And Steapa came.
We did not know of Steapa’s coming at first. Folcbald and Wibrund were at my side, and we were fighting off a surge of furious Norsemen who came to avenge Thorfinn’s death. Gerbruht, who was one of my most loyal men, was on my right, trying to protect me with his shield and I had to snarl at him to move it aside to give me room to lunge Wasp-Sting. My shield was hard against a Norse shield, the man was trying to skewer me with his sword, and I shouldered Gerbruht aside, let the Norseman slide his blade between our shields, and I met it with Wasp-Sting’s razor-sharp edge, letting the man slide his forearm against the seax until the pain made him draw back. His tendons and flesh were cut to the bone and it was easy to thrust Wasp-Sting up into his ribs. All he could do now was batter me with his shield, his sword arm was useless, he could not step back because of the press of men behind him, and I was content to let his body shield me while the blood drained from his sliced wrist. And then, over the shouts and the clangour of the blades, I heard the hoofbeats.
Steapa had been hidden on the western hill among the autumn trees just behind the broken palisade of Brynstæþ. He had been ordered to wait until the battle had turned, until Æthelstan’s left wing had been forced back against the streams and the enemy would be fighting with their backs to the western ridge.
And now he came, leading five hundred mail-bright horsemen on big stallions. Anlaf had thought to use the slight slope to assault Æthelstan’s left, and now Steapa was using the steeper slope of the ridge to launch a thunderbolt at Anlaf’s rear. And Anlaf’s men knew it. The pressure on our line lessened as Norsemen shouted warnings of the attack coming from their rear, an attack that came down the ridge’s slope like a flood of doom. ‘Now!’ Æthelstan shouted. ‘Forward!’ Men who had thought themselves doomed saw rescue, and the whole West Saxon line went forward in a howling rush.
The horsemen hurled the stallions at the lesser stream. Most leaped the gully, some scrambled through, and I saw at least two horses fall, but the charge came on, the noise of the hooves a rising thunder over which I could hear the shouts of the riders. Almost all Steapa’s men carried spears, the points lowered as they neared the back of Anlaf’s shield wall.
Where there was chaos. The back of a shield wall is where the wounded are dragged, where servants hold horses, where a scatter of archers loose their bows, and those men, at least those who could move, ran to take shelter in the shield wall’s rearmost rank. That rank had turned, was desperately trying to make a wall, their shields touching, but the panicked men pushed them aside, screaming for help, and then the horsemen struck.
Horses will shy away from a shield wall, but the men seeking shelter had opened the wall to leave gaps and the horses kept coming. They struck with the fury of the úlfhéðnar, they pierced the wall wherever there was an opening and the spears shattered mail and ribs, the horses reared, they flailed hooves and snapped at terrified men, and the shield wall broke in terror. Men just ran. West Saxon horsemen discarded spears and drew swords. I saw Steapa, terrible in his anger, slash his great sword down to cut a man deep into his chest. The man was dragged along by the blade as Steapa turned northwards to pursue the fleeing enemy. And we went forward into the chaos. The shield wall in front of us, till now an impenetrable barrier, broke apart and we began killing in a frenzy. I picked up a dead Norseman’s sword because now, with the enemy scattering, was no time for the close work of a seax. This was the slaughter time. The fleeing enemy had their backs to us and they died fast. Some turned to fight, but were overwhelmed by vengeful pursuers. The luckiest of the enemy had horses and spurred away northwards, most following the Roman road towards Dingesmere. Steapa’s men followed, while Æthelstan shouted for his horse to be fetched. His bodyguard, all in their distinctive scarlet cloaks, were mounting their stallions. I saw Æthelstan, still with Serpent-Breath in his hand, climb into his saddle and spur towards the pursuit.
The Scots, being furthest from the place where Steapa’s horsemen had shattered the shield wall, were the last to break. It took them a few moments to even realise the disaster, but seeing their pagan allies broken they too turned and fled. I was looking for Ræt and my horse, then realised he must have crossed the bridge before Æthelstan’s men retreated past it. I looked towards the encampment and bellowed his name, but could not see him. Then Wibrund brought me a bay stallion. ‘He probably belongs to one of the king’s bodyguard, lord,’ he said, ‘and that man’s probably dead.’
‘Help me up!’
I spurred northwards, shouting for Egil as I neared my men. He turned and looked at me. ‘Don’t pursue!’ I
