A War for Generations Yet Unborn: Warriors of the Iron Blade, #3

By JP Tate

JP Tate’s reinvention of the Epic Fantasy saga as a political allegory. Can you understand the allegorical meanings within the text? This is serious adult fantasy with something to say.

The third volume of this series begins with the Pæga resistance needing to consolidate their military victories in the war of liberation. The army is heading east to face the forces of the Wódnis clan who are mustering for a reconquest of Pæga territory. Yet Clænnis Ellenweorc must leave her martial duties as a Captain of the Infantry to ride west alone in pursuit of her deadly adversary, the enchantress Mildryth of Rede.

But events are underway that will change everything for the Aenglians. The continent of the Geulten and Ehngle nations is threatened by the imperialist incursions of hostile marauders espousing a violent religious ideology. In the Geulten language they are known as the Adorateurs de Sang, the “Blood Worshippers”. The Ehngle call them the Blód Gield which means the “Blood Brotherhood”. Their arrival will affect the life of Hereweorc the Anwealda forever.

The weak aristocracies who rule the nations of the continent are falling prey to the barbarous power of the invaders, attempting to save themselves by paying tribute and making fatal concessions. But the Aenglians are a proud people who will not surrender. Can the disputatious clans of Aenglia overcome their age-old hostility toward one another and find a way to unite to defend themselves against this imminent threat to their nation? 

Chapters: 1. From Out of an Empty Sea. 2. The Stratagems of Maev de Lederwyrhta. 3. My Sword Shall Not Sleep. 4. The Politics of the Spear. 5. Blood is the Vessel of the Soul. 6. Of Clans and Nations. 7. A Kajhin among the Pæga. 8. A Man of Legend. 9. The Cutthroat of the Commons. 10. A War for Generations Yet Unborn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JP Tate
• Release date: Nov 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540196484

JP Tate

JP Tate was born into a working class family way back in the winter of 1961 and has spent the last fifty-five years coping with being alive in the world. It wasn't his idea. He spent the first decade of his adult life in unskilled labouring jobs before escaping to become a philosophy student and tutor. Over the next ten years he earned four university degrees including a PhD and became even more alienated from the society in which he lived. These days he is pursuing his desire to write, it being the most effective and satisfying way he has yet found to handle that same old pesky business of coping with being alive in the world. All his writing, whether in fiction or non-fiction, takes a consistently anti-establishment attitude and is therefore certain to provoke the illiberal reactionaries of political correctness. The amusement derived from this is merely a bonus to the serious business of exercising freedom of thought and freedom of speech. Take The Red Pill.

Book preview

A War for Generations

Yet Unborn

Warriors of the Iron Blade

Volume Three

JP Tate

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Copyright © 2016 James Tate.

The right of James Tate to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted without the express permission of the author. All characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Books in the Warriors of the Iron Blade series.

Volume 1: An Exile’s Tread on Forbidden Soil.

Volume 2: No Brotherhood but that of Our Fathers.

Volume 3: A War for Generations Yet Unborn.

Other Books by JP Tate.

Fiction

The Most Hated Man.

The Identity Wars: Utopia is Dystopia.

The Curious Tales of Mr Mayhew and Mr Broker.

Dutiful: a love story of consensual sadomasochism.

Non-Fiction

Feminism is Sexism.

Sex-Objects: a little book of liberation.

All God Worshippers Are Mad: a little book of sanity.

Contents

Chapter 1: From Out of an Empty Sea

Chapter 2: The Stratagems of Maev de Lederwyrhta

Chapter 3: My Sword Shall Not Sleep

Chapter 4: The Politics of the Spear

Chapter 5: Blood is the Vessel of the Soul

Chapter 6: Of Clans and Nations

Chapter 7: A Kajhin among the Pæga

Chapter 8: A Man of Legend

Chapter 9: The Cutthroat of the Commons

Chapter 10: A War for Generations Yet Unborn

Glossary of Words used for the Blood Brotherhood

Glossary of Anglo-Saxon Words used for the Aenglians

Maps: There are several detailed maps online at http://jptate.jimdo.com/maps/ which may enhance the reader’s enjoyment of this novel.

Chapter 1

From Out of an Empty Sea

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Push, woman, snarled Bedwyr, or else what use are you?

I am pushing, snapped Branwen testily, as she rested her weight on the side of the cart and pretended to push the cartwheel with her other hand.

The poultry men were underemployed because of the scarcity of wild fowl amid the heather but it was worse for the butchers. Cattle were hard to come by on the uncultivated moorland and the lack of meat meant that the butchers had been conscripted to help push the carts. No one could be left idle. Bedwyr was a butcher, a big fellow with a back grown broad on beef, and as he heaved on the cart it kept skewing to the right because of Branwen’s weaker efforts on the other wheel.

Stop picking on the poor woman, protested Goewin, labouring under the burden of her bundle. She’s doing her best.

Tell that to my blistered bunions, grumbled Bedwyr.

Shut up the pack of you, growled Llyr, shifting his pack on his shoulder as the sword hanging from his belt banged painfully against the bruise on his thigh for the umpteenth time.

