are you Horsa? We have journeyed to the right place and I hunger
for the sight of you. Sighing once more, he looked back to where the boats lay
on their sides, unloaded and secure above the surf. Instructing three men to
watch over them, he turned and started up the beach, already impatient to leave.
His thoughts turned back to the task at hand, the conquering of these British Isles that cried out for a new ruler now that the
Romans had deserted it. This would be his land.
‘Now our day has come,’ he murmured to himself, as
he drew in the deep sweet air of Britain. ‘This land will soon
tremble at the news of our coming, and the names of Hengist and Horsa shall be
sung in the mead halls here for all eternity, for the Saxons have now truly
arrived.’
****
The
Pict leaped forward with a shriek of triumph, arms outstretched, reaching for
Usher to pull him from the security of the bush towards a certain death.
Scrabbling back, Usher dug his heels in and then desperately tried to turn
around and get away, but he wasn’t fast enough. He felt the Pict’s hand wrap
around his ankle and begin to drag him out, jabbering incoherently and cackling
with delight as he did so. Spinning back around, he stared into the ugly blue
face that loomed above him and felt a cold rush of panic overwhelm him. A moan
escaped his lips and he thrashed about, trying to hold onto the bush, a root,
anything, but nothing came to hand. In an act of desperation, he dug his
fingers into the forest floor and threw a handful of dirt and leaves up into
the grinning face and the warrior jumped back with a piercing scream, his hands
immediately going to his eyes where he rubbed furiously trying to clear them,
shouting and screaming in pain and frustration.
It had been instinct, rather than fighting tactics
that had saved Usher, but for the moment, he was free and the Pict was blind.
He gazed up and stared for a moment as the Pict clawed frantically at his eyes,
blinking back tears, peering about, searching the shadows blindly. The eyes
were red in the blue face and the warrior began rolling them erratically and
cursed in the strange, coarse Pict tongue before rubbing at them again. He
seemed to be just adding more dirt and blue woad, which in turn made him even
madder. Then his head snapped up and, blinking rapidly, his watery gaze turned
in Usher’s direction again. Usher stopped breathing, only exhaling when the
sightless eyes moved past him.
Throwing back his head, the warrior let out a shrill
undulating cry and several birds erupted in an explosion of feathers from the
branches high above. Usher knew the cry would bring the other Picts to them and
began to scan the surrounding trees fearing the first would soon arrive. He had
to silence him.
Edging forward, his eyes never left the Pict who
continued to mutter and rub at his face. For a moment, Usher contemplated
getting back to the others and running as far and fast as they could. But the
Pict would keep calling, the other Picts would find him, and then they would
know which direction to search for them.
He managed to move three steps but then his foot
came down on a branch and the sound of it snapping echoed through the trees.
The Pict spun and stared right at him, and Usher felt panic rise again. Taking
another careful step, he realised the Pict wasn’t looking directly at him, he
had been drawn to the breaking stick and was still blind but now moving
cautiously in the direction of the sound, hands outstretched, shouting
challenges as he came. The warrior’s face was a mask of hatred and contempt as
tears, dirt, blue woad and now blood, smeared together making him appear like
an evil spirit. Fear threatened to
loosen Usher’s bladder, but he raised a foot and stepped cautiously to his
left, watching as the Pict drew his sword and stabbed forward and then to the
sides in a vain attempt to skewer him. Dragging his gaze from the Pict for a
moment, he scanned the ground ahead and carefully
for the sight of you. Sighing once more, he looked back to where the boats lay
on their sides, unloaded and secure above the surf. Instructing three men to
watch over them, he turned and started up the beach, already impatient to leave.
His thoughts turned back to the task at hand, the conquering of these British Isles that cried out for a new ruler now that the
Romans had deserted it. This would be his land.
‘Now our day has come,’ he murmured to himself, as
he drew in the deep sweet air of Britain. ‘This land will soon
tremble at the news of our coming, and the names of Hengist and Horsa shall be
sung in the mead halls here for all eternity, for the Saxons have now truly
arrived.’
****
The
Pict leaped forward with a shriek of triumph, arms outstretched, reaching for
Usher to pull him from the security of the bush towards a certain death.
Scrabbling back, Usher dug his heels in and then desperately tried to turn
around and get away, but he wasn’t fast enough. He felt the Pict’s hand wrap
around his ankle and begin to drag him out, jabbering incoherently and cackling
with delight as he did so. Spinning back around, he stared into the ugly blue
face that loomed above him and felt a cold rush of panic overwhelm him. A moan
escaped his lips and he thrashed about, trying to hold onto the bush, a root,
anything, but nothing came to hand. In an act of desperation, he dug his
fingers into the forest floor and threw a handful of dirt and leaves up into
the grinning face and the warrior jumped back with a piercing scream, his hands
immediately going to his eyes where he rubbed furiously trying to clear them,
shouting and screaming in pain and frustration.
It had been instinct, rather than fighting tactics
that had saved Usher, but for the moment, he was free and the Pict was blind.
He gazed up and stared for a moment as the Pict clawed frantically at his eyes,
blinking back tears, peering about, searching the shadows blindly. The eyes
were red in the blue face and the warrior began rolling them erratically and
cursed in the strange, coarse Pict tongue before rubbing at them again. He
seemed to be just adding more dirt and blue woad, which in turn made him even
madder. Then his head snapped up and, blinking rapidly, his watery gaze turned
in Usher’s direction again. Usher stopped breathing, only exhaling when the
sightless eyes moved past him.
Throwing back his head, the warrior let out a shrill
undulating cry and several birds erupted in an explosion of feathers from the
branches high above. Usher knew the cry would bring the other Picts to them and
began to scan the surrounding trees fearing the first would soon arrive. He had
to silence him.
Edging forward, his eyes never left the Pict who
continued to mutter and rub at his face. For a moment, Usher contemplated
getting back to the others and running as far and fast as they could. But the
Pict would keep calling, the other Picts would find him, and then they would
know which direction to search for them.
He managed to move three steps but then his foot
came down on a branch and the sound of it snapping echoed through the trees.
The Pict spun and stared right at him, and Usher felt panic rise again. Taking
another careful step, he realised the Pict wasn’t looking directly at him, he
had been drawn to the breaking stick and was still blind but now moving
cautiously in the direction of the sound, hands outstretched, shouting
challenges as he came. The warrior’s face was a mask of hatred and contempt as
tears, dirt, blue woad and now blood, smeared together making him appear like
an evil spirit. Fear threatened to
loosen Usher’s bladder, but he raised a foot and stepped cautiously to his
left, watching as the Pict drew his sword and stabbed forward and then to the
sides in a vain attempt to skewer him. Dragging his gaze from the Pict for a
moment, he scanned the ground ahead and carefully
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