The Flame Bearer (The Last Kingdom Series, Book 10) (36 page)

We would attack Æthelhelm’s men at the top of the ramp and face the prospect of fighting men who held the high ground, and who could beat axes and swords down on our heads. My cousin, seeing us use the ramp, could not readily reinforce Æthelhelm’s troops because there simply was not enough room on the rock ledges outside the great hall and the church. What he would do, I reckoned, was follow me up the ramp. He would hurry his men to where we now stood and then assault our rear, and that is what I wanted because then I would have divided my enemy into two. And I would have two shield walls, one facing uphill to attack Æthelhelm, and my rearmost ranks facing downhill to beat off my cousin. And those ranks would fill the width of the ramp. We could not be outflanked.

The enemy had begun beating their swords against their shields again, though at first the sound was half-hearted and I heard men shouting at the troops to beat harder. Dogs were howling deeper in the fortress. The sun was almost touching the western skyline. I hefted my shield, then touched Serpent-Breath’s hilt to my closed cheek-pieces. Be with me, I prayed to Thor. ‘We’re attacking Æthelhelm first,’ I told my men, ‘then we’ll finish off the other bastards. Are you ready?’

They roared their assent. They were good, so good, like hounds desperate to be unleashed, and now I led them to my right, to the ramp. ‘Keep your ranks tight!’ I shouted, though I had no need to give that command, because they already knew. We had nine ranks moving steadily up the ramp, a tight mass of men sheathed in mail; helmeted men, nervous, excited, confident, frightened, eager men. There was little I could teach them about the shield wall, we had been in too many, though on that evening we would do one thing differently. I turned to the second rank, who normally would have used their shields to protect the front rank, but this second rank had no shields. Instead they carried the long and heavy spears. ‘Keep your spears low,’ I told them, ‘keep them hidden if you can.’

I saw that Æthelstan was still on horseback, riding just behind my rearmost rank. ‘I suppose you brought him,’ I accused my son, who was on my right. I knew he and Æthelstan were friends.

He grinned. ‘He insisted.’

‘And you hid him?’

‘Not exactly, you just didn’t look for him.’

‘You’re an idiot.’

‘Men often tell me I’m like you, father.’

We climbed a short flight of three rock steps. Æthelhelm’s men were chanting and beating blades. I could see a priest holding his hands high, calling on the nailed god to destroy us.

‘You’re an idiot,’ I told my son again, ‘but keep him alive and I’ll forgive you.’ I turned back again, ‘Rorik!’

‘Lord?’

‘Sound the horn now! Two blasts!’

The sound of the first blast echoed back from the crag ahead as the second note sounded. Finan must have been waiting, poised, because his men appeared immediately, streaming from the upper gate towards the base of the ramp. By now we were a hundred paces, perhaps slightly more, from the steep steps where Æthelhelm’s men waited. His front rank was fifteen men, their shields overlapping, their faces masks of metal. That front rank was no longer beating swords against shields, though the men behind were. The priest turned and spat towards us and I saw it was Father Herefrith, my enemy from Hornecastre. His scarred face was twisted with anger and I could see a mail coat showing beneath the neckline of his priestly robe. He was brandishing a sword. So the church had not disciplined him, and he was here as one of Æthelhelm’s sorcerers. He was shouting, but I could not hear what insults or curses he hurled, but nor did I care because the older gods were with me, and Herefrith was doomed.

I looked to my right and saw, in the shadow of the hills, a crowd, mostly women and children, watching from the harbour’s far shore. Almost all were gazing towards us, which told me that Domnall had not made a move against the Low Gate. A few, very few, had walked northwards to see what happened at the Sea Gate, but even those folk were now staring to see what happened at the fortress’s summit, so Gerbruht and his men were still secure, and the battle would be here, on the stony ramp that led to Bebbanburg’s summit.

Æthelhelm’s men held that summit. They appeared formidable, a wall of iron-rimmed willow and sharpened steel, but Waldhere’s swift death must have shaken them. Yet Æthelhelm would have reason for confidence. We were attacking uphill, and the final stretch was a stairway of stone, as steep as the earthen bank of any fortress. Æthelhelm would be convinced I had made a mistake, that I was leading my warriors into a place of death, and he also knew that my cousin, seeing how few we were, was bringing his men to our rear. We would be fighting up a steep slope, assailed from the front and the back, and I glanced left and saw my cousin, still on horseback, urging his long shield wall forward.

