This one is
going to be a bit long, I am turning to the internet for help!
The
following is the beginning of a story I wrote for a writing group, I am a bit
stuck. If you guys could read this and give me some feedback or suggestions I’d
be grateful.
Earning the Name:
A Saxon’s tale
Cold and wet, then wet
and cold, and then more of the same. The long, dragon headed, boats cut their
way through the grey waves; the men huddled in them clutching furs to them
against the weather. Bear, wolf, horse, and many other hides shed the rain and
locked in the warmth a warriors body naturally generated, shields placed on the
bowsprit helped shed some of the sea water as it rolled up and, occaissionaly,
over the railing. Songs and conversation rose and fell, the words a constant
comfortable dinn that joined the sounds of wave and sail, more than it rose
above or cut through it.
Deorwine
sat with a group of men, none from his village as Hengest and Horsa had divided
all the men up, listening to men boast of being handpicked, of their wives, and
of conquests. They talked of things mundane, shared tales of the gods, and
drank from horns of mead and ale. A large man pointed a finger, that swayed
more than the rocking boat could account for, at Deorwine and said loudly,
“You,
boy! Tell us of yourself, who you are and from whence you come!”
“My
story is nothing for you faint men of womens spirits,” he smiled at the man
across from him, “but I shall share with you. Perhaps my tale will fortify you
against the foes to come.”He smiled and raised his horn of mead towards the
man, his manner merry.\
“A
season ago my father and brothers were preparing for the feast of spring
goddess...”
*
*
*
A
cold wind cut through the trees, giving the sun a thin brittle appearance. The
landscape was bright enough, and springs first flowers were lovely and lent a
sweet aroma to fields and forest. A cleared circle of land surrounded a raised
hill with log walls, the planted fields of the clearing showed the barest
shoots of barley, rye, and a stunted wheat. Sheep, goats, and oxen dotted the meadows
that made up the rest of the clearing, with young boys keeping watch over the
stock whooping and calling and on occasion clashing with one another in rough
affectionate childhood aggression. Men and women worked in the fields or did
any of the other tasks that make up tribal life.
“Deorwine! Go and get your father, the pork is ready for the spit, and the goat
needs to be blessed and gotten ready for the sacrifice.”
“Sure
thing mom.” Deorwine walked off towards the walls, his new sword belt and
shield weighed heavily on his shoulders and hips. He had just gotten his full
height and as a yule gift his father had given him a mans blade. With the gift
of the blade his father had called him to the responsibility of an armsman, and
also told his youngest son that his inheritance could only come at the edge of
that blade. Responsibility and ambition weighed on his shoulders, but the
festival mood lightened them enough that the spring in his step was not forced.
“Father! mother says that the pigs are ready for the spit, and that as Gođi you
need to have a talk with a goat and introduce him to the wights and gods.”
“Little brother is that a sword at your hip, or is it frigge's own key ring.”
Laughter rose from the group of men, his fathers wet gravel laugh not least
among them. The jest sounded merry enough, though the teeth behind it were
those of wolf pack reassuring itself of who sat where.
“I've
heard you can open doors with this,” he patted the hilt of his sword, “but I
prefer to open legs with this!” His hand shifted from his sword and clutched at
his trousers. The men laughed again, his father grinned at him with pride in
recognition of his sons wit. He turned back to the men again and settled some
issue or other having to do with the blöt, or feast, or one of another hundred
politically sensitive things. This village, named Wotton imaginatively for
being a walled village in a wood, was the largest in his tribes territory and
would soon be full to bursting as more tribesmen came in for the blöt and
symbel in honor of the goddess Eostre. With all of those coming in even a
festival could be tense with old grudges and perceived slights left untended,
Deorwines father worked diligently to repair relations where he could, and
promise guest right to the more nervous.
“Come
Deorwine, EaldgyÞ's!, you can help get the food beasts to the cook fires while
I do the needful thing.” His father smiled at his sons as he stepped back from
the crowd of men, the men he was with began to disperse in turn, he took both
his boys under his arms and walked towards the yard that would hold the food
beasts and the gods goat. They chatted and joked as they crossed the fields,
laughing at the young children who would run by swinging sticks and throwing
rocks, saluting with mock seriousness as they passed the older boys who kept
watch over the flocks, and on occasion muffling laughter as a young lady
rebuffed a teenagers advances with the flick of braids and stamp of foot.
