Бернард Корнуэлл: War Lord

‘He’s a king,’ I said, ‘he has to lead!’

‘Where’s Steapa?’ Oda asked, and there was pure panic in his voice.

‘He’s coming!’ I shouted, hoping I was right.

Then we reached the wounded men pulled from Æthelstan’s West Saxons and I led my few men into the ranks, pushing men aside, bellowing at them to make way. Folcbald, the huge Frisian, and his cousin Wibrund were both with me, and they forced a passage to where Æthelstan was fighting. He was magnificent! His fine mail was covered in Norse blood, his shield was broken open in at least three places, and his sword was red to the hilt, yet still he fought, inviting the enemy to come to his blade. That enemy had to step over bodies, and even the úlfhéðnar among them were reluctant. They wanted Æthelstan dead, knew that his slaughter would be the beginning of his army’s utter defeat, but to kill him they had to face his quick sword. To the left and to the right of the king there were scarlet-cloaked men pushing forward, shields crashing against Norse shields, spears slicing forward and axes splitting willow-boards, but there was a space around Æthelstan. He was the king of battle, he dominated them, he taunted them, and then a tall, black-bearded Norseman with bright blue eyes beneath a scarred helmet, and with a long-hafted battleaxe stepped into the space. It was Thorfinn Hausakljúfr, Jarl of Orkneyjar, who looked half-crazed, and I suspected he had smeared his skin with the henbane ointment. He was no longer just a Norse chieftain, he had become an úlfheðinn , a wolf-warrior, and he howled at Æthelstan and hefted his vast battleaxe. ‘Time to die, pretty boy!’ he shouted, though I doubted Æthelstan understood the Norse, but he understood Thorfinn’s intent, and he let the big man come. Thorfinn was fighting without a shield, just carrying Hausakljúfr , his famous axe. Like Æthelstan he was blood-soaked, but I could see no wound. The blood was Saxon blood and Skull-Splitter wanted more.

He swung the axe one-handed, Æthelstan met it with his shield and I saw the blade split the willow-boards. Æthelstan swung the shield to his left, hoping to take the axe with it and so open Thorfinn’s body to a lunge from his sword, but Thorfinn was fast. He stepped back, wrenched his axe free and slammed it down, aiming for Æthelstan’s sword arm. The blow should have severed the king’s arm, but Æthelstan was just as fast, pulling the sword back, and the great axe crashed onto the blade close to the hilt. There was an ominous-sounding crack and I saw that the king’s sword had broken and Æthelstan now held a blade no longer than a man’s hand. Thorfinn shouted in triumph and swept the axe back. Æthelstan met it with his battered shield, stepped back, the axe swept again and again beat into the shield that was now ragged with holes, and Thorfinn raised his axe to bring it hard down onto Æthelstan’s gold-ringed helmet.

And Bishop Oda was beside me, off his horse, screaming in his native Danish for the king to hold fast, and Oda pulled Serpent-Breath from my scabbard. Æthelstan raised his shield, caught the downward blow that split the shield almost in two, then Oda, screaming the king’s name, threw Serpent-Breath hilt first. Æthelstan had been driven to his knees by the force of the shield-splitting blow, but heard Oda, he turned and snatched Serpent-Breath out of the air, swept it hard to cut into Thorfinn’s left thigh, dragged it back, then stood and rammed the splintered shield into Thorfinn’s face. The big Norseman stepped back to give Hausakljúfr the space for a killing blow and Æthelstan, fast as the lightning on his flag, rammed Serpent-Breath forward, kept ramming, driving the blade deep into Thorfinn’s belly, then wrenching it up and down, side to side, and Skull-Splitter fell, Thorfinn fell with his axe, and Æthelstan had a bloodied boot on his enemy’s chest as he ripped Serpent-Breath free.

And Steapa came.

We did not know of Steapa’s coming at first. Folcbald and Wibrund were at my side, and we were fighting off a surge of furious Norsemen who came to avenge Thorfinn’s death. Gerbruht, who was one of my most loyal men, was on my right, trying to protect me with his shield and I had to snarl at him to move it aside to give me room to lunge Wasp-Sting. My shield was hard against a Norse shield, the man was trying to skewer me with his sword, and I shouldered Gerbruht aside, let the Norseman slide his blade between our shields, and I met it with Wasp-Sting’s razor-sharp edge, letting the man slide his forearm against the seax until the pain made him draw back. His tendons and flesh were cut to the bone and it was easy to thrust Wasp-Sting up into his ribs. All he could do now was batter me with his shield, his sword arm was useless, he could not step back because of the press of men behind him, and I was content to let his body shield me while the blood drained from his sliced wrist. And then, over the shouts and the clangour of the blades, I heard the hoofbeats.

Steapa had been hidden on the western hill among the autumn trees just behind the broken palisade of Brynstæþ. He had been ordered to wait until the battle had turned, until Æthelstan’s left wing had been forced back against the streams and the enemy would be fighting with their backs to the western ridge.

And now he came, leading five hundred mail-bright horsemen on big stallions. Anlaf had thought to use the slight slope to assault Æthelstan’s left, and now Steapa was using the steeper slope of the ridge to launch a thunderbolt at Anlaf’s rear. And Anlaf’s men knew it. The pressure on our line lessened as Norsemen shouted warnings of the attack coming from their rear, an attack that came down the ridge’s slope like a flood of doom. ‘Now!’ Æthelstan shouted. ‘Forward!’ Men who had thought themselves doomed saw rescue, and the whole West Saxon line went forward in a howling rush.

The horsemen hurled the stallions at the lesser stream. Most leaped the gully, some scrambled through, and I saw at least two horses fall, but the charge came on, the noise of the hooves a rising thunder over which I could hear the shouts of the riders. Almost all Steapa’s men carried spears, the points lowered as they neared the back of Anlaf’s shield wall.

Where there was chaos. The back of a shield wall is where the wounded are dragged, where servants hold horses, where a scatter of archers loose their bows, and those men, at least those who could move, ran to take shelter in the shield wall’s rearmost rank. That rank had turned, was desperately trying to make a wall, their shields touching, but the panicked men pushed them aside, screaming for help, and then the horsemen struck.

Horses will shy away from a shield wall, but the men seeking shelter had opened the wall to leave gaps and the horses kept coming. They struck with the fury of the úlfhéðnar , they pierced the wall wherever there was an opening and the spears shattered mail and ribs, the horses reared, they flailed hooves and snapped at terrified men, and the shield wall broke in terror. Men just ran. West Saxon horsemen discarded spears and drew swords. I saw Steapa, terrible in his anger, slash his great sword down to cut a man deep into his chest. The man was dragged along by the blade as Steapa turned northwards to pursue the fleeing enemy. And we went forward into the chaos. The shield wall in front of us, till now an impenetrable barrier, broke apart and we began killing in a frenzy. I picked up a dead Norseman’s sword because now, with the enemy scattering, was no time for the close work of a seax. This was the slaughter time. The fleeing enemy had their backs to us and they died fast. Some turned to fight, but were overwhelmed by vengeful pursuers. The luckiest of the enemy had horses and spurred away northwards, most following the Roman road towards Dingesmere. Steapa’s men followed, while Æthelstan shouted for his horse to be fetched. His bodyguard, all in their distinctive scarlet cloaks, were mounting their stallions. I saw Æthelstan, still with Serpent-Breath in his hand, climb into his saddle and spur towards the pursuit.