Traveller Inceptio
73

A silver streak of water merged on the leaf to roll slowly and drip onto Desmond’s hood. He had pulled his hood forward to shelter from the chill rain, knowing it hid his face and rendered him almost invisible as he crouched.

Hengist watched the line of water gather again. The drop made a small smack as it hit the oily, woollen cloth. Their eyes met. Utter silence was essential as they watched the forest around the cart they had hidden in the bushes only a couple of days earlier. Aeoelhun sensed they weren’t alone and the men crouched, still and silent, as their guide had left them to investigate.

Aeoelhun had been gone for some time and it took great discipline to remain still. Desmond felt his legs cramping painfully. His forehead ached and was still terribly bruised from where he had been struck at the river ford. Hengist also sensed something was wrong. They looked at each other again, eyes wide with the soldier’s sense of danger.

Alongside, the others waited silently. Ceolwulf squatted in the shadow of a tree, invisible despite his bulk. Only Alric remained standing with the ponies. The young man had a particular gift for the care of horses as theye did whatever he requested of them. The lad’s left hand, still bandaged, was painful and currently almost useless.

Hengist’s eyes again met his father’s and with the look passed understanding. Aeoelhun would have been back if there was no danger, so together they removed their seax from their sheaths, holding them ready. The bone-handled blades were not shiny, but dark, crafted by Desmond, who had applied the final finish so the blades wouldn’t gleam.

Desmond heard a whisper of movement and from the foliage, not twenty paces hence, he saw the vague outline of a Viking spearman, who shifted to be more comfortable. It was unlikely the man was alone and he would also have his nerves jangling, sensing enemy were about. Desmond could barely make out the man’s face. He was smeared with mud, invisible unless you knew he was there. He also had a hood over his head and seemed mature-aged, probably a few years younger than Desmond, which meant he was a veteran of many a slaughter. The Vikings must have discovered the wheel impressions of the cart in the forest floor and laid in wait to catch when the Saxons inevitably returned for a possession that was too valuable to abandon.

The spearman looked to his right and another figure moved slightly. This was a swordsman who carried a shield, now apparent as the dim light reflected from the shield boss. His sword was unsheathed and he was also alert. They remained motionless. When he looked away from the hidden Vikings, it was difficult to find them again. He hoped their own positions were as well hidden.

There was a slight movement and the spearman vanished. Hengist and Ceolwulf’s eyes widened in alarm. The big man also had his seax in his hand and he watched the swordsman, who looked around frantically. The spearman’s disappearance had taken him by surprise and the shield had come up to protect his body, making him virtually impossible to attack from where they crouched.

Desmond gathered his legs under him as the swordsman glanced around in confusion. Suddenly he looked up, focusing his gaze over to their position where Desmond now stood quietly as he unsheathed his sword. The swordsman’s surprise became anger and he hefted his sword and moved as if to attack.

Hengist looked panicked and grasped his seax nervously. Suddenly the swordsman cried out. He twisted as if to attack something behind him and then stumbled. Desmond saw a flash of a familiar face: Aeoelhun. He only hoped this meant the spearman was down. Aeoelhun was a pleasant man, good-natured and gentle—a most unusual friend of the garrulous Yffi—yet was a forester with no peer. What he did not know about the forest was not worth knowing. Desmond felt the forester types were a little strange. They were people like of old, before the coming of Christ the Lord to the land. They believed in the odd pagan rituals still practiced by so many here in the deep forest.

Desmond launched his silent attack on the swordsman, having stood as a distraction. Too late, the Viking realised what was happening. Desmond swung his sword and the shield came up but the swordsman stumbled again and went down to one knee. He panted as his hand opened, powerless as his sword dropped to the forest floor. The Viking looked up in despair as Desmond thrust his sword through his throat so he couldn’t cry out. In a moment he was on his back, his leg twisted beneath him, bleeding into the soil. The gentle rain continued to fall.

Aeoelhun appeared, wiping his seax. Hengist and Ceolwulf sighed in relief. They crept to the cart behind the swordsman and saw the body of the spearman. His throat had been slit.

