The Last King

by M J Porter

  “The bastards are nearly all gone. Well-done lads. Hold. Hold.”

  I think they could easily survive without me, these days, but whether they would take commands that came only from Edmund and not from me is debatable.

  My gaze is drawn to a violent spot of fighting, five of the enemy desperately trying to hammer down the shield wall before them. I realise why, and the water bottle discarded to spill onto the ground, I’m hustling toward them, a grimace on my lips.

  The bastards.

  They’ve found the weakness, and Edmund busy at the other end of the defences is unaware.

  Pybba. He should have been with the green lads amongst the horses, not standing in the shield wall with Rudolf before him. I’ll flay them both. Once I’ve rescued them.

  Goda is busy, Icel as well, and I square my shoulders. I can take the enemy. I can do it easily, but whether I can do it before Rudolf and Pybba are wounded is beyond my knowing.

  One man watches the backs of the other four, not entirely oblivious to what’s happening around them. I heft my seax. An axe might not be the best for what I have planned now. I want more stabbing and less slicing.

  The single warrior watches me approach scornfully, his posture assured as he clutches a spear. He thinks I’ll do him no harm because of his fine battle gear. It surprises me. I wear only the red of my victims.

  Without looking down to make sure I don’t trip on the dead and dying, I menace him. It’s evident he thinks I’ll slow down when I’m close, but I don’t, and although his spear glints threateningly, he’s sluggish to aim it at me.

  I cleave him with my seax, ramming home the point, spitting into his face as he slides from its end, his spear forgotten about, and his hands bloody where they cup the sharpened blade.

  Now I’m faced with four well-covered backs, but who to attach first?

  The decision is taken from me, when the second from the left, turns to ensure his ally still fights with him. He dies with his mouth open, the seax piercing his throat and grinding on his teeth as I yank it back.

  The man next to him squeaks in horror when he sees me, instead of his friend, standing beside him.

  He dies with the blade through his neck, gurgling on his blood, as I again use my free hand to hammer my seax through weak flesh.

  That leaves me two warriors, and they do seem to be good at their work.

  It’s easy for me to hear Pybba and Rudolf now.

  “Hold the damn thing straight,” Pybba’s voice is reedy and weak, his good arm snaking around the side of the shield that Rudolf holds. I bend and retrieve the forgotten spear from the floor. I don’t want to use it, but neither do I want my enemy to use it against me. I fling it with as much force as I can, back down the track and away from the horses.

  “I am,” Rudolf’s normally amused-filled words are filled with the stress of holding a shield in place for so long. It sucks the strength of a man. I doubt he’s still grinning.

  “Who’s next?” I ask the question loudly, keen to take the attention of both men away from Rudolf and Pybba. I’m grateful for what they’ve done, but I’m still not going to compliment them when this battle is won.

  But only one warrior turns to face me. The heavier of the two stays, pounding his massive war axe against the shield, so fast it seems to strike with my beating heart.

  Fuck.

  The shield falls, just a little, but enough that it exposes the shoulders of the two to either side of Pybba and Rudolf, and enough that the warrior must scent the victory.

  Before I can step into the breach, the first warrior is attacking me fiercely with a hacking action, a long blade glinting menacingly in his hand.

  Only his eyes and mouth show. I’ve no idea of his thoughts, but the stance that he takes, feet wide apart, shoulders square, assures me that he’s not a green warrior. How could he be, to have survived so long in this bloody mess?

  And I need to get through him to reach Pybba and Rudolf.

  I use my blade to counter his attack, testing his strength and finding it prodigious as I do so.

  I’m not fearful that he’ll beat me, rather that killing him will take so long, Pybba and Rudolf will have fallen victim to the other warrior. How do the damn bastards know where my weakest men are? Not, I realise that I wouldn’t in the same situation.

  Turning my body to the side, I reach out with my seax, keen to score first blood against my opponent. He wears seasoned leather, and his byrnie is intact. He wears a second skin, as I do, and it won’t be easy to get beyond it, even with my great strength.

  He slashes with his blade, and I step back hastily, knowing I don’t have the time to bend my knees and duck. He grunts with the wasted effort. I faint to his right, as though I’ll attack him on the arm, but instead I slide beyond him, my weapon seeking, and finding, the shoulder of the warrior who attacks Pybba.

  A howl of pain reaches my ears, but I’ve skipped back, in front of my first enemy.

