Ballista gazed over to the far side of Norvasund. Those under Castricius were not yet engaged. But things did not bode well. Whatever his orders from Unferth, the leader of the Dauciones was exercising more discretion than the other tribal chiefs. He had formed up the majority of his warriors in a shieldwall just out of bowshot. The backs of a smaller group could be seen disappearing into the trees. Ballista had no doubt they were setting off on a flank march which would bring them around behind Castricius’s position, where there were no defences apart from a shallow stream. Attacked from all sides except the water, there would be no salvation for Castricius’s men. The professional in Ballista could not help admire the unknown leader of the Dauciones.
‘They are coming,’ Maximus said.
The Brondings were about three hundred paces away. They were jostling into a shield-burg at the base of the headland. Behind their overlapping shields, numbers were difficult to judge. Exactitude mattered little. Ballista’s hearth-troop had to be outnumbered by something like ten to one. A slope and a makeshift barricade would make no difference. This could only end one way.
Ballista searched around for Hieroson and Vermund the Heathobard. They were down near the rowing boat with the prisoner. Ballista considered sending them away. He could join them, row to safety with Maximus and Tarchon. He dismissed the nithing thought. He would not run, and if he sent anyone away now, it would undermine the fragile morale of the hearth-troop. Things would have to play out as the Norns had spun.
Rikiar the Vandal raised his voice:
‘Let us make our drawn swords glitter
You who stain wolf’s teeth with blood;
Now that the fish of the valleys thrive,
Let us perform brave deeds.
Here before sunset we will
Make noisy clamour of spears.’
The warriors hoomed their approval, slowly beat their weapons on the linden boards of their shields. Ballista felt tears prick his eyes with pride at being one of this brave, doomed band.
Mord’s hunting dog was baying. Ballista spoke gently to the youth. ‘Are you content with this? I forgot your grandmother was a Bronding.’
The boy grinned. ‘My mother is from the Eutes, and my father is an Angle. I am a Himling atheling, like you.’
Ballista grinned back.
The Brondings were advancing. When they came in range, Ballista shouted for those with bows to shoot. It did little good — the shields of the Brondings soon quivered with shafts — but the hearth-troop had more arrows than they could use today, and they would not need them tomorrow. It made them feel they were doing something.
The shield-burg came on slowly, but to those waiting it took all too little time.
Twenty paces out, the shield-burg broke open. With a roar, the Brondings rushed forward. Now arrows found their mark. Men were snatched backwards, as if they had run into an invisible rope. But far too few to break the charge.
Ballista carefully weighted then threw a stone the size of his fist. He saw it smash into a shield. Its owner staggered, but came on. Ballista dragged out Battle-Sun.
A warrior grasped the barricade with his shield hand, swung himself up. Ballista back-handed his blade into the man’s leading leg. He collapsed at Ballista’s feet. Another hurdled the obstacle. Ballista got Battle-Sun into his guts. The dying Bronding fell into him, driving him back. Ballista took a blow from an unseen assailant to the right shoulder.
All along the line the Brondings were swarming over. Ballista saw Dunnere the Heathobard cut down. Somewhere, a dog howled in pain.
‘Back! Form on me!’ Ballista retrieved his weapon, took quick steps back to the young Angle holding the white draco. Maximus was on one shoulder, Tarchon the other.
Often in battle there came a pause. Having cleared the barricade, the Brondings held off as they lapped around the defenders.
A tight knot of men, completely surrounded. Perhaps twenty left; half the hearth-troop gone. Young Mord howling defiance over Ballista’s shoulder. An Olbian muttering ‘Let us be men’ in Greek. No point in trying to run, begging would do nothing. Die like a man among men. The heartbreaking sorrow of never seeing his sons again.
A tremor, like wind through a cornfield, among the Brondings. Heads turning, anxious words.
Battle-Sun shook in Ballista’s hands. The Rugian pilot was dead at his feet, near cut in half. Ballista’s right shoulder stung. The mail was broken, blood hot on his arm. He was panting with pain, or shock, or effort.
The ring of Brondings backed away. Then, at a command, turned and ran, clambering over the ruined barricade.
Ballista and the survivors stared at each other, not yet daring to hope.
‘Look, out to sea.’ It was Maximus, keen-eyed as ever.
Ballista looked, struggling to comprehend the turn of events. The seaworthy Geat longships were retreating, the Wylfings following. On the far shore, Dauciones were running back to their boats.
‘Fuck me,’ Maximus said. ‘You never would have thought it.’
A great forest of masts out at the entrance to Norvasund. Any number of longships, under oars, coming down the Little Belt from the north. Banners flew above them: the White Horse of Hedinsey, the Deer and Fawn of Varinsey and the Three-headed Man of the Wrosns. Four of the Bronding reserve were swinging out line abreast to delay them. But the largest enemy ship, the one with the huge black flag showing Fenris the wolf in silver, was pulling out of Norvasund and away south into the Little Belt. Unferth was fleeing from the fleet of the Himlings.
Morcar stood at the edge, where solid ground gave way to mud. The other leaders of the fleet stood a little apart; his brother Oslac, eorl Eadwine, Hathkin son of Heoroweard, and Hrothgar of the Wrosns. The marsh was no distance inland from Norvasund. As they and the crowd waited for the cowards, he listened to the wind hissing through the alder scrub, and turned things over in his mind.
Mercy, in the two days since the battle, had been on everyone’s lips, along with forgiveness and reconciliation. Morcar had used the words as assiduously as any. It had been necessary. Half the Geats had got away, and three ships of the Wylfings, but not a single vessel of the Dauciones had escaped south down the Little Belt, and the only Bronding longship to win clear had been that carrying Unferth himself. Conspicuous mercy and many assurances had been required to bring some three thousand defeated and trapped warriors and their eorls back into allegiance to the Himlings. But mercy was a virtue which all too easily could be interpreted as weakness. It had to be balanced by severity. Politics had precluded severity to the losers, but it had to be exhibited. The cowards among the victors would provide that display.
Morcar felt strangely alone. It was not so much that the other leaders were standing at a slight distance, the crowd further away still, more that neither his two particular confidants nor his son were at his side. It had been essential that Glaum, son of Wulfmaer, stay on Hedinsey. Someone reliable had to be with Isangrim, otherwise the old cyning was all too susceptible to malign influences. Swerting Snake-Tongue had been a long time in the west. He should have returned by now. Perhaps it had proved necessary for Swerting to travel into Gaul to the court of Postumus. If so, that might not be good. And Mord had vanished with Dernhelm.
In the distance a guard of warriors could be seen through the oaks bringing the convicted to the marsh.
Where had Dernhelm gone? Why had Mord gone with him? The very day of the battle, Dernhelm had retaken command of his longship Warig, quietly gathered his hearth-troop, Mord among them, and slipped away. The last time Dernhelm had vanished he had returned in triumph with the head of Widsith. Now most likely he had slunk back to Hedinsey, to their father. Glaum could deal with that.