Authors: F J Atkinson
Augustus exploded with laughter at this.
‘I don’t know about James,’ he chortled, ‘but put Darga in the pit and any Saxon who falls into it will soon throw himself upon his own spear in despair.’
Augustus’s brothers joined in the laughter, their baritone mirth echoing around the clearing. Darga reddened and was about to foolishly challenge Augustus, when a smiling Dominic signalled for them to be silent.
‘Don’t worry Darga,’ he said, ‘I don’t expect you and James to wait in the pit. But you can put some fangs into it for me.’
‘You talk in riddles,’ said Darga impatiently. ‘What do you mean put
fangs
into it?’
Dominic sighed, his own patience strained.
‘Go into the forest,’ he said, pointing across the clearing. ‘You and James will collect stout staves from it and sharpen them to a point. These you will place in the pit. Sharp fangs, don’t you agree, to pierce the hides of murderers?’
‘But wont they be wary of such a plan, after last time?’ asked James.
‘If Egbert or Cissa made it back to the coast then the answer to your question must be yes,’ said Dominic. ‘We’ve nothing to lose anyway. Maybe if Egbert is in the raiding party he’ll expect to find an ambush pit, but that
may
play into our hands. This is what I have in mind …’
The next morning Dominic and Murdoc left at first light and rode eastwards down the track. The day was uneventful and by mid-afternoon, they had covered a good distance. Dominic halted his pony, dismounted and examined the trail. Hoof prints led from it into the forest.
‘It looks like we’ve company,’ he said. ‘These are fresh prints from two ponies—outriders probably. We must take care from here on.’
For the rest of the day they rode alongside the trac
k, taking care to remain hidden as they followed the newly found prints.
Murdoc had kept his spear, which he viewed as a symbol of his deliverance from the Saxons. Dominic had helped him to improve it
s efficiency, and had expertly sharpened it, after which, Murdoc had set it anew in a slender shaft of ash wood. He also now carried the same type of high velocity bow that Dominic used. Dominic had patiently constructed it, along with another, during the cold, winter months.
That night they lit no fire, and when morning came, they again rode alongside the track under the cover of the surrounding shrubbery. Dominic frequently dismounted and examined the ground, and on one occasion, he left Murdoc and walked back to the track, stooping at intervals to touch the forest floor.
He returned minutes later, put a forefinger to his lips, and signalled for Murdoc to dismount.
‘There are two men scouting ahead, as trackers to the main party,’ he whispered. ‘One of them passed by this very spot recently and now rides on the main trail. We can’t allow him to warn the others that we’ve arrived at the clearing.’
Murdoc followed Dominic as he ran quietly into the head-high, brushwood. It was then only a short distance to the track where Dominic stopped and pointed to a bank of hazel, which was newly in leaf.
‘Wait in there,’ he urged. ‘The other rider is heading for us. It’s time to get rid of him.’
Murdoc quickly concealed himself behind the bush as Dominic walked up the track and stood in full view of the approaching rider.
Upon seeing him, the man was at first startled, but then jumped off his pony and grabbed his war ax, before running at Dominic. After he had passed him, Murdoc quickly stepped from behind his cover, and threw his spear at full force into the man’s back. His shoulder blade took the full force, deflecting the spear from his heart.
‘Stand back!’ shouted Dominic, as the man struggled to rise to his knees. From behind, Murdoc saw Dominic quickly raise his bow and release an arrow. The dart entered the Saxon’s mouth, stifling his scream, and shattering his neck bone.
Running quickly to the fallen man, Dominic pulled the arrow free, then wiped it on the grass and replaced it in its quiver.
‘Half a morning’s work wasted if I’d left him with this,’ he said. He dragged the corpse into the bushes, then stood up and looked quickly up and down the track. He looked to Murdoc. ‘Slap his pony’s arse and send it down the trail.’
The pony responded to Murdoc’s whack and ran out of sight. After clearing the killing scene of all traces of combat, they led their mounts through the brush until they were some distance from the trail.
