The Last King

by M J Porter

  Damn fools. What they should hope to do is to secure their borders, rather than seeing how far they can get evading detection.

  But still, should I go north or east?

  The Foss Way runs to Leicester. Leicester is an easy ride to Repton. But, if the Raiders have Repton, they may also have Leicester or any of the other settlements nearby. It could make it impossible to get close.

  Alternatively, I could ride straight north, along smaller roads, and come to Repton by a slower, less obvious route. I’m assuming the Raiders have taken Foss Way to reach the western regions. It accounts for finding them here.

  How, I consider, did the Raiders even take Repton? The last I heard they were in Torksey, in northern Mercia and have been for years. Did they ride? Did they thread their way along the rivers that split the landscape, down the River Trent, until they reached their location?

  Did they know of Repton’s importance to the Mercians or has it been happenstance, if it’s even happened at all, that they’ve ended up at Repton? Was it just the last place their boats took them too before they were seen?

  I grunt. Too much thinking gives me a headache, no matter the lack of ale I’ve drunk.

  “North,” I shout to my rousing men, Edmund the most vocal in his complaints that he’s only just shut his eyes, and can he not sleep longer. “We go north and see if this paltry force was all the Raiders had to show.”

  Pybba watches me from beside his horse. He’s biting his lip, his face pale, and I hope to God he’s not about to mutter words that will ruin my day. But he nods and then winces, and I go to his side. I can see the bloody stump where his hand was, and a sweet scent reaches my nostrils. His grin surprises me.

  “Honey, from the monks at Gloucester,” he explains. “And lots of fucking ale from wherever it came,” his breath is sour, but he seems steady enough on his feet, and that pleases me. A lot of men would have slunk off to die in the bushes like a wounded beast. It gratifies me that Pybba will not be one of them. I’d never have thought it of him, but such a wound can make a fighting man doubt all and only think gloomily of the future.

  “Then we must ensure we have lots of ale,” I smirk. Pybba nods, a flicker of his worry showing in the jerky movement.

  “I’ve seen men fight one-handed many times,” I lower my mouth to his ear. I don’t want others to hear our conversation. “Just remember which is the sharp end and always have an ally at your back. Speak to Rudolf. I’m sure the little shit can think of a way to attach your shield to what remains of your arm. He delights in that sort of thing.”

  I walk away then, not wanting to make more of his injury than that. I’m amazed he stands. I’m astounded he doesn’t howl with agony. But then, Pybba has always been a tricky bastard to kill. That Raider deserved a more horrific death. I should have allowed Pybba to make the kill, one-handed or not. I’ll apologise for that. Later.

  It seems to take all morning to mount up and sort out the extra mounts. Even then, there’s a trail of horses that I don’t need. They’ll be worth a great deal to someone, and I do consider having them taken back to Gloucester, and then on to Kingsholm.

  Gloucester, with its crumbling Roman stonewalls, would make a safe haven for the horses. Perhaps I might even make some coin from the sale.

  “They’re worth more here,” Edmund comments sourly, his mood far from improved. “If one of our beasts goes lame, then we’ll have a spare, maybe even two.” His horse is far from docile beneath him, and I imagine he understands his rider’s words only too well.

  I hold my tongue. I don’t wish to split the force I command. Neither do I want to have stray horses that might, unwittingly, be sold to the Raiders, or worse, to the Gwent Welshmen who sometimes steal into Gloucester to buy Mercian goods. Especially when the craftspeople of Gloucester are desperate for money and will sell to anyone.

  No, I’ll keep them with me. For now.

  Edmund rides at my side when we finally turn our backs on yesterday’s battle site. I’ve already dismissed it from my thoughts and made my peace with Athelstan and Beornberht who lost their lives fighting for me. I’m not the sort of person to replay my battle activities in great detail.

  The past is done, and unchangeable. It’s the future that concerns me.

  I send Sæbald and Gyrth to ride before the main body of the force. They’ll squabble like old women. Quiet, no, but alert, yes. It’ll also be pleasant not to have to listen to them argue all damn day long about anything from whether it’ll rain that day, to whose made the most kills in all their battles together. It’s wearisome, and only occasionally amusing.