They
came up to the board fence that marked the yard, the smell of grass, and dung,
and butchery mingled in a earth metallic melange, a house down wind of the
slaughter yard housed the sacrificial animal, Deorwines father headed off that
way waving his sons toward the yard. The two boys vaulted the fence and started
toward the hanging pig carcases, a sharp whistle and a young girls terrified
shriek brought their heads up in time to see a young teen fall with a spear
transfixing his legs. The two young men ran towards the injured boy, and the danger.
Deorwine had his shield up and his sword out as he neared the boy, two of the
young ladies were dragging the poor boy back towards the wall he loped toward
them as more spears, and a few arrows, came out of the forest. As he came between
the young ones and the danger an arrow slammed into his shield with a loud
CHOK, he grunted.
“Pick
the lad up and run!” He shouted over his shoulder to the girls. Men had begun
to emerge from the shadows of the forest. Their spears, swords, and axes
glinted evilly in the chill sunlight looking like so many teeth.
Deorwine resettled his shield and began to move toward the raiders, his sword
ready. The enemy was jogging towards the village, their true numbers hidden by
their unorganized formation. He closed on the nearest man, coming on him in a
bear rush. A flurry of powerful blows aimed at his opponents face drove him
back, as he prepared for the killing blow he bellowed,
“HOLA
WODEN!”, the invocation of that god of battle reverberated in his chest as he pulled
back and plunged the naked steel into his opponent's throat. Adrenaline pumped
through his veins, a euphoria clouded his mind, and a predatory smile grew on
his face. His first opponent dead at his feat Deorwine charged heedless towards
the larger group of raiders who were headed towards the live stock.
Deorwine struck and struck again, his blade slamming into shields and bodies,
his own shield took many blows and began splinter. His shield shattered as he
slammed the edge of it into a face, leaving a bloody mess and shattered planks.
The hatchet at his belt came into his shield hand in time to deflect a spear
point. The spear probed again, he dodged under it and tried to move in under
the stave, the butt end of the spear blurred up and struck cruelly into his
side. Deorwine slid back a pace and faced this new and wary opponent, his wolf
grin punctuated by the blood of the fallen.
The
two men faced one another, each evaluating the man before him. Deorwines
opponent was a lithe man of about his own years, he held his spear in an odd
two handed grip that allowed him to turn it end over end in his hands. He was
hard built with sandy brown hair and eyes the color of a mountain lake, enough
like Deorwine that they could have been blood kin.
As they
circled the spear held in the others hands blurred out towards Deorwines head,
its bladed head cleaving the air with a hiss, Deorwine blocked the spear with
an up thrust of his hatchet. The butt of the spear came up in the opposite arc,
Deorwine skipped away from this second attack. He gave his opponent no time to
attack again, Deorwine lunged, the light blinking off of his sword blade as it
slid across the space between them, there was a musical “K'tang” as the spear
stave blocked the thrust. An overhand strike with the ax followed the thrust,
and was easily parried. He continued the press, he slashed at legs, chopped at
an exposed joint, kicked and punched; each attack flowing immediately into the
the next in a constant press of motion. The spear man faltered, his foot
slipping in the blood soaked dust, Deorwine headbutted the man breaking his
nose and spilling him to the ground. Deowine raised his hatchet for a final
blow, the spear man stabbed in desperation.
Deorwine stood over the fallen enemy, the blood lust and berserker rage fading
from his mind. As his vision cleared from the all consuming red, the pain of
wounds trickled into his consciousness. He found that he was standing over the
headless body of a spear man, in his hand was a head that resembled his own,
its blue eyes locked open in fear, rage, and disbelief. The field where the
brief fight had taken place had a half score of bodies strewn about as stalks
of reaped grain, friends and foe lay together in a strange intimacy of death.
Among the wounded was his elder brother, who sat next to his unblooded sword
clutching at a lump sprouting from his head.
