The Hallowed Isle Book Two (6 page)

“
Stand fast, son of Woden, and you shall have the victory
!”

Wind swirled in the dust of the battlefield; suddenly the air had a bite that tingled through the veins. Now it was his enemy who paused. Oesc glanced up and saw two smaller, darker, ravens, engaging the first one in a deadly aerial dance.
Hyge and Mynd
—he thought.
Hæthwæge has called on the god!

The British raven screamed her fury, and the two attackers replied, and as those cries clashed in the heavens, to Oesc's blurred vision his opponent was revealed as a monster, the foulest of etin-kin. The burning in his belly erupted in a scream of fury, and casting away both seax and shield, he leaped upon his foe.

It was a Sword of Light, searing through mind and vision, that separated man from monster and mind from madness. When Oesc came to himself he was on his hands and knees, with the iron taste of blood in his mouth and his chest and arms splattered with gore. Guts roiling, he struggled to his feet. All around him those who could still stand were doing likewise. Only near Uthir's litter were men still fighting, but as Oesc stumbled towards it, an arc of brightness seared his vision once more.

For a moment he saw, red against the radiance, a figure who rose from the ruins of the horse-litter, wielding in his single hand a Sword whose stroke scythed down all foes within a radius of ten yards. Then the light flared beyond his strength to bear it. Sobbing, he sank to his knees, arm raised to shield his eyes from that deadly flame.

And then it was gone.

The plain light of day seemed dim in contrast. But there was enough of it for Oesc's recovering vision to make out the body of his father, blood still pumping from the stump of his neck. The head had fallen a few feet away; its features still bore a look of appalled surprise.

Scarcely knowing what he did, Oesc crawled forward, pulled off the remnant of his cloak, and began, fumbling, to wrap the head. As he did so, one of the stricken figures stirred. It was Baldulf. Groaning, he gained his feet, then stopped short, features contorting with grief as he saw the boy, and the headless body of his lord.

He cast a quick glance around him, then limped forward.

“Tir's judgment fell against us—” he said hoarsely, “the field is lost, but our hope lives so long as you are alive.”

Oesc looked up, dimly aware that most of the figures that were beginning to move around them wore British gear. Beyond Octha's body he could see the British king sprawled among his cushions, in his hand a sword whose brightness still hurt the eye. Baldulf took a step towards it, but the British warriors were too close. Swiftly Baldulf gathered up Octha's torque and his seax. Then he hauled Oesc to his feet and hurried him away.

There was no wind.

Oesc was never able to recall much about the journey that followed. His wound went bad, and at times he was fevered, but mostly he simply did not want to remember. At some point Hæthwæge found them. He did recall the foul taste of the herbal teas she brewed to bring down his fever, as her compresses and charms fought the infection in his arm. For three nights, he was told, they had hidden in the forest, waiting for the crisis and muffling his delirious mumblings when British search parties went past.

Of that, the boy had no recollection. All he retained were visions of a dark land and a dark lake beside which he wandered, calling his father's name, until the wisewoman came walking through the shadows, her raven on her shoulder, and led him back to the light of day.

And through all his illness, and the travel that followed, the head of Octha, hid now in a leather sack and packed with leeks to preserve it, stayed by his side.

Travelling mostly by night, they fled to the East Saxon lands, where they found a boat to carry them across the broad mouth of the Tamesis. After that, they were in Hengest's country and could move openly, following the old Roman road between the sea and the North Downs. By then, of course, word of their coming had gone before them, and Hengest had sent an escort and a horse litter in which Oesc could travel like the British king.

But Uthir was dead. Even in hiding, they had heard that news. The High King of the Britons had died after the battle and left no heir. If the Saxons had lost the battle, and with it the greatest of their own leaders, at least that much had been achieved, and they, like the British, would have time to heal before the warring began once more. Better still, the rumor was that Merlin, the witega who had caused such devastation with his magic, had disappeared.

