| SORCEROUS SIGNALS |
| Written by Kate Kelly / Artwork by Marge Simon |
| Return to Althenay |
A spark that burned like fire jolted up my spine and
there was solid stone beneath my boots once more.
I sucked in sweet air through tight clenched teeth,
air that smelled of autumn leaves and bonfire smoke.
I was back. I opened my eyes and the world swam
before me in a giddying rush. I clasped my fingers
against the pummel of my sword and braced my legs,
and the world steadied and came into view.
Guthrum stood before me in a beam of multicoloured
light that the sun had cast through the stained glass
windows. It lit his hair like a halo with the gold of
summer straw, and I joined him as he stood, staring
at the porcelain bowl that was the font. There was
water in it, still and clear, and I reached out with my
forefinger and touched its surface, so cold, so icy. A
chill passed up my arm and to my heart as the ripples
spread in perfect circles. This was where it all had
changed.
“My Lord,” I said and my voice croaked in my throat.
It had been year; a year to the day.
He looked round at me, eyes icy blue, his beard
tumbling russet. He reached out, placed his battle
worn hand on my shoulder and smiled.
“Ragnar,” he said. “We meet again.”
And now the others had joined us in the sepulchral
quiet of that ancient church, twenty nine loyal
chieftains gathering close around their king. He looked
at us all and unsheathed his sword, held it before him
and looked down at its bloodstained blade.
“It is time.”
He glanced at the font, where the water was once more still, and his lips parted in a sigh. For this was
the font where we had all been baptised, and that was the curse that had trapped us here. I
remembered how he had stood before the priests and monks, bound in irons and stripped to the waist,
his head hung low in defeat. But now he was proud, he was our king, and we were going to follow him
into battle, just as we had twelve hundred years ago.
He turned and strode from the church, and we followed, close on his heels, in a clatter of armour and
shields, our soft boots scuffing against the stone. We didn’t speak and the autumn air was cold against
the back of my throat and dry with wood smoke. Ahead the mist rose in drifting shrouds from the
marshes and the crows called from the trees above to welcome us as we passed.
Soon the ground became soft and damp beneath my feet, water squelching out from underneath each
footstep and we slowed to a walk. The mist was all round us, turning the hedges and trees grey, but
when I looked up I could see the crystal blue of the morning sky. I squared my shoulders and tightened
my grip on my shield and sword. It wasn’t far now.
And then Guthrum stopped. He held up one arm to bid our silence and we gathered close around him. I
listened to the blood rushing in my head and the sucking of the marshes all around, and then I heard
something else. There were people ahead and my fingers clenched onto my weapons at the murmur of
voices and clinking of mail. But as I listened it struck me. This was not them.
I peered through the mist and I could just about see them, figures in armour and chain. But they were
not Alfred and his men, returning as we did, year upon year, us to fight for our freedom and them to
uphold what they had done. No, these were not the men we had come to fight. They bore the same
arms and wore the same clothes as we did; more men to fight for Guthrum, and I smiled.
They did not act like men going into battle though, for the bellow of their laughter drifted with the mist
as they leaned against their shields and swords and lifted pewter tankards high, clunking them together,
then drinking. The smell of warm beer wafted over as the wind picked up and the mist drifted and
thickened. I could hear their voices yet I recognised not a single word they spoke. Until one:
“Guthrum.”
I stared at my king and there was mild surprise in his clear blue eyes as he met my look. Who were these
people?
Then the mist shrouds parted enough to see. On the far side, facing us was the other army, Alfred’s
army. Yet it was not Alfred who stood at their head, but another man, although he dressed as Alfred
had that fateful day. And his army was smiling, as if they already knew victory would be theirs. My own
smile faded and my soul burned with rage. How dare they presume!
Then the man who had spoken Guthrum’s name stepped forwards and shouted something to them in
his strange tongue and they raised their swords to bang them against their shields and cheered.
Behind them though, Alfred stood, as insubstantial as the mist that drifted around him, and his eyes
were cold. For he and his men had been brought back here every year by the curse they had brought
upon us all.
