Бернард Корнуэлл: War Lord

And suddenly, as he paced the line, he turned and ran for the gap, bellowing at his men to follow. They did. Thorolf put down the first man by slashing Blood-Drinker in a blow so powerful that it beat down the shield and buried itself in the man’s neck, cleaving down to his heart. Thorolf was bellowing, driving on, but his axe was lodged in the mangled ribs of his first victim, and a spear took him in the side. He shouted in anger, his voice rising to a scream as he stumbled and more Scotsmen came. They were part of Constantine’s reserve and the king sent them fast and the spears stabbed, the swords lunged and Thorolf Skallagrimmrson died at the stream’s edge, his mail slashed and pierced, his blood draining to reeds beside the swirling water. The Scotsman who had first speared Thorolf wrenched Blood-Drinker free and swung it at the next Norseman, clouting his shield so hard that he was hurled down into the stream’s gully. The Scots hurled spears at him and he rolled into the water, reddening it as his mail-weighted body sank.

The men who had followed Thorolf retreated fast and it was the turn of the Scots to jeer and taunt. The spearman who had killed Thorolf flaunted Blood-Drinker, calling on us to come and be killed. ‘That man is mine,’ Egil said. I had gone to join him.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘He was a good man.’ Egil had tears in his eyes, then drew his sword, Adder, and pointed it at the Scotsman who was flourishing Thorolf’s axe, ‘and that man is mine.’

Then the great drum, hidden somewhere behind Anlaf’s men, thumped the air in a new and faster rhythm, a huge cheer sounded, and Anlaf’s Norsemen started down the slope.

Those Norsemen bellowed their challenge and came in an undisciplined rush. Many were úlfhéðnar and thought themselves invincible, believing that sheer rage and violence would shatter the large West Saxon contingent on Æthelstan’s left. I did not know it, but Æthelstan himself had moved to that flank to take command of his West Saxons, and the moment he saw the Norse begin their charge he ordered a retreat.

That was one of the most difficult things any commander has to achieve. To keep the shield wall tight while walking backwards needed rigid discipline, the men had to keep their shields touching as they stepped back, and all the time seeing a shrieking horde racing towards them, but the West Saxons were amongst the best of our warriors and I heard a voice calling out the steps as they steadily backed away. The men beside the smaller stream were being constricted by the gully and I saw files breaking off to form another rank behind the three who steadily moved back, bending Æthelstan’s battle line into the shape of a bow. Then, after about twenty backward paces, they stopped, the shields clattered as they were aligned, and the Norsemen struck. Their charge was ragged, the bravest men reaching the West Saxons first and leaping at the shields as if they could hurtle through Æthelstan’s ranks by sheer speed, but the spears met them, the shields crashed together, and the West Saxons held firm. The charge of the Norsemen roused the rest of Anlaf’s line that surged forward and the battle seemed to wake up, the din of swords beating on blades and shields rose, and the screaming began again. The blackshields of Strath Clota were clawing at my men, the Scots were trying to clear the dead out of their path to reach us, with the man holding Thorolf’s axe leading them. ‘The bastard,’ Egil said.

‘No—’ I began, but Egil was gone, screaming at his men to get out of his way. The Scotsman saw him coming, and I saw a fleeting look of alarm on his face, but then he roared his own challenge, hefted his blue-painted shield and swung the axe as Egil burst through his own front rank.

The Scotsman was a fool. He had been trained with sword and spear, the axe was an unfamiliar weapon and he swung it wildly, thinking that brute force would smash Egil’s shield aside, but Egil checked his rush, swayed back, the axe went on swinging and he lunged with Adder as the Scotsman desperately tried to check the axe’s weight. Adder slid into the man’s belly, he folded over the pain, Egil hammered his eagle-painted shield into the man’s face, twisted the sword, ripped it up and dragged it out to spill the man’s guts onto Thorolf’s corpse. The axe flew into the stream as Egil struck with Adder again and again, slashing the dying man’s head and shoulders until one of his men pulled him back as the Scots came to avenge the bloodied man.

