Traveller Inceptio

Desmond’s skill as the maker of Eadric’s blade was evident in the whorls of colour as subtle eddies of grey and charcoal flowed in the silvery steel. Perfectly balanced, the blade was superb. Michael and Hurley admired the weapon in the morning light and discussed the sword with the new warrior.

“Does she have a name?” asked Michael.

“Eaca Sorg–Pain Bringer,” he said, all too clearly recalling the screams of the Viking spearman he had slain. He held the sword aloft as he said it. He seemed pleased with his choice and Michael and Hurley nodded in respectful silence.

They also congratulated Hengist. Though a year or so too young for a normal recognition, these were unsettled times and he had already proved his mettle. His sword was named ‘Sigewif’, meaning ‘Victory Woman’. Like Eadric, his sword would be an honoured heirloom to be handed down through the ages.

“What of your sword, Lord Michael? Has she been named?” asked Eadric.

Michael smiled and shook his head. “Not yet, lad. For some reason the name hasn’t come to me, but I’ll let you know when it does.”

Eadric smiled, as if suddenly uncertain. Though a close friend, Michael knew he would always have an air of mystery for many of the villagers. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

He added, “You’ve done well, lad. You’re a warrior and have done more than most would ever do. To kill isn’t a good thing, but it sometimes has to be done. That’s what a warrior does.”

Eadric nodded, suddenly fearful. “Sometimes, there’s this dream.”

Hurley nodded in understanding and looked across at the youth sadly as he replied, “That’s okay, lad. It’ll pass. It only means you have a good heart.”

The four warriors walked through the small village attached to the hidden caves in the rocky defile. There was only one entrance and this was in the process of being fortified. The muffled clang of the forge meant the work of repairing and sharpening weapons continued unabated. They had muffled the smithing work as much as they could. Hengist soon bade them farewell, for he had to continue his work with his father.

“We have patrols in the forest that we hope will find any Viking scouts,” explained Michael. “These lads are superb hunters and trackers, so we expect to have some warning.”

“And now we have this,” smiled Hurley as they came to the village entry. Forward facing stakes had been dug into the ground to dissuade a rushed attack. Godric called the mass of stakes his ‘hedgehog’, and the name had stuck.

“We have stockpiles of food, a reliable water supply, and the people are being trained. Most of the women are to be involved in food prep or medical response, though some of the younger lasses have volunteered for weapons training,” continued Michael. “Is there anything we’re missing?”

Hurley nodded. “Well, there’s that issue we discussed.”

Michael looked at Eadric a moment. “Yeah, I think you’re right. Some of the men are getting restless.”

“What is that?” asked Eadric.

Hurley smiled. “It means, my lad, that we might best take the battle to our foes.”

***

It was a simple plan and a classic Special Forces guerrilla tactic. When faced with an enemy of superior force, it was best to disrupt and discourage them, hit them hard and then vanish into the forest. The Saxons preferred a frontal method of attack, considered more courageous, though suicidal. Michael and Hurley finally convinced the warriors that the time would come for such action, but to protect the village and their loved ones, they needed to take the Vikings by surprise.

They needed to hurt them.

A war party left with fond embraces and quiet hope in the eyes of those they left behind. Two groups left in single file, only paces apart, with the hunters and their dogs at point. They arrived at the Viking camp with no mishap and Michael wondered how the 21st Century research team would react to their reports. Both Hurley and Michael explained their plans for the attack the night before, but neither had received any response that morning.

Michael, Hurley and Eadric accompanied Yffi to scout the camp and they were surprised to find how the camp had been significantly enlarged. As Aeoelhun had feared, the two Viking groups had combined into a significant force. Shields were evident everywhere as they leaned against the shelters in readiness while about twenty horses grazed quietly. As before, the Vikings appeared unconcerned as many lounged or went about a relatively normal village life, repairing gear or snoozing, while others butchered a boar from a hunt. Theirs was the most powerful military force in the region and all fled before them, so they were making their stay as comfortable as possible. Their confidence was evident.

“I’d kill for a good pair of binoculars,” muttered Hurley as they watched the camp.

Michael snorted. “And some decent night-vision goggles.” They guessed that at least one Viking patrol was in the forest. It was useless to attempt to find them, so they sat and watched the camp for any Vikings who were thoughtless enough to slip out of the camp alone. With the remainder of their group hidden in the forest behind them, they spent the day watching and waiting.

As twilight fell, patrolling Vikings returned. Two patrols of half a dozen entered the camp without, it seemed, any success. With the extra men, there would be stress on their food resources.

“Aye, they’ll have a good hunt,” murmured Yffi, “but soon game in this area will be killed or flee. They’ll have to range further for food.” He paused as he looked to Michael. “They aren’t our people, so won’t hunt well, or harvest the forest. They might fish in the creek, but soon they’ll have to harvest the crops. That’ll be too dangerous.”

Michael confirmed, “So the camp will become unsustainable.”

Hurley nodded. “So they’ll have to attack soon—or bugger off.”

