The Last King

by M J Porter

  I’m forced to my hands and knees, my entire body trembling, and long-forgotten words of prayer on my lips for the bastards haven’t provided me with the opportunity to confess my sins.

  I knew this moment would come, and yet nothing has prepared me for it. Nothing.

  Strange thoughts cascade through my mind, and yet foremost of them all is the fact that I have fucking cold feet, and I hate having cold feet.

  I fucking hate it.

  A pair of boots strides into my restricted vision and how I envy those boots.

  I don’t look up. I don’t beg, and I don’t plead. I’m resolved.

  But fuck, my feet are bloody cold.

  Chapter 1

  A month earlier

  AD874

  I taste it on my lips, and over the salt of my sweat.

  And I scowl. It’s not a flavour I wish to get used to. All the same, I know what it is without a second thought.

  My seax glistens slickly in the dull light, the gleaming claret reminding me more of an exotic wine from the south than the lifeblood it truly is. The double headed-eagle impeccably depicted on the handle seems to wink at me, as the eyes fill with the ruby mixture.

  Not that I focus on it for more than the time it takes me to blink.

  This horde feels as though it’ll never stop, and I’m determined to end the lives of as many of them as possible. Such slaughter doesn’t bring me joy, but this is my skill. I wield it because I must.

  My weapon, so sharp it cuts through byrnies as though they’re no more than spider webs, is busy today.

  They come against my force, as small as it is, and they mean to annihilate us. But we will not go without making our sacrifices to their god of war.

  My seax sweeps effortlessly along the abruptly exposed throat of my enemy, the realisation of what’s befallen him only reaching his eyes as he falls to the ground. I step over him, already sighting my next enemy.

  This one swirls an axe in his left hand as I reveal my bloodied teeth. His entire body recoils, almost a backward step. Before he can consider his move, I’ve sliced through his belly, the gut threatening to spill at my feet. I dismiss him and move onto the next man.

  The ground beneath my feet squelches with each step, slick, more like a flooded river than the solid ground it should be.

  It’s awash with the dead and wounded, the long shield wall that tried to defeat us long since disintegrated to small spots of desperate one to one fighting. This is my favourite part of any battle.

  I turn, noting the angle of the sun, the brush of the breeze against my slick body, breathing deeply through my nose. This is not my first battle. Far from it.

  I hear the cries of those boys who thought themselves men, and equally of those men who’ve found they’re but boys when their lives are threatened.

  I scorn them. They’re not worthy of my attention.

  Quickly, I reach for my weapons belt, keen to know that all is where it should be. My hand brushes over the sharpened edges and deadly blades that make a home there. For now.

  Satisfied, I pick my next target, a tight knot of men fighting not five steps away, and move forward.

  I don’t hurry. Not this time. Neither, as I’ve seen others do, do I check the weight of my weapon, or test the strength of my arm as I consider my next move. Instinctively I know that all is well.

  They’ll not fail me. They haven’t before.

  The sun is high above my head, few clouds to be seen, other than high up, more wisps than anything substantial.

  This battle has been long. It began with the streak of fire across the eastern sky, and I don’t foresee it ending other than when that same stripe sinks below the western horizon.

  Those who met their death in the first wave of the assault will be cold and stiff by then, the heat of the sun of no help to them.

  Those yet shivering with their mortal injuries will watch for the flashes of disappearing gold with fear. They’ll not see it rise again.

  I simply mark it with detachment. There are more warriors to kill.

  There are always more enemies to kill.

  My seax arm sweeps to the right. I would sooner not kill a man who doesn’t know I’m there, but he should be paying more attention.

  The wound along the back of his neck opens up with unsurprising ease, and I notice how my sworn-man takes advantage of the action to slice across the throat.

  The enemy wobbles, his head bobbing. I fear it will topple to the floor before he does, and so I step around him.

  Icel grins at me, his black beard dripping with the blood of his foe, as I grunt an acknowledgement, and nothing more.