Finan’s men were hurrying to catch us now. By leaving the Sea Gate he opened it to my cousin’s attack, but by now only my cousin’s enemies waited outside that gate and to open it would be to invite a flood of Scots and Norsemen into the fortress. My cousin would not want the Sea Gate open, not till he had finished with me and felt confident enough to attack the men outside. So he would finish me first and wanted to finish me fast.

He must have thought the battle would be over quickly because men see what they want to see, and my cousin had seen how small my force was and that had encouraged him to advance his wall, but suddenly Finan and his men had appeared, and the sight of those reinforcements had made his shield wall hesitate. Finan was bellowing at his men to form ranks behind mine, and I heard my cousin shout at his men. ‘Keep going! Keep going! God will give us victory!’ His voice was shrill. Close to two hundred men were now hurrying to enter the ramp behind us. ‘For Saint Oswald and for Bebbanburg!’ my cousin shouted. I noticed he was not in the front rank, but far behind, towards the rear. He was still mounted, the only horseman now among the troops who came to assault our rear.

So I had the battle I wanted. Instead of hunting the garrison through the maze of Bebbanburg’s buildings I had them concentrated in front of me and gathering behind me. All we had to do now was kill them. I turned to make certain that the spearmen were carrying their spears low. They were. ‘Listen,’ I called to them, but not nearly loud enough for the enemy waiting ahead to hear me, ‘men fighting downhill don’t hold their shields low. They’ll fight as they always fight. They’ll hold their shields to cover the bellies and balls, and that means you’ll have a clear path to their legs. Thrust as high as you can. Go for their thighs and cripple the bastards. You cripple them and we’ll kill them.’

‘God and Saint Oswald!’ a man shouted from my cousin’s ranks. They were all behind us now, though a handful of my cousin’s men had been sent to thicken Æthelhelm’s ranks. I reckoned there were close to a hundred and fifty men at the top of the steps, forming a shield wall some five or six ranks deep in front of the church. There were more men than that behind us, but neither they nor the enemy above could outflank us, and now, with Finan’s men added to mine, we had fifteen ranks. We were formidable. The enemy had seen their champion die and they knew they were fighting Uhtred of Bebbanburg. Many of the men in Æthelhelm’s ranks had fought in armies that I had led. Those men knew me, and the last thing they wanted was to fight my wolf pack on a summer’s evening.

Æthelhelm’s red-cloaked warriors waited, their shields overlapping, and, as I had foreseen, they were holding those shields high. I could see their faces clearly now, could see them watching their death march closer. These men were experienced, like us they had fought in the long war to drive the Danes from Mercia and East Anglia, but we had fought more often and for longer. We were the wolf pack, we were the killers of Britain, we had fought from the south coast of Wessex to the northern wilds, from the ocean to the sea, and we had never been beaten, and these men knew it. They saw our war axes reflecting the lowering sun, saw the swords, saw how steadily we advanced. We were approaching that final flight of steps, keeping our shields overlapped, our blades low, and our pace slow but relentless. A man in Æthelhelm’s front rank vomited and his shield wavered.

‘Now!’ I roared. ‘Kill them!’

We charged.

Even in a nervous enemy there are always some men who welcome battle, who have no fear, who come alive in the horror. It was one of those who killed Swithun, who, like all of us in the leading rank, held his shield high and crouched beneath its shelter to receive the blow we knew was coming. Perhaps Swithun tripped on the steps, or else bent too far forward, because an axeman buried his blade in the base of Swithun’s spine. I did not see it, though I heard Swithun wail. I was crouching, holding my shield above my head and keeping Wasp-Sting ready. Serpent-Breath was in her scabbard and would stay there until the shield wall ahead was broken. In the close business of killing men whose last breath you can smell there is no weapon as good as a seax, a short-sword.

We had taken the steps at a run, raised our shields, and the enemy had hammered those shields with a shout of rage and victory. Swithun died, as did Ulfar, a Dane, and poor Edric, who had once been my servant. A ringing blow struck my shield boss, but not hard enough to drive me down to my knees, and I reckoned it had to have been a sword that hit me. If Waldhere had lived, or if Æthelhelm had known his business, he would have packed the front rank with heavy, brutal war axes that would beat us down like cattle being slaughtered before the winter cold. Instead they mostly used swords, and a sword is not a beating weapon. It can slash or pierce, but to batter an enemy into a mess of broken bone, of blood and butchered flesh, there is nothing to rival a lead-weighted axe. Whoever struck at me had dented the iron boss of my willow shield, but it was the last stroke he gave on this earth. I was already pushing upwards and bringing Wasp-Sting up, feeling her pierce mail, feeling her break through the tough layer of muscle to reach the softness inside. I kept pushing with the shield and twisting the blade so it did not stick in the enemy’s guts, and a spear came from behind me, lancing between me and my son to grind its blade in an enemy’s upper thigh and I saw the blood run from the wound, and that man staggered, the man I was gouging with Wasp-Sting fell, and the ranks behind me were heaving forward, and I suppose, though I do not remember it, that we were roaring our battle shout.