It’s every soldier’s right to complain, grinned the farrier, his donkey burdened with bags of nails and horseshoes.

That’s it, keep stoking up the discontent, you shit-stirring bastard, objected the fletcher, his sacks crammed with goose feathers for the archers’ arrows.

The army was on the move. The cumbersome brute of martial glory trudged along on tired feet and sat sore-arsed in the saddle as the long procession of soldiers and camp followers plodded forward steadily at twenty miles a day. The hulking mass of the iron giant was clunking and clanking its way over the windblown moors and woodlands, heading for the port of Saltwick from where they might cross the narrow channel to Ganot ieg, the island of sea-birds.

Ten thousand strong, the warriors marched, trailed by their baggage train. The green and brown pennants fluttered in the sprightly wind, parading the acorn banner of the Ansæc. The wheels of carts and wagons trundled and creaked in the ruts of a road that was created by the weight of the army as it passed. The ground ahead of the moving column of footsloggers and horseflesh was an undulating plain of unspoilt grass, but in their wake there was a wide path of churned up mud.

Some of the vehicles were laden with such food as the army could scavenge on the campaign, mostly wild vegetables at this time of year. The Anwealda had given strict orders that only their enemies could be looted, not the local inhabitants of their own clan. They were an army of liberation and must not rape or pillage their fellow Pæga. But the foe were fair game. Consequently, several of the wagons were full of the armaments they’d plundered in the battles they had won; a motley collection of spears, swords, and knives, but with a scattering of chainmail hauberks and coifs, breastplates made of boiled leather, and scale-mail shirts among them too. Javelins were stacked in wagoner’s baskets on board their carts. Sumpter-mules and packhorses carried tent-poles and canvas, cooking kettles and shovels. The whole heaving mass of military paraphernalia rattled along to the cacophonous percussion of thousands of tramping feet.

This had been the army of the Ansæc, the resistance fighters who had opposed the blindly authoritarian rule of the Geinnian Gehwelc, but those battles had been won. The ruling class and their policy of ethnic suicide had been smashed. All across the lands of the Pæga the common people were united in clan solidarity. Their former political masters were either dead or lying through their teeth pretending that they’d never been supporters of the Geinnian Gehwelc in the first place. Whenever an ideology falls from grace it always transpires that apparently it had never had any adherents even at the height of its power.

After the Ansæc’s victory against the colonists of the Glæd clan at the battle of the Twa Tungan many more soldiers had flocked to their banner as the army travelled eastward to drive out the Glæd who had colonised the Hege Meras. The news of the Pæga’s series of victories besieging the chain of fortified towns along the hedge lakes had caused the entire country to rise in their support and loyalists who had been hoping for a resurgence of their ethnic culture swelled the numbers of the Ansæc further. By the time that they had fought and won the battle of the Nædl éage against the colonists of the Wódnis clan, the resistance were in command of their homeland and they had ceased to be the Ansæc. They had become simply the army of the Pæga clan.

The Pæga army were still under arms but the war was nearly over. As autumn turned to winter it would have been natural to send the troops home to their towns and villages, yet the Anwealda had not done so. They could finish the work of decolonisation if he held the army together just a while longer. All that remained was to take the fight to the colonists of the Wódnis clan on the northern isles, and so now they were riding and marching to the coast where they would cross the narrow stretch of water to the Ganot ieg for what they hoped would be the final battle in the war against colonialism. When they had reclaimed the island for their clan, the whole of Pæga territory would belong to them again. All the colonies of the Glæd clan and the Wódnis clan would have been erased.

Perhaps a battle would not even be necessary. Hereweorc the Anwealda had confided to his closest aides that the task might be accomplished by threat alone. There could be no more than four thousand souls on the island. Half of those would be women and children, and therefore of little account in a military conflict. Hereweorc thought that, with luck, he might force a Wódnis evacuation of the island simply by a show of strength with his ten thousand Pæga. He might not need to take his forces aboard ship, which would be a blessing because it would be no easy thing to transfer his army across the channel in nothing but fishing boats.

The dyed linen swallow-tail pennants and streaming banners, each displaying a brown acorn on a field of green, flew in profusion down the length of the army’s column. The acorn standard of the Ansæc had become the emblem of the Pæga and it was beginning to appear in other guises. Their ironsmiths had started to manufacture helmets shaped vaguely like acorns for their troops; a slightly elongated half-sphere with a reinforced ridge around the forehead. These acorn helms would have the advantage of making their own soldiers more recognisable in battle and there might be fewer accidental killings of comrades in the chaotic confusion of the melée. They were also minting a new coinage with the acorn symbol.

Previously Pægan coins had carried the five hands motif of the Geinnian Gehwelc and everyone was keen to disown this reminder of the recent past. Although the council of elders in Pægan communities levied no taxes on the general population, they did have the sole right to mint coins. During the reign of the Geinnian Gehwelc councils had stamped their currency with their own circular symbol of five hands joined at the wrist to represent the union of the five Aenglian clans. This meant that all handling of money was a constant reminder of whose beliefs and values held sway in the country; who it was that had a right to rule. Thegn Caedwalla in Rede, now thankfully dead, had sported a brooch in the shape of the five hands which had unofficially been his badge of seniority on the council of elders.

