The herald stopped, and again no one spoke.
‘Tell us the terms.’ Arkil’s voice had a sharp edge. This was dragging on too long.
‘Lay down your weapons, leave half your plunder, and you can go on your way.’
‘You had best go back.’
The herald did not move. ‘If you swear a truce and remain where you stand, it may be Governor Dialis will offer more lenient terms.’
Arkil strode further out from his men. ‘Go back now.’
‘If you just …’
Arkil unsheathed his blade. The Himlings possessed several swords of ancient renown. This was Gaois, the growling one, half as old as Woden and responsible for nearly as many deaths.
‘Go back now,’ Arkil said again.
Undiplomatic, but Starkad thought the atheling was right. Time was not on their side. Any moment could see other units of Roman troops appear from any direction.
The herald reined his horse around, walked it back towards his line. And no one among the Angles could say he had acted without courage.
‘The prisoners!’ Arkil roared. ‘One in ten!’
A lane parted in Starkad’s men, and he walked through to the rear. To be an eorl demanded hard choices, and this was one of them. Starkad stood by Eomer in front of the captives. ‘Him,’ he pointed, ‘and him. That one …’ He continued until eight men, none young, had been dragged out. ‘Cut the others free.’
Their bonds gone, the women and younger men stood, irresolute and fearful.
‘Go,’ Starkad said.
They did not move, but gazed at him with round, uncomprehending eyes. He realized he had used his native tongue.
‘Go,’ he repeated in Latin. ‘Your gods hold their hands over you.’
Still they did not move. Perhaps they suspected some cruel trick.
‘Go.’ He pointed in the direction of the town. One individual, then another, tentatively shuffled in the direction they had come. When nothing untoward happened, they moved faster. Others joined in, until they were all running as fast as they could back towards their shattered lives.
Starkad jerked his thumb at the eight remaining. ‘Front of the line.’
They were distributed along the shieldwall. One was Starkad’s duty. He did not relish it, but it was a necessity. An eorl had to do what was right by his men and the gods.
Arkil began the dedication. Starkad and the others joined in. ‘Ran, goodwife of Aegir …’
Starkad looked down. The man was on his knees, bound. He had grey hair, grey eyes, a gentle, delicate face. Probably he had a wife, most likely a child, certainly he had been someone’s son.
‘Ran, turn your pale, cold eyes from us …’
Starkad drew his sword.
‘Spare us your drowning net, take these instead.’
Without hesitation, Starkad swung the blade. The man threw himself sideways. Not quite quick enough. The steel bit into the side of his neck. Blood sprayed bright in the sunshine. The man squealed, high like a pig. He was on the ground, not moving, but not dead. He was moaning. Starkad stepped up, and finished him with two hard, chopping blows to the back of the head.
A baying of outrage rolled across from the Roman lines.
Starkad cleaned his weapon on the dead man’s tunic, and slid it back into its scabbard.
‘Swineheads!’ Arkil’s voice carried along the Angle warhedge of shields.
Guthlaf walked a few paces in front and planted himself four-square. Two other experienced warriors went and stood on either side and just behind him. Starkad took his place at Guthlaf’s back. His chest felt all tight and hollow at once. His breath was coming fast and shallow. Without thought, he loosened his sword and dagger in their sheaths, touched the piece of amber tied to his scabbard as a healing stone. Taking up his spear, his palm was slick.
As each crew shifted into a wedge formation, a song rang out:
The sword growls
Leaving the sheath,
The hand remembers
The work of battle.
The Swinehead was formed. Starkad had Eomer on one shoulder, his standard-bearer on the other. Buoyed up by the singing and the proximity of his companions, he felt his anxieties slipping away. He would be a man; let down neither his friends nor himself.
‘Advance!’ Arkil’s bellow was followed by the bray of a horn. Normally, those warriors touched by Woden or another god would jump out beyond the formation and dance. Leaping and turning, casting aside their armour, they would draw down into themselves the ferocity of wolf, bear or other fanged, clawed beast. As they worked themselves into a murderous, slathering fury, the hearts of the rest would be lifted. Today there was no time. If one Roman unit could appear, against all expectation, so could more. The Angles had to break the fiend in front of them, and win through to their ships.
A low sigh, like a breeze through a field of ripe barley. Soft and deceptively gentle, the Angles began the barritus. As they moved off, the war chant swelled. They raised their shields in front of their mouths; the sound reflected, growing fuller and heavier.
Stepping in time, the barritus rose to a rough, fitful roar. It faded, and they could just hear the answering war chant of their enemy. The Angles lifted their voices and, like a great storm, drowned out everything else. The barritus foretold the outcome, and their barritus sounded good; a measure of manhood.
Between the nodding helmets of Guthlaf and the front rank, Starkad could see the enemy. They were stationary, close packed, awaiting the onslaught. Their leaders had chosen cohesion over momentum. Downhill, they had made a bad choice. Starkad was glad to be moving.
The Angles were picking up speed. Jogging, the thunder of their boots, the rattle of their war gear added to the din of the barritus. Starkad saw Guthlaf lower his spear. Carefully he brought his own down underarm; its point jutted out between Guthlaf and the shield of the man to the old warrior’s right.
They were close, no more than forty paces. Every detail of the shield-burg of the enemy was clear. The front rank were kneeling, spear butts planted, white shields half overlapping. The second rank had brought their shields down over the first, bases locked on to the bosses of those below. A dazzling wall of white wood and red-painted horned beasts. Everywhere wicked, glinting spearheads projected, waiting to tear the life from those the Norns decreed must fall.
The Angles broke into a full charge, legs pounding. Thirty paces, twenty. The fearful and the foolishly brave swept along together. The barritus echoed back like a huge wave crashing against a cliff. Something flashed to the right between Starkad and Eomer. Above, the air was full, as the rear ranks of both sides hurled their spears. Screams cut through the clamour. Chin down into chest. No time to think.
The noise — like nothing else in Middle Earth — wood and steel smashing together, buckling, breaking. It hit Starkad before the savage impact jarred up his right arm, into his shoulder, bringing wrenching pain. The haft of his splintered spear was torn from his grip. Full tilt, he ran shield to shield into a cornutus. One of his own men thumped into his back. Wind knocked out of him. No room to move. The enemy face behind the shield; snarling, brutish. Hot breath in his nostrils. Crushing pain. The enemy falling back and down — eyes wide with horror. Guthlaf above him, climbing, scrambling over the locked enemy shields, using their bosses as footholds. Cornuti stabbing up. Guthlaf hacking down, like some demented woodsman. The edifice swaying back, collapsing. The pressure on Starkad easing a fraction. Gasping for air, he dragged his sword free.
A shove from behind. Starkad stumbled over the enemy writhing on the grass. Lose your footing here, and you were dead. Friend and foe would trample you to nothing. Shield well up, Starkad thrust down with his sword. The point of the blade met the resistance of a mailcoat. He put his weight on the hilt. The steel broke through the rings and slid into soft flesh.