Wayfinder by Drake John

Author:Drake, John [Drake, John]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Endeavour Press
Published: 2016-03-22T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

The Saxons hit the Danish Shield wall like thunder that shakes mountains. The noise split men's ears and penetrated even the red-mist battle-madness that consumed the brutal, simple minds of Danes and Saxons alike. Each side faced the enemies of the faith, the race and the blood. There could be no question of anything other than total combat and total slaughter so long as strength should last.

Spears bit oak, flesh, leather and mail. Axes beat skulls, helmets and shoulders. Men stabbed and gouged and bit and hacked and stumbled and roared and screamed and fell, and fought their way up in desperate terror of being trampled and suffocated, and rose again, to claw and kill and bellow, in that sprawling, hideous and uncontrollable pack. Every man rolled and staggered and struck and jostled and fought. Every man from the highest and the cleverest, to the lowest and most stupid.

Sigeric the Scholar died fast. Among the Saxons, shield-bearer meant exactly what it had once meant among the Northmen, and Sigeric was protected by two young kinsmen who went into battle with no offensive arms, but each with a great shield to keep him from harm. When at last he saw the gap in the Danish line Sigeric dismounted to charge on foot as honour demanded. But he was too old. The brief run left him breathless and he was barely on his legs when the impact came, and he and his kinsmen were hacked into meat in the first instants of the clash.

Eric Broadbelt died a great hero. He was among the foremost rank of the Northmen as Olof Torkilsson led the defenders in a shield-beating charge to meet their foes at a run, and not be thrown back by receiving them standing. In the melee, Broadbelt swung an axe, chopping at least three men before a spear came with such force that it broke the mail over his belly and ran him through, so the steel shirt stood out at the back. But Eric only roared in fury, slicing off the spear-man’s arm and shoulder, before staggering on to sink his axe into two more Saxons, who died spouting the froth of their lungs, until at last he fell and was trodden face-down into the mud.

Olof Torkilsson fell close beside the Broadbelt. For all his superlative cunning, the Wayfinder was a mortal man and in the slaughter of a packed battle, he held no greater advantage than any other. Thus he was forced down with one man hanging on his neck, another striking with a dagger, and a third lunging with a spear. The Danes rallied and slaughtered these men, but seeing a great chieftain of the Northmen go down, a wave of Saxons surged forward with blood in their eyes, and fought over Olof’s body

*

Meanwhile, who can doubt that the Valkyrs were above the field? Who can douht that they were there, directing souls in a stream towards Odin's Hall, and who can doubt that the Grim Sisters

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