Hygelacs raid sword of o.., p.1
Hygelac's Raid (Sword of Oðin), page 1
HYGELAC’S RAID
SWORD OF OÐIN
C. R. MAY
COPYRIGHT
This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on real figures, are purely the work of the author’s imagination.
It is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the writer’s prior consent, electronically or in any form of binding or cover other than the form in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Replication or distribution of any part is strictly prohibited without the written permission of the copyright holder.
ISBN: 9798396325722
Copyright © 2023 C. R. May
All rights reserved.
CONTENTS
North-West Europe 523AD
Also by C. R. MAY
Liber Historiae Franconum
1. Helgi’s Ride
2. The Die Is Cast
3. Saxons Fear No One
4. Thor Lends A Hand
5. Beowulf The Geat?
6. The Raven
7. Dogs Of War
8. Oðin Expects
9. The Gods Of Midsummer
10. Drinc Hæl!
11. Victory Runes
12. Ballistae
13. Wills Of Iron
14. Death Charge
Afterword
Also by C. R. MAY
About the Author
Characters
Places/Locations
ALSO BY C. R. MAY
SWORD OF OÐIN
A WORLD TURNED HARSH
THE SHORE OF THE DEAD
KING’S BANE
FIRE AND STEEL
GODS OF WAR
THE SCATHING
BLOODAXE
BLOODAXE
THE RAVEN AND THE CROSS
THE DAY OF THE WOLF
CONQUERORS OF ROME
LORDS OF BATTLE
NEMESIS
STANDALONE NOVELS
SCOURGE OF GOD
SPEAR HAVOC 1066
… attacked the Francish lands over the deep sea with a ship borne host.
They laid waste a district belonging to Theodoric, that of the Hetware or others, and carried off captives; then they went aboard their ships, which were full of captives, setting out for the deep sea, with their king remaining on the sea shore.
When this news had been brought to Theodoric, he sent his son Theudobert to those parts with a large army.
Liber Historiae Franconum
1
HELGI’S RIDE
The scouts dismounted, retrieving their weapons as the old man beckoned from the doorway. With the patrol alerted, the lad ran inside, grandfather tousling his flaxen mop as he rushed to grab a spear. Before Durand could speak, the elder placed a warning finger to his lips. “They have a pair of men further on, guarding the horses, lord,” he breathed. “Follow me, and I will show you where the others are sleeping.”
Experienced skirmishers, all it took for a pair to detach themselves from the group was a look from their leader. As the men trotted away to deal with the guards, the elder indicated a dingy alley with a flick of his head. Twenty paces in, the passageway opened out onto a clearing. At his back, Durand checked the doorways, fearing a trap. Sensing his unease, the old man felt a pang of sympathy. Although his fighting days were over, the memories and dreams tormented him still. “That is the place, lord,” he hissed, pointing out a nondescript hut. “They have been there all night.”
Durand nodded, slipping the man a silver coin as his men’s eyes stabbed the gloom. At least the pair would eat today. Even with raiders about and foodstuff scarce, a country walk carrying the king’s silver remained a key that could unlock many a hidden pantry or store. Before their guide had shuffled aside, the warriors were ready — shoulder to shoulder in the passage. Further off, the men he had detached were shadowy shapes, bent double — jogging from cover to cover as they looked to seal the trap. Further still, an iron grey line on the horizon showed where the dawn was fast approaching.
Before they could make their move, the door opened to throw a rectangle of light. Muffled words in a guttural tongue went back and forth as a spearman trudged off to relieve his mate, the relaxed tone all the Francs could hope for. It was clear that the enemy had no idea they were about to be attacked.
A cockerel call split the air as the door closed with a clatter. Balanced on the balls of his feet, Durand threw out an arm to delay the charge. Another call came. The door to the hut remained firmly closed, and the Franc firmed the grip on the handle of his sword as he turned to outline the plan. “Remember, the boy reported that there were six of them,” he said, “so we outnumber the enemy two to one. Be ready to attack when our feathered friend calls again — the sound will mask our footfalls.” He shot his men a final look. “We will bag a prisoner if we can. If not…” He shrugged and pulled a lupine smile. “They can all join their ancestors, preparing to fight ice giants in Valhall.”
Helgi let out a snuffle, worming his way deeper into the blanket. The boot tapped the sole of his foot again. “Come on,” the owner said, “you can’t fool me. I know that you are awake.” The Geat opened one eye, squinting up at his friend as the boot prodded again. “Take my turn, will you? I was just dreaming of home.”
“That sounds more like a nightmare.”
Helgi snorted. The dream horses had carried him back to the arms of his family for a brief time, and although he enjoyed life on campaign, the nights were the hardest.
“Well?”
He let go a sigh, throwing back the blanket in resignation. “Anything happening?”
His friend shook his head. “Nope.”