  Icel pivots to face the next enemy, as I stride beyond him. Coldly I count how many face us, how many are my warriors, almost pleased to see that the numbers, with my presence, are now equal.

  That’s not how we started this battle.

  And it’s not how I plan on ending it either.

  I’ll ensure we roundly defeat our enemy, and when they’re dead, I’ll plan my next move.

  I focus my thoughts, sight my target, and rush quickly toward them. He barely has time to raise his seax before I slice across his body. Blood spurts, as the links of his metal coat burst open under the blow from my weapon.

  Another step, a slash of the seax from left to right, and blood is falling like rain.

  Sometimes, I think the enemy make it too easy for me. I’m fast and relentless, and always have been. But, I’m cautious against my arrogance. My men tell me that my strength is prodigious. For one always used to being so strong, it’s impossible to know what it must feel like not to be.

  My enemy staggers, perhaps not appreciating the extent of the injury. I take a cold moment of pity and allow him to fall onto the edge of my seax.

  His final gasp of air is filled with fluid, as I reverse my hold, letting him slide to the floor.

  I step gingerly over the rapidly growing pool of blood, grimacing at the stench of opened bowels and salty iron, at the result of my particular talents. Each kill is more than a number. But only just.

  I feel as though I sweep through the enemy. They are warriors of all shapes and sizes, ages and skill levels. They all fall beneath my weapons, as though I fell defenceless saplings. This butchery gives me pleasure, and a burst of adrenaline only found in battle.

  Only when I glance up, finding no enemy before me, do I stand upright, bring my legs together, menace with my seax, and glance at the field of slaughter.

  I lead twenty men. The enemy must have numbered at least double that. Of those who remain, three are stood, angled to protect the back of each other, while three of my warriors threaten them. Another five wait to take the place of any who might fall. I think they’ll wait forever. My sworn warriors know how to make a kill, but some of them will insist on enjoying it first.

  To the far right, I see where one lone figure attempts to escape into the muddy field ditch, alive for now, but not for much longer.

  Other than those four opponents, all others are dead, or fled, or pretending to be dead.

  I sigh heavily, abruptly aware of the ache in my shoulders, and the dryness of my mouth.

  I could drink a barrel of cold water. But it’s not yet time to declare this battle won.

  “How many?” I call, as though to no one, but Edmund answers, as quickly as always, his voice rich with the joy of battle.

  “Two who will die, three with injuries that should recover, and Pybba, who lost his hand. The damn fool.”

  I turn to meet the eyes of Edmund. He grins at me, as cocky as ever when the battle seems to be won. It’s not the same when a battle starts. In fact, when a battle commences, I almost expect him to run from the attack, or, if he stays, to shit himself, there and then.

  His courage is slow to arrive and takes days to dissipate. But he fights with a tenacity I admire, and I’d never wish to go into battle without him.

  “Leave one alive,” I turn and bellow, reminding my warriors that we must employ th
e tactics of the Raiders, even if I don’t want to. One must always live to tell of what befell their friends and comrades on the field of slaughter.

  “Too late,” Edmund’s voice is soaring with laughter, as he too watches the remnants of the three Raiders losing their fight to live. “They always get bloody carried away,” he complains, but amusement thrums through the words rather than anger.

  “Then bring me the one over there, heading toward the field ditch. We’ll stitch him up and send him on his way.” Once the killing begins, it’s almost impossible to stop until everyone on the battlefield lies unmoving.

  Edmund turns to stride away, his hair hanging lank and greasy, his beard filled with spittle and blood. He’s a tall man, but nowhere near my height. His eyes are the green of new growth, and women fall at his knee. Or rather his crotch. Men as well. Edmund admires a fine flank above all else.

  “I think he’s the one took Pybba’s arm,” each step Edmund takes gurgles, and I grimace at the reminder of just how much blood a man can lose and still fight on. It makes for a messy battlefield.

  “Then let Pybba have him, and then send him on his way. Perhaps Pybba can repay the kindness. An arm for an arm, or something like that.” I know the phrase is an ‘eye for an eye’, but I don’t much care. I just need a survivor to scamper back to wherever the Raiders have made their encampment. Fear itself is a tool.