  Those two have caused more damage to each other when drunk as fuck than they’ve sustained enemy injuries.

  Not that I’m sleeping in my saddle. I’m aware of all that surrounds me, from the small animals in the long grasses, to the birds above my head hunting the poor sods. Every sound, every rustle from the undergrowth, has me looking. As the afternoon wears on, Edmund’s chuckle reaches my ears.

  “They’re not likely to emerge from an underground burrow, are they?”

  I’m not sure I share his certainty.

  “We thought we went to fight the damn Gwent Welshmen, not the Raiders.”

  “I thought I went to fight the enemy. I don’t much care who that was, as long as they’re dead now.”

  Edmund rides a chestnut stallion. The creature is as damn randy as his rider. Even now he rides with half an amused smirk on his face, eying up the new horses. No doubt there’s a mare amongst them he’d like to mount. Wherever the Raiders found the horses, they’re good stock. I almost fear to find the original owner. No doubt they’ll demand them back, and my profit from the battle will be reduced to the riches that Rudolf has cleverly hidden somewhere.

  My horse is a piebald stallion, only mine by virtue of being the biggest horse I could find at the time. Haden’s gait can be uncomfortable when fractious, but today, he seems calm. If he senses any danger, he’ll start to buck and tug at the harness, he might even nip me, the contrary git.

  Rudolf bounces along in the saddle of his pony. His riding skills are weak, and I don’t know how his arse takes such punishment. But the pony is the only thing he brought with him into my service. I’m loath to demand he gives the animal up, even though his legs have doubled in length in the intervening years.

  Rudolf rides behind me, mingling with the rest of the warriors and young lads. I hardly need to speak to anyone anymore. Rudolf always knows everything. He’s an inquisitive youth. But he’s quick-witted too. It didn’t take him long to realise I didn’t appreciate his incessant chatter, and so he took it elsewhere.

  When he brings his jogging pony to my side, a gleam in his eye, I almost groan. What new titbit has he gleamed now? Do I even want to know?

  But for once, he has a question to ask, rather than information to share.

  “We stopping anytime soon?” he pouts, leaning close so that his words can’t be overheard by anyone but Edmund. Edmund is tunelessly whistling to himself, so I doubt he hears anyway.

  “Pybba needs to rest,” Rudolf explains before I can dismiss his question. I feel as though we’ve only just got going.

  I turn then, my eyes seeking out the men who follow on behind me.

  It’s easy to find Pybba. For all his good cheer earlier, he slumps in his saddle, and I fear he might fall from his horse. Even from here, I can see the gleam of fresh blood on the linen that covers his wound.

  “Why didn’t he say?”

  “Stubborn old codger,” Rudolf complains, and I almost slap the smirk from his cheek. He has no understanding of just what it’s taken Pybba to live such a long life. Skill, damn luck, and even more determination. Pybba’s a rarity in these bloody times.

  But, I remember thinking little more of those who seemed ‘old’ when I was Rudolf’s age.

  “There’s a likely looking spot coming up,” Edmund nods, and I look to where he indicates. The road, with remnants of the ancient build showing here and t
here in long and disjointed pieces of stone and pebbles interspersed with roots, turns sharply ahead. A swathe of cleared earth hints at previous campsites.

  That a beck runs to the rear of the ground only adds to its acceptability. But, there’s little in the way of cover, and I hesitate. Last night we slept on a rise, able to see a great distance around us until the cloud cover became too thick. We won’t have that advantage here, and the beck could trap us, as well as provide much-needed fresh water. I’ll have to set watch duty. None of the men appreciates that the day after a battle when the battle joy has finally drained away to be replaced by exhaustion.

  “Halt,” I shout, all the same, looking to Edmund. He sighs heavily and encourages his mount forward. Sæbald and Gyrth might be far ahead, intent on their task and unaware that we’ve stopped.

  There’s a mumble of surprise from the men and boys, and I refuse to meet the eyes of Pybba. He’ll see that this is for him, and I’d not have him think I’m so alert to his difficulties. I don’t wish to wound his warrior’s pride.