Taking up his spear from the rack, Helgi moved to the door. Today would be the last day out — if nothing of note appeared by midday, they would start heading back to the army. They had crisscrossed the road that led as straight as any spear shaft south into the heart of the kingdom of the Francs for nearly a week now, discovering nothing more threatening than a few farmers and their stock. These people are soft. It was little wonder that king Hygelac had chosen them to raid.
Nigh on two months had passed since they had fallen on the Frisians and routed their army — soon the raid would be over. Boarding the ships, they would sail home in triumph, wealthy beyond their dreams. He was about to move up in the world, he reflected happily, as he gulped down ale from a jug. Signy was almost eleven now, and thoughts were turning to marriage. Now that his standing in the community was about to rise, they could set their sights higher than the local boys. If the gods were willing, the son of a thegn may be coming within reach? Such a kinship connection would see the fortunes of his family surge to new heights. Perhaps his baby son could be fostered in the hall of this lucky man?
A monotone grunt broke into his dream of social climbing. “Give us a slurp?”
Helgi looked. Thorvald’s grizzled features stared back across the remains of the hearth, drawing a chuckle. The big man could drink like a horse. But if his appetite for ale was prodigious, he was a fine leader — amiable, quick-witted, and smart. The jug deposited in the outstretched hand, the latch went up with a clack. Ducking the lintel, Helgi filled his lungs with cool, clean air. It was barely a week since midsummer and the nights were short; already, the returning light was blushing the eastern horizon. In response, a cock crowed dutifully on the far side of the settlement. Helgi snorted as he made his way towards the horse line. Having given itself away, he could expect a bowl of cockerel stew waiting for him when he had completed his duty.
Already salivating anticipating the meal to come, he was about to double the corner of a hut when he drew up short. Stilling his breathing, Helgi listened intently as he tightened the grip on the shaft of his spear. The sound came again. Soft, muffled by distance, booted feet danced the jig of death. With the return of the first guard, he knew that Harald was alone. He would need help, and quickly, if he was under attack, and Helgi was about to hasten to his aid when the cock crowed again and movement caught his eye. Armed men were crossing the clearing, and as he looked on in horror, they burst through the door through which he had just exited the hall and rushed inside. Cries and shouts issuing from within soon told the tale of the slaughter that was taking place there. From what he had seen, it was clear that they were under attack from experienced warriors, tough-looking men who knew what they were about.
His mind raced. Trussed up in their bedrolls, bleary-eyed from sleep, it appeared likely that the men he had just left were already dead. Cocking his head to listen, the sound of southern voices told the scout that Harald’s unequal struggle was over. As the likely sole survivor of the attack, it was up to Helgi to carry the warning back to king Hygelac in the camp. With his path to the horse line now blocked by Harald’s killers, Helgi knew that he had to act quickly, before he was discovered. Pushing aside any concern for enemy numbers and disposition, Helgi erupted from cover. Ahead, two Francs were bent over the lifeless form of his friend, rifling through Harald’s purse and stripping his body of its knife and belt. Helgi pushed down the desire to scream a vengeful cry as he bore down upon them. But if his silence gained him a few yards, the movement drew their attention. Francish heads came up, Helgi couched his spear. The closest man’s mouth gaped in horror an instant before Helgi’s spear blade shattered his teeth, smashing through to emerge in a spray of
A high-pitched scream had the Geat spinning on a heel. Twenty paces away, a mother’s hand clamped over a young girl’s mouth as the youngster looked on in horror. Other faces were appearing in doorways, moon-eyed in the dawn. The horses were still racked up a little way off, and with help at hand, local men had rediscovered their courage and were rushing to cut him off. Another girl screamed, and Helgi knew that the cry would soon be joined by others — it was time to go. Leaving the bodies to bleed out into the dust, Helgi dashed towards the place he felt certain that the Francs had left their horses.
Spurred on by the hue and cry, Helgi rounded a hut, spilling out into the clear space between the boundary ditch and the Roman road beyond. To his dismay, he came face to face with another Franc, the enemy spearman jogging towards the uproar he had just put behind him. Helgi’s luck held. If the appearance of the man had come as a shock to the Geat, the surprise was reflected in the face of his enemy. With his sword already drawn from the earlier fight, it was the action of a moment to raise the blade, batting the spear aside before lunging to slice through linen and leather to the guts beyond. Helgi dropped a shoulder as he ran on, bowling the injured man aside as he searched for the mounts. Not twenty yards away, a line of horses pulled at a grassy bank as they awaited the return of their riders. It was clear that the man now writhing on the ground had been the Francish horse guard, and Helgi sent an invocation to Thor and Oðin that he had guessed correctly, and they had opened up another means of escape.
More women appeared, pointing, shouting and bawling in their strange tongue. Helgi knew that he had moments to get to the horses and ride away. A growl and a sweep of his bloody blade was enough to clear a path through the shrieking barrier; Helgi tore at the reins with fevered hands, as the sound of deeper voices and cries of alarm carried on the morning air. Throwing himself into the saddle, the Geat put back his heels, geeing the horse into a canter and out onto the roadway. As the thud of hoofs became a clatter of iron shoes on stone sets, he risked a look behind. The Francish warriors were already at the horse line, hauling themselves into the saddle as they came searching for revenge.
