Raven of the Waves by Michael Cadnum Page A

there is for some reason a ship army? It has nothing to do with Wiglaf, or with me, or with anyone here, does it?”
    But Sigemund gave a thoughtful frown as he fingered the points of his hayfork.
    Aethelwulf hurried up the muddy street. “Frea is like a stone!” said Alfred the clay cutter. “Lying on the floor, her mouth agape, and going all over blue.”
    Aethelwulf prayed to Saint Anne, the patroness of troubled women, who understood their problems. He had to stop for a moment to catch his breath and lifted a hand to win the clay cutter’s patience.
    A maiden of the village was smiling from a doorway, offering him a plate of fresh-baked bread, and the abbot could not help lingering for one stolen moment, breathing the delicious yeasty fragrance. He had no time to take a taste, even though long experience told him that poor Frea was beyond all human aid.
    He heard a cry and turned.
    He saw the blood first. A man ran toward him down the muddy street, his face scarlet with it. The incredibly bright blood coursed and trickled even as the man ran. Blood washed the man’s tunic. That a man could run with so much blood flowing from his head was grotesque. And when the man spoke, his teeth were white within the scarlet mask.
    The man was an impossible apparition, jabbering at Aethelwulf. The poor creature held him with a bloody hand. It was Edgar the fowler, a man who lived at the edge of the village, near the river, where the damp earth rose up in puddles that favored the raising of ducks.
    â€œStrangers, Father!” cried the injured man, sinking to his knees. “They’re killing everything that lives!”

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    Gunnar offered instructions, the men nodding as they listened.
    Njord and a few men from Crane would stay with the ships. The rest would march with their own crews, and if there was any attack, they would form three wedges, the leadman at the point of each. Lidsmod would come with the fighting men but stay well away from the shield wall. “Protect our rear,” said Gunnar. Lidsmod was being spared the greatest danger, and he was both grateful and resentful.
    There should have been darkness. There should have been more information about the land that lay ahead and around them. But there was no time. They had the old advantage, a warrior’s simplest trick—surprise.
    Every man realized this. The bosses of the leather-covered shields gleamed in the sunlight. Men adjusted belts and worked their heads into the peaked helmets. Sword belts were loosened, and mail chinked as men settled it around their shoulders. A few men wore such mail, and some had leather guards for their shins.
    Each man was ready, in his own way. Gunnar drew Keen and let her cut the air with a whisper. Ulf lifted Long and Sharp. This ancient sword would eat its fill today, Lidsmod thought, envying his stout shipmate.
    Lidsmod hefted his small ax. His limbs tingled. Every blade of grass was sharp in his eyes. The land had a smell of ripeness.
    Horses were useless in battle, Lidsmod had heard. They were good only for travel over land. Two legs planted on a field were all a man needed. The shield bearers began to stride forward. No one spoke. Raven ’s men swung to the right, across a pasture. The wet earth squelched under their leather soles. Sheep stirred and began to run in that curious, easy panicked way of such animals, but the men ignored them.
    Gunnar strode ahead. They would slaughter a few sheep on their way back, Lidsmod thought, for food. As much as men admired courage, no man wanted to be in a situation that required it. Lidsmod had heard the firelight fighting lore, long into the nights of his boyhood. It was always better to strike quickly, by surprise. Gunnar quickened his pace.
    Gorm began to run, pushing himself ahead of the ragged line of men. Gunnar ran too, remaining just ahead of Gorm. What a sight they all were in Lidsmod’s eyes. Swords, axes, spearheads gleaming, each man