  When the other warrior turns crazed eyes on my opponent, I see Edmund, finally alert to the danger. He forces Pybba and Rudolf aside, none too carefully, taking their place before the man can even realise what’s happened.

  Now, I can concentrate on my opponent, while Edmund takes on the other man. Around us, most of the fighting has come to an end because while the shield wall holds, I can see it’s much looser than it was before.

  “You damn fucker,” I can hear Pybba’s vitriol as well. His mood will be foul, and I look forward to further infuriating him. In good time.

  Something changes in my opponent’s stance. I consider that he realises he’s alone, apart from the man in front of him. Only then, his body stiffens again, perhaps comprehending he must face his death either way.

  “Lord Coelwulf, you can not win,” his mouth seems to struggle to form the words of my land, but I admire him all the same for trying.

  “But I can’t lose either,” I explain. Then I’m hurtling into him, turning to my right tightly. I make sure I get at least two full circles in, before I crash into him with my back, my free hand smacking into his with the added speed of my turns, so that the grip on his seax loosens, but the weapon doesn’t fall.

  It’s enough though, to counter his skill and strength.

  Before he can fully grip the hilt, I’ve rammed my blade backwards, behind the right of my body, and with my left hand, I hammer the seax in, and then further in, until I feel the body begin to sag.

  Fearing his weight will settle on me, I spin back out of his embrace, taking my blade with me, in the opposite position to the way I started the action. I watch with some satisfaction, as he falls to his knees, his face pale, and a welter of black showing on his battle clothes. The stain grows quickly, but, with one hand on the ground for support, he unexpectedly pushes himself upright once more.

  His lips are flecked with blood, his auburn beard as well, and I can hear his ragged breathing as though all other activity in the camp has ceased. And it has. Over the man’s shoulder, Edmund is finishing his kill, the other warrior dead, although he doesn’t seem to notice it yet.

  Just like the man I face.

  “Lord Coelwulf.”

  “Yes.”

  “We came to retrieve you peacefully. You’ll die for this.” His final word is a bubble of blood, the sound escaping only as it explodes, releasing his air, and his words.

  I nod, pulling my helm from my head so that I can see him clearly.

  “If this is peacefully, then I fucking hate to see what you fuckers mean when you say you come to make fucking war.”

  A grimace or a smile seems to touch his cheeks at my words. Damn the fucker.

  “You will see,” he gasps, only to fall, straight as an arrow, to the ground beneath us, the final word coming to me from below.

  I’ve heard enough.

  “Rudolf,” I’ve already forgotten my dead opponent and his useless words.

  “My Lord,” the head pops up from behind the shield wall that’s being dismantled. The voi
ce is far less cheerful than usual. His left cheek carries a slash of bright blood, while his right eye is already swelling from an impact, and I’ve not laid eyes on the rest of him yet. What damage has he done to himself?

  “What the fuck were you doing?” I demand to know. “And where’s that arsehole Pybba?”

  “I’m here as well, Lord Coelwulf.” Pybba sounds equally tired, as I stride around the shields that still stand, and turn to gaze down at a man I expected to behave far less recklessly.

  “What the fuck?” I look at him, I look at Rudolf, my fists clenching with anger.

  “Who’s fucking idea was this?” Pybba has the shield tied to the arm where his hand is missing. The rope used has been expertly tied and fixed in just such a position where the movement, while not natural, might just be sustainable for long periods.

  Rudolf has the weapon belt I gifted to him around his slim waist, and in his right hand, he continues to hold a bloodied seax, as well as his own shield. I can see that the war axe and sword have been used as well, from the glimmers of red that sheen there.

  I look one from the other, the noise of the rest of the camp fading to nothing.

  The silence is telling.

  “Both of you! You’re wounded, and you’re too weak.” As I speak, I point at each of them in turn. I don’t think I’ve ever been so furious in my entire life. Not even the thought that the Vikings have taken eastern Mercia makes the blood rush so loudly in my ears.

  Pybba stands wearily. He’s even paler than when I left him here, and a quick glance shows me that his wound is filthy and saturated with blood.

  “Is that yours?” I’m still pointing, aware that someone is standing behind me. Not because I can hear them, but because Pybba and Rudolf’s eyes are flickering from my face to theirs, as though expecting some help from them to appease my rage.

  If it’s fucking Edmund, I must just lose all control.

  It’s