Murdoc was amazed yet again at his partner’s cold proficiency, but was alert again when Dominic stopped dead. ‘Over there by the stream!’ he whispered.
Twenty paces away, through a narrow gap in the
shrubbery, Bealdwine—the tracker and formidable warrior—crouched by a stream taking a drink from his cupped hands. Vigilant and primal, his narrow eyes darted around the bower, looking for movement.
The two men moved back, ensuring they were out of sight, as Bealdwine stood up, sniffing the air like an
animal—his instincts telling him to be wary.
‘This time I’ll break cover and let him see
me
,’ said Murdoc. ‘Then it’s up to you.’
Nodding, Domin
ic nocked the same arrow that had killed the other man. ‘Right, go now’ he said quietly, as he gently pushed Murdoc from the cover of the bush.
Bealdwine saw Murdoc immediatel
y and in an instant, flipped his hunting knife in his hand and threw it at Murdoc’s head.
Murdoc’s reflexes saved him, as his raised arm took the full force of the knifepoint. Bealdwine wasted no time covering the ground as he moved towards him, his ax swinging in a practiced blur as he ran. He ignored the swish of Dominic’s arrow, as it brushed his cheek.
Dominic prevented Bealdwine completing his deathblow upon the prostrate Murdoc, as he exploded out of his cover and rammed his palms against the Saxon’s chest, forcing him to stumble backwards.
The two men now faced each other, ax against sword. Bealdwine sneered at Dominic and insolently flicked his tongue at him as they circled. He continued to swing his ax in an expert manner around his head and shoulders, forcing Dominic to concentrate intently in readiness for an oncoming attack. Bealdwine quickly shimmied into killing distance and swung his ax overhead, then downwards, intent
in cleaving Dominic’s skull, but was surprised to see his blow blocked expertly by Dominic’s sword. Quickly he repeated the attack, and again Dominic was equal to the task. Two more blows followed, and again they were repelled.
Both men
were now panting with the effort of combat, as Murdoc slowly gained his feet. Again, Bealdwine readied himself to attack, as his breathing became more even. Dominic raised his sword, his knees bent slightly in a posture of readiness, just as the dead man’s pony, which had returned to find its master, ran from the undergrowth. Immediately aware of the brief advantage afforded him by the distracted Bealdwine, Dominic quickly removed his bow from his shoulder, then notched and released an arrow at short range.
Having little time to perfect his aim, the arrow entered Bealdwine just below the meat of his right shoulder, the impact sending his ax to the floor. Incensed, Bealdwine was quickly upon Dominic with his bare hands, spit flying from his drawn lips as he made to gouge at Dominic’s eyes.
As the older man, Dominic’s energy had drained with the intensity of the struggle, but he had enough reserves left to meet Bealdwine’s attack, and found the strength to push his wiry assailant a swords distance away. He swung his sword at Bealdwine, his first offensive swordplay of the combat. Bealdwine’s head took the force of the blow, but only the flat of the sword made contact, and sufficed only to knock him to his knees.
Dominic lost no time following up his advantage and kicked him to the ground with the flat of his foot, before stamping on the arrow, which protruded from
his shoulder.
Bealdwine grasped his shoulder and howled in pain as Dominic’s sword was quickly positioned under his neckerchief. He looked up at Dominic with eyes that burned with rabid hate, and his death cry of ‘
Woden
!’ was curtailed as Dominic leaned his full weight on the sword, plunging the blade below his thyroid cartilage and into the forest floor beneath his head.
After removing the blade, it took him several minutes to recover, as he stooped, hands on knees, gasping. He looked towards Murdoc, slack jawed and panting, noticing that his companion still had Bealdwine’s knife protruding from his arm.
He attended him after recovering his breath sufficiently.’ There’s no easy way to do this,’ he said, as he quickly and unexpectedly removed the knife. Murdoc winced in pain, and Dominic examined the wound. ‘You’re lucky the knife pierced nothing vital,’ he said, ‘otherwise you’d now be bleeding like a stuck pig.’ He went to his pony and returned with a cloth bag.
