Hereward 03 - End of Days (40 page)

More wolves flew at him.

Staggering back, he whirled his blade. Arcs of crimson droplets trailed through the falling snow. Fangs ripped through the flesh of his thigh. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Deda beside him, his blade flashing. His face and hands, too, were red.

Blinking away the gore, he realized the snapping jaws were
beginning to thin. Bodies littered the snow around his feet. His agony had started to ebb, his vision closed in. Sounds reached him, dim and distorted. And yet he could hear the whispers of the
alfar
in the branches above as clearly as if they stood beside him. He had been here before. It was the battle-sickness, or Woden’s Mercy, numbing him to the pain so he could heal. The flow of blood from his wounds, too, would slow, enough for Deda to bind them.

He hacked another wolf to the ground as it leapt. And then, as if from far, far away, he heard the blare of hunting horns. The surviving beasts paused in their attack and looked around. Their growls died in their throats. Slinking low, they sped away into the swirling snow.

Redteeth leaned against the trunk and caught his breath. His thigh was a ragged mess, and he bled from a score of other wounds. But he had survived. Deda rested a weary hand on his shoulder. The knight’s long mail shirt and gauntlets had protected him from the brunt of the savaging. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘we must be away.’

The Viking could not understand the other man’s urgency. But then he looked up and saw dark shapes emerging from the blizzard.

Deda sucked in a deep breath of resignation. ‘The wild men of the woods,’ he said.

The men stepped out of the drifting snow and formed a semicircle around the two blood-soaked warriors. Redteeth looked at the faces. He settled on the one that had haunted his days for so long.

Hereward grinned, his eyes blazing as if a devil looked out of him. ‘Now,’ he snarled, ‘we shall have our reckoning.’

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HARALD REDTEETH THREW
back his head and roared his laughter to the heavens. His eyes peered out of a red mask, above a wild red beard. Blood clotted his furs and streamed down his hauberk and his axe into a puddle round his feet. Most of the gore belonged to the dismembered wolves scattered around him, Hereward could see – he had given a good account of himself – but the wounds upon his thigh and his arm were still seeping.

The Northman shook his axe and more crimson droplets spattered across the snow. ‘I am ready for you, Mercian,’ he said with a mad grin, ‘as I have been ready for you these nine long years.’

The wind gusted a sheet of snow between them, and once again Hereward’s thoughts flew back across the years to that first encounter. Then he was the one who had been drenched in blood, the one who had no doubt looked mad to all who saw him. His devil had ridden him hard in those days. If Alric finally loosened his feeble grip on this world, would the circle turn once more? Would he become like Harald Redteeth, who had become like him? He felt all the portents fire his deepest fears. He could almost feel the cold breath of death upon his
neck. The End of Days was coming, for the world, for England, for him and the Viking and Alric.

‘We fight, here, now, and one of us will die,’ he called. Drawing his sword, he levelled it at his warriors and swung it in a slow arc. ‘Let no man stand in the way of this ending, even if that axe is about to split my skull.’ The men muttered with unease at this, but they gave reluctant nods.

‘And when I send you to your doom, your men must let me, and Deda, walk free,’ the Viking called back, ‘and seek no vengeance for your death.’

‘Agreed.’

Redteeth rested one foot upon the body of a wolf. ‘This battle is a settling of accounts. Your death in payment for my friend Ivar. Only then will he be free to enter the Halls of the Fallen. This was my vow to him.’

‘And your death in payment for my friend Vadir, whose head you took in Flanders. A good man, who did not deserve your cruelty.’

‘He was a warrior,’ the Viking replied with a dismissive shrug. ‘These things happen in war.’

‘Ready yourself,’ Hereward said, gripping Brainbiter with both hands and lifting it.

Redteeth raised one finger to stop him. Without taking his eyes off the Mercian, he dipped one hand into the leather pouch at his hip and drew out a handful of mushrooms. Throwing them into his mouth, he chewed with slow, deliberate movements. When he had swallowed, he grinned and said, ‘This is the flesh of Woden. It cures all ills and takes away all pain. On the wings of ravens, I will rise above this battle and then I will smite you down with the fury of the All-Father.’

‘Ready yourself,’ Hereward repeated.

Still the Viking ignored him. He turned to Deda and said, ‘You can drink my piss when we are done, if you like. It will make you fly with the gods.’

