The Songs of Slaves (7 page)

“Go!” Connor said, pushing Grania forward. “Run to Mannus and do not stop until you reach him.”

Grania ran.

Connor’s eyes found the two straw-haired men. The forest around them was thick, and there were obstacles everywhere, but Connor did not care. They were close, and they were his. His eyes locked on the open mouth of the closest warrior. The warrior seemed
heedless of him, as his eyes were focused on Grania and his ugly mouth busy with insults and jeers.

Let them be his last words on this earth.

Connor planted his left foot and let fly his javelin.

Both Grania and the second warrior froze as the javelin split through the back of the warrior’s head. The second Jute was the first to recover. His round shield came up as he closed the distance to Grania.

“Forward!” Connor cried to her. “Forward!”

Grania began to run towards the murderer. She closed her eyes. Behind her Connor sprinted. He reached her even as the Germani did, and as he did he leapt. Sailing through the air he lunged with his second javelin. The smooth ash slid forward in his extended hand until his fingers closed tight on the butt end. The blade came over the warrior’s raised shield and cut into his unprotected face. As Connor’s feet hit the ground he moved the weapon to strike his enemy’s sword arm, opening his defenses. Connor whipped his weapon back, cutting across the Jute’s neck. Pulsing blood sprayed his face as the thief fell to the ground. 

“Run now,” Connor said, coming alongside Grania.
“Just a little further.”

They were in his hunting ground. The slope was rising. Over the bank the forest grew darker and denser. It would be a good place to get lost.

But with a roar two figures burst out of the brush almost right in front of them. Their axes were raised and their shields ready. One of them wore a bear hide as a mantle, the beast’s skull serving as his helmet. They were too close to evade. One made for Grania and the other for Connor. A great cheer erupted from their pursuers.

“Keep running,” Connor said. “Don’t look back.”

He had time for no more words. He switched his javelin to his left hand and drew the sword from his belt.

Connor dodged his axe man and engaged Grania’s assailant. He struck high with his javelin, and as the Jute’s shield came up, he bit low with his sword. The Jute cried out as he fell, clutching his lacerated thigh, but Connor had no time to finish him. He spun to meet the bearskin, crossing his sword and javelin to block the axe swing. The Jute bashed him with his shield with such force that he was lifted off his feet and knocked to the ground.

Connor was instantly up again, even as the savage descended upon him. He sprang to his left, just missing the blow. But the Jute was swift to recover and swung again. Once more Connor leapt back. He stole a momentary glance past his attacker to see Grania nearing the top of the hill. She was looking at him with grief and terror in her eyes.

“Don’t look back!” Connor yelled to her. “Go!”

He attacked. Titus had told him long ago that a straight thrust was quicker than a swing, every time. Connor had two thrusting weapons, and he went to work with them, driving into the big Germani with fury. But the bearskin man was an experienced warrior and deft with bo
th axe and shield. He did not l
ose his nerve as Connor struck at him, but countered aggressively, until Connor began to be pushed down the hill. The big man roared as he fought, and spit covered his thick beard. His fury combined with the distorted image the bearskin gave him, making him seem more like some monster from a nightmare rather than a man of flesh and blood. But Connor was fighting for his life, and he would not allow such trickery to unnerve him. Connor lunged at his enemy’s exposed face, but the man brought his shield up. The javelin blade stuck firmly
into the willow boards, and before Connor could pull it back the Jute shattered the shaft with one blow of his axe. Connor dropped the shard of wood and attacked with his sword, but the Jute retreated back a few steps. He swung his fearsome weapon defensively and hid behind his shield. He flashed his decaying teeth in a mocking smile. And Connor knew why.

He was surrounded.

Connor turned to look at the helmeted Jute behind him. The man stood still. His weapons were ready, but he did not join the attack. The others fanned
out,
forming a circle around Connor, but the narrow-eyed man was already running to the top of the hill. He was pursuing Grania. Connor moved to catch him, but the Jutes pushed forward. Connor stopped. The only thing he could do for Grania now would be to try to keep this pack of wolves away from her. The lone fox she would have to evade herself.