Murdoc watched as Dominic tipped the powdery contents of the bag into his drinking bowl.
‘Burdock root?’ he asked.
Dominic nodded as he mixed the powder with water from his gourd, then he daubed the stiff paste onto Murdoc’s wound.
‘This should soothe the pain and stop the wound going bad.’
After Dominic had bandaged his
arm with a strip of cloth torn from Bealdwine’s shirt, Murdoc got gingerly to his feet and gripped Dominic’s arm. ‘Yet again I’ve reason to thank you for saving my life.’ He turned and looked at the lifeless Bealdwine, whose partly severed head lolled at an angle to his body. ‘If they all fight like him then maybe we would be better to flee as Griswalda advised,’ he said. ‘I fear this is a tide we can’t stem forever.’
‘Maybe not, but try we must,’ said Dominic. He picked up Bealdwine’s hunting knife, and flipped then balanced it in his hand. ‘A good knife,’ he mused. He glanced at Bealdwine and turned to Murdoc. ‘I think we should leave his companions a message. Pray, bring me the rope from my pony.’ He turned to attend to Bealdwine.
Several days earlier, the floods had also delayed Osric and his followers, but when the waters dropped low enough for departure, a gathering of raiders assembled in the town square. Ponies stamped and bellowed steam into the stark air, whilst the men talked and joked as they awaited Osric’s arrival. An aura of tense anticipation interlaced the discourse of the men
Their leader, when he joined them, was dressed in a thick, fur jerkin and hide breeches
. His braided, red hair hung like copper wire from his iron helmet, brushing his bare shoulders. He placed one hand on the hilt of his broadsword as he addressed the men. ‘With Egbert and Wlensling showing us the way we should reach British villages before too long.’ He reined his pony so that it faced the town and raised a gold encircled arm towards it. ‘If anyone doesn’t relish a tough journey through wild lands, then I say to him, retire to the tavern and town and prepare you for a straw death.’ The men waited in silence as Osric once again turned his pony to face them, and smiled. ‘As I thought—none of you wish to die like old women … indeed, many of you wish to profit further from your association with me. This time though, the treasure will be British women and children to sell in the markets. The prices are high for slaves now. Believe me; we’ll grow rich from this campaign.’
‘And like good merchants we’ll sample the goods for quality before we sell!’ shouted Egbert. ‘Would it not harm our reputation to sell shoddy goods?’ Raucous laughter broke out as Egbert stood in his saddle grasping his groin, a look of ecstasy on his bearded face.
Osric smiled and turned hi
s pony to ride out of the town; the malevolent assembly in his wake.
For the first few days they followed an easy track alongside the edge of the forest. This would afford them an easier passage for a few days. The route was familiar to most of them, having raided throughout the area in the previous years. It was Egbert’s idea to take the easier route, knowing as he did, that the course he had taken when escaping from the forest would be in poor condition after the recent floods—the narrow path round the steep incline in particular.
In discussion with Osric, Egbert had planned to enter the forest at a point familiar to him, where he was confident that he
would be able to lead the party; first to Dominic’s camp, and then along the ancient track to the newly discovered lands.
The anticipated easy start proved tough in the aftermath of the flood. The well-used and rutted path was liberally dotted with deep puddles, often forcing the riders to travel thigh-deep through muddy water. Soon, grumbling broke out amongst the men, especially at night when they had to search long and hard for dry tinder.
The extent of the previous years killing was apparent, and very few people were in evidence. Still awaiting resettlement, much of the land lay empty, and when they came upon abandoned villages, there was little sign of life. Many of the buildings lay in ruins, and a few bones were all that remained of the many victims—the hungry beasts of the forest having scavenged on the corpses during the cold winter. One thing that most of the villages did provide was fresh water. The raiders had anticipated colonisation by Saxon folk after laying waste to the villages, so no corpses polluted the wells.