The knight bowed. ‘My thanks. If the tavern runs out of wine, that will no doubt be my first choice.’

Redteeth stepped over the dead wolves and faced Hereward. As the Mercian neared, he saw the Viking frown and lean in. ‘Should the gods have it that this day I journey to the great black sea, never to return,’ he whispered so the other men could not hear, ‘then take Deda with you. He is a good man, one you could use. And,’ he said with a wink, ‘the king wishes him dead. He can never again return to William’s court. Will you do this thing for me, as we are men of honour and brothers of the axe?’

Hereward was surprised. Never had he seen the Viking show warmth or consideration for any other man. ‘Should you die, as you will, I will grant your wish,’ he murmured.

The Viking nodded, his fierce face falling for the first time into a pleased smile. He wiped it away in an instant and gave a bloodthirsty grin. Stepping back, he swung his axe high and boomed, ‘I wish you a good death, brother.’

‘And I you.’ Hereward thought of Alric lying a whisper away from his own death, with Acha watching over him. And he thought of the final agonies of Ithamar, who had stood by him since his army had first begun to grow in Ely. He opened himself up to the fury those visions summoned, and he heard the echoing whispers deep inside him.
Come
, he called.
Come. Fill me with your rage.
A devil to fight a devil.

The blizzard whipped around them and the wind howled in their ears so that it seemed they were alone in all the world. Blood showered off Redteeth as he roared and hurled himself forward. He leapt the final step and drove the axe down. Hereward threw himself aside, swinging his sword in an arc. The Viking dropped to his knees as he hit the ground and the blade whisked a finger’s width above his head. Rolling aside, Harald hacked for the Mercian’s shins. Ready for this strike, Hereward jumped. As the weapon cut through the air beneath his feet, he thrust down, but his opponent was already away and rising to his feet. Snow frosted his beard and his hauberk and furs, but he seemed oblivious of the bitter cold, and of the pain he should surely feel from his weeping wounds. Woden’s flesh was working its magic.

Redteeth leaned back and laughed once more. This was a fight to the death, but he was enjoying it as if it were a wrestling bout in the king’s feasting hall. Hereward scowled. Death was a serious business.

Growling, he bounded forward. The Northman stood his ground and met him head-on. Sword clashed against axe and sparks flew among the snowflakes. Hereward’s head rang with the clang of iron. With their weapons between them, they pressed against each other, Redteeth’s face only a hand’s width away. Hereward could smell his meaty breath and the sweat rising from beneath his furs. He looked deep into those all-black eyes and for a moment he thought he knew his enemy’s deepest secrets. The Viking squirmed under that scrutiny and broke away as if he could not bear to be so exposed.

Locked in each other’s gyre, they whirled. Sharp blades nicked flesh, raising mists of blood. But as they danced on and on and no deeper wounds were inflicted, Hereward saw they were too evenly matched. It was as if they knew the innermost workings of each other’s mind.

The light grew thin. The cold bit hard. The blizzard enveloped them in a world of white.

Lost to his battle-rage, Hereward had no idea how much time had passed. But then, as he sidestepped an axe strike with ease, he thought it seemed to take all the Viking’s strength to draw his weapon back. On the hard-packed snow, he noticed the swirling trail of blood that marked Redteeth’s movements in the whirling battle. Line upon line of crimson in a criss-crossing pattern of such complexity that he felt reminded of the illustrated books the monks worked on in the scriptorium.

When he thrust with his sword, Redteeth barely parried the strike, batting his blade away with the axe as if he were swatting a fly. The Northman’s step faltered. In those black eyes, Hereward glimpsed a flicker of unease. Harald knew his strength was ebbing. He laughed again, loud and long, but this time it did not ring true. The sound died away and he scowled.

‘Fight on,’ he bellowed. ‘What is wrong with you? Has my
might made you afrit? Have you turned coward in the face of your own death?’

Hereward swung his sword, then caught it at the last. The blade hung in the air for a moment, until he withdrew it and stepped back.

Redteeth shook his axe with fury and tried to bound forward. He staggered and fell to his knees. His face looked the colour of the snow. ‘Fight,’ he gasped. He tried to shake his axe once more, but it slipped from his fingers. With a juddering sigh, he lowered his chin to his chest. Finally he accepted the truth. He was done.