Distracted by the sight, the first sign that Helgi had been outflanked was the sharp pain in his groin, and looking down he saw to his dismay the shaft of a spear falling away. Throwing a look over his shoulder, the fleeing Geat saw the cause. A blond lad stood beside the track, his expression a mix of triumph and hate. Further back, the chasing pack was the better part of a hundred yards away, and reassured by the gap, Helgi began to relax as the horse flew north. He knew the route, knew it well, for Thorvald had scouted the area for the better part of a week as they sought a sign of the enemy. King Hygelac’s camp was little more than a dozen miles further on, he would reach them soon: Helgi settled in for the ride.
The sun was just edging the woodlands to the east, gilding the treetops as the canter became a gallop. Within a mile, the first bridge hove into view, and as the horse began to shorten its stride to take it, Helgi felt a chill. In full sunlight now, he wondered at it, until a shiver jogged his memory. A hand moved to his groin, and when it came away sticky and bloody, Helgi began to swoon. An image flashed into his mind of a young lad and a spear, and as the memory of the roadside strike returned, the wound began to throb. Suddenly, the sun was not so bright, the morning not as warm, and as the Geat dropped his gaze from the road ahead, he saw to his horror that the flanks of his mount were matted with blood. Helgi’s head lolled as he began to suspect the truth, and as the horse gained the northern bank, he looked across. To his left stretched a broad water meadow — a grassy field beneath a copse of alder. It was a sign — he owned the like, back home, and he hauled on the reins and trotted the animal across as the drumming of hoofs carried from the bridge. Helgi closed his eyes as a shudder racked his body, and when he opened them again, it took a few moments to realise that he was staring at the sky. A brace of swans, huge and white, flew across his line of sight, and when the buzz and burr of bees and crickets filled his ears he knew that he was on his back.
2
THE DIE IS CAST
The king rubbed his hands, striding across the dock front towards his leading men. “Don't tell me,” he said as he came, “porridge and sausage?”
The assembled warriors let go chuckles that turned into grins as their lord approached. At the edge of the group, Flosi, the head cook, looked up from his stirring and smiled a welcome. “Porridge and sausage it is, King Hygelac. The finest there is.” Every day was porridge and sausage day, and this would be no different. It was the meal that every man in the Geatish army would eat to break their fast, from the king to the lowliest lad in the baggage train. Hygelac had always made a point of moving among the men and sharing their food — they respected him all the more for it. Back at the cauldron, Flosi dolled out a helping and sent a boy hurrying across with it. King Hygelac nodded his thanks, blowing gently on the first spoonful as he peered through the steam. “Anything to report?”
Hromund, ealdorman of Geatwic, and one of the king's oldest friends, pulled a face. “I have to report that this dark ale they drink down here makes me feel queasy in the morning, lord,” he said, kneading his belly. “I have already made two trips to the ease-trench. I don’t suppose we have any of the good Geatish stuff left?”
Hygelac made a smile, his eyes taking in the men as he replied. “I am not the man to ask,” he said, the twinkle in his gaze confirming what every man there knew: the king drank as much as any. “I suggest that you don’t attempt to down it all next time — leave a barrel or two for us.”
Laughter rolled around the group at the king’s remark. Hygelac worked the porridge to the side of his mouth to ask a question. “Any word on the missing scouts? They are a full day overdue now.”
The query drove the humour away, every expression betraying the fact that his leading men shared his concern. Hygelac was pleased — they were a grand bunch. “Nothing yet,” Hromund replied. “I sent a handful of men south just before dawn to see if they could find any sign of them. They have orders to ride until midday, then return — empty-handed or not. If they are still unaccounted for when those lads return, I suggest that we begin to make our way home without them.”
The king nodded as he spooned another dollop. The raid had been a rip-roaring success, and it would be a shame to lose men now. But scouts were ultimately expendable, they knew that as well as any.
“Break camp now,” Hygelac decided, “and we will take ship for the coast. I would rather not linger a moment longer than necessary now that we have divided the army.”
At his command, the thegns and ealdormen set-to, moving away to give the order. Scraping the last of his food from the bowl, Hygelac, king of the Geats, reflected on what men were already calling Hygelac’s Raid as he gazed across the flatlands. They had sailed south at the beginning of summer and fallen on the Hugas, one of the tribes that comprised the Frisian nation, before the southerners had even known that an invasion was in the offing. Laying waste to the land, they had surprised the contingents of the Frisian army on their way to the muster, destroying it piecemeal. Tactfully he had detached his foster, Beowulf, the monster killer, and sent him on an embassy to Gewis, the Saxon leader. Bearing fine gifts and a promise to respect his neutrality, he hoped that the man’s fame would do the job and keep the Saxon armies on the eastern banks of the rivers that formed the border in these parts.