All such remembrances of the Geinnian Gehwelc were being expunged. It was useful to have the acorn emblem to replace them. It did not signify an ideology, nor the rule of any individual or group. It was a symbol for the common folk. It represented their clan identity. Everyone knew that Hereweorc Ealdrædson had introduced the acorn banner at the uprising in Rede but it was not the Anwealda’s personal insignia, it symbolized their communal ethnicity. Each soldier in the army looked up at the banners and swallow-tail pennants displaying the acorn and thought of it as their own.

At the head of the column of march rode those who had led the revolt and who had subsequently become the foremost military commanders in the campaign. Sigeberht, grim and stoical, tall and rangy, rode alongside the short but powerful figure of the bull-headed Torht. Both were men of the iron blade, heart and soul, and they fairly bristled with weapons. A horse’s length behind them rode Sæwine and Wulfnod who had been brothers-in-arms since boyhood and brothers-in-law since they’d married two sisters, Aerlene and Edlynn. The brothers scarcely ever stopped talking, seemingly in permanent conversation with one another.

In their horses’ tracks rode Beorhtmær. He was twenty years older than the others. A tall man and inclined to stoutness, he was built like a bear and had a long scar down the side of his neck. Yet, despite his ferocious aspect, his temperament was generally good humoured. He was known and liked for his bonhomie. Next to him was Thrydwulf, a lanky fellow with a wall-eye, whose star had risen during the campaign due to his conspicuous gallantry in the battles of the Hege Meras. Like all the other men of Pæga ethnicity, Beorhtmær and Thrydwulf wore their long hair and beards plaited in Aenglian braids. No man in the army lacked braids, nor any a beard except those too young to grow one.

Most notable of the senior men was the Anwealda himself, Hereweorc Ealdrædson, who was in overall command despite his being younger than the others. He had been promoted by a mass acclamation of the soldiery to the rank of general of the entire army. An Anwealda was only declared during times of extreme crisis when the indisputable authority of a single general was essential. He was a king in all but name, yet the rank carried no hereditary rights and the Anwealda was expected to stand down from his position once the crisis had passed. It was very rare for any Pægan to be raised so high, but it had been a crucial step in the overthrow of the Geinnian Gehwelc. The merit of this system had been proven in their victories against the Glæd and the Wódnis.

Hereweorc sat astride his skewbald horse Mære, named after the goblins of folklore who flitted through people’s dreams while they slept. But there was nothing dreamy about the young man’s gaze as he stared at his road ahead. He had the disconcerting grey eyes of his Aenglian father, as unyielding as flint, which were all the more unsettling for being set in the slightly oblique eyelids that he’d inherited from his Menghis mother. The sleek raven-black colour of his braids came from her also. His beard was still fairly meagre, the bristles too short to be plaited, displaying his lack of years. It was strange to find this man, who was neither as tall as an oak nor as wide as a barn, in the position of Anwealda. Yet he had earned the rank through merit and none disputed it. On the contrary, this athletic youth of less than average height was praised by all. The Pæga had lost no battles under his generalship and he was the figurehead of a political resistance by which they’d reclaimed their birthright. No other leaders among all the clans of Aenglia could boast the unequivocal support of his people that Hereweorc enjoyed.

At his left elbow rode his lover, Clænnis Ellenweorc, the cempestre. She had earned the epithet Ellenweorc which meant valiant heroine at the battle of the Twa Tungan. The army included a Women’s Brigade of javelineers, so there were almost a thousand females under arms, but Clænnis was unique in being hailed as a cempestre, a warrior woman. She had been tutored in swordplay by Hereweorc’s mother, Eiji of the Kajhin. Few teenage girls would have persisted in that school of hard knocks but the tenacious Clænnis had endured and gained her mentor’s respect.

When Eiji had left to journey east, Hereweorc had taken over the tutelage of his mother’s student in the martial arts. Clænnis was now skilled in the use of the spear and the knife, although she still favoured the sword. She carried a sabre because that had been Eiji’s weapon of choice. Clænnis was eighteen months Hereweorc’s junior in age but they shared a precocious talent for self-advancement. The two of them had been sharing a bedroll these past few months, yet she showed the same respect toward him as the rest of the army. He was the Anwealda and she was a Captain of Infantry. They were soldiers.

Sigeberht looked contemplatively at Hereweorc and Clænnis as they rode side-by-side at the front of the column. His face did not betray his thoughts. Sigeberht wore that solemn dignity on his scarred countenance which was habitual to him and which expressed what the Pæga called the ísen sáwol, the iron soul. Single-minded in his devotion to his clan, Sigeberht’s character never varied. He rode his dun-coloured palfrey with a straight back and his head held high. But behind his inscrutable visage his mind was reflecting upon recent developments. Sigeberht was not a man to readily communicate his thoughts but when he did so it was, more often than not, with Torht. He glanced askance at the man riding alongside him and asked in a low voice:

Torht, does it seem to you that Hereweorc Ealdrædson has become more . . . distant since he was acclaimed Anwealda?

