Eofor the Red’s Final Ride by Kerstin Macdonald
The sky bled red that morning, the rising sun a dim smear behind the hills, as fllames consumed the Vale. Eofor, son of Wulfgar, staggered across the lower fiield, blood soaking his side, his sword slick and broken in his hand. Behind him, smoke rose where the men of Tiheshoche had fallen. The wall they had bravely defended had been obliterated beneath the fury of Norse steel. The defending warriors had died with honour — but they had died all the same.
Eofor was the last. He dropped to one knee by the ridge, where the earth split with seams of iron-rich clay. The wind keened across the land, catching in the hollows of the hills. His breath came ragged. His fiingers trembled on the hilt as he muttered a prayer to Tiw, hoping for one last trick up the god’s sleeve — a miracle victory.
Then came the thunder of hooves. He turned, expecting Danes. But no rider came. Only the wind, whispering like voices in an ancient tongue. Eofor’s eyes widened as he saw it — a horse, crimson as fllame, standing tall upon the far rise. Its mane flickered like a campfiire. Its eyes gleamed like polished onyx. It stared at him with the patience of old gods. “You are the last,” it said — though its mouth did not move.
Eofor bowed his head. “Then I will die as the last of Tiheshoche.” “No,” said the Red Horse. “You will ride.” The creature galloped toward him with a scream that sizzled in the wind — though the grass did notbend, nor the clay crack. It lowered its head and touched his brow. In that moment, Eofor saw everything. He saw the rites once held under moonlight, the banners raised in his name, the red-clay scars shaped to honour victory and sacrifiice. He saw monks ink the name as Tiheshoche in their Domesday books. He saw it become Tiesoch, Thiesho, and Tisho through the centuries— each a breath on the wind, echoing the same devotion to the land. At last, he saw the victory he had prayed for — and the end of the war.
“I am bound to the land,” the Red Horse said. "To the god who once guarded it. I ride when the land is wounded and I need a rider." “I will do it,” Eofor whispered. “That you will,” the Red Horse huffed in agreement and closed its eyes. Eofor’s wounds ceased to ache at that moment. He reached for the horse’s mane and found his hand was strong again. His sword slipped from his fiingers as he used his other hand to grip onto the horse. He mounted the creature without weight or effort. Together, they rode — not over the hill, but into it.
The next morning, the villagers emerged from hiding, fiinding his body lying by a scar in the hill, where the red clay had been gouged into the shape of a galloping horse. His face was calm, as if he had died mid-laugh.They marked the site and returned year after year to keep the horse visible, its body nearly a hundred yards long. They said it watched over the Vale, and in time the land was named for it: the Vale of the Red Horse.
In time, the horse was overgrown and forgotten, no longer needed to guard the Vale. New villagers came and went, but always protected the land. Children played in the fiields below and their laughter fuelled the hills with hope and joy, for a much more promising future.
Now, whenever the sun rises in a red sky behind the hills, the sound of hooves on the wind rustles the grass — and a new day, fiilled with promise and the memory.