Warriors of the Storm (2015) Read online

  And then the wall fell.

  I had just reached the ditch. It was shallow because Haesten’s men had not had time to deepen it again. There were no stakes, no obstacles, just a steep short bank climbing to the earth wall’s crest where the logs had been sunk, but they had not been buried deep enough, and the weight of the men on their tops was throwing them down. Tintreg shied away from the noise, and I wrenched him back. Horsemen went past me, not bothering to dismount, just spurring the stallions up the bank and onto the fallen logs. ‘Dismount!’ Finan shouted. A horse slipped and fell on the logs. The beast was thrashing and screaming, driving other men to the edges of the gap that was not wide enough for the mass of frightened horses and hurrying men. ‘Dismount!’ Finan bellowed again. ‘Come on foot! Shields! Shields! I want shields!’

  That was the order to make a shield wall. Men were flinging themselves out of their saddles and flooding over the fallen wall. I led Tintreg by his reins. ‘Keep your horse with you!’ I called to Berg. In front of me were the fallen logs that had tilted down into the inner ditch, beyond which was the second earth wall. Neither was a formidable obstacle. My men were clambering over the fallen wall, drawing their swords, while ahead of us were three large huts, newly built with rough timber walls and bright thatch, and beyond the huts were men, but those men were a long way off at the fort’s further end. As far as I could see there had been no sentries at this end of the fort.

  ‘Shield wall!’ I shouted.

  ‘On me!’ Finan was standing just beyond the three huts, arms spread to show where he wanted the shield wall to form.

  ‘Berg! Help me!’ I called, and Berg cupped his hands and heaved me back into Tintreg’s saddle. I drew Serpent-Breath. ‘Mount up and follow me,’ I snarled at Berg.

  I spurred around the end of our hastily forming wall. Now I could see the rest of the fort. Two hundred men? I doubted there were more than two hundred. Those men had been gathered at the fort’s far end, doubtless waiting to hear what agreement had been reached with Æthelflaed, and now we were behind them. But closer to us, and even more numerous, was a crowd of women and children. They were running. A handful of men were with them, all of them fleeing our sudden invasion of the fort’s eastern end. ‘We have to stop those fugitives,’ I told Berg. ‘Come on!’ I spurred Tintreg forward.

  I was Uhtred, Lord of Bebbanburg, in my war-glory. The arm rings of fallen enemies glinted on my forearms, my shield was newly painted with the snarling wolf’s head of my house, while another wolf, this one of silver, crouched on the crest of my polished helmet. My mail was tight, polished with sand, my sword belt and scabbard and bridle and saddle were studded with silver, there was a gold chain at my neck, my boots were panelled with silver, my drawn sword was grey with the whorls of its making running from the hilt to its hungry tip. I was the lord of war mounted on a great black horse, and together we would make panic.

  I charged through the fleeing people, cutting Tintreg in front of a woman running with a child in her arms. A man heard the hooves and turned to swing an axe. Too late. Serpent-Breath drank her first blood of the day and the woman screamed. Berg was threading the crowd, sword low, and my son had remounted his horse and was leading three other riders into the chaos. ‘Cut them off!’ I yelled at him, and steered Tintreg towards the leading fugitives. I wanted to keep them between my shield wall and the larger number of enemy who were hurrying into their own shield wall at the fortress’s further end. ‘Drive them back!’ I called to my son. ‘Back towards Finan!’ Then I galloped Tintreg in front of the crowd, my sword low and threatening. I was causing panic, but panic with a purpose. We were herding the women and children back towards our own shield wall. Dogs howled and children screamed, but back they went, desperate to escape the thumping hooves and the light-glinting swords as our horses crossed and re-crossed in front of them. ‘Now come forward!’ I shouted at Finan. ‘But come slowly!’

  I stayed close to the crowd which, terrified of our big horses, shrank towards Finan’s advancing shield wall. I told Berg to watch my back while I looked at the rest of the fort. More huts stretched down the southern flank, but most of the interior was worn grass on which massive log piles were stacked. Haesten had started constructing a hall at the further end, where his men now formed their shield wall. It was a wall of three ranks and it was wider than our wall. Wider and deeper, and above it was Haesten’s old banner, the bleached skull on its long pole. The shield wall looked formidable, but Haesten’s men were almost as panicked as their wives and children. Some were shouting and pointing at us, plainly wanting to advance and fight, but others were looking back to the far ramparts which, as far as I could see, was the only stretch of wall that had been given fighting platforms. The men on those platforms were watching Æthelflaed’s troops. One man was shouting at the shield wall, but was too far away for me to hear what he said.