Shame
played across EaldgyÞ's face until he saw Deorwine standing in bloody glory,
with the head of the vanquished in hand and a wound that showed the ivory bone
of his shoulder. His face was shrouded in the blood of the fallen, his sword
showed nicks from the bones it had broken, his wounds mingled his own blood
with those he had slain; his was the countenance of a warrior, no more could he
be mocked for a boy. EaldgyÞ watched as their father passed him by and embraced
Deorwine, pride shone for all to see, as visible as his own unbloodied sword.
Rage and jealously flooded EaldgyÞ, fueled by the fear the his place was no
longer as solid as it had been not an hour ago. He picked himself up, sheathed
his sword, and stumbled over to his father and brother hoping to glean some of
the honor of victory. He faced his brother, Deorwine's eyes were distant with
pain and fatigue, their eyes met and EaldgyÞ gripped his brothers uninjured
shoulder.
Deorwine seemed to fall back into himself as hos brother clasped his shoulder,
for a moment he couldn't understand why EaldgyÞ looked so angry. He felt sad
and ashamed but didn't know why, he had done well hadn't he? He had fought the
enemy, killed them even, so why would his brother be upset. Before he could
follow the thought through the pain in his shoulder ripped through his
consciousness and his vision blurred. He started to buckle but his father propped
him up and walked him towards the town. Men were coming out of the enclosure
enforce, many moving bodies while the others moved into the forest to prevent
any return of the escaping foe. Deorwine, and the men around him, passed
through the gate. A furious voice cut through the dinn of celebratory and
mourning humans.
“Clear out of the way
you lot of greatgabbling ganders, Tiw's hand! Bring that boy here and put him
on this table!” The crone was short and her joints gnarled, like an oak
stubbornly clinging to a coastal cliff face. She was shoving men and things out
of the way. She sent a young girl to fetch boiled water and several herbs. She
gruffly cut Deorwines shirt from his body, twisted his grizzly trophy from his
hands, and in nearly the same motion tipped a mug of herb laced mead into the
young mans mouth.
She
snapped her fingers and a young pretty girl produced a wicked looking curved
needle, it trailed a line of thick catgut cord. The needle went into the mead
with a prayer to Heliđ and Woden to banish any ill wights. While the needle
soaked herbs and powders where sprinkled into the wound, she began to chant. As
she chanted she spoke into Deorwines ears and mouth, her hands mixing the
various herbs and stitching the wound closed. She finished the charm chanting,
“þær þa nygon nædran nean behealdað;
motan ealle weoda nu wyrtum aspringan,
sæs toslupan, eal sealt wæter,
ðonne ic þis attor of ðe geblawe.”
Where the nine snakes behold it near.
May all weeds now spring up worts,
The seas dissolve, all salt water,
When I blow this bane from you.
'The Nine Herbs Charm'
The crone stood back from the boy, she mopped
sweat from her brow and watched Deorwine breath slow and deep. The herbs, or
the magic, had stopped the bleeding and kept the worst of the pain at bay.
There should be no infection, the gods of healing and the good wights would
help see to that. She looked at the man on her table, the last of his childhood
stained the table he lay upon a deep red. She smiled fondly at the man as she
remembered his youth, memories of the small boy hugging his knees as she and
others told tales of the gods around the hearthfire, and the solemness of the
young face as he was handed his first cup of mead. That boy was gone, in his
place was this bloody man.
“He
will heal, Æsc your sons wound was serious but not grave. EaldgyÞ should be
watched more closely, head wounds are touchy and only the gods can heal that.”
“The
gods will see them both right, never have two young men been more true to their
folk.” Deorwines father replied smiling at his two sons.
“True
to the folk yes, but that one,” she pointed to EaldgyÞ, “has a wounded pride
that neither the gods nor I can heal.”
“His
blade had no blood on it, and he had only that knock on the head. Perhaps the
anger will fade with the wound, but maybe it would have been better if their
luck had been switched.” Æsc looked at the ground, his thoughts were troubled.
Both of his sons had acted with honor in running towards the enemy, but they
had gained uneven portions of glory and respect, something would need to
restore the balance.
“Your sons shouldn't attend the symbel tonight,”
“Are
you going to try and stop them?”
“Ha,
young men cannot be dissuaded by old women. What they shouldn't do and what
they will do are quite separate things.” Her smile was wry.
