The Amber Road Read Free Page B

deafening, terrible din of battle. Trapped in a surging crush of bodies. Feet scrabbling, Starkad fought to stay upright in its eddies.
    A vicious edge of steel bit into the top of his shield, through the leather binding, down into the linden boards. A splinter gashed his forehead. His legs were shaking, so tired. He hunkered down behind his shield. Another blow landed, took out a chunk. He bent his knees, tried to dig in his heels, get a firm stance. He had to fight back, lead by example. He was an eorl.
    A flash of light to Starkad’s right. A ghastly scream. The sword embedded in Eomer’s stomach. His friend’s face white with shock. The cornutus withdrawing the blade. Eomer crumpling. Starkad twisted, lunged, his body behind the blow. Another scream. Starkad’s blade slicing deep across the soldier’s thighs, scraping on bone. Starkad and the cornutus tangled together. Starkad shoved him away. He fell. Two neat steps and Starkad brought up his sword.
    ‘Please …’ A bloodied hand raised in supplication.
    Starkad smashed the heavy sword down; one, two, three times.
    The press was clearing, the movement now all in the direction of the enemy.
    ‘Out! Out! Out!’ The triumphant, traditional cry of the Angles rumbled down the hillside, pursued the cornuti as they fled into the wood.
    Starkad took in the stricken field. Everywhere were discarded and broken spears and swords, shields and helmets, even mailcoats. Everywhere the dead and the dying lay in their own blood and filth, and the living stood bent over with the enormity of it all. A grassy sward reduced to a shambles. But it was over. Now to count the cost.
    Eomer was sitting, supported by another warrior. His hands were pressed to the jagged hole in his war shirt. The blood was flowing slowly but already had pooled in his lap, clotting the rings of his mail, staining the thighs of his trousers black.
    ‘I will get …’
    ‘No,’ Eomer gasped. ‘Gut wound. No point.’
    Starkad dropped his sword, got to his knees. He tried to remove his helmet, but the blow had dented it out of shape. Someone levered it off for him. Blood from his forehead ran into Starkad’s eyes.
    ‘Enough to enter Woden’s hall.’ Eomer tried to smile. ‘I hope.’
    Starkad shuffled forward. The other warrior moved, and Starkad cradled his friend.
    ‘Tell my mother, and Aeva.’ Eomer winced. ‘Tell them I died well.’
    Starkad buried his head in his friend’s neck, crying.
    ‘Time to go.’ Guthlaf was standing above them, bloodied but unhurt. ‘The atheling has ordered we move.’
    Five times at the point of the Swinehead and Guthlaf was still alive, this time seemingly unscathed. It should have been him, not Eomer. Starkad could not reply.
    ‘Time to go,’ Guthlaf repeated.
    Starkad sobbed.
    ‘You are an eorl ,’ Guthlaf said. ‘Show yourself one.’
    Starkad glared, about to curse the old man, curse him to Niflheim and Hel.
    ‘He is right.’ Eomer gripped Starkad’s arm with a bloody hand. ‘You are my eorl . Do the last thing for me.’
    Starkad shook his head.
    ‘The Choosers of the Slain will take me.’ Eomer gripped him harder. ‘Do it, as I love you, do it.’
    Starkad knew they were right. He kissed Eomer, held him close, told him he loved him, whispered Woden’s last words to Balder in his ear. Then Starkad drew his knife, and cut his friend’s throat.
    After, Guthlaf helped him to his feet. ‘Leading men is not all feasting and giving gold. You did well. You are eorl to all in the crew.’
    Men were busy all over the meadow. Starkad took his place under his draco . Four of his crew had died in the clash, two had been helped out afterwards. There were six with serious wounds but who could still march. Starkad sent men back to collect such of the plunder as was light and would not hold back their progress. As they did so, he got the remainder in order.
    Arkil’s horn sounded, and the reduced column resumed its limping march to the sea.
    The trees