They watched as a Viking sauntered up to an iron cauldron on the main campfire and unenthusiastically stirred a stew with a stick. Michael recognised the monks’ beor mash cauldron and felt a renewed anger at these trespassers to a normal life.

As night fell and the Vikings settled into their camp, Hurley took a group to the other side of the Viking encampment. Like most reconnaissance missions, patience was paramount. Michael and Hurley had convinced them every Viking death would be to their advantage. If the raiders became demoralised, they might decide to move off and leave them be.

Though he understood the rationale, Yffi had his doubts. “Oh, they won’t leave, let me tell you. Every one we kill will make them more determined.”

Eventually, in the fading gloom, pointing with his chin, Hengist identified a couple of Vikings move to the edge of the camp. They were both armed and cautious, though one looked like he badly needed to relieve himself. As they vanished into the bushes, Michael watched the campfires where the Vikings talked and joked. They didn’t appear worried for their safety.

One of the horses snickered quietly. Michael knew two Vikings kept watch over the small herd. Useful for transporting loot and troops, the valuable horses were stolen from the Aenglish, essential to any army that wanted to travel quickly. As with the Saxons, Vikings didn’t use horses in battle. They were merely a convenient way for wealthier troops to travel to a location where they could dismount to fight.

Michael heard the low whistle of an owl. None in the camp, who were busily eating their stew, noticed the two men hadn’t returned. Though there had been some complaint at the quality of the food, it looked plentiful and filling. Michael and Hurley decided to make use of their bows this night and he raised his and took aim at one burly fellow who was beginning to nod off, his beard in his chest as he reclined against the base of a tree. He and Eadric waited.

They heard the sudden thunder of hooves as the horses became spooked and ran into the night. Their panic became a stampede that was surprisingly loud. Those in the camp were roused and immediately alert, cursing furiously at their loss. Michael loosed his arrow. One half-asleep Viking never fully woke as the arrow buried itself into his broad chest. Michael had noticed these Vikings wore little armour but for light leather jerkins, helmets, and shields, so it was vital they catch them off-guard before they could don whatever armour they possessed. The cry went up with angry yells of alarm. Michael saw another of the warriors go down with an arrow through the back of his neck. He loosed another to a young lad who looked up in panic. The arrow pierced his face and he went down screaming hoarsely, weakly trying to pull the arrow free as it had appeared in his flesh as if by magic.

The camp was in pandemonium. Previously dozing men ran to gather shields and weapons. Selecting targets became even more difficult with the running figures in the flickering firelight. Michael loosed more arrows, hoping to at least wound and incapacitate another foe and he knew Hurley would do the same. In the confusion, the Vikings were unsure as to the direction from which the arrows flew.

Suddenly there was the cry of hysterical laughter. Four heads, of the two men who had left the camp and the two guards by the horses, bounced heavily as they were tossed into the camp. With their enemy unused to a foe that attacked at night, Michael and Hurley suggested the best tactic was to spread panic and take away the enemy’s confidence and sleep. To this end, their attack appeared to work. They hoped the Vikings would view the deep Aenglish forest as a place of brooding mystery, so to be attacked at night by a foe they couldn’t see reminded them how far from their beloved ships and Norse Gods they were. Many looked terrified, their eyes wide in alarm and their shields raised. A few other bows joined in and the Saxons aimed at those who looked to have authority, so the mindless panic would spread.

Hurley’s hunters were placed to kill any Vikings that ran into the forest. One Viking called out to calm his men. Obviously of high rank he stood tall. Michael fired one arrow at him and missed, striking another young lad in the arm as he stood at his side. The lad yelled in pain and fear. As predicted, a couple of young men broke and ran into the forest, one having cast aside his shield as they blundered to where Hurley and his men lay in wait. Ropes had been rigged close to the ground, to be pulled taut to trip the panicked men in the dark. Their cries of alarm, and screams as they died, further added to the camp’s turmoil.

The more experienced men yelled threats into the forest and clashed their shields with sword or axe. The Viking leader ordered the fires to be doused and the troops to mass together, shields raised. Michael’s last view of him was as he knelt by the wounded young man.

As expected, Yffi made the blood-curdling laugh again and more heads were tossed into the camp, but the results weren’t as spectacular as before. A standoff resulted, with the Vikings in defensive formation, barely seen against the glow of campfire embers. Arrows had no further effect and a frontal attack would have been suicidal, so after a few hours, Hurley and Yffi moved their men to where Michael and Eadric hid.

Without a sound, they left the Vikings to their evening and silently journeyed back to the caves in high spirits. To remain on site would have been folly, though small patrols would be sent to the forest near the camp to kill whoever they could. It was still hoped the steady attrition would cause the Vikings to leave. Spirits were too high for sleep as the warriors regaled each other, and Godric, with tales of their attack.

Michael snuggled into Tatae’s arms. He knew they had placed a big foot into a very nasty ant nest. The Vikings would be forced to leave or mobilise against them.

They would be waiting.