Harry Sidebottom - The Amber Road

Doubtless the scops would make much of Morcar being first to board a Bronding longship, of how he had cleared its prow, struck down five warriors with his own hand. It had been a creditable feat of arms, but it was nothing compared with the leadership he had shown.

It had always been about leadership, everything, all the hard things he had done. All of it had been for the good of the Angles. A people could have only one leader, and the theoden must be the best man. It was a fact of nature. Froda had been vainglorious and thoughtless. Froda had been their father’s favourite. A man of no substance, as cyning he would have brought disaster to the Himlings and the Angles. Eadwulf had been fickle, drunken, intemperate in all things. It would have been better if he had been executed, as Morcar had intended, but his exile for the murder of Froda had dealt with Eadwulf Evil-Child. Morcar claimed no credit for Dernhelm being sent away into the imperium . It had been luck, or the will of the Norns . But the betrayal of Arkil in Gaul had been a second masterstroke. It had been a difficult decision, not reached without consideration. That so many valuable Angle warriors had had to be sacrificed with Arkil had been unfortunate. Yet leadership was indivisible. It demanded hard choices. When Isangrim stepped down, as the old man soon must, Oslac would stand aside. The Angles would be united under one Himling ruler. Morcar knew he would give them the leadership they needed.

All had been in place, and then Dernhelm had returned. Isangrim doted on his youngest son, doted on Dernhelm in a way their father had never doted on Morcar himself. Dernhelm had to be removed again. Unsurprisingly, Oslac had shown himself weak. Morcar had arranged for his brother to find his whore of a wife alone with her old lover outside the feast, and Oslac had done nothing but whine and quote gloomy lines about betrayal from the verse of the Romans. Still, the Norns had given Morcar a new thread. Back on Hedinsey, the imperial envoy Zeno had made a clandestine approach. The repulsive little Greek claimed Dernhelm was carrying secret orders from Gallienus, orders to overthrow their father and take the throne himself. When confronted with documentary evidence of such treachery, of attempted parricide, the senile affections of Isangrim must give way. There could be no punishment for the hateful crime except death.

The condemned were herded down through the poles which marked the sacred site. Morcar felt no more sympathy for them than did the bleached skulls, the visible symbols of ancient piety, which were set on top of every one of the ash stakes. Each of the six men had hung back from the fight, had thrown down their swords like nithings . The cowardice of each had endangered their companions.

At the edge of the marsh, Morcar spoke the ritual words. ‘Deeds of shame should be buried out of the sight of men, stamped down, trodden deep. Take them.’

One by one, the bound men were thrown into the marsh. Some struggled and sobbed, others lay still; all alike again unmanned by the weakness that had brought them to this. The wattled hurdles were brought down, and they were drowned.

The crowd — the loyal Angles and Wrosns, and the Brondings, Wylfings and the rest returned to allegiance — watched in solemn silence.

Morcar turned away, satisfied. No one would mistake the Himlings’ mercy of the last two days as weakness.

The Island of Abalos

The new moon had risen. It was a clear night. From the copse, Ballista watched the isolated farm about half a mile away. Behind the dark line of the fence and the outbuildings, the high ridge of the hall was silhouetted against the azure sky. Grey smoke puffed up, smudged the stars and was pulled away to the east. Chinks of light came from the shutters. Now and then one of the doors was opened, and the sudden spill of golden torchlight threw everything else into blackness. When his night vision returned, Ballista could see the dark standard flying from the gable. He could not make out its insignia, but he knew it bore Fenris the wolf in silver.

They had sailed direct from Norvasund. The wind on the starboard beam, the current had helped them south down the Little Belt. The westerly had remained constant as they steered south-east around Varinsey and the islands of Latris, then north-east past Cape Arcona and across the open sea to Abalos. It had been a fast passage, just three days.

Behind Ballista, someone smothered a sneeze. It should not matter. They had come up from the south. The wind was across their faces. Ballista raised himself on his elbow, and looked back. The men were blackened and muffled, their outlines broken and indistinct in the banded moonlight under the trees. A Black-Harii such as Wada the Short could have found little at which to complain. After Olbia and Ouiadoua Bank, even the Romans and Olbians must be becoming accustomed to night fighting. At least those who survived.

The hearth-troop had been hit hard at Norvasund. Twenty-three had fallen there: Dunnere Tethered-Hound and another three Heathobards, the Rugian pilot, four Romans, seven Olbians and seven of the young Angle nobles. All had been cut down around Ballista on the hill, except two Angles who had met their end fighting under Wada at the palisade, and another lost from one of the boats commanded by Ivar Horse-Prick. When all those left had been gathered, just thirty-six men had filed on to the Warig , several of them carrying wounds.

The previous afternoon, they had put in at a deserted stretch of coast near the main port of Abalos, hidden the Warig in a creek. Mord had volunteered to go on foot into the settlement. His grandmother was a Bronding. He had relatives there who would not betray him. Eadric, son of Eadwine, had gone with him. To look peaceful, they had taken off their helmets and coats of mail, left behind their shields and bows. It had taken much courage from both of them.

The young men had returned in the gloaming. The news they brought could not have been better. Unferth had withdrawn from the port. He was with his sworn companions in his hall on Gnitaheath.

Mord had led them to this concealed vantage point. Ballista looked up through the branches at the moon. They must have lain here for four hours or more. At first, messengers had come and gone up the road to the hall, riding hard. Unferth must be trying to gather what support remained to him, plan his next move. After Norvasund, Ballista could not imagine what that might be. But a cornered animal was always dangerous.

Now the doors of the hall had not opened and there had been no movement for some time. The light seeping around the shutters had dimmed to almost nothing.

Ballista whispered for Castricius, Ivar Horse-Prick and Wada to come close. He outlined his plan. Like those at Gudme, the hall had two main doors. They were situated opposite each other in the long walls. Ballista would take the one facing west with ten men. Castricius with the same number would take the other. There might be smaller doors. Ivar and five warriors were to ring the north of the building, Wada and the remaining five the south. They should stay at a distance and be vigilant. Some halls had underground passages designed for those inside to escape. When they were all in position, Ballista would call on Unferth to surrender, or those around him to give him up. Most probably, these would be refused. If the defenders were so minded, Ballista’s men would let any women and children leave. Then they would break open the doors. They had brought axes, but it would be better if they could find timbers among the farm buildings with which to batter down the doors. If all else failed, they had tinderboxes.