“God protect her,” Connor breathed.

The helmeted man stepped forward.

“You interrupt our duel,” Connor challenged in Latin. “You are cowards, dogs, thieves! Let your man fight me, and when I am done with him I will fight each of you as well.”

“I am Woderic,” the helmeted man said. His voice was low and grave, full of authority and free of fear.

“I am Cu Challain!” Connor shouted. “I am King David! I am Alexander! I am Connor of Eire! Fight me! I will kill you all!”

The bearskin took a step forward, but the chief raised his hand.

“Where is your neck gold?” he said in broken Latin.

Connor realized he meant the neck torc that all Celts of property wear. Whether the chief was looking for more reward to this fight, or if he was perhaps offering him a chance to bargain for his life, Connor did not know. But it did not matter. Connor had no property, and Connor did not even have a torc of silver
or bronze
to offer.

“You shall get no gold from me,” Connor said. “Only iron.”

With a grating battle cry, the chief raised his sword and rushed forward. Connor ran to meet him, his blade poised at shoulder level.

Their blades clashed. Connor riposted, but the Germani raised his shield.

And then Connor felt the blinding pain of a hard blow to his leg. The bearskin man was behind him, but he had struck with the haft of his axe, not the head. Connor wheeled towards him, slashing. But the bearskin man pressed in with his shield. The chief pressed in from the other side, and as Connor tried to free his blade to thrust, the chief slammed his ironclad head into him. Connor stumbled back, stunned. From behind, a third man struck him in the back with his shield. The bearskin man struck at his sword arm, and the blade fell to the ground. They lunged for him, but Connor pulled out, fighting on instinct as the world around him seemed to spin. A heavy warrior laid down his sword and shield and lunged for him. Connor stepped back and struck with his hands and elbows, but he was punching iron mail. The Jute shot in again, and got a hold of Connor’s forward leg. Connor hit the ground, scrambling to use his legs to keep his enemy from pinning him. He wrapped his legs around his assailant, locking his heels, and grasped the man’s chain mail at either side of his neck in a cross grip. As the other Jutes circled around him, Connor pulled in with his arms, strangling his enemy. The man’s face quickly turned a gruesome blue, and his veins bulged
from his head. He struck at Connor desperately with his fist. The others came to his aid, thumping their axe haf
ts and sword hilts down upon Connor
and trying to pry at his legs, but still they did not use their blades. The man gasped, just as one of the others managed to break Connor’s body lock. The Jute broke free of Connor’s stranglehold and gaspe
d for air. But Connor did not l
ose time. Clutching the sleeve of the mail coat, he lifted his hips and hooked a leg on the other side of his enemy’s head. He pinched the trapped arm between his knees and arched his back. The Jute shrieked as his elbow burst, and Connor rolled free. But even as Connor stood to his feet he was met with a torrent of blows. His enemies were everywhere, clubbing, bashing, kicking, and pushing. Once again Connor was on the ground, trying to defend himself as the storm of pain intensified. He grabbed the haft of the bearskin man’s axe and struggled with him. From the corner of his eye he saw the helmeted chief move in, and then all was black.  

***

A blast of seawater brought him back. He coughed violently, trying to drive it from his lungs. A second later his head was beneath the swirl again, as another wave crashed over him. He fought to get his legs under him, but he was being dragged along too quickly. Again the ropes that bound him pulled, threatening to yank his arms out of their sockets, and all at once he was out of the water – hoisted up the pitch-covered side of the ship. He was cast down onto the hard planks, as his enemies scrambled in behind him.

Connor tried to sit up. He tried to order his thoughts, but the pain in his head and the cries of the Jutes was all he could hear. Every part of his body was in agony. He was drenched in the freezing water, and the wind cut through his clothes. He could not tell how badly he was injured, but he was aware of warm, sticky blood forming a new pool on the dirty planks. And then suddenly, as the Jutes called out to each other over the sounds of the gulls and the wails of the prisoners, he was aware that they were moving.