But now these others had come to fight alongside us. Perhaps this time the victory would be ours to
savour. Perhaps this time we would be set free.
The sword clatter stopped, but the echoes had barely faded when a new sound rose; more cheers and
shouts from all round the field and I blinked and looked around, but could see nothing through the mist.
The two armies started to march towards one another through the wet grass. They held their shields
ready, their swords brandished high and they shouted as they walked. And the cheers from the people in
the mist rose to a roar.
Then Guthrum, raised his sword and yelled his battle cry, and we advanced with the throng towards
where Alfred stood. Alfred drew his sword and with his men close beside him, he advanced to meet us. I
opened my mouth and roared to the heavens as the fury of war surged through my veins and I started
to run, beside my King.
The armies met, theirs and ours, as it had on this day every year for over a millennium. But this time, as
my sword struck the shield of one of Alfred’s men, things were different. These others had never been
here before. It had just been us. But now our battle was their battle and their battle was ours, and the
crowds watching were cheering Alfred’s men to victory, just as it had always been.
All around me was the roar of battle and the clash of steel and the sweat ran down my face as I dropped
my shield and raised my sword.
But the man before me was not the man of Alfred’s army I had always fought. This man was different.
His skin was clean and perfect, as if the wind and weather had never beaten it, and his hands were soft,
his fingers long and smooth, like those of a child clutching the metal sword he laboured to lift. His eyes
were gentle and the fire in them was the joy of a game, not the rage of battle. But before I could stay
my hand my blade fell, slicing through sinew and bone and flimsy armour that was not well made;
beautiful in its craftsmanship, but not sturdy enough to withstand my sword.
He dropped to his knees, blinking blue eyes and his shield and pike fell from his hands. He reached for his
shoulder as the blood jetted in an arc, and stared at his hands, stained wetly crimson as he turned them
before him. Then he looked back up at me as the blood fountain weakened to a trickle and the fire in
those blue eyes dulled.
I staggered backwards, away from him as he reached out his hands in supplication, then fell forwards
onto his face, to lie still. The crows had stopped calling from the trees and the crowd fell into silence,
their cheers fading in the fog. The battle continued around me, but they enemy faltered as they noticed
their fallen comrade and at the field edge someone screamed.
This was our moment and I pressed forward my advantage. To the side I could see Guthrum surging on
with fury, and the men of the living army drew back from his sword.
But Guthrum had no mercy in his soul. And neither did I. We had fought this battle every year for twelve
hundred years, our one chance of freedom, our one chance to enter the halls of our ancestors. Yet each
time Alfred had prevailed. This year was different. This year for the first time in twelve hundred years
men of flesh had joined our fray; men who could die, unlike those of us who were already dead. I raised
my sword above my head and charged with Guthrum towards the enemy.
But then the wind picked up and whipped the last of the mist away and the owners of those voices finally
came into view. There were people, all kinds of people, women and children, men old and young. They
stood around the edges of the field wrapped in scarves and thick coats in bright colours, while behind
them their colourful horseless carts lined the road.
Then the men of flesh dropped their weapons and both sides, the Vikings and the Saxons, gathered
around the body of their fallen comrade, and men in bright green jackets came running forwards from
the crowd, behind which blue lights flashed against the morning sun.
But we did not slow. We engaged Alfred with renewed fury and this time, for the first time, he and his
men faltered, looking towards the body that lay seeping red blood onto the grass. And as Alfred stared
so Guthrum struck and the King of Wessex fell to his knees. This time it was different. The men of flesh
had changed it and victory belonged to us.
We had embraced the faith they forced upon us in our defeat, but it was not our own. Each year we
came back and fought for the afterlife that should have been ours, and each year they took us back to
theirs.
I cheered with all my soul as Alfred fell, and he and his men faded to wraiths in the morning light and
vanished like the mist. It was just us standing there as the sky started to spin. And we were free.
I go now at last to Valhalla, to Odin’s hall, where I will drink sweet mead and feast on wild boar for all
eternity.
there was solid stone beneath my boots once more.
I sucked in sweet air through tight clenched teeth,
air that smelled of autumn leaves and bonfire smoke.
