The Sword of Wayland

  * * * * *

  It was getting dark. Up on the bare hillside, Oswald was shivering with cold.

  ‘Maybe we should come back another day,’ he told Edwin, who was scanning the northern skyline. ‘Whatever you’ve got planned, surely it can wait…’

  Absently, Edwin motioned him to silence.

  ‘Look!’ he hissed, pointing towards the road. Wearily, Oswald followed his finger to see a train of ox-carts lumbering slowly down the road. It was the first traffic they had seen all evening.

  ‘Now, assuming they stop here, and don’t press on for Warwick...’ Edwin murmured to Bork. ‘You know what to do.’

  The three outlaws watched impatiently as the wagons inched towards them. As they drew closer, Bork strung his bow.

  ‘What is the plan?’ Oswald hissed. Edwin grinned again, and looked at Bork.

  ‘You’ll see,’ he said again. The Dane laughed.

  The wagons were lumbering into the field now, coming to rest in a rough circle.

  ‘See those four men in the armour, on horseback?’ Edwin said. ‘Next to that fat Frisian?’

  Bork nodded. Oswald followed their gaze. The richly clad man was presumably a Frisian; most traders in Mercia were.

  ‘Mercenaries,’ the thief said. ‘Probably men who deserted their lord. Or outlived him in battle, and turned to humble work like this to gain their bread.’

  ‘Cowards,’ Oswald sneered. It was a lasting shame for any warrior to outlive his lord on the field of battle.

  ‘Rogues and brigands,’ Bork agreed, fitting an arrow to his bow. He raised it, pulling back the string, until he seemed to be aiming at the clouds themselves. Then he loosed.

  Oswald tried to follow the arrow upwards into the murk, but failed. He couldn’t see what the Dane was trying to do. Bork fitted another arrow to his bow, loosed it on a slightly lower trajectory, and then followed it with another.

  ‘What are you doing, you oaf?’ snarled Oswald, losing his patience. ‘Don’t waste those arrows!’ He had heard that the Danes were superlative archers, but Bork didn’t quite seem to hit the mark.

  Edwin rested his hand on the thane’s arm. Oswald glanced at him, startled. The thief shook his head silently.

  Bork loosed another arrow. Almost instantly, there was a distant, gurgling cry from below. Oswald whipped his head down to stare at the wagoners’ camp.

  He caught sight of an armoured form twitching in the middle of the field, surrounded by a ring of staring companions. They split apart, gazing wildly around.

  ‘Down!’ Bork hissed, and they hit the dirt.

  ‘You hit one at last!’ Oswald said. ‘But you’ve alerted them! Now they’ll…’

  Another cry from the camp split the air. Oswald jerked his head up to see that a second guard had fallen. Then a third, then the fourth after a slightly longer gap.

  ‘You put me off with the fourth one,’ said Bork.

  Oswald stared at him open-mouthed.