Who are you to call anyone else ‘distant’, my taciturn friend? countered Torht grinning.

No, seriously, Sigeberht pressed him.

We have only known him as a boy, albeit one who was mature beyond his years, answered Torht with a shrug. He is still but nineteen, and the weight of responsibility rests upon his shoulders. It is no small thing to be the Anwealda, especially at his age.

True enough, agreed Sigeberht. Perhaps we have yet to see the man he will become.

That much is certain, affirmed Torht, and I, for one, anticipate the glories to come.

Torht’s belligerent personality made him a dangerous enemy but a ferociously loyal friend. Hereweorc had won Torht’s abiding admiration during the overthrow of the Geinnian Gehwelc. His fidelity to his Anwealda was unconditional. Although Torht might have been a candidate for the highest rank himself, he had the sense to know that Hereweorc Ealdrædson was better suited to it. Torht was a warrior but he was no general, and he was not such a fool as to think that he handled responsibility well. He was the father of two bastards by two different women in Rede. He had refused to marry either. Neither had he made much provision for these women or his children, and none at all while on this campaign because both women had been left behind in Rede. For the present, he had the war as his excuse. He would take more interest in his illegitimate offspring when they were older, if he lived, and if they lived.

Nor did he resent serving under the command of a younger man. Why should he? If Beorhtmær, a man twice their age with considerable combat experience, was willing to submit to the Anwealda’s authority, then Torht had no complaints about doing so. Besides, he had watched the son of Ealdræd grow from infancy, and the boy had always been a credit to his father. Ealdræd the storyteller had been an inspiration to the resistance and Hereweorc was everything that his father had been. In common with all those who had joined the Ansæc in the early days, Torht reverenced the memory of Ealdræd. Hereweorc had been groomed for the role of leadership ever since he had first learned to hold a spear, and Torht took pride in being one of his inner circle.

A volley of shouts was heard further back down the column, followed by an exchange of profanities as various persons fell to swearing. A wheel had fallen off a cart and there was a degree of disputation amongst those inconvenienced by this, until eventually calmer heads prevailed and repairs were effected. The carthorse meanwhile had taken the opportunity to graze upon the heather. The army could not carry animal fodder by wagon because so large a number of animals required many tons of provender each day, so it was left to the verdant green pastures of Aenglia to fill the beasts’ bellies. This had presented no problem during the summer’s campaign but the rapidly approaching winter might tell a different tale. The carthorse was wise to take advantage of this chance for an unexpected nibble. After several minutes he was hauling the heavy cart forward once again.

A lively breeze plucked at the linen of Wulfnod’s shirt as he undid the lower buttons of his sleeveless doublet and opened his broad leather belt a notch. His bowels were troubling him. Wulfnod farted into the saddle and wriggled to try to get more comfortable. He had learned horsemanship in his childhood but lately a lump had grown on his backside which made riding uncomfortable. The lump was persistently sensitive and denied him any relief. It wasn’t the only form of relief that was on his mind. He screwed up his bulbously fleshy face and said to Sæwine:

Gods, I’m missing Edlynn. My poor balls are aching and it’s not just from this saddle.

I’ve been thinking about Aerlene a lot lately, agreed Sæwine, his thin aquiline features adopting a doleful expression.

Having a wank in my bedroll makes me feel no better than an unmarried man, brooded Wulfnod. What’s the point of having a wife if she’s not around to take care of a man’s natural needs?

I wonder if Aerlene and Edlynn are missing us the way we’re missing them? pondered Sæwine.

They damn well better be, asserted Wulfnod. If our hens have been roosting with another cockerel while we’ve been away fighting for our clan, they’ll be trouble betimes.

Aye, concurred Sæwine, no woman’s proclamations of love at parting from a husband ever rang loud enough to drown out the music playing when she’s dancing the cuckold’s jig.

I’m familiar with the woes of love, said Wulfnod, though love is a malady I’ve never suffered from myself.

Not true, protested Sæwine. I’ve seen you eat beef. Any man who eats beef the way you do must surely love every cow in the country.

Wulfnod’s reply was to fart loudly and wetly again. Then he muttered: Buldr’s balls, my guts are bad.

Too much ale, you windy bastard, diagnosed Sæwine unsympathetically.

Ale never gives me wind, protested Wulfnod. I’m cursed with a lump. It’s in my bowels and it’s playing merry hell with my innards. All this time spent in the saddle isn’t helping.

I saw that you were sitting unsteady on your mount, said Sæwine, but I thought it must be drink.

It’s the work of some Wódnis witch, I tell you, said Wulfnod, bristling his beard. After all, ’tis well-known that they target their hexcraft at the best of the fighting men.

Oh, aye, said Sæwine raising an eyebrow, that must be it.

A long night’s fucking is what I need to purge me, Wulfnod remarked. It was debatable whether he was still thinking of Edlynn. Fornication is always the best cure for what ails you.