When
Deorwine woke sunne had traversed her track across the sky and was nearing
skjoll's embrace. The ache in his shoulder was a pulsing reminder of the
dangers of being a man, it brought sweat to his brow. He slowly sat up, his
body had been cleaned of blood the stitches in his wounds covered with a
poultice soaked bandage. His skin puled at the large stitches under the
bandage. As he sat on the tables edge, letting the pain and nausea pass, an old
man passed across the open gate ahead of him. The man was tall and strong in
his age, his cloak covered whip cord muscles, a long boned hand griped the
spear he used as a walking stick. One wizened eye glittered out from beneath
the brim of a peaked hat, and a grim smile played across his lips as that eye
fell on Deorwine. The flutter of great black wings made Deorwine blink, in that
instant the old man passed from his view, but the weight of the mans gaze
remained.
When
Deorwine gathered himself, he made his way towards the hall. Light danced
through the doorway, the promised warmth of the fire relaxed the tension in his
muscles. The smell of roasted meat and the fresh vegetables flooded his mouth
with saliva. He passed the threshold and was greeted by raucous laughter and
song, people danced and ate with relish. Life was celebrated in all corners of
the hall. A man with a stern visage and a missing sword hand shouted above the
crowd,
“HAIL! Hail the victor! Hail the slayer of foes!”
The
men raised horns of drink and hunks of spitted boar and roared in response. The
crowd pressed in around him until the shrill voice of a crone pushed them back.
“Keep
back! If you split his wounds open again I swear to all the gods that I will
send you...” her tirade went on as Deorwine found his seat, conspicuously to
his fathers left. His father had a look of pride and concern, while the
jealousy on his brothers face stood in stark contrast. He took a horn of mead
and his plate had cabbage and pheasant piled high. He ate with determination,
and drank with a thirst unmatched. Slowly the noise died down to a dull rumble.
Æsc stood to address the men,
“Friends...”
“Cynning!” The voice cracked as it interrupted the chief. “Wanderers have come
to visit us this night, they ask to be welcome in your hall on this the eve of
Eostre.” The young man stood at the door spear in hand, earnest in this new
responsibility.
“Who
are these strangers?” Æsc's voice was hard, there had been blood spilt this day
and emotions ran knife sharp.
“My
chief,” The boy stepped aside as he spoke, “Hengest and his brother Horsa have
come to our home. They are chiefs of renown and valor, the ask to show you
honor.”
The
two men stepped through the portal, large and imposing built with long limbs
and powerful chests, much like their name sakes. They bowed lightly towards the
chief and his sons and then Hengest spoke.
“Sir,
we are come to this village much later than we intended, and we apologize for
the inconvenience. We came across battered and bloodied men who sought to
retain some honor by taking our heads, we relieved them of that burden.”
Hengest motioned towards his brother who stepped forward with a basket. “It
seems that their honor does indeed belong to you.” The cover was stripped from
the basket and cold dead eyes stared out at the gathered people, Hengest
covered the basket again and Horsa took it back out through the portal.
“You
have made a grand showing, enter friends!” Æsc gestured and two new seats were
cleared near the chief.
The
two men sat and were quickly given horns of mead by the ale bearers, their eyes
roamed the hall taking in the people gathered. The room was joyous and
welcoming, the sacrifice had gone well, and the wights seemed at peace with the
folk here. The people were healthy and hardy, many of the men had the scars of
battles fought and won.
“Friends! Brothers! Guests! Hear me.” Æsc's voice carried through the hall, the
room became as quiet as the multitude of people would allow. “Today we asked
the goddess Eostre to bless us with a verdant spring. We fought through a long
and cold winter, and have greeted this spring with open arms. Eostre is not the
only god to walk with us today, my sons,” he placed his arms on either boys
back, “stood with Woden and Thunor against the foes of or people. Today they
have both earned that holy name the gods gave us, today my boys became true
Saxons! Hail!” He tipped his horn back and drank deep.
“Hail!” the hall roared in return and everyone drank from their horns.
Another man stood and
made a toast to his new born child. More and more men stood and toasted. Long
into the night they drank and boasted, praised both gods and ancestors until at
last the pace of the toasts slowed and the mead caused in the men
contemplation.