I reached the top step. There were bodies obstructing me. Step over them. Another blow hit my shield hard enough to tilt it to one side, but Berg was on my left and his shield steadied mine. I rammed Wasp-Sting forward, felt her hit wood, brought her back and thrust her lower, this time feeling mail and flesh. A bearded man was screaming at me over the rim of my shield and his scream turned to open-mouthed agony as Berg’s seax found his ribs. On my right my son was shrieking as he stabbed his seax between two enemy shields. The man Berg had wounded went down, and I stepped over him. The spearman behind me killed him then thrust the spear past me again, driving the blade into an enemy’s groin. That man screamed horribly, dropped his shield, bent over the blood splashing on the stone, and I rammed Wasp-Sting down his back, raking his spine, and he fell. I stamped on his head, stepped over him. Two, maybe three ranks of the enemy were down. Step forward again, hold the shield steady. Peer over the top. Fear is screaming somewhere deep. Ignore it. You can smell the shit now. Shit and blood, the stench of glory. The enemy is more frightened. Kill them. Keep the shields steady. Kill.

A young man with a wispy beard swung at me with a sword. Thank you, I thought, because to swing he had to move his shield aside, and he died with Wasp-Sting in his chest. She drove through his mail like an augur piercing butter. Hours of practice went into that young man’s death. My men were roaring. A sword struck my helmet, another hammered into my shield. Berg killed the man who had swung at my helmet. You do not swing in a shield wall, you stab. May the gods ever send me enemies who swing their blades. The man who stabbed at my shield was going backwards, his eyes huge with fear. I tripped on a body, went down to one knee and parried a spear-thrust from my right. It was a feeble thrust because the man was stepping backwards as he lunged. I stood and rammed Wasp-Sting towards the man who had struck my shield, then suddenly flicked her right to slice her blade across the spearman’s eyes. Brought her back and drove her at the first man, who was shaking with terror. Wasp-Sting found his throat, drenched me with blood. I was shouting myself hoarse, hurling curses at an enemy who were discovering what it was to fight my wolves. I lowered my shield slightly and saw Æthelhelm wide-eyed against the wall of the church with his daughter, pale and frail, at his side. He had his arm around her. Cerdic thrust me aside. He had dropped his spear and found a war axe. He carried no shield. He just ran at the enemy, a big man filled with the battle rage, and the axe split a shield in two and he shook it off and thrust the blade into the face of the man behind. The blunt blow was so strong that the man’s face was turned into a mess of blood. We stepped up to protect Cerdic. ‘They’re breaking!’ my son said. Cerdic was screaming with anger, swinging the massive axe to beat men aside. One of his blows even hit my shield, but he was unstoppable that day. A red-cloaked man lunged at Cerdic with a sword, but Wasp-Sting slid into his open mouth and I twisted as I thrust it deeper. I was still screaming at the enemy, promising them death. I was Thor, I was Odin, I was the lord of battle.

Æthelstan had brought his horse to the foot of the corpse-littered steps. He had opened his cheek-pieces and stood in his stirrups with his blood-stained sword held high. ‘I am your prince!’ he shouted. ‘Go into the church and you live!’ Æthelhelm gaped at him. ‘I am your prince!’ Æthelstan shouted again and again. His grey horse was dappled red with blood. ‘Go into the church and you live! Drop your weapons! Go into the church!’

Hrothard stepped in front of Æthelhelm. Hrothard! He was bellowing like me, his sword was reddened, his shield splintered with a sheet of blood spattered across the leaping stag. ‘He’s mine!’ I shouted, but my son shouldered me aside and ran at the tall man, who rammed his shield forward and lunged his sword under the shield to strike my son’s legs, but Uhtred lowered his shield fast, deflecting the blow, and slashed at Hrothard, who parried it, and the clash of swords was like a bell sounding. Hrothard was spitting curses, my son was smiling. The swords clashed again. Men were watching. Red-cloaked men had dropped their weapons, were holding their hands out to show they yielded, and they watched as the blades moved so fast it was impossible to count each stroke, two craftsmen at their work, then my son staggered. Hrothard saw the opening and lunged and Uhtred turned inside the lunge, the stagger a feint, and he was behind Hrothard now and his sword was at Hrothard’s throat and it sliced. The air misted with blood and Hrothard fell.