Hereward sheathed his sword. ‘You have not lost,’ he said. ‘The wolves have ended your days.’

When he looked up, tears glinted in the corner of the Viking’s eyes. He reached out a trembling hand to something Hereward could not see. ‘Ivar …’ His voice was barely a rustle. ‘I have failed you.’ He slumped backwards on to the white ground and stared up at the branches. Flakes settled across his face.

Hereward loomed over him. ‘You fought well.’

‘This is not an honourable death,’ he croaked. ‘Not a death in battle. The Halls of the Fallen are denied to me. I will never drink mead with my father again, or my father’s father, and laugh, and feast.’

The Mercian winced at the despair he heard in the dying man’s voice.

Deda stepped out of the blizzard, his cloak billowing around him. He looked down at the Viking and said in a gentle voice, ‘There is still fight left in you, battle-brother.’

Redteeth creased his brow in bafflement. He could barely move, so weak was he from blood-loss, Hereward could see.

The knight glanced at the English warrior for approval and then crouched beside his fallen companion. Grabbing the axe, he pressed it into the Viking’s hand and held it there. His feet sliding around on the packed snow, Deda slipped his other hand under Redteeth’s armpit and hauled him to his feet.
They stood there, swaying, as if in a ghastly dance of death.

‘Fight,’ the knight urged.

The Viking licked his dry lips and grinned. ‘Come on, you English bastard. Or are you still afrit?’

Hereward drew Brainbiter again. He knew his duty. As he levelled the blade, Deda pressed his friend’s hand so the axe tapped against it. In one fluid movement, the Mercian snatched back the sword and thrust it under Redteeth’s jaw and into his brain. Blood bubbled out of his mouth, and his eyes glassed over.

As Deda eased the fallen warrior on to the snow, the Viking slid off the blade. Redteeth lay there, staring up, a spark still glimmering within him. How hard he was to kill, Hereward thought. For all the death he dealt, he lived life more fiercely than any other man the Mercian knew.

A smile flickered on his lips. ‘Father …’ he whispered. His breath steamed, once, and then the wind whisked it away. All was still.

And from somewhere overhead came the sound of wings.

C
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THE COLUMN OF
English warriors trudged through the calf-deep snow, heads bowed into the teeth of the gale. Night was falling. Hereward felt more weary than he ever had in the years since he had begun his rebellion against the king.

‘You have my thanks for your offer of companionship and shelter,’ Deda yelled above the howling wind. He shielded his eyes against the stinging flakes. ‘I would not have known where to turn.’

Hereward grunted. ‘You will earn your keep.’ Glancing at the other man, he added, ‘You owe your thanks to that mad Viking. He pleaded for you.’

Remembering the angry vows he had made over Vadir’s grave in Flanders, he had expected some joy at Harald Redteeth’s death, but there was none, only a curious numbness. The ground had been too hard to bury the warrior, and they would not have been able to light a pyre, so they dragged two fallen trees beside his body and heaped branches over the top in the hope that it would keep the wolves off him.

The knight looked surprised. ‘I could not get the measure of him, even to the end.’ He hesitated. ‘I will not raise my sword against the king. You know that.’

‘Even though he wants your life?’

‘Even so.’

‘Very well. There will be other work for you.’ Hereward peered into the storm, searching for landmarks. A part of him did not want to make his way back to the camp beside the stream for fear of what would be waiting for him.

‘One other thing,’ Deda said. ‘I could not in all conscience keep this from you. Your father is dead.’ He paused. ‘I killed him.’

Hereward jerked round and looked deep into the knight’s face. He was not lying. ‘Why would you take the life of an old man?’

Deda turned away, choosing his words. ‘To save the life of a woman.’

The Mercian looked down, feeling the sting of old memories. ‘Then you did well.’

He could feel the knight’s puzzled gaze upon him, but he did not meet it, nor would he speak of it again. He was unsure how he felt about Asketil’s passing, but he was sure the world was a better place without his father in it.

By the time they reached the camp, he could not feel his face and hands. But once he had stooped under the overhanging branches and reached the safety of the cut, he felt a blast of warmth from the roaring fire. In the glow of the flames, Acha hunched over Alric’s frail form. She glanced at him and shook her head. Something in her face seemed to say she did not think it would be long.