‘I feel useless,’ I snarled at Finan.

‘Leave it to the youngsters,’ Finan told me patiently, ‘you taught them.’

‘We need to fight!’

‘If they need old men,’ Finan said, ‘then things will be desperate.’ He turned to watch Æthelstan’s West Saxons. ‘They’re doing well.’

The West Saxons were still retreating, but steadily, bending the line back and drawing the Mercians in the centre back with them. Anlaf, I reckoned, must think this battle won. His larger force had not broken Æthelstan’s shield wall, but he was forcing it back and soon he would have us trapped against the larger stream. I could see Anlaf now, galloping on a great black horse, bellowing at his men to attack all along the line. His sword was drawn and he pointed it towards us and his ugly face was distorted by fury. He knew he had won this battle, his plan had worked, but he still had to break us and he was impatient. He neared Constantine and shouted something I could not hear over the battle-rage, but Constantine spurred his horse forward and yelled at his men.

Who came again. It was pride now. Who could be first to break us? The Norse were hammering at Æthelstan’s left and centre, and now the Scots came to prove they were the equal of Anlaf’s wild warriors. I saw Domnall bully his way to the front rank, an axe in his hand, and he led a charge against Egil while Prince Cellach came against my men. Cellach’s men screamed as they charged, and again some tripped in the holes, and others were pushed from behind and stumbled on corpses, but they came with levelled spears and bright axes, and I glanced once at the ridge to the west, saw nothing, and went to join my men who were being pushed back by the Scots. Berg, who commanded my left wing, was shouting at men to keep their shields firm, but there was an anger in the Scots that made them terrible. I saw Rolla go down, his helmet split by an axe, saw Cellach move into the gap and kill Edric, who had once been my servant, and more men were following Cellach. The prince’s sword was bloodied and he now faced Oswi who blocked a lunge with his shield and rammed his seax forward, only to have it knocked aside by Cellach’s shield. Cellach was in a battle-rage. He slammed Oswi with his shield, throwing him backwards, then bellowed a challenge at the men in the third rank. One swung an axe, Cellach knocked it aside with his sword, lunged at Beornoth who managed to parry the blade with his seax, and Cellach thrust the shield again. Oswi somehow wriggled free, his right leg mangled by a spear thrust, and Cellach drew his sword back for another lunge. His furious attack had served as a makeshift swine-wedge, and it had gored through my two front ranks. Cellach only had to break through Beornoth and he would be through our line, followed by a mass of men. Our shield wall would be pierced, the battle lost, and Cellach knew it.

‘To me!’ I called to Finan’s men we had kept in reserve, and I ran to the shield wall where Cellach was screaming victory as he hammered Beornoth with his iron-bossed shield. I pushed Beornoth aside and rammed my own shield forward, throwing Cellach back. I was bigger than the Scottish prince, taller, heavier, and just as savage, and my shield hurled him back two paces. He recognised me, he knew me, he even liked me, but he would kill me. He had been my hostage as a child and I had begun his education, teaching him shield-craft and sword-skill, and I had come to like him, but now I would kill him. Finan was beside me, his men behind us, as we pushed forward to fill the gap Cellach had opened. Cellach was fighting with his long-sword, I had Wasp-Sting. ‘Go back, boy,’ I snarled at him, though he was no longer a boy, he was a grown warrior, heir to Scotland’s crown, and he would win this battle for his father and for Anlaf, but a long-sword is no weapon for a shield wall. He stabbed it at me, my shield caught it and I kept the shield going forward, driving his blade back, and that turned him and I rammed the heavy shield further forward and Finan, now on my right, saw the opening and lunged his seax to pierce Cellach’s mail at his waist. Cellach instinctively rammed his shield down to knock away Finan’s seax and so opened his fate to Wasp-Sting. He knew it. He looked at me, he knew he had made a mistake, and there was almost a look of pleading on his face as I slid Wasp-Sting over his shield’s rim to slice his gullet. The blood sprayed into my face, momentarily blinding me, but I felt Cellach drag down Wasp-Sting’s blade as he fell.