  My men are starting to disperse around the ad hoc battle site, looking for any who yet live, any great prizes or even, their friends. More than one head bows low, more than one groan rumbles as they come upon the dead.

  “Bloody bastards,” I offer, to no one in particular, moving to the side of the saturated ground, where a ragtag collection of horses and a few young lads, shelter. The lads watch what’s happening with the eagerness of the young and the horses with the experience of too many previous battles. They know this part of the day will be tediously long.

  I can smell the smoke from the fire that’s been left burning since the fight began. I hope it’s damn hot.

  “Bring me water,” I bellow, and a small figure grabs something from my tall piebald horse and dashes toward me, not seeming to notice the ruin of the field beneath his feet.

  Rudolf is all elbows and knees. I know he’ll trip in his haste. I almost shout a caution, but it would be a waste of my breath.

  At least when he falls, it’s a soft landing and avoids a body or a blade. He’ll live to serve me for another day. I’m almost thankful.

  “My thanks,” I state as I take the object thrust into my hand. Rudolf grins, his face smeared with muck, his white teeth a stark contrast.

  “Why don’t you pilfer?” Rudolf asks in his high voice. It’s the same question that follows every success.

  “I don’t need to. I have you to do it for me.” It’s all the invitation Rudolf needs. His legs pelt across the battle site. He’s already decided where the richest pickings will be.

  I unlace the water bottle and drink deeply.

  The water is too warm, almost failing to quench my thirst.

  I swill the first mouthful, and then spit it out, only then drinking deeply, wishing it came fresh from a stream. But it’s a day old, and from the brackish water we found at the same time we realised we’d have to fight if we wanted to protect our lands.

  “Pybba,” I bellow his name as I stride toward the fire. The young lads have almost all scattered, but one of them has had the wits to feed the flames. I add another few sticks, wishing that it were as hot as a blacksmith’s forge, but it’ll have to do.

  I turn once more. Where the fuck’s Pybba?

  “Pybba,” I roar his name, already bending to place my eating knife in the heart of the flames. The fire burns orange, not blue, all the same, an acrid stench hits my nostrils, and I snatch back my hand quickly, smacking down on where my arm hair sizzles.

  “I’m here,” Pybba’s voice sounds ancient, and I turn, lips downcast to gaze at the other man, as he stumbles to the well-trodden ground. He’s older than I am. We’ve ridden together for over a decade. I won’t let the bastard die, not today.

  His face is white, his arm sheeted in crimson, his helm knocked askew so that I can see his rapidly balding head.

  “Here, drink this.” I might not drink ale myself, but we never ride without it.

  I take the beaker to him, mindful that he’s going to need a fair few of them before I can begin the grisly work. He’s slumped to the floor close to the fire.

  Pybba snatches the beaker from me, with his left hand shaking, and his eyes white with pain.

  “Show me.” Pybba nods and holds his right arm out toward me. Hastily, I undo the piece of cloth tied over the wound. It seems that he’s already made use of fire to cauterise the injury, but I know it needs to be a more thorough cleansing because it still oozes.

  Other men might die of such a wound, but Pybba has enough battle experience to survive.

  “Do it,” he grimaces, acceptance on his drained face. It looks as though Pybba has added more than enough of his life force to the ruin of the battle site.

  “I will,” I confirm, my eyes on the wound. Rudolf has made himself useful by refilling Pybba’s beaker again, and then one more, as he scampers between the dead and the living. Rudolf angles his body so that he can see the injury, a look of fascination on his young face. It seems that this holds his attention more than the dead.

  “Stay out of the way,” I command fiercely, and Rudolf skips out of my arm’s reach. I wrap my glove around the blade of the knife, aware of the heat, even through the thick leather.

  With swift movements, I press the heated blade across the bloodied stump. Pybba’s eyes bulge, his cheeks puff out, and then he sags into Rudolf, as ever in the right place at the right time, and still, I hold the knife against the stump.