Sæwine looked at the Anwealda riding beside Clænnis and felt envious of Hereweorc’s great good fortune. The girl was just entering her prime. Even with her lithe figure and bouncing tits smothered in a mail shirt and linen breeches the saucy little minx was incendiary to a man’s lusts. The cascade of her auburn hair framed an elfin face which contrasted dramatically with the male apparel she was wearing and the weaponry which hung from the oiled-leather saddle of her horse. The fine boots on her feet had been a gift of plunder from Thrydwulf. He had espied them on a dead lad amongst the Glæd at the Hege Meras but they had been much too small for him so he had passed them on to the young woman, whom they fitted admirably well.

There’s one wise young man who has brought his bed-warmer with him, observed Sæwine.

Don’t torment me with thoughts of that little darling, pleaded Wulfnod. "I try to think of Clænnis Ellenweorc only as a cempestre. Otherwise I might disgrace myself."

You might disgrace yourself in more ways than one if you grabbed a handful of tit and she knocked you on your arse, smirked Sæwine. "Do you remember how she head-butted a Glæd with her helmet at the battle of the Twa Tungan? And how she sliced both hands off a Wódnis in the drainage ditch at the battle of the Nædl éage? Up to her waist in water and cleaving limbs on the road to glory. She’s a cempestre all right."

The stories of Clænnis’ fighting prowess, it being so unusual for a woman to be adept in combat, were common campfire tales in the Pæga army. The tales grew in prestige and grandeur with every re-telling. The only people who didn’t recount these stories were Clænnis and Hereweorc because, if they had, they would’ve told the truth and they didn’t wish to put a damper on everyone else’s enjoyment of the exaggerated versions.

Ah, well, she’ll lose her figure once Hereweorc Ealdrædson has planted a baby or two in her belly, said Wulfnod, failing in his attempt to see Clænnis only as a cempestre.

Maybe not. The Anwealda’s mother never lost her figure through childbirth, said Sæwine. Clænnis has followed her mentor’s example in all else, so perhaps she will follow her in that regard too.

"Eiji of the Kajhin was a force of nature. I recall when she challenged Osric to the blód ánwíg and fought him in single combat, said Wulfnod, smacking his lips as if tasting a succulent sweetmeat. She suffered two stab wounds from his spear but her sword skewered him like a pig on a spit. It was a magnificent victory."

That’s a tale which has been told a thousand times by those who saw it, said Sæwine in warm appreciation.

And it’s been told two thousand times by those who didn’t see it, added Wulfnod laughing.

I wonder what has become of the Kajhin since she left us to return to her own people, said Sæwine. I had thought that one or more of her companions might have brought word back to Aenglia of how far she had travelled on her long journey to Menghis.

It has only been a year or so, replied Wulfnod. If they accompanied her as far as Gathkar, we cannot expect to hear from them yet. Bawdewyn, Aldfrith, and Renweard are good men. They will bring us news of Eiji by and by.

And what will they make of Hereweorc Ealdrædson’s elevation to Anwealda? pondered Sæwine.

"Or of our triumph over the Geinnian Gehwelc, said Wulfnod. Ha! They left us to pursue their desire for adventure but, by Buldr’s backside, I’ll warrant they’ve not had exploits to equal ours!"

*                              *                              *

The army arrived at the port of Saltwick when the light of day was fading and a sea mist was gathering on the channel. The town was the main crossing point to the Ganot ieg because the stretch of slate-grey sea was at its narrowest there, with barely a mile of water separating the island from the mainland. Standing on the shore it was possible to see the fires of the islanders who lived in the settlement of Hertingas on the opposite shore, although inexplicably no campfires had been seen for more than a fortnight. It was the talk of the town that no vessels had crossed from the Ganot ieg in that time, and it was considered by some to be an ill-omen of trouble to come.

The local population had been given advance warning of the army’s arrival but it was still a shock to witness ten thousand tired and bedraggled Pæga setting up their encampment on the outskirts of the quiet seaside habitation. Saltwick was by no means an ignorant peasant dunghill in the back of beyond. The town was famous for its coarse sea salt which was used as a seasoning in cookery, and any port will get a steady flow of itinerants and migrants passing through to lend it a somewhat cosmopolitan air. But the mass assembly of an army and its baggage train generated a tumult of organised chaos to which the local fishermen and salt farmers were entirely unaccustomed. As so often in these circumstances, the merchants saw profit in it and everyone else saw danger in it.

However, the Anwealda kept a tight rein on his troops and promised that any disturbances caused by his soldiers would be punished with a public flogging. It was sufficient to maintain an acceptable level of discipline. They knew he meant it. Hereweorc had once had a man hanged for rape and, on another occasion, had a woman flogged with two hundred lashes of the sergeant’s whip for a false accusation of rape. As the general of the army he expected and received obedience to his orders. As the Anwealda his principled commitment to justice was much respected.

Some hours after nightfall a dozen of the Ansæc leadership were sitting around the campfire of the Anwealda outside his pavilion tent. Hereweorc had gathered his own wood and built the fire with his own hands. He thought it important to refuse assistance with domestic tasks of this sort, so as to remind himself and his army that a general is a soldier too. If a man can’t set his own fire and cook his own meat, then he’s too dependent upon others to be trusted to pull his own weight. Hereweorc needed no one but himself to live a man’s life.

