. It will delay them falling on the rear of the king's position as long as possible. It's the best we can do for them now.”

  Hromund moved forward and clasped each man's forearm in turn as a cry of alarm carried across from the warriors facing the town. They all looked across to see the flags and banners of the Frisians bobbing forward above the heads of the Geat defenders and Hromund's expression changed to one of steely determination. He heft his shield and turned towards the bridge.

  “I think that it is time to go and forge our reputations.”

  10

  Beowulf and Unferth reined in at the entrance to the tree lined valley and watched as the sea of people flooded around them. Beowulf chuckled and turned to the Danish warloca.

  “We had best hurry or we shall have to file in with everyone else and may never reach the Irminsul. You have seen how bloody minded these Saxon freeling are if they think that their personal rights are being ignored.”

  Beowulf clicked his tongue and the mount responded immediately. Edging through the throng they made their way slowly down the wide sunlit pathway until a gentle turn to the left suddenly brought them within sight of the five great ridge stones which the Saxons called the 'God Wall.' Rising abruptly from the valley floor the sandy coloured columns climbed above the surrounding trees, towering, Beowulf estimated, to a height of one hundred feet or more.

  Cola and Hrafn edged their horses past as they moved forward to clear a path for their lord, their size and obvious potential for sudden violence helping to c
urb the Saxons' unmistakable desire to protest. Once they had passed the bottleneck created by a pair of giant rune-carved columns which seemed to mark the boundary of the Osning the crowds fanned out and the going became easier.

  They had left the hall of the Saxon thegn, Eadred, soon after first light that morning. Waldhere and his men had remained behind, helping to replace the men they had witnessed the previous day hastening to the Francish border, and a steady day's ride on good roads had brought them to the town of Theotmalli. As promised the town had been a maelstrom of activity and they had hurried on, following the crowds which were streaming along the road which led west into the Osning, for that night's midsummer celebrations.

  After the many delays which they had experienced on their journey through the lands of the Saxons it was with some relief that Beowulf and Unferth could finally begin to relax, confident that they would reach the Irminsul in good time.

  The wide grassy plain which led up to the god wall was bounded on the northern side by a large lake and they made their way across. The crowds had not reached this point yet and they dismounted and surveyed the area as the horses drank noisily.

  Cola reluctantly hurried off to report their presence to the volur, the seeress who practised at the shrine, as they examined their surroundings. Ahead of them the vast majority of worshippers were heading for an ancient oak tree of enormous size which was obviously the Irminsul. Its age worn trunk towered above the surrounding trees, the gnarled features thrown into sharp relief by the deepening shadows cast upon it by the late afternoon sun.