I was back. I opened my eyes and the world swam
before me in a giddying rush. I clasped my fingers
against the pummel of my sword and braced my legs,
and the world steadied and came into view.
Guthrum stood before me in a beam of multicoloured
light that the sun had cast through the stained glass
windows. It lit his hair like a halo with the gold of
summer straw, and I joined him as he stood, staring
at the porcelain bowl that was the font. There was
water in it, still and clear, and I reached out with my
forefinger and touched its surface, so cold, so icy. A
chill passed up my arm and to my heart as the ripples
spread in perfect circles. This was where it all had
changed.
“My Lord,” I said and my voice croaked in my throat.
It had been year; a year to the day.
He looked round at me, eyes icy blue, his beard
tumbling russet. He reached out, placed his battle
worn hand on my shoulder and smiled.
“Ragnar,” he said. “We meet again.”
And now the others had joined us in the sepulchral
quiet of that ancient church, twenty nine loyal
chieftains gathering close around their king. He looked
at us all and unsheathed his sword, held it before him
and looked down at its bloodstained blade.
“It is time.”
He glanced at the font, where the water was once more still, and his lips parted in a sigh. For this was
the font where we had all been baptised, and that was the curse that had trapped us here. I
remembered how he had stood before the priests and monks, bound in irons and stripped to the waist,
his head hung low in defeat. But now he was proud, he was our king, and we were going to follow him
into battle, just as we had twelve hundred years ago.
He turned and strode from the church, and we followed, close on his heels, in a clatter of armour and
shields, our soft boots scuffing against the stone. We didn’t speak and the autumn air was cold against
the back of my throat and dry with wood smoke. Ahead the mist rose in drifting shrouds from the
marshes and the crows called from the trees above to welcome us as we passed.
Soon the ground became soft and damp beneath my feet, water squelching out from underneath each
footstep and we slowed to a walk. The mist was all round us, turning the hedges and trees grey, but
when I looked up I could see the crystal blue of the morning sky. I squared my shoulders and tightened
my grip on my shield and sword. It wasn’t far now.
And then Guthrum stopped. He held up one arm to bid our silence and we gathered close around him. I
listened to the blood rushing in my head and the sucking of the marshes all around, and then I heard
something else. There were people ahead and my fingers clenched onto my weapons at the murmur of
voices and clinking of mail. But as I listened it struck me. This was not them.
I peered through the mist and I could just about see them, figures in armour and chain. But they were
not Alfred and his men, returning as we did, year upon year, us to fight for our freedom and them to
uphold what they had done. No, these were not the men we had come to fight. They bore the same
arms and wore the same clothes as we did; more men to fight for Guthrum, and I smiled.
They did not act like men going into battle though, for the bellow of their laughter drifted with the mist
as they leaned against their shields and swords and lifted pewter tankards high, clunking them together,
then drinking. The smell of warm beer wafted over as the wind picked up and the mist drifted and
thickened. I could hear their voices yet I recognised not a single word they spoke. Until one:
“Guthrum.”
I stared at my king and there was mild surprise in his clear blue eyes as he met my look. Who were these
people?
Then the mist shrouds parted enough to see. On the far side, facing us was the other army, Alfred’s
army. Yet it was not Alfred who stood at their head, but another man, although he dressed as Alfred
had that fateful day. And his army was smiling, as if they already knew victory would be theirs. My own
smile faded and my soul burned with rage. How dare they presume!
Then the man who had spoken Guthrum’s name stepped forwards and shouted something to them in
his strange tongue and they raised their swords to bang them against their shields and cheered.
Behind them though, Alfred stood, as insubstantial as the mist that drifted around him, and his eyes
were cold. For he and his men had been brought back here every year by the curse they had brought
upon us all.
But now these others had come to fight alongside us. Perhaps this time the victory would be ours to
savour. Perhaps this time we would be set free.
The sword clatter stopped, but the echoes had barely faded when a new sound rose; more cheers and
shouts from all round the field and I blinked and looked around, but could see nothing through the mist.