We will leave the bulk of the army encamped here, said Hereweorc, until we have made a reconnaissance and planned our strategy in light of what we learn. It will be difficult to make a crossing with so large a force and it may not be necessary. The Wódnis cannot hope to defend themselves against us.

You’re not thinking of accepting their surrender, Anwealda? queried Torht in concern. "Let us not permit these Wódnis on the Ganot ieg to escape with their lives. They should be slaughtered to avenge the insult of having colonised Pæga land."

I don’t care a farthing or a groatæ for the lives of the Wódnis, replied Hereweorc, but I do care about the practical difficulties of getting our army across to the island. We don’t want to see half our people drowned in the channel for the sake of an island that we might have taken without force of arms.

Torht didn’t look best pleased by this answer, but he said nothing further because the expressions on the faces around the campfire showed complete agreement with the Anwealda’s comment. Despite their recent string of victories in battle the Ansæc were still comparatively new to the logistical aspects of a military campaign and none of them had the least idea of how ten thousand people, or even five, could be transported across a mile of water without their being feathered with enemy arrows in the process.

I have seen the fishing craft in the harbour, said Beorhtmær judicially. There are only five trawlers large enough to ferry ten men and horses aboard. The smaller boats and sailing dinghies will be of no use to us. So even if we only took a portion of our fighting strength, say two thousand men-at-arms, we would need to make forty trips with all five trawlers. It would be hellish if the Wódnis were waiting for us on the further shore.

Wulfnod was very impressed that Beorhtmær was able to make this calculation without the use of his fingers. What Wulfnod didn’t know was that Beorhtmær had made his calculation earlier, using both hands, and so had it ready in advance.

And we’d likely lose more of our men to the sea than to the Wódnis, added Hereweorc. We must seek another solution. I will lead a small party of twenty warriors and horses on two vessels by night. We will cross to Hertingas in secret and spy out the land.

Everyone wanted to be included in this reconnaissance party, of course. Although Hereweorc would have preferred some of his senior people to remain behind with the army rather than risk them all in a dangerous midnight sortie, he knew better than to think that he could get some of them to agree to sit on their arses in Saltwick whilst others were taking their spears to the enemy. It seemed to the young Anwealda that one reason they never challenged his authority was that he seldom asked them to do anything that went too seriously against the ethnic character of the Pæga. There was wisdom in this but, paradoxically, it sometimes led to decisions which he knew were unwise. Yet life and circumstances would have it so. Thus, contrary to all good military sense, those undertaking the covert trip by night to reconnoitre the island would include all of the Anwealda’s inner circle.

When Hereweorc went to negotiate with the fishing captains he was prepared for a certain amount of reluctance, for fishermen are unlikely to view their sailing craft as vessels of war and would have no desire to lose their precious boats in a battle. Hereweorc didn’t want to apply pressure to force them to comply, though a man with an army of ten thousand at his back can apply plenty of pressure should the mood take him, because these captains were Pægan and his own people. He was a liberator, not a conqueror. Everything he did these days became a subject for gossip and it was important that the Anwealda be seen as the champion of the Pæga, not their oppressor. Still, he must have the boats, even if the fishermen were to prove reluctant.

But the problem never arose. Somewhat to his surprise, and greatly to his pleasure, Hereweorc found that the locals were strongly inclined to favour the cause of the Ansæc and more than willing to transport his party of twenty on their night’s venture. As Beorhtmær had said, there were only a few boats among the Saltwick fleet that were of a size to accommodate men and horses. They were trawling vessels, and nowhere near deep or wide enough to be considered ships. They stank of fish and they were older than the men who sailed in them. But their hulls were sound, their sails were stitched robustly, and their rigging was seaworthy. The men who worked these boats earned their livelihood from them and a wise worker takes care of his tools. So, although far from ideal, they would do.

Hereweorc accepted the offer of a boat from solid-looking barrel-chested fellow called Torr whose boat was the Herringbone, and another from a leather-faced old captain called Rand whose vessel was the Silver Darling. Hereweorc would sail in the Herringbone and he put Beorhtmær in the Silver Darling with the intention that should his own boat sink, then Beorhtmær could take charge of the reconnaissance party. The bear-like man from Brunan with the long scar down the side of his neck was not the Anwealda’s official second-in-command but it was generally acknowledged that Hereweorc treated him as such. No one questioned the decision that should anything happen to Hereweorc at sea, Beorhtmær would be the man to assume command.

The channel crossing by night had the Pæga spearmen calling upon the name of Buldr under their breath and preying that the Saltwick fishermen knew their business. It wasn’t a long trip but the sea was playing pitch and toss, so the landlubbers weren’t enjoying it. There was a captain and two local men as crew on board each of the two boats because no one else would have had any chance of guiding their craft safely over a channel which had strong tidal currents and a danger of whirlpools near the coast. But from long experience the fishermen knew how to navigate these waters. Had they not, it was likely that their boats would have been smashed upon the cliffs or swept out into the Empty Sea.

