The Amber Road Read Free

where you stand, it may be Governor Dialis will offer more lenient terms.’
    Arkil strode further out from his men. ‘Go back now.’
    ‘If you just …’
    Arkil unsheathed his blade. The Himlings possessed several swords of ancient renown. This was Gaois, the growling one, half as old as Woden and responsible for nearly as many deaths.
    ‘Go back now,’ Arkil said again.
    Undiplomatic, but Starkad thought the atheling was right. Time was not on their side. Any moment could see other units of Roman troops appear from any direction.
    The herald reined his horse around, walked it back towards his line. And no one among the Angles could say he had acted without courage.
    ‘The prisoners!’ Arkil roared. ‘One in ten!’
    A lane parted in Starkad’s men, and he walked through to the rear. To be an eorl demanded hard choices, and this was one of them. Starkad stood by Eomer in front of the captives. ‘Him,’ he pointed, ‘and him. That one …’ He continued until eight men, none young, had been dragged out. ‘Cut the others free.’
    Their bonds gone, the women and younger men stood, irresolute and fearful.
    ‘Go,’ Starkad said.
    They did not move, but gazed at him with round, uncomprehending eyes. He realized he had used his native tongue.
    ‘Go,’ he repeated in Latin. ‘Your gods hold their hands over you.’
    Still they did not move. Perhaps they suspected some cruel trick.
    ‘Go.’ He pointed in the direction of the town. One individual, then another, tentatively shuffled in the direction they had come. When nothing untoward happened, they moved faster. Others joined in, until they were all running as fast as they could back towards their shattered lives.
    Starkad jerked his thumb at the eight remaining. ‘Front of the line.’
    They were distributed along the shieldwall. One was Starkad’s duty. He did not relish it, but it was a necessity. An eorl had to do what was right by his men and the gods.
    Arkil began the dedication. Starkad and the others joined in. ‘Ran, goodwife of Aegir …’
    Starkad looked down. The man was on his knees, bound. He had grey hair, grey eyes, a gentle, delicate face. Probably he had a wife, most likely a child, certainly he had been someone’s son.
    ‘Ran, turn your pale, cold eyes from us …’
    Starkad drew his sword.
    ‘Spare us your drowning net, take these instead.’
    Without hesitation, Starkad swung the blade. The man threw himself sideways. Not quite quick enough. The steel bit into the side of his neck. Blood sprayed bright in the sunshine. The man squealed, high like a pig. He was on the ground, not moving, but not dead. He was moaning. Starkad stepped up, and finished him with two hard, chopping blows to the back of the head.
    A baying of outrage rolled across from the Roman lines.
    Starkad cleaned his weapon on the dead man’s tunic, and slid it back into its scabbard.
    ‘Swineheads!’ Arkil’s voice carried along the Angle warhedge of shields.
    Guthlaf walked a few paces in front and planted himself four-square. Two other experienced warriors went and stood on either side and just behind him. Starkad took his place at Guthlaf’s back. His chest felt all tight and hollow at once. His breath was coming fast and shallow. Without thought, he loosened his sword and dagger in their sheaths, touched the piece of amber tied to his scabbard as a healing stone. Taking up his spear, his palm was slick.
    As each crew shifted into a wedge formation, a song rang out:

    The sword growls

    Leaving the sheath,

    The hand remembers

    The work of battle.
     
    The Swinehead was formed. Starkad had Eomer on one shoulder, his standard-bearer on the other. Buoyed up by the singing and the proximity of his companions, he felt his anxieties slipping away. He would be a man; let down neither his friends nor himself.
    ‘Advance!’ Arkil’s bellow was followed by the bray of a horn. Normally, those warriors touched by Woden or another god would jump out beyond the