For Oesc, life began once more when they drew up in front of the meadhall Hengest had built in the ruins of Cantuware and he saw his grandfather, tall and weathered as a storm-battered oak, waiting for him there.

Oesc swung at the practice post set into the mud of the yard, wincing as the wooden blade hit the straw that had been bound around it and the impact jarred the weak muscles in his arm. In the three months since Verulamium his flesh had healed, but it still hurt at times. Since he left his bed, he had spent his days in ceaseless motion, hunting, running, even chopping wood for the fires. And whenever Byrhtwold was free, he had pestered the old warrior to give him more work with the sword.

His body was fined down to bone and sinew, and day by day he could feel his arm growing stronger. But no exercise he had tried could make his heart strong enough to deny the pain, and though each night he fell into bed, too tired to move, the hours of darkness brought dreams from which he would wake whimpering, his vision seared by a sword of fire and his cheeks wet with tears. But once awake, though his throat ached with grief, he could not cry.

Only when it grew too dark to see the post did Oesc give up. From inside the hall he could hear voices, but the yard was empty. Above the wall the first stars were glittering in the deepening blue of the sky. A bird flew towards the trees, crying, and then it was still once more. Now that he had stopped moving, fatigue dragged at back and shoulders. Sweat drying cold on his skin, he stumbled towards the hall.

After the brisk air outside, the warmth was welcome. His stomach rumbled at the scent of boiling beef and he realized that he was hungry.

His grandfather was already in the high seat, long legs stretched towards the fire, his gaunt frame as splendid in its ruin as a Roman tower. Once Hengest had fought to master all Britannia, but now he was content to cling to the corner that the Vor-Tigernus had given him. But his son would never inherit it now.

At his feet sat the shope Andulf, head bent as he tuned his harp. Firelight glistened on the silver strands threading his brown hair. As Oesc approached, the shope straightened, and the murmur of conversation began to still. Once, and then again, he struck the strings, then, in a voice with the honey of sweet mead and the bite of its fire, he began to sing.

Hengest beckoned, and Oesc joined him on the broad bench. In a few moments one of the thralls brought him a wooden bowl filled with savory stew, and he began to gobble it down. The first bowl took the edge off his hunger. He held it out to be refilled, able to listen now to the mingled honey and gall of the tale of the great king who a century earlier had led the Goths to create an empire, and when the Huns invaded, lost it. From the Pontus Euxinus to the Northern Sea he had ruled, and from the Wistla to the great steppes, conquering tribes whose names were lost in legend. He had defeated Alaric, king of the Heruli who had made a kingdom north of the Maiotis, and controlled the trade routes to the western lands.

Mightiest among his warriors, Eormanaric had been a man of evil temper, who had the young wife of a chieftain who had deserted him torn apart by tying her limbs to four wild stallions. Her brothers sought to avenge her, splitting the Gothic forces at the moment when they most needed unity. And so the Huns had rolled over them and the Goths who survived fled westward, some to cross the Danuvius and seek service with Rome, and some to push all the way to Iberia, where now they ruled.

In the end, ran the tale, Eormanaric had taken his own life, seeking by the offering of his own blood to placate the gods.

“It is said that one should not praise a day until it is ended,” said Hengest, when the last note had faded to silence. “I suppose that the same is true of a king. He lost his empire, but perhaps his blood bought some protection for his people, since they have prospered in their new land. At least his death had meaning. . . .”

“That is what King Gundohar said—” answered the shope.

“You knew him?” exclaimed Oesc. He had been aware that the man was a Burgund, his accent worn smooth by years of wandering, but he had thought that everyone close to the royal clan died when the Huns attacked them a quarter-century before.

“He taught me how to play the harp,” said Andulf, his voice tightening with old pain. “It is he who wrote this song.”

“But you don't look old enough—” Oesc broke off, flushing, as the men began to laugh.

“I was a boy, younger than you,” said Andulf smiling, “serving in his hall.”

“And now the Niflungar themselves are becoming a legend,” added Hengest, shaking his head. “And yet I myself saw Sigfrid when he was only a child and I scarcely older. Who, I wonder, will the heroes of this time be?”