The captains would normally have been able to pilot their craft toward the campfires burning on the opposite shore, but again there are no fires burning tonight, making the crossing even more difficult. They explained to the Anwealda how peculiar it was that no fires had been seen for over two weeks, and that no one in Saltwick knew why. But if they didn’t know, then Hereweorc know either. He wasn’t a fisherman and this wasn’t his part of the country. What it meant in practical terms was that the captains had to sail to Ganot ieg by moonlight and by the nose of the man at the rudder.

Hereweorc stood in the stern of the Herringbone next to Torr who was leaning hard on the tiller. The hefty fisherman could boast a lot of weight in his broad girth and he needed every ounce of it as the vessel pitched through the choppy waters of the channel with the crosswinds battering its canvas and creaking its clinker-built sides. The sea-spray washed over them and to Hereweorc, who’d never set sail before, it was as if they were being spat at by ocean creatures from out there in the darkness. Torr had his legs braced as he pushed and heaved upon the tiller but there was a damn-you-m’lad grin on his weather-beaten face that defied the elements.

His two crewmen would’ve had little difficulty working in tandem under ordinary circumstances but with an overcrowded cargo of men and horses the sweating crew were hard-pressed to haul away clean without tripping over the encumbrance of so many bodies. Horses were a more troublesome cargo than fish. Torr yelled commands at the two men hauling on the ropes to set the rigging, but it was an odd performance of captaincy because he was trying to shout loud enough to be heard by his crew but not so loud that his voice would carry on the wind to the shores of the island. They were drawing close to Ganot ieg.

The plan was to make landfall down the coast from the settlement at Hertingas, disembark the soldiers and their horses, and then have the boats go back to Saltwick until they returned the next night to pick up the shore party. But this plan was about to be cast overboard. The night was black but the moon was up and shining its pale light over Hertingas harbour. The keen eyes of the sailors could make out the familiar landmarks and something wasn’t as it should be in the settlement. There were still no fires visible. It was as if Hertingas wasn’t there any more. Torr glanced askance at Hereweorc and said:

T’aint right, general. They’d not let the sentry fires die. Not never. Even in the middle-watch of the night, there ought to be some sign of life.

The Herringbone was getting perilously close to the overhanging cliffs and crags of the rugged coastline. In the hidden crevices were many roosts of the large sea-birds for which Ganot ieg was named. The Silver Darling, with old Rand at the helm, was following on the course that Torr charted as they sought a place to drop anchor. The swell of the sea lifted the two craft and Hereweorc felt the wooden deck beneath his feet seem to lunge sideways toward the cliffs. He laid a hand on the stern-rail, gripping tightly, and tried not to show any fear. Clænnis was a few yards away holding the bridles of their skittish horses and her face looked stark white in the moonlight.

What do you think it means, captain? asked Hereweorc, forcing his mind to focus on this mystery of the missing sentry fires to thereby distract himself from thoughts of the seemingly imminent crunch and crash of wood against rock.

There’s no knowing, general, Torr replied, but I’d wager my bollock-sack that it’s something awful bad for the Wódnis.

There was a deal of swearing coming from the men in the boat and the horses were starting to shy and whinny in alarm at the sound of the waves breaking in a thunder of foam on the cliffs nearby. These were men who’d charge head-on into the ranks of an infantry line when in battle against their enemies, but the sea was another matter. Not more than half of them could swim, and that half didn’t fancy their chances against the awesome majestic power of the ocean. They didn’t belong here.

If the Wódnis have no sentries, dare we risk landfall in the harbour itself? shouted Hereweorc over the deafening collision of water against rock.

Torr chewed on the question for a moment and then answered: Aye, general, I dare say we might, if we stay clear of the quays.

Let’s do it, Hereweorc decided.

He didn’t know if it was the right thing to do but he was beginning to think that he’d prefer to fight his way ashore opposed by Wódnis spears, than seek some alternative harbour opposed by the waves. An iron blade is of small use when doing battle with the sea. Torr threw his hefty body over the rudder and Hereweorc felt the boat sheer away from the cliffs. The Anwealda was only one of many souls in the Herringbone who breathed a sigh of relief.

Beorhtmær and Rand in the Silver Darling must have been keeping a sharp watch on the boat ahead of them because their vessel instantly followed this unexpected change of course. Hereweorc was hanging over the stern-rail, drenched in spray, looking behind to see if the rest of his reconnaissance party was still in tow and he muttered a blessing on Beorhtmær’s name for being a man who could be relied upon.

They tacked hard into the less tempestuous waters of the sheltered harbour and twenty minutes later the two boats were flitting lightly across the surface of the bay with everyone on board hushing their horses into silence. The natural inland curve of the coast at this point gave protection to shipping and it was wide enough to make landfall anywhere within its confines. The two fishing trawlers with their military cargo anchored well short of the main dockside, not wishing to draw the attention of anyone in the harbour if it could be avoided. Yet when they attempted to disembark Hereweorc was immediately convinced that he’d made a stupid and potentially fatal blunder. The noise was appalling.