  ‘Finan!’ I bellowed.

  ‘Lord?’

  ‘Burn those huts!’ I wanted Æthelflaed’s troops to menace that far rampart and so keep the enemy looking both ways, and the sight of smoke should at least tell them that Haesten’s fortress was in trouble. ‘And come faster!’ I pointed Serpent-Breath towards the enemy line. ‘Let’s kill them!’

  Finan gave the command and his shield wall doubled its pace. They began beating their swords against their shields as they advanced, driving the fugitives in front of them. ‘Let them go,’ I called to my son, ‘but keep them in the centre of the fort!’ He understood immediately and wheeled his horse away, taking his men to the northern side of the fortress. ‘Berg?’ I summoned him. ‘We’ll manage this southern flank.’

  ‘What are we doing, lord?’

  ‘Letting the women and children go to their men,’ I said, ‘but make them go straight ahead.’

  It is a hard and bloody task to break a shield wall. Two lines of men must clash together and try to break the other with axes, spears, and swords, but for every enemy who is struck down there is another ready to take his place. Whoever commanded Haesten’s men in the fort had three ranks of warriors waiting for us, while Finan only had two ranks. Our shield wall was too thin, it was outnumbered, but if we could break their line then we would turn the hilltop’s turf dark with their blood. And that was why I shepherded the women and children straight towards the enemy’s shield wall. Those fugitives would be frantic to escape the grim noise of our swords beating a rhythm on the painted shields, and they would claw their way through Haesten’s wall, their panic would infect his men, their desperate attempts to escape our blades would open gaps in Haesten’s wall, and we would use the gaps to split the wall into small groups that could be slaughtered.

  And so our few horsemen galloped out of the space between the two shield walls and the women and children, seeing escape, ran for the refuge of their own menfolk’s shields. Berg and I made sure they could not run around the end of the enemy’s wall, but were forced to go straight towards Haesten’s shields, and Finan, seeing what was happening, quickened his pace still further. My men were chanting, beating blades on willow, cheering.

  And I knew we had an easy victory.

  I could smell the enemy’s fear and see their panic. They had been left here by Ragnall and told to keep Eads Byrig safe till his return, and Haesten was relying on trickery and lies to keep the fort secure. The new wall had looked formidable, but it was a sham, the logs had not been sunk deep enough and so it had toppled. Now we were inside the fort, and Æthelflaed had scores more men outside, and Haesten’s troops saw annihilation coming. Their families were clawing at them, desperate to open the locked shields and get behind the wall, and Finan saw the gaps appear and ordered the charge.

  ‘Kill the men!’ I shouted.

  We are cruel. Now that I am old and the brightest sunlight is dim and the roar of the waves crashing on rocks is muted, I think of all the men I have sent to Valhalla. Bench after bench is filled by them, brave men, spear-Danes, staunch fighters, fathers and husbands, whose blood I loosed and bones
I shattered. When I remember that fight on Eads Byrig’s hilltop I know I could have demanded their surrender and the skull banner would have fallen and the swords would have been tossed to the turf, but we were fighting Ragnall the Cruel. That was the name he craved for himself, and a message had to be given to Ragnall the Cruel, or rather to his men, that we were to be feared even more than Ragnall. I knew we would have to fight him, that eventually our shield wall would have to meet his shield wall, and I wanted his men to have fear in their hearts when they faced us.

  And so we killed. The enemy’s panic broke his own shield wall. Men, women, and children fled for the gate behind them, and they were too many to get through the narrow entrance and so they crowded behind it, and my men killed them there. We are cruel, we are savage, we are warriors.