“They knew something was happening. I had to wait, but the longer I waited the more they felt I was here. That was very close to being a bad fight, I think,” murmured the huntsman quietly. Aeoelhun smiled a tired smile and Hengist saw his sadness, as if killing these men had cost something in his heart.

“Thank you, brother, your skills are worthy of song,” muttered Desmond with heartfelt gratitude.

Ceolwulf also nodded his thanks and clapped the smaller man on the shoulder. Aeoelhun sighed and merely nodded. Ceolwulf crouched by the dead swordsman and briskly checked him for anything of value. He removed the man’s beautifully crafted, silver-embellished leather belt to which the sword scabbard was attached. The scabbard was also of leather and timber with a fine Viking pattern in silver. He placed the looted gear and the shield onto the cart and then gestured Hengist to the spearman. Desmond knew his son wasn’t fond of handling dead bodies. Often they soiled themselves as the body voided itself naturally, but looting a dead warrior was necessary. While money was useful, the weapons and any armour could make the difference between life and death in future conflict—and future conflict was likely.

Hengist placed a very nice knife in a fine sheath and the man’s spear onto the cart. The spearman also wore new boots and a leather jerkin, so they were also removed. Good boots were always valuable.

With the consent of the others, Ceolwulf buckled the sword to his waist. They all knew the weapon would be instantly recognised by any Viking they met, so no quarter would be given. Ceolwulf understood that nothing angered soldiers more than to see an enemy wearing a comrade’s treasured weapons. The blacksmith swung the sword and grunted in satisfaction. The weapon had a nicely made blade and Desmond knew, with the shield in the hands of Ceolwulf, it would be used to its most deadly effect. The big man was full of vigour, eager to split a few Viking heads. Desmond grinned and his son smiled in reply. Both were grateful this raging bull would be fighting with them.

Quiet!” whispered Aeoelhun. “These men weren’t here alone. There’ll be others nearby. Let’s just go to where the hidden weapons are. There’s too much danger here. This way.” He jerked his head and they followed silently through the forest, the horses thankfully not spooked under Alric’s expert care. The bodies of the Vikings were dragged into the bushes, no doubt to be found soon enough. They collected their loot and left the cart as Aeoelhun lead the party safely, making sure they crossed rocky ground that would best hide the ponies’ hoof prints. The rugged ponies were necessary to carry the tools and weapons, but increased the chance of detection manyfold.

They found the spot near the river where the tools were hidden and dug into the soft earth while Aeoelhun and Alric stood watch, Alric’s hands useless for digging. They loaded what they could onto the ponies. Valuable cloth created a buffer for the horses as tools and weapons were tied together in bundles to make them easier to transport. Some of the items, such as the pots and pans, would be useful but could make too much noise, so were reburied. Ceolwulf hefted one of the Viking axes with appreciation but kept to his sword and shield. Once packed, the gear was swathed in more cloth to keep items from rattling as they headed back to the village.

They passed the mound of Viking bodies as Aeoelhun led them a little way into the forest. The bodies had begun to smell and Ceolwulf looked to Desmond with a nod of respect. Barely had they moved into the trees when their guide suddenly halted the party and dropped to a knee to examine well-trodden tracks on the forest floor. He whispered, “This wasn’t the passing of only a few Vikings, but a large party of twenty or more. They had at least five horses, loaded as if with booty.” He frowned. “These aren’t from the Viking camp, but are others.” The forester looked up in surprise. “The two we killed at the cart were from another group.”

Ceolwulf swore and Desmond realised that this new group would have seen the bodies of the Vikings they had killed a few days ago and followed the cart’s tracks, knowing a village was in the vicinity. If this group combined forces with the others who had attacked Giolgrave, it would be a matter of grave concern. Desmond and the others in the war council believed the village warriors would be hard pressed to kill the group of Vikings who had destroyed the village and monastery. A fresh force, with the bodies of their comrades to inspire and infuriate, meant the village was likely to be found and slaughtered, whether Michael and his comrade were with them or not.

To return to the cart was now no longer a priority. This was news most dire and must be shared at once.

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