The two armies started to march towards one another through the wet grass. They held their shields
ready, their swords brandished high and they shouted as they walked. And the cheers from the people in
the mist rose to a roar.
Then Guthrum, raised his sword and yelled his battle cry, and we advanced with the throng towards
where Alfred stood. Alfred drew his sword and with his men close beside him, he advanced to meet us. I
opened my mouth and roared to the heavens as the fury of war surged through my veins and I started
to run, beside my King.
The armies met, theirs and ours, as it had on this day every year for over a millennium. But this time, as
my sword struck the shield of one of Alfred’s men, things were different. These others had never been
here before. It had just been us. But now our battle was their battle and their battle was ours, and the
crowds watching were cheering Alfred’s men to victory, just as it had always been.
All around me was the roar of battle and the clash of steel and the sweat ran down my face as I dropped
my shield and raised my sword.
But the man before me was not the man of Alfred’s army I had always fought. This man was different.
His skin was clean and perfect, as if the wind and weather had never beaten it, and his hands were soft,
his fingers long and smooth, like those of a child clutching the metal sword he laboured to lift. His eyes
were gentle and the fire in them was the joy of a game, not the rage of battle. But before I could stay
my hand my blade fell, slicing through sinew and bone and flimsy armour that was not well made;
beautiful in its craftsmanship, but not sturdy enough to withstand my sword.
He dropped to his knees, blinking blue eyes and his shield and pike fell from his hands. He reached for his
shoulder as the blood jetted in an arc, and stared at his hands, stained wetly crimson as he turned them
before him. Then he looked back up at me as the blood fountain weakened to a trickle and the fire in
those blue eyes dulled.
I staggered backwards, away from him as he reached out his hands in supplication, then fell forwards
onto his face, to lie still. The crows had stopped calling from the trees and the crowd fell into silence,
their cheers fading in the fog. The battle continued around me, but they enemy faltered as they noticed
their fallen comrade and at the field edge someone screamed.
This was our moment and I pressed forward my advantage. To the side I could see Guthrum surging on
with fury, and the men of the living army drew back from his sword.
But Guthrum had no mercy in his soul. And neither did I. We had fought this battle every year for twelve
hundred years, our one chance of freedom, our one chance to enter the halls of our ancestors. Yet each
time Alfred had prevailed. This year was different. This year for the first time in twelve hundred years
men of flesh had joined our fray; men who could die, unlike those of us who were already dead. I raised
my sword above my head and charged with Guthrum towards the enemy.
But then the wind picked up and whipped the last of the mist away and the owners of those voices finally
came into view. There were people, all kinds of people, women and children, men old and young. They
stood around the edges of the field wrapped in scarves and thick coats in bright colours, while behind
them their colourful horseless carts lined the road.
Then the men of flesh dropped their weapons and both sides, the Vikings and the Saxons, gathered
around the body of their fallen comrade, and men in bright green jackets came running forwards from
the crowd, behind which blue lights flashed against the morning sun.
But we did not slow. We engaged Alfred with renewed fury and this time, for the first time, he and his
men faltered, looking towards the body that lay seeping red blood onto the grass. And as Alfred stared
so Guthrum struck and the King of Wessex fell to his knees. This time it was different. The men of flesh
had changed it and victory belonged to us.
We had embraced the faith they forced upon us in our defeat, but it was not our own. Each year we
came back and fought for the afterlife that should have been ours, and each year they took us back to
theirs.
I cheered with all my soul as Alfred fell, and he and his men faded to wraiths in the morning light and
vanished like the mist. It was just us standing there as the sky started to spin. And we were free.
I go now at last to Valhalla, to Odin’s hall, where I will drink sweet mead and feast on wild boar for all
eternity.
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Kate Kelly’s fiction has been published in a number of magazines and
anthologies, including Hub, Pseudopod and Murky Depths, as well as
three anthologies from Hadley Rille Books.
She lives by the sea in Southwest England and keeps a website at
www.kmkelly.co.uk
anthologies, including Hub, Pseudopod and Murky Depths, as well as
three anthologies from Hadley Rille Books.
She lives by the sea in Southwest England and keeps a website at
www.kmkelly.co.uk