Andrew Offutt - When Death Birds Fly

Raven was drawn out through the skalli gate on rollers. Cormac and Wulfhere felt their hearts race at the sight of her.

“Let’s be sure she has oars in her!” mac Art commanded. “’Twould be awkward for us, to pile aboard in a rush and find that we couldn’t row! Display us all her other furnishings, too; mast, sail, anchors and such.’ “

Wulfhere admired the neat way Cormac had contrived to learn whether Raven’s anchors were still in her-without betraying his powerful interest in them-by merely lumping them with all her other furnishings. The oars and the rest were displayed, after Fritigern had given an abrupt nod of assent.

“Now let her be launched,” Wulfhere rumbled, “and then let your carles return up the beach at a run, not pausing till they reach the skalli gates, that we may go aboard! It must be done quickly, else Raven may capsize, to wallow in the surf unmanned-and must I repeat what will happen, an they move not quickly enow?”

“Ye swear my ships will go unharmed, an your demand be met?”

“Your ships will not burn,” Cormac answered. “I swear it by my head! What say ye, battle-brother?”

“The ships will not burn,” Wulfhere agreed. “I make oath to that upon my beard.” He touched that bristling growth even as he swore.

Fritigern gave the required orders, though he scowled.

Raven was duly set out from shore. In truth, she was too seaworthy to stand in much danger of a capsize, and “surf” was an overstatement at this stage of the tide. The carles who had launched her legged it back up the beach, running past the four Saxon vessels in Danish hands.

“Now!” Cormac bawled.

As one, each man in his party threw his blazing torch into the tinder they had prepared. The pitch-smeared flax burned brightly; the barrels of pitch burst into vivid orange flame a heartbeat later. Wulfhere, Cormac and their ten Danes were already running hard for Raven , sand flying in spurts from their heels. By the time they reached the water’s edge, the Saxon sails had begun to flame.

Cormac cast one glance backward, and laughed. He’d sworn that the ships would not burn. Nor would they. The Saxons were already cutting the sails free and dragging them away. Others were heaving the casks of blazing pitch into the sand, reckless of burns. They would prevent the fires from doing any great harm now that each ship no longer held men prepared to fight to the death.

He had sworn only that the ships would not burn. He’d sworn no bath to refrain from setting fires on them, to occupy the Saxons while he and his comrades departed.

Cormac gripped Raven’s side and heaved him self up and up by the strength of his arms, streaming water. He rolled over the wale into Raven’s familiar oar-benches. Swiftly he scanned them, striding up one side of the ship and down the other again, lest Saxons should be hidden aboard. He was hardly the only man who could play tricks or employ cunning, as he knew well.

No Saxons were there.

His comrades too heaved themselves swiftly aboard. Wulfhere immediately took the sweep. The other ten Danes ran out oars, five a side, and bent to rowing as they had seldom rowed before. Ten oars, to move a ship usually propelled by forty! Was well indeed that Raven had newly been careened, and that her timbers were no longer waterlogged. She answered sweetly. Her prow turned to the open sea and she fled out of spearthrowing range.

Few spears were cast. Fritigern’s men were occupied with extinguishing the last flames in their Master’s four ships. Hengist’s men the while ran cursing for their three, drawn up the beach on the other side of Fritigern’s skalli. Their vengeful yells made it clear they intended pursuit.

Wulfhere, handling the sweep like some barechested Titan, the night wind ruffling his beard and heavy chest-hair, smiled unpleasantly.

Cormac stood at the other end of the ship; examining the forward anchor. A mighty relief expanded in his heart. The disguised chain of pure silver remained attached. For certainty’s sake, he took his sax and scratched one of the links. The pure white shining of silver displayed itself in the starlight; through the black tarnish.

Wulfhere shipped the sweep. After those first awkward moments of getting Raven properly headed, it was no longer needed in such calm water. He and Cormac took an oar each, to add their strength to the others’.

“ I hear Saxon war-shouts, Wolf,” the Dane grunted. “They have their ships launched, and be bent to run us down like coursing hounds!”

Cormac only nodded.

Raven crawled on across the water. She had a start, but was frightfully undermanned. Each of the three pursuing ships had nearly her full tale of rowers. The twelve strong men in Raven pulled until their hearts threatened to break.

It was not enough. The Saxon ships drew nearer with every stroke.

Sudden as striking birds of prey, Armorican galleys swept out of the dark. They had guessed the portent of Saxon war-shouts and the urgent beat of oars. Drocharl and the other captains had promptly moved to the rescue, in strict silence that they might not lose the advantage of surprise. Now, as they swept past Raven and bore down on the enemy warships, they raised a battle-cry that drowned out that of the Saxons.

These were weapon-men of Bro Erech, hot for battle against their hereditary foes, hot for vengeance because their prince lay low. They howled like devils. Flung a hail of javelins into the Saxon ships. Grappled to them. Meanwhile, Raven’s dozen occupants worked fiercely to turn her and reach the fighting. They had been left behind while others went before them into the strife, and they were not accustomed to that.

With a rending and crashing of oars and a grinding of timbers, the warships met. A solid wall of shields along the Saxon rail balked the Armorican onslaught for a few moments; then the sixteen Danes aboard Drocharl’s ship broke through it. The Armoricans widened the rift with hacking sword and ax. Elsewhere, without heavily armoured Danes to aid them, the more lightly equipped Armoricans made ferocity do. Each Saxon warship became a hell of red chaos, and payment was taken in blood for the Mor-bihan raid.

Then Raven arrived.

Wulfhere entered the fray roaring, a swiftly-acquired helmet on his head, a linden shield on his left arm. He swung the great ax he had not abandoned even for the long swim ashore to Fritigern’s Isle. His chest was still bare. He hardly noticed. Not often did Wulfhere fight in the fashion of a berserk, unarmoured, but he’d no objection to doing so when he must. Cormac went beside him in plundered scale-mail, his sword striking like an adder’s fang. The timbers underfoot swiftly became greasy with blood.

“Away!” Drocharl roared at last. “More ships come to aid these swine! Beseems their chieftain has bestirred himself! Out of here!”

The other captains, with Cormac, took up the cry and the responsibility of enforcing it. Cormac, Wulfhere, and all their Danes withdrew aboard Raven , with a score or so Armoricans. They rowed. Behind, of three full ships’ companies that had set out from Kent, scarcely enough of Hengist’s Saxons remained alive to make up one-and most of those were sore wounded.

“We harmed not your ships, Fritigern!” Cormac bawled, and Wulfhere guffawed.

Fritigern’s four ships gave chase until dawn before turning back.

“Hai, Drocharl!” Cormac bellowed to the Armorican captain, in the morning light. “Are ye after fulfilling your oath?”

“I made a beginning!” Drocharl shouted back. “Two! Two that I’m certain of, y’understand-was dark and confused in that brawl! There may ha’ been others, but I’ll count only those I’m sure on! Well-there be other Saxons in plenty.”