Blood Eye(107)

The man to Bjarni's left fell back, blood spurting from the vein in his neck. I stamped on a spear jabbing at my shins, and snapped off the blade.





'Urchin! Urchin!' Sigurd roared and several men stepped back from the wall, the others closing the gaps before the enemy could exploit them. The Urchin contracted the circle, allowing spearmen to form an inner defensive ring, thrusting their spears over their comrades' shoulders into English faces. Sigurd's voice boomed out and his men made their slaughter.





'He knows how to fight,' Penda growled as a spear ripped into the man he was heaving against. The air was thick with sweat and men's breath and the first stench of bowels opening in death came to my nose. My own guts had turned to liquid and I tasted fear on my tongue. Somewhere behind me was Cynethryth, whilst in front were men fighting for their lives because she had warned us of their treachery. It was not hard to imagine what they would do to the girl if we lost.





A war horn sounded above the clash of arms and shouts, and in good order the English trudged backwards, their shields overlapping as they retreated into elder and sweetbriar, the foliage half swallowing them. There they waited, a spear's throw away, hurling insults and threats, and I gasped for breath, dragging warm air into stinging lungs. My heart thumped in my chest like a sword on a shield. I feared it would burst.





'How old are you, Raven?' Penda asked, wiping sweat from his eyes.





'I don't know,' I replied. 'Sixteen, seventeen maybe.'





'You're a natural bloody killer, lad,' he said with a malicious grin. Sweat dripped from the scar on his hairless chin. 'Whoever named you saw corpses in that red eye of yours.'





'I got the name from Sigurd,' I said, checking my sword for damage. There was a deep notch a finger's length from the iron guard and I whispered a prayer to Völund god of the forge that the blade would not break before the fight was decided.





'It's a good name,' Penda said, kicking a body at his feet to see if the man was alive. He was not.





I looked around. Incredibly, old Asgot stood breathless but unharmed, and I wondered what spirits protected the old godi when younger, stronger men lay dead. Hakon, who had carried Sigurd's banner, was dead, his lifeblood congealing around the arrows in his face and neck. Thormod and young Thorolf were dead. Kon, who was always complaining, lay writhing as Olaf knelt beside him, trying to push the man's slippery guts back through the gash above his crotch. The man's mail had been useless against the axe, and Olaf must have known his efforts were in vain, but he tried anyway. Five of the Wessexmen lay dead or dying, leaving only Penda who cursed the English now for killing their own people. He hurled insults at them, calling them shit-eaters and sons of whores, and challenged Mauger to step into the open to look upon the Wessexmen he had had killed. But when Mauger did step forward, his huge frame covered in dark mail and his hand gripping a great war spear, it was not to mourn dead Englishmen.





'Sigurd!' he yelled, and Sigurd stepped forward from the shieldwall threateningly. His helmet was blood-smeared and his golden beard was plaited, giving his face a lean, vicious, wolf-like look.





'What do you want, Mauger?' he asked. 'I am here. Come and fight me.' He threw his arms wide in invitation. 'What are you waiting for, snake? Come, you lump of rancid snot.'





Mauger laughed, ignoring the Wessexmen who lay mutilated before the Norse shieldwall. 'Why would I deny my men the pleasure of sending Norsemen to minister for Satan?' he asked, and the English growled, banging their swords and shields. 'Look around you, Sigurd the Lucky. This is where your adventure ends. Not what you had in mind, is it?' Mauger looked up at the forest canopy and casually scratched his black beard. 'But then, you should not have killed Lord Ealdred's son.' Sigurd did not dignify the lie with an answer. Every man beneath that forest canopy knew the truth. We were still heavily outnumbered. Only half of the remaining English wore any mail, though nearly all had iron helmets, leather armour, and wicked blades. I knew we could not win.





'You do a coward's bidding, Mauger,' Sigurd said, 'and that makes you a man without honour.'





'And you have led your men to their deaths, Sigurd,' Mauger answered, shrugging his broad shoulders. 'God knows none of us is perfect.' He planted the butt of his huge spear into the forest litter. 'Throw down your weapons and I swear I will kill you and your men quickly. I will do it myself.'





'You know us better than that, Englishman!' Olaf called.





'Yes, Uncle, I know you,' Mauger said, using Olaf's nickname with a smile that did not reach his eyes. Then he turned his back on us and pushed past his men.





Sigurd called out to us in Norse as we braced ourselves and mumbled prayers to Týr god of the brave, Thór the mighty, and Óðin god of war.