  I let Tentrig pick his own path. Some few men tried to escape by climbing over the wall and I slashed them off the logs with Serpent-Breath. I wounded rather than killed. I wanted dead men, but I also wanted crippled men to stagger north and take a message to Ragnall. The screams clawed at my ears. Some of the enemy tried to shelter in the half-built hall, but Finan’s shield-warriors were in a slaughtering mood. Spears took men in the back. Children watched their fathers die, women shrieked for their husbands, and still my wolf-soldiers went on killing, hacking down with swords and axes, lunging with spears. Our shield wall was no more, there was no need for it because the enemy was not fighting back, but trying to escape. Some few men tried to fight. I saw two turn on Finan, and the Irishman shouted at his companions to stand back, and I watched him throw down his shield and taunt the two. He parried their clumsy attacks and used his speed to first pierce one in the waist and plunge the blade deep, and then duck the other man’s savage blow, rip the sword free, and thrust it two-handed into the second assailant’s throat. He made it look easy.

  A spearman charged me, face contorted, shouting that I was a turd, and he aimed his spear at Tintreg’s belly, knowing that if he could bring the stallion down then I would be easy meat for his blade. He could see from my helmet, from the gold and silver that adorned my belt, bridle, boots, and scabbard, that I was a warrior of renown, but to kill me at his own dying would give his name glory. A poet might even sing of him, might sing the lay of Uhtred’s death, and I let him come, then touched my heels to Tintreg and he leaped ahead and the spearman was forced to swing the blade, which, instead of opening the stallion’s belly, scored a bloody cut along his flank, and I cut back with Serpent-Breath, breaking the spear’s ash shaft and the man leaped after me, seizing my right leg and tried to haul me down from the saddle. I stabbed Serpent-Breath down, the blade scraping his helmet’s rim to rake his face, slashing off nose and chin, and his blood soaked my right boot as he twisted back in sudden pain, releasing me, and I gave him another blow, this time splitting his helmet. He made a gurgling sound, half crying, clutching his hands to his ruined face as I kicked Tintreg on.

  Men were surrendering. They were throwing down their shields, dropping their weapons, and kneeling on the grass. Their women shielded them, shrieking at my killers to stop their madness, and I decided the women were right. We had killed enough.

  ‘Finan,’ I called, ‘take prisoners!’

  And the horn sounded from beyond the gate.

  The fight, which had begun so suddenly, ended abruptly, almost as if the horn were a signal to both sides. It sounded again, urgently, and I saw the crowd at the gate push back into the fort to make way.

  Bishop Leofstan appeared, mounted on his gelding with his legs almost dangling to the ground. A rather more impressive band of warriors followed the priest, led by Merewalh, and all of them surrounding Æthelflaed. Haesten and his men came next, while behind them were still more of Æthelflaed’s Mercians. ‘You have broken the truce!’ Father Ceolnoth accused me, more in sorrow than in anger. ‘Lord Uhtred, you broke the solemn promise we made!’ He looked at the bodies sprawled on the turf, bodiesthat were gutted, their intestines mangled with shattered mail, bodies with brains leaking from split helmets, bodies red with blood that was already attracting flies. ‘We made a promise before God,’ he said sadly.

  Father Haruld, his face taut with anger, knelt and took the hand of a dying man. ‘You have no honour,’ he spat at me.

  I kicked Tintreg forward and dropped Serpent-Breath’s bloody point so it touched the Danish priest’s neck. ‘You know what they call me?’ I asked him. ‘They call me the priest-killer. Speak to me of honour again and I’ll make you eat your own turds.’

  ‘You …’ he began, but I slapped his head hard with the flat of Serpent-Breath’s blade, knocking him to the turf.

  ‘You lied, priest,’ I said, ‘you lied, so don’t talk to me of honour.’

  He went silent.

  ‘Finan,’ I snarled, ‘disarm them all!’

  Æthelflaed pushed her horse to the front of the defeated Northmen. ‘Why?’ she asked me bitterly. ‘Why?’

  ‘They are enemies.’

  ‘The fort would have surrendered on Easter day.’

  ‘My lady,’ I said tiredly, ‘Haesten has never told a truth in his life.’

  ‘He swore an oath to me!’

  ‘And I never released him from his oath to me,’ I snapped back at her, suddenly angry. ‘Haesten is my man, sworn to me! No amount of priests or praying can change that!’

  ‘And you,’ she said, ‘are sworn to me. So your men are my men, and I made a pact with Haesten.’

