Blood Eye(106)

'They're close,' Bjarni warned some time later. He turned to Asgot who had his ear pressed against the trunk of a storm-cleaved oak.





'He's right, Sigurd,' the godi muttered. 'It won't be long now.' Sigurd nodded grimly and kissed the iron rim of his round war shield. He had put the last six Wessexmen within the belly of the Wolfpack so that his men could take them down if necessary. Asgot and Olaf had pleaded with Sigurd to disarm the English, but Sigurd had said no. Nor had he allowed Penda to unfurl Ealdorman Ealdred's leaping stag banner. His own red wolf's head banner hung limply on Hakon's spear.





'These English may yet have a part to play in this,' Sigurd muttered to Olaf, gripping the older man's shoulder reassuringly. 'We'll let them keep their swords within reach for now.'





We marched quietly, brynjas and helmets secure and spears and shields ready, each of us lost within our own preparations for battle. Because we did not know the land and because Sigurd did not trust the English enough to seek their advice, we sprang the trap. A volley of arrows poured out from a copse of elder and sweet-briar and Hakon went down, a shaft jutting from his face. Because he had held Sigurd's banner at the war band's heart, those around him were hit worst. Wessexmen were filled with Wessex arrows as the Wolfpack formed a circle, presenting their painted war shields to an unseen enemy. Arrows whipped through the trees, snapping against bright leaves to thud into limewood and glance off mail. Penda's men must have wanted to yell to their countrymen, but they knew the warriors beside them would cut them down if they did. As for Penda himself, blood was in the air and the fight was on and that was all that mattered.





Men grunted as arrows struck them, yet the forest was strangely calm. An arrow skimmed off my shield's rim and I cursed under my breath. It was not so long ago that I spent whole days in just such a place, choosing and felling trees with old Ealhstan's axe. Now the tool in my hand was for felling men. Now my stomach was ice cold with the fear of mutilation.





'Keep those shields up, lads,' I heard myself say, but who was I to give advice to these warriors? They knew their work and endured the assault patiently, waiting for the chance to face their enemies. Even the Wessexmen cursed behind their shields, seething under the deadly rain, and I wondered if they would take their swords to their countrymen if they got the chance. It was possible if their blood was up, and perhaps that was what Sigurd had meant when he said they still had a part to play. The arrows came sporadically for a while, then stopped altogether.





'We'd be downing mead with the All-Father now if it weren't for this mail,' Bjarni said, pulling a broken arrow from the rings of his brynja. Even so, several Norsemen and all but three of the Wessexmen were down, shafts jutting from their bodies. Then the forest came alive with shouts, animalistic shrieks that cut through the foliage to disorientate and inspire terror, and I tensed, glancing at the men around me. On my left was Bjarni, on my right Penda. Then the English came, bursting through the trees. They threw their spears and ran at us, hitting the shieldwall from every side with axes and swords and shield bosses. Penda rammed his sword through a man's neck, his choice made. It was fight or die now.





A woman's scream cut through the din like an eagle's cry and I risked a glance behind to see Cynethryth standing over Weohstan, who was down. She was covered in bright blood. I screamed a curse at the English and battered a man's shield, my sword splitting it down the middle. I struck it again and again, then Bjarni rammed his spear into the man's cheek so that it tore out through the other side. Someone yanked the dead man back and another Englishman took his place. I began the shoving match that would end with one of us being torn apart. It is strange how even in the midst of a fight warriors will talk. Sometimes there is only the silence of individual struggles, but not always. Penda and I leant into our shields, trying to force the English back so that we could use our swords on them.





'See the bastard back there . . . amongst the bushes?' he asked through teeth gritted in effort. The veins in his neck bulged like cords beneath the skin.





'Can't look right now, Penda,' I growled, tucking my head into my chest as a spear blade came over my shield's rim.





'It's Mauger,' he spat. 'Ealdred's pet. You know him, don't you?'





'I know him,' I said, 'and I'm going to kill the bastard if I get out of this.'





'He's mine, lad,' Penda snarled.





I heard Sigurd encouraging those around him and hurling insults at the English. He called for the Wolfpack to make their enemies pay a great blood-price for their treachery and when we were even harder pressed he called the names of men's wives and women back home in Norway, rousing them to great feats for their sakes. The Norsemen fought like demons and their jarl would have expected nothing less, for they were no ordinary war band. These were the best warriors ever to cross the angry grey sea, each one chosen by Sigurd for his skill and bravery and love of bloody glory.