  I know this is the only way to save Pybba’s life from the creeping rot.

  The blood flow has been stopped, not quickly enough, but well enough. Now the skin needs time to cover the wound site. And it can’t do it if there’s muck and filth in the way, and if the wound still weeps.

  I swallow my unease and hold the knife long beyond the time the heat has crept through my leather glove and become beyond uncomfortable.

  “Bind it,” I instruct Rudolf when I finally drag the knife away, thrusting it back into the flames, keen to cleanse it thoroughly from the work it’s performed. I shake my hand and then pull the leather glove from it quickly, the foul stench making me wrinkle my nose again.

  The boy works quickly and cleanly, and by the time I turn back, Pybba’s arm is covered in clean linen, and even the reek of burning flesh has blown away on the stiffening breeze. Now I can only smell the burning leather.

  I sigh. I’ll not take the loss of him easily.

  I turn to watch the rest of my warriors thoughtfully, considering the events of the day. I knew the Raiders sometimes penetrated deep inside Mercia, I didn’t expect to find them on the land borders with the kingdom of the Hwicce when they’re supposed to be in Torksey.

  If they’d come by ship, I would have been less surprised. Riding here, now I have time to consider it, fills me with questions. Why were they not stopped? What is King Burgred doing now? What ineffectual battle has he lost? When the witan next meet, I’ll demand an explanation to this outrage.

  The accord said the Raiders must stay at Torksey, far to the north. It’s evident they’ve broken that agreement. Why then have I not been summoned to fight for my kingdom?

  Our bargain has been made and my oath given to Mercia’s king. The least King Burgred could do is to abide by his half of the agreement.

  “Look at this?” Rudolf brings the treasure to me. He still grins, although his hands flash redly. It seems he’d been elbow-deep in blood and gore after all. As always.

  “What is it?” Rudolf asks. He has a thirst to just know stuff. All sorts of stuff. I find his questions tedious, and occasionally intriguing. I’ve long resolved to always have an answer for him, even i
f I have to think of something on the spot.

  “It’s a coin, nothing more. But not one from here. Have you felt the weight in it?” I have, and it surprises me as I heft it in my glove-free hand, my seax loosely held in the other.

  “Where’s it from?” Rudolf asks, waiting for me to hand it back to him, his eyes as round as the coin.

  “Maybe it’s from the homelands of our enemy. I don’t know, though. I didn’t think they had coins,” I grimace, fearing I may regret my indecisive comment. His ready acceptance of such a terrible answer should have warned me.

  Rudolf bites his lips in thought and then pulls the rest of his treasure from behind his back. I laugh then.

  The little shit didn’t just find a coin. He found a leather bag of coins, almost too heavy to hold in one hand. He grins at me.

  “What they worth?” he asks, jiggling from foot to foot in his excitement.

  “Whatever they weigh.”

  “A lot then,” Rudolf’s eyes widen in delight, and I reach out and run my hand through his mucky hair. He’s not my child. I have no children to call my own. But I feel as though I care for Rudolf as much as I could if I ever did father a child.

  “Keep them safe. Don’t let the others see,” the caution is well given, and Rudolf turns his head quickly to make sure no one has seen our conversation. The other boys still crawl amongst the dead, occasionally shouting when they find something worthy of note. As always, Rudolf will have found the best of the spoils. Why else do I protect him and keep him safe?

  By then, Icel has joined me. By rights, he should have been long dead, his hair turned grey, his black beard trailing almost to his weapons belt, but he lives for battle. Each time we vanquish our foe, he seems to turn back time and gain more years for his life. I’ve given up asking how old he is. The daft bastard never gives me a straight answer.

  “In the reign of King Wiglaf I first became a man,” he’s fond of saying, although he never explains what act made him a man. Again, I’ve stopped questioning him, although Edmund likes to when he’s either drunk too much, or is trying to distract himself from whatever attack we’re about to begin. And of course Rudolf hangs on Icel’s every word. They’re an excellent match for each other, the boy who never runs out of questions, and the man who never answers them.