“Friends,” a quite voice lofted through the room, “listen to my words.” His
voice drew the eyes of all the men in the room, its stillness a contrast to the
violence etched in the scars of his body. Horsa was standing with his eyes cast
upon the fire, his mead cup was held close to his heart. Deorwine could see
destiny in those fire lit blue eyes. Horsa continued,
“We
came to you today with the blood of your enemies on our blades. We have
traveled through storms and the fields of battle. We carry the honor and wealth
of our people,” he moved his arm and the glint of gold drew the eyes of the
men, ”we came in search of honor, we came seeking glory. Here, in your land we
found glory before we had found you. We came into your hall and were greeted
with honor by a father of honorable men.” Horsa raised his cup towards the
chief and his sons. “This is a good meeting of men, your chief spoke truth when
he called his sons true Saxons, that god himself could have no better shield
brothers, he did not speak completely. You,” he motioned to the whole company
with his cup, “ are ALL true Saxons! Hail the hall! Hail the folk!” He drank.
“Hail!” The hall shook at the words. The cups had been emptied but Horsa did
not sit.
“
Æsc! Chieftain of this hall! I ask for your leave to speak freely in your
home.”
“Speak friend,” the chiefs voice was heady with emotion. “Your words and wisdom
are ever welcome at my table.”
“My
brother and I carry blades and the marks of blades, we are renowned among men
as warriors. You have heard tales of or valor and our wit. We did not come to
you to share in your fine food, strong drink, or even in your revelry. We came
to you today to seek out those who would journey and seek glory against foes
yet unmet. We wish for men who are unafraid of the bite of steel, men who seek
to test their worth. A host is being gathered to sail to the lands of Vortigern
and defeat a worthy foe, a strange and dangerous people. Chief of this hall! We
ask that you allow men who are oathed to you to bind their luck to ours if that
is their will.” Horsa stood tall facing towards Æsc.
“Honeyed words you have brought to this feast,” Æsc's face betrayed nothing,
“True words, but honeyed none the less.” He turned his eyes from Horsa and
looked through the room, meeting the eyes of those that sought his. “I give my
oath witness it free men, if there are any among you who wish to join this
host, to bind yourselves to these worthy war leaders, I will release you of your
oath bond to me, and witness your oaths to them.”
“Hail
the wise and just chief of this hall.” Horsa raised his cup to Æsc.
The
hall fell quiet, the men were torn between the responsibility to their homes,
and the desire for valor that is bound to every mans heart. They looked at
their brothers, both to the left and the right, they weighed how this one
action would affect the luck of their descendants. Into the silence a young man
stood.
“I am
the youngest son of a freeman, and a freeman myself, I would swear my oath to
you Hengest and Horsa.” The mans voice was steady as he was approached by the
three chieftains. He swore his oath on a ring of silver. He removed a gold band
given to him by his chieftain and placed on his arm a new band wrought with the
symbols of his new chieftains.
The
night progressed with more young men joining the host of Hengest and Horsa,
finally Deorwine stood. Sweat beaded on his brow, his legs were shaky from the
pain, but when he spoke his voice was sure and proud.
“I am
the second son of a great man, I have spilled blood for my people. Both my own
blood and the blood of my foeman. I have gained honor on the fields of battle,
my blade blessed by the gods.” He paused and looking at his father and brother
chanted,
“Sygegealdor ic begale,
sigegyrd ic me wege,
wordsige and worcsige.
Se me dege;
windas on waroþum.
Windas gefran,
circinde wæter simble gehælede
wið eallum feondum.
Freond ic gemete wið”
A victory charm I sing, a victory rod I bear,
Victory of words, victory of works. May they
assist me
Wind from these shores. Of storms I have heard
That wake swirling waters. Always secure
Against all foes. May I meet with friends,
“If
you will hear my oath I will travel with you, My blade will be your blade, and
my honor will add to your own.”
“My
son,” Æsc was still, his voice caught in his throat, “Do you truly wish to
break the bond of your oath to your people?”
“My
bond to my people is my blood spilled on this soil, my bond to you is the blood
we share, these bonds cannot be broken.”
“Would you leave your people unprotected?” Horsa's question brought harsh
whispers to the hall.
“Unprotected? The hands that trained me in war, the hands that protected my
mother in the winter are also the hands that protect my people. My brother, who
has bested me in every test of strength, still stands to face any foe. My
people are in valiant hands.”
