Blood Eye(77)

I pulled up my breeches and touched the Óðin amulet at my throat.





'I could eat,' I said, slinging the shield across my back. We had no way of knowing how many men were down there, and the fact that they were not afraid to light a fire suggested they were confident enough. They would never expect two men to come after them and that was our advantage, for we were not just two men; we were warriors. And I had my god with me. And he was a god of war.





We took the low ground to prevent our silhouettes from standing out against the rising sun and soon found ourselves on the near side of the hill that hid the Welsh war band, and there we watched the smoke drift lazily eastwards on the breeze. It was warm. Sweat ran down our faces to drip from our beards as we crawled along the hill's summit to its far edge from where we saw the Welsh sitting round their fire. There were eight of them, their faces still covered in the mud that had made them invisible fiends the previous night. Cynethryth lay apart from the men, her legs and arms tied and her face turned away from us. Only the twitch of a leg told me that she was still alive.





'There are too many,' I whispered. 'We'll have to wait till dark. Surprise them.'





'No,' Weohstan said, gripping my wrist and nodding towards Offa's wall, 'by then they'll be across the ditch and we'll be up to our necks in Welsh bastards.' He stared into my eyes. 'We hit them now,' he said, his jaw clenched, and I knew he would go alone if he had to. 'Now,' he hissed, and I nodded because I knew he was right. If we were lucky, the Welsh would be stunned from losing so many men during the fight at the shepherd's hut, but soon they would turn to the English girl they had carried away and they would care nothing that she was young or that her face was bruised and dirty and her hair matted and tangled. Then Cynethryth would be better off to strike her head against a sharp rock. Sigurd and his Wolfpack were probably dead, making me the last of a broken fellowship. I had no home and nothing to lose. And the Welsh had Cynethryth.





I tightened the helmet strap beneath my chin and prayed that I would use well the skills I had learned. But mostly I prayed that the battle fury would take me and that that rage would make my enemies fear me. 'Kill well, Weohstan,' I said, grinning.





He nodded. 'Kill well, Raven,' he replied, his eyes full of violence. We got to our feet on the crest of the hill so that the sun hit our backs, casting long shadows down the slope before us. I turned my face to the sky and roared so that Óðin would hear me and guide my sword to help me kill.





The Welsh scrambled to their feet, grabbing their weapons and small shields as we ran down the slope yelling our battle cries. Weohstan sent a Welsh spear like a lightning bolt into a warrior's chest and to this day I have never seen such a throw, but I waited until I could not miss and sent my own light spear through a man's neck before he could raise his shield. Then I threw Glum's knife to land beside Cynethryth and rammed my shield into a Welshman's face, crushing it with the iron boss. I swung my spear in a wide arc, making two men jump back, and saw Weohstan plunge a Norse spear into a bare chest.





The bloodlust raged in me as I battered with my shield and jabbed with my spear, but something struck my helmet and a spear ripped into my back, scraping my shoulder blade. I yelled and spat in fury, twisting to swing the haft of my spear against an enemy's temple, dropping him. Blades battered me, some glancing off my brynja, others striking true. I heard Weohstan yelling madly too, then saw a Welsh war club strike his face. His legs buckled and Cynethryth screamed a wild cry like that of a hawk and plunged Glum's knife into the man standing over him. I threw my heavy spear and drew my sword as a warrior slammed his axe into my shield, then I swung the sword up into his chin, cleaving his face in two.





'Bastards! Whoresons and Devil's turds!' I screamed, wildly swinging my sword from side to side, spinning round seeking more enemies, hungry to send more wet crimson flying through the air. I struck flesh, stumbled, fell to one knee and clambered up again, then stamped on the body at my feet. Twice more I fell, before somewhere beneath the madness, amongst the bloodlust, I heard a shrill repeating sound that slowly took shape.





'Raven! It's over! It's over!'





I threw my shield into the gorse and turned to look at Cynethryth through eyes full of salty, stinging blood.





'Are you a death maiden?' I heard myself ask, trying to fight the shuddering gripping my body. My legs buckled, but I stood straight again. 'Am I to join Jarl Sigurd now?'





'Raven, it's me, Cynethryth,' she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. 'Cynethryth.' Then she wrapped her arms around my waist and held me tight as though she could take the shivering pain from my body into her own. I realized I was not dead and that she was no Valkyrie. She was Cynethryth. Beautiful Cynethryth. And somehow we had won.