  While the young lads rush around to set up our campsite, I take my horse to the brook. It’s been a warm day and the animal drinks thirstily. Easier to lead the horse to water than bring the water to Haden. It might look as though I’m lost in thought, but I listen to the sound of the camp being made, alert to anything that might be different.

  Time stretches on and then on some more, and still, I don’t see Sæbald, Gyrth or Edmund returning along the trackway. I’m not one to feel foreboding, but I’m aware that they’ve been gone too long. I look along the path they’ve taken, hoping to see them riding back. But the view stays empty.

  “Icel, Goda, come with me,” I call for two of my most experienced warriors, and they rush to follow my orders.

  Rudolf comes to my side, as though waiting for me to impart my special favour to him.

  “Help Pybba, see he has everything he needs,” I speak out of the corner of my mouth, and I expect a complaint. But for once Rudolf has no retort and happily skips away, to where Pybba has found a discarded log to rest against.

  “Oslac, Ordheah, keep alert. Have your weapons to hand.”

  I can feel the eyes of all my men on me now, and I’m not the only one to peer down the deserted trackway.

  Mounting up, habitually, I reach for my seax, but content it’s there, I merely wait for Icel and Goda and then lead them away.

  The air is heavy and silent; sweat beading my face although it’s been cool for much of the day. A forest to one side and a slight rise to the left have obscured the stray breezes. And the small animals that I might expect to hear have fallen quiet. I swallow my mounting sense of frustration. I know what such silence could mean.

  If fifty Raiders burst from the forest now, we’d be outnumbered, but it wouldn’t be an unequal fight. We ride fast horses and are all well skilled. Anyone in the forest would have to be unmounted. And the Raiders have little skill with horses, even if they’ve managed to lead them.

  Icel rides his black beast in front of me, his eyes keen as he looks all around. Goda keeps behind me on his grey horse. The animals step with more spirit than they have all day, as though they sense that all is not quite right.

  How many Raiders were sent to the western part of Mercia? I should have asked that question before I permanently silenced the survivor.

  On and on we ride, the forest slowly giving way to open land, farmed and growing well in the summer heat, but still, we see no one, and then the forest closes in once more.

  My forehead wrinkles. This is unlike any of my warriors.

  Why, I consider, would they have ridden on so far? Sæbald and Gyrth knew that the day’s journey was to be leisurely. I wish to reach Tamworth, but not immediately. I don’t gallop but rather trot. It’s my intention, as much as possible, to keep to the shadows with my band of warriors and young lads.

  I don’t have a war band of five hundred men to support me. Not at the moment.

  “Where are they?” As my belly rumbles loudly, I hear Goda complaining behind me. We ate with the dawn, and that was a long time ago. I detect frustration and an edge of unease in his voice.

  The news the captured Raider gave us yesterday has made my men perturbed. I wish to dismiss the nervousness with my usual acerbic response, but even I’m aware of my dry mouth, and the heat does not cause it.

  Peering over my horse’s head, I note that there are hoof marks in the muddier parts of the track.

  “They came this way,” I point.

  “Someone did,” is Goda’s less than helpful reply, and I feel a sharp retort on my tongue. Only then the sound of galloping hooves reaches our ears.

  “Arm yourselves,” I’m already reaching for my seax. I don’t jump at shades, but the thundering sound fills me with premonition.

  And it should.

  Edmund bursts into view further along the track, crouched low to his stallion’s back. I doubt he sees us as he hustles his animal toward us.

  Behind him are five mounted warriors. They jiggle along in their saddles, and I’m amazed they don’t fall to their deaths. They lack all skill.

  “Fuck,” Goda’s voice is filled with fury, as we rein our mounts to a stop.

  “They only just outnumber us,” I state flatly, my weapon loose in my hands. I’m not sure that any of the six riders have seen us. Where, I think are my two missing men? And where have these Raiding scum come from? I hope to God we’re not surrounded. My small band at the side of the track suddenly seems too small. With Pybba wounded, Ingwald, Oda and Eadric with lesser wounds, there are only nine men capable of fighting.