  I turned my horse. Bishop Leofstan had come close, but recoiled from me. Both Tintreg and I were smeared with blood, we stank of it, my sword blade glittered with it. I stood in the stirrups and shouted at Haesten’s men, those who survived. ‘All of you who are Christians, step forward!’ I waited. ‘Hurry!’ I shouted. ‘I want all the Christians over here!’ I pointed my sword towards an empty patch of turf between two of the log stacks.

  Haesten opened his mouth to speak and I swept Serpent-Breath around to point at him. ‘One word from you,’ I said, ‘and I’ll cut your tongue out!’ He closed his mouth. ‘Christians,’ I bellowed, ‘over here, now!’

  Four men moved. Four men and perhaps thirty women. That was all. ‘Now look at the rest,’ I said to Æthelflaed, pointing at the men who had not moved. ‘See what’s hanging at their necks, my lady? Do you see crosses or hammers?’

  ‘Hammers,’ she said the word quietly.

  ‘He lied,’ I said. ‘He told you that all but a few of his men were Christians, that they were waiting for Eostre’s feast to convert the others, but look at them! They’re pagans like me, and Haesten lies. He always lies.’ I pushed Tintreg through her men, speaking as I went. ‘He was told to hold onto Eads Byrig until Ragnall returns, and that will be soon. And so he lied because he can’t speak the truth. His tongue is bent. He breaks oaths, my lady, and he swears black is white and white is black, and men believe him because he has honey on his bent tongue. But I know him, my lady, because he’s my man, he’s sworn to me.’ And with that I leaned down from the saddle and took hold of Haesten’s mail coat, shirt, and cloak, and hauled him up. He was much heavier than I expected, but I heaved him over the saddle and then turned Tintreg back. ‘I’ve known him all my life, my lady,’ I said, ‘and in all that time he has never spoken one true word. He twists like a serpent, he lies like a weasel, and he has the courage of a mouse.’

  Bruna, Haesten’s wife, began screaming at me from the back of the crowd, then pushed her way through with her big meaty fists. She was calling me a murderer, a heathen, a creature of the devil, and she was a Christian, I knew. Haesten had even encouraged her conversion because it had persuaded King Alfred to treat him leniently. He twisted on my saddle and I thumped his arse with Serpent-Breath’s heavy hilt. ‘Uhtred,’ I shouted at my son, ‘if that fat bitch lays a finger on me or my horse, break her damned neck!’

  ‘Lord Uhtred,’ Leofstan half moved to stop me, then looked at the blood on Serpent-Breath and on Tintreg’s flank and stepped back.

  ‘What, father?�
�� I asked.

  ‘He knew the creed,’ he spoke hesitantly.

  ‘I know the creed, father, does that make me a Christian?’

  Leofstan looked heartbroken. ‘He’s not?’

  ‘He’s not,’ I said, ‘and I’ll prove it to you. Watch.’ I threw Haesten off the horse, then dismounted. I threw the reins to Godric, then nodded at Haesten. ‘You have your sword, draw it.’

  ‘No, lord,’ he said.

  ‘You won’t fight?’

  The bastard turned to Æthelflaed. ‘Doesn’t our Lord command us to love our enemies? To turn the other cheek? If I am to die, my lady, I die a Christian. I die as Christ died, willingly. I die as a witness to …’

  Whatever he was a witness to he never managed to say because I hit him over the back of his helmet with the flat of Serpent-Breath. The blow knocked him flat on the ground. ‘Get up,’ I said.

  ‘My lady,’ he said, looking up at Æthelflaed.

  ‘Get up!’ I shouted.

  ‘Stand,’ Æthelflaed commanded him. She was watching very closely.

  Haesten stood. ‘Now fight, you slime turd,’ I told him.

  ‘I will not fight,’ he said. ‘I forgive you.’ He made the sign of the cross, then had the gall to drop to his knees and clasp the silver cross in both his hands, which he held up in front of his face as though he was praying. ‘Saint Werburgh,’ he called, ‘pray for me now and at the hour of my death!’

  I swung Serpent-Breath so hard that Æthelflaed gasped. The blade whistled in the air, aiming for Haesten’s neck. It was a wild swing, lavish and fast, and I checked it at the very last instant so that the bloodied blade stopped just short of Haesten’s skin. And he did what I knew he would do. His right hand, that had been clutching the cross, dropped to the hilt of his sword. He gripped it, though he made no attempt to draw it.