Panic seized him. He reached for the sides and pulled himself halfway up as best as he could. Busy with their launching, no one paid any heed to him. He was bound and broken. He could do nothing now as the
hostile wind filled the sails, and carried him away from the green shores he loved. He could do nothing, but perhaps throw himself over the side. He looked down into the black water and saw that it was already too late. The water was much too deep to stand, and how would he swim, bound as he was? He would drown. But
may
that not be better? He was in the hands of his enemies, and what evil purpose did they have in not taking his life when they had the chance?

He collapsed down to the deck and looked at the murdering thieves as they worked trimming the sails and taking to the oars. Some had already taken off their heavy mail, and their voices were loud and filled with the exuberance that victory brings. While across the deck from Connor in the back of the ship women and children huddled together. Behind them a billowing cloud of smoke marked what h
ad been their home. The pillar of
smoke could be seen for miles, and would have been a beacon to a strong chieftain that his people needed his aid. But the plunderers took no chances. They were not waiting for Eire’s warriors to arrive, or for the men who had escaped into the woods to rally and counter them. They had taken all they could carry, and now they were leaving as quickly as they had
come. All they would leave behind was death and smoldering ruin, and terror in the hearts of those lucky enough to have survived. And as the color of the water changed as they entered the deep, one of the Jutes began to sing.

The song was joined, and as each man came to a pause in his work a large cask of stolen mead was open. The Jutes began quenching their thirst with lusty gulps of the strong honey wine. As their cups were refilled, the boasts began, and the cursing, and mockery, and as Connor watched the abandoned huts of his hill grow smaller he could only be glad that he could not understand his enemies’ words. And yet their meaning was clear. Their meaning was inescapable. Connor could not form his thoughts. Despair and pain muddled his thinking, until the sight of his receding green shore and the smoke and the rain clouds became too much for him and he turned his eyes away.

He turned instead to his kinsfolk cowering in the back of the boat. There were nearly twenty of them, and probably as many in each of the other two ships. They had left the infirm, but had not spared any child old enough to walk or any woman still young enough to do work; but it was clear to Connor that they had targeted
the young women and the older children. Aside from him the men were absent; and as the prisoners wept or stared in pale shock, one of the captors dropped three silver neck torcs on to the deck. Another approached him with a pail of seawater, which he then dipped another neck torc in. Once he had washed the blood away, he set the ornament down next to the three. Others followed, washing their bloodied trophies in the water and then setting them down to be divided with the rest of the treasure. Here were the men of the village. New cries and laments broke from the captives. Connor felt the blood drain from his face as he counted the torcs, and as he recognized the faces of those now bereft of home and family. But Grania was not among them, he thought. She may be on one of the other ships, but he forced himself to believe she had escaped.

But then as he recognized a new face his heart froze.

“Dania!”
Connor called out. “Dania, where is your father?”

Dania said nothing. She stared blankly ahead, the wind whipping her red hair.

“Where is Cumragh?” Connor called out again. “Does he live?”

Dania remained silent, mesmerized by the pile of gold and silver ornaments the murderers now divided as they sloshed their mead. They had opened another cask, but now a few of the men had set their cups down and were walking towards the captives.

The man in front grabbed a light-haired woman from the fore of the group. Connor had not known her well, but he knew that she was a young mother. He could not see her children. The man jerked her to her feet and struck her. The others nearby began to laugh and one broke out into a lurid song. The Jute pushed the woman down and at once descended upon her, ripping at her dress and forcing her legs open. She cried out and tried to struggle, but one of the other men joined the first and pinned her arms and shoulders. Connor leapt up. Pain shot through him, but he ignored it. His hands were bound, but he stormed towards the men anyway, with such fury in his eyes and his voice that a few of the Jutes stepped out of his way.