He stared at me with his dark eyes and I thought he was about to kill me. But then, because despite his treachery he was still a Sword-Norse, so he would not deny me a place in Valhöll at the mead bench of the slain, he cut my bonds and handed me the spear.
I glanced at the Englishman Weohstan. 'Only you, Raven,' Glum said, turning his back on me to face the door. I could have killed Glum then, run him through with his own spear. But I was a Norseman too. And my god was watching.
Glum kicked open the door. The four of us stepped out into the darkness. There was nothing. No sounds or shapes moving like spirits, only the rolling gorse reflecting what little light touched the world that night.
Thorgils let out a great laugh, turning to Thorleik. 'You were scared of your own prick, Thorleik, you big bastard!' he shouted. Then there was a thud and Thorgils grunted, staggering back with an arrow in his chest. Suddenly, the heather sprang up and came at us, shrieking, but the wet thud of Glum's sword striking meant our enemies were flesh and could be killed. Thorleik and Thorgils threw their spears, thrust with their shields and slashed with their long swords, grunting as they killed. I lunged with the spear, sinking it into a man's shoulder, the battle lust upon me. My eyes adjusted to the gloom and I saw the fiends for what they were, sinewy men with muddied faces, crude blades and small black shields. Two jumped on to Thorleik, snarling like dogs and dragging him down with claws and iron. Glum roared as he hacked a man from the shoulder to the hip, but the sword stuck and two more mud-blackened warriors speared him and he screamed in pain. I turned and ran back inside the hut where Weohstan and Cynethryth stood in a dark corner waiting for the end, and I cut their bonds with the spear's blade.
'Run!' I told them, turning to face a black-shielded warrior who stood snarling in the doorway. I gave a great shout and rammed the spear through the shield into his chest, twisting it before yanking it free, then I was outside where arrows were thudding into Thorgils, bouncing off his helmet and shield as he roared and killed. Weohstan snatched up Glum's sword and swung it into a man's face before turning to deflect a spear thrust. Thorgils went down, crying out to Óðin with his last breath. Cynethryth screamed, the sound cutting the night like a knife; then, as if by some dark magic, the black-shields were gone and I fell to my knees, gulping air as Weohstan gave a great roar and cursed his god and Jesus and the saints. The black-shields were gone. But Cynethryth was gone too.
'Welsh bastards!' Weohstan spat on a dead man, yanking off Thorgils's belt and pulling the brynja from his battered body. Through a tear in the sky the stars cast a silvery hue across the scene, revealing nine dead Welshmen amongst the slashed bodies of Glum, Thorgils and Thorleik. Silently, we took mail, helmets and weapons from the dead, including two Welsh throwing spears each, along with the heavier Norse ones. Then, in war gear slick with cooling blood, we faced each other and the clouds healed, concealing the stars and casting the land into darkness.
'Come, Norseman,' Weohstan spat, planting his feet apart and hefting a round war shield, 'let us finish it.'
'You want to die now,' I asked him, 'or after we get Cynethryth back from those Welsh whoresons?'
He was already striding towards me, but stopped then. 'You mean to go after her?' he asked, and even in the darkness I could see suspicion and hate in his eyes.
'I mean to go after the book, Weohstan,' I said, lowering my shield slowly, 'but two swords have more chance than one. Your death can wait until we both have what we want.'
Weohstan lifted two spears, then thrust their points into the earth with a grunt. He stepped forward and gripped my arm, his mouth a grimace and his eyes dark beneath the helmet's rim. He looked a different man now he was armed for battle, and I knew then that he was a killer like me.
We slung our shields across our backs and took up our spears. Weohstan offered up a prayer to the White Christ and so I muttered my own to Óðin whose name means frenzy. Then we ran west across the heather-cloaked hills and though there was no way of knowing where the Welsh war band had taken their prize, we were free and on the move. And we had thoughts of vengeance to push us on.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WE SLEPT FOR A SHORT TIME AMONGST THE HEATHER AND WOKE when the first pink laced the eastern horizon. I felt empty, hungry and cold as I shook the morning dew from my gear, imagining the fear Cynethryth must be feeling. If she still lived.
'Look, Raven!' Weohstan called. I was taking a piss and I turned to see him pointing to the west where I made out the great earthen wall and palisade built by Offa, the last Mercian king, during his wars with the men of Powys and Dyfed. It was a huge bank and ditch and must have taken many years of labour. 'Not the wall, you blind bloody heathen, there, maybe a mile from the bank, do you see it?' I was shaking my head when I saw it, a grey smear against the brightening sky. 'The bastards are having their breakfast,' he added, the grimace twisting his handsome face.