“The deeds of your youth are meat for the bards already, lord,” said Byrhtwold.

“Do you mean the fight at Finnesburgh?” growled Hengest. “To keep one oath I was forced to break another, but it is not something I remember with pride.”

“You will be remembered as the leader who brought our people to this good land!” said one of the other men.

“If we can hold it . . .” someone said softly.

“Does that matter?” asked Byrhtwold. “Hunnish horses pasture now in the land where Eormanaric died, and the heirs of Gundohar have found refuge in Raetia. Sigfrid left only his name behind him. But in death they triumphed, and they are remembered.”

“Do you mean that if we succeed in winning all this island it will be Uthir and Ambrosius about whom men make the stories?” Guthlaf, one of the younger warriors, laughed disbelievingly.

“It may be so,” said Andulf, frowning, “for the winners will belong not to legend, but to history.” He began to slide his harp into its sealskin case.

The conversation turned to other matters, and as the drinking horns were refilled, grew louder. Oesc leaned against the hard back of the high seat, exhaustion dragging like a sea-anchor at his limbs.

“Send the boy to bed, Hengest, before he falls asleep where he sits,” Byrhtwold said presently.

“I'm not sleepy!” Oesc jerked upright, rubbing his eyes. “Grandfather, Octha was a hero, was he not?”

The old man nodded, his eyes dark with shared pain, and the boy knew that he too was thinking of the lonely mound just within the wall.

“Do we have to choose?” he said then. “Do we have to choose between a glorious death and living for our people?” He waited, realizing that his grandfather was taking him seriously.

“Many men fall and are not remembered . . .” Hengest said slowly. “It is because they died for a reason that we honor heroes, because they never gave up, but fought to the end. Death is not a failure, Oesc, if a man has truly lived.”

“Then he didn't fail . . .” whispered the boy. “We lost the battle and they killed him, but Octha had his victory. . . .”

“Boy, is that what has troubled you?” Hengest set his gnarled hand on Oesc's shoulder. “Your father waits for us even now in Woden's hall. You must strive to live so that you will be worthy to see him again.”

The ache in Oesc's throat made it hard to breathe. He sucked in air with a harsh gasp, and awkwardly, his grandfather began to pat his back, then seeing his face, gathered him against his bony breast. And there, breathing in the scents of leather and horses and the old man's flesh, Oesc found at last the release of tears.

E
VERY FALL, WHEN THE RAIDING SEASON HAD ENDED AND THE
crops were gathered in, it was Hengest's custom to travel around the territory that the Vor-Tigernus had given him. At this time of year, when the quarrels of the summer were still fresh in memory, the king heard complaints and rendered judgment, lest resentment, festering through the dark days of winter, should erupt into bloodfeud and destroy the peace of the land. In the second year after Verulamium, Hengest took his grandson Oesc with him on the journey, that he might learn the land and its law.

That fall the first of the winter storms came early, soaking the stubbled fields. But it was succeeded by a season of smiling peace, and the king and his escort rode through a landscape as rich in autumn color as heaped amber, splashed with the vivid scarlet berries of rowan and holly and the varied crimsons of the vine.

Their way first led south to the coast, where the Roman fortress of Lemanis still guarded the Saxon shore. They travelled by short stages, for the king's age would not allow him to do more. In the mornings, when he stretched stiff joints, swearing, he would say that next year, surely, he would let Oesc do it all. But by evening he was smiling, and the cold knot of anxiety in Oesc's belly would disappear.

From Lemanis, they worked their way back north and east along the shoreline to Dubris, where the high chalk cliffs looked out across the sea. Their next stop was Rutupiae, where the Vor-Tigernus's son had once driven Hengest into the sea. The fortress was in ruins now, only the great triumphal arch still proclaiming the vanished glory of Rome. Here, the rich lands by the shore were thickly settled, and the cases being brought for judgment mostly quarrels over boundaries or complaints about strayed stock.