Horses splashed into the shallows, making enough racket to raise an alarm for the Wódnis if their settlement had been twice the distance away. Sigeberht missed his footing when clambering off the boat and fell into the sea, Thrydwulf almost went under the hooves of his animal, and Sæwine had to chase his horse through the surf when the nervous beast took it into her head to run off. It was utter confusion.

Standing on the shore watching his elite troops floundering cacophonously in the water Hereweorc made the sign of the sevenfold preservation of Buldr. If they didn’t all end up getting their heads cut off, it would surely be due to an opportune intervention by the gods. He turned to the woman beside him, shaking his head despairingly, and said:

Clænnis, if the enemy don’t hear the noise we’re making they must be sleeping in their graves. We’re a rabble. We don’t know how to make an assault by sea. I don’t know how to, anyway.

Nor do any of us, replied Clænnis, but you’re right, we can’t bring the army over like this.

And yet there wasn’t a murmur of sound from the sleeping Hertingas. The town was indeed as quiet as the grave. No fires were lit, no outcry went up, no soldiers came running. The Anwealda looked searchingly into the darkness but he could discern no movement, even though the nearest buildings were scarcely half a mile distant. It made no sense at all. The Wódnis must have heard the clamour of their undignified arrival. But nothing stirred in the harbour town.

Volunteer! requested Hereweorc in a stage whisper.

Half a dozen men stepped forward but Thrydwulf was the closest. Hereweorc put a hand on the shoulder of the tall man to speak close together. He stared into Thrydwulf’s gaunt face and saw eagerness there. The misdirected gaze of his wall-eye did not detract from the keen intensity in his good eye. The Pæga spearman was impatient for orders. Or perhaps he was just happy to be off that damned boat.

Before I send the boats back to Saltwick, said Hereweorc, I need to know if we are discovered. If they heard our arrival, and by Buldr’s backside how could they not, we shall have to abandon the reconnaissance and leave at once. Twenty Pæga cannot stand against two thousand Wódnis. Yet they do not stir. Why do they not? We must have knowledge of what is happening in Hertingas.

I shall go with care and return unseen, said Thrydwulf matter-of-factly, and his confidence gave Hereweorc’s spirits a lift.

Thrydwulf wrapped his horse’s feet in sacking to muffle the rattle of its hooves on the rocky ground and then set off alone, riding slowly toward the outskirts of the settlement. He kept his horse at scarcely a trot to further diminish the noise. His Pæga comrades watched him go and wondered what he would find. Hereweorc told Torr and Rand to delay their departure until Thrydwulf had returned with news. The scouting party had stalled, but Hereweorc was disinclined to make any more mistakes. He must have intelligence of their situation before he proceeded.

The small band of warriors were passing round the brandywine sack when they saw Thrydwulf riding back. His horse no longer had any sacking on its feet and he had the beast rolling along at a brisk canter. Apparently, there was no longer any need for stealth. He had been gone for barely an hour. There was a peculiarly agitated expression on Thrydwulf’s thin countenance, as if he had just seen something that defied all natural explanation and must therefore be the work of ghouls or faeries, phantoms or spectres. When his Pæga brothers saw that weird distortion of his rough-hewn features, they felt a shiver pass through them.

Anwealda! called out the rider as he cantered up and dismounted. There was no reason to shout as Hereweorc was standing there waiting for him, but it confirmed that Thrydwulf evidently felt that the time for secrecy had passed.

They’re all dead, reported Thrydwulf in a voice that contained a slight thrill of excitement. There are bodies everywhere. Cut to ribbons, most of them. The Wódnis of Hertingas have been slaughtered.

The party of twenty had been waiting for some kind of sensational news, but not this. This was unbelievable. They erupted into growls and exclamations of astonishment and the Anwealda had to silence them with a swift bark of command. He didn’t doubt Thrydwulf’s word. Hereweorc applied his mind to the conundrum. How could an entire town of Wódnis be dead by violence? Who was here to have killed them? There were no Pæga left on Ganot ieg. It seemed to Hereweorc that there was only one conceivable explanation of the mystery. The people of Hertingas had been butchered by other Wódnis colonists on the island. But if so, why?

The first glimmer of dawn was lightening the sky. Very well, they would ride into town and he would see for himself. Perhaps it was rash, but everything about this expedition had failed to go to plan thus far. They needed to clarify what must be done and recover their momentum. He told the two captains and their crews to stay aboard their boats in the harbour, ready for a rapid retreat should it prove necessary. Then he mounted up and took his warriors into Hertingas.

The sun broke the horizon as they rode by the quayside and with daybreak the shroud of night was lifted to reveal what had lain hidden in the shadows. They saw a dozen holed vessels half sunk in the shallows, their masts and sails burnt. Not a single boat had been left in a seaworthy condition. It was a systematic destruction. But the damage done at the docks was nothing compared to the devastation wrought upon the rest of the town.

Hertingas lay in ruins. The riders patrolled through the smoke-blackened debris, not bothering to dismount, gazing slack-jawed at the human wreckage. Clænnis drew rein next to the remains of a pottery kiln.