  And they have many horses to protect as well as one another.

  “We can take them,” Icel’s voice is rich with resolve, spit flying from his lips, as he tucks his beard tightly against his weapon’s belt.

  “Let Edmund through, and then we intercept them,” I command forcibly. I don’t want to risk injuring Haden, but if I must fight from the saddle, then I will.

  The riders are coming closer, the calls of the Raiders and their clattering horses, breaking the oppressive silence of a summer’s day.

  I watch them through narrow eyes, trying to size them up.

  They wear battle equipment, and the sun glints on sharp blades and mean looking faces. None of them wears helms. I’m not surprised. At that speed, it’s more likely that a helm would lead to death, than an enemy strike. Helms are not renowned for staying in place while riding.

  Only then Edmund glances up, his relief at seeing us evident in the way his entire body relaxes. The huge grin on his white face isn’t needed.

  But Edmund is not alone in realising he’s not outnumbered anymore. The lead Raider carries on his strange jig atop the horse, but the man immediately behind him, barks a warning, at least that’s what I take it to be.

  The second warrior reins in his mount as best he can, and so do three of the other men, reaching for their helms, while the lead rider rushes ever onwards.

  “Three to four. Should be easy.” Icel is straightening his back, testing his balance, and with a lick of his lips, looking around to ensure no one’s at our back. Only then does he ram his helm on his head. It’s been battered back into shape so many times over the years, it appears to be one big dent. But Icel trusts his helm. All of those dents show an occasion it’s saved his life.

  I agree with his assessment of our strength against the enemy. I think much of the action might take place on the ground.

  And then Edmund is dashing beyond us, in a rush of air, and the three of us take up a position across the trackway. We almost fill it, but not quite. The hedgerow to one side, lethal-looking, with thorns that threaten to clasp us tightly if we should get caught, will be the fourth man, for now. To the other side of the track, the ground is rocky and strewn with boulders that have fallen from the valley side.

  No horse will welcome riding over that. It won’t want to risk injuring itself, no matter what its rider might direct.

  “Dam
n fuckers,” Edmund has turned his horse around and waits behind me, catching his breath. I’d ask him about my missing men, but the front Raider is before us. He makes no effort to stop his horse as he meets us. I think it a new trick until I see his white eyes.

  The man has no control over his horse.

  I nudge my beast to the right and allow the rider to thunder beyond me. I doubt he’ll be much trouble.

  “Ahh,” the cry from the rider who follows him is filled with fury. At least he has his horse under control and takes the time to shout for his allies, as he fumbles for a weapon.

  With the lead rider gone, we’re an equal force.

  “He’s mine,” I bellow, gripping my seax, but prepared to jump from Haden’s back if the man determines to fight on foot. He doesn’t, slashing widely with an enormous blade from the back of the animal. The weapon looks too heavy for the build of the rider, but he manages it well enough, and I decide he must be skilled to possess such a finely balanced weapon.

  He comes at me, leering, and with no shield evident. Although mine is draped over my horse, I leave it where it is.

  My opponent slashes sideways with his sword, his intentions evident in the way he pulls up short. Just like I would, he wants to wound the animal and take the rider when the horse bucks in pain.

  I turn Haden aside with my knees, depriving my opponent of successfully completing the move. His sword meets my weapon all the same, and I appreciate that the blade looks wide but may be weak because of it. Certainly, there’s little impact on my arm as the two clash in a shriek of iron.

  To the side and rear, my men face-off against one of the other attackers. We’re all busy about the task of killing the opponent who wants to kill us.

  One of the men has slipped to the ground, keen to fight on a steady surface. Goda has joined him there, and the two discarded horses seem to glare at each other, threateningly. I consider doing the same. My horse is more valuable to me than the wealth this man carries on him. Well, apart from the sword, which may, or may not be one of the fabled Raiders ones.

  Another reaching blow aims for my arm, and I feel a flicker of appreciation for the skill being employed against me. When this warrior lies dead on the ground, my enemy will have lost one of their better fighters.