“Your
wounds are grievous, will your risk more and greater wounds?”
“Wounds heal with time, and no man may live longer than he lives. Would I live
any longer if I lived within these walls?” Deorwine looked Hengest in the eyes.
“Will you hear my oath?”
“Swear your oath Deorwine son of Æsc.” Hengest matched his stare.
Deorwine grasped the silver oath ring, “I swear before the folk here, and all
the gods, that my blade will be your blade. I swear that my honor is bound to
your honor, and that as I gain honor so shall you. I swear that from this
moment I will fight with you, I will follow your war banner to any realm. I
swear that for as long as you keep your oath to me, so shall I keep this oath
to you.”
“Deorwine son of Æsc, I swear to you before your folk and kin, before all the
gods, and before the wights of this land that for as long as you wear this
band,” Hengest placed a gold ring on Deorwines arm, “My brother and I will keep
our troth to you. You will be rewarded for valor and forever have a place in
our halls, your kin will be our kin for as long as this troth is kept.” Hengest
clasped the young man by his uninjured shoulder and the two together called,
“Hail! May these oaths bind our luck and or honor. May the gods bless us with
glory!”
*
*
*
“My
wounds have healed and so here I am.” Deorwine shrugged against the wind and
rain.
The
big man nodded and handed over a cup of hot honey wine, “Health to you friend.
Well told, a better tale I have not heard.”
The
ships carried their cargo of men across the gray crags of Nirdu's realm onward
towards the home of Vortigern.
Chapter 2
Diary of Gaelle, daughter of Heanua, grand
daughter of Boudica
Priestess to the last of the Icene people
The
gods have helped keep me strong in my resolve. Every day there are new
pressures from the priests of the white christ, they want me to lead my people
into the arms of a weak and jealous god. The priests tell the Icene men that
myself and the other women are to obey them, that according to their god we are
not to teach, not to lead. Our men mock those that treat their women this way,
what man would want a quiet woman? Though most of the men will not convert,
some have begun to think like the christians. May the gods show their strength
against this dead god.
Vortigern and his man here have been pressuring the men of my tribe to cause me
to marry one of the lesser lords. They fancy themselves roman, no matter that
their blood is in the bones of this land, the imitate the people who drove
division and death into our land. They pretend that the rapes, and the murders
were a product of the “Native Barbarians”, not the Roman invaders. It seems
that the weak men of this land have developed a fetish for that deplorable
golden eagle.
The
pressure placed on me is a danger to my people, if I marry a man who styles
himself roman, some will be driven to violence. If I do not marry or convert
Vortigerns Christians may go back to the forced conversions that their Roman patrons
used not one generation ago. I do not know how my grandfather both befriended
and resisted the Romans, I know that my my mothers rape drove Boudica to lead
her armies against the prideful Romans. I know that that fierce heritage is
what keeps the priests and nobles from attacking my people, despite their
hatred for all other ways and gods.
With
all of this the people are restless, we have weathered many attacks and
assaults from the wode painted invaders. They come among us and murder our
herdsmen, they take our livestock and the fruits of our fields. We have heard
from the nobles arms men that these Picts are viscous and that it is only
through the grace of their lord and their god that our homes have been spared
thus far. Our men have faced these raiders, they have turned them back by
embracing the warrior spirits of our people. It has been said that when our men
in their wode clash with the wode painted Picts the results terrify the nobles
in their fancy armor. It fills the men with pride to know that even in small
numbers our warriors can turn back threats that scare the would be lords of
this land. For all our fierceness our numbers are not great enough to turn back
this tide, and eventually the Picts will find their way down to our farms and our
villages, eventually they will carry off our sheep and our women.
I
have gone to the gods and goddesses of my people and sacrificed, I have divined
that there are great and terrible men coming from the south. These men are as
hard as the bones of the earth, as hot blooded as forge fire, their gods are of
the spear, sword, and hammer.
.
. .
I
found my brother, Arthfael, being hounded by one of the brown dressed Christs
men. The portly cleric kept speaking of sacrifice and cheek turning, all while
speaking of eternal damnation for our ancestors, and for him unless he accepts
that our gods are devils. My brother will be the thorn they pride themselves
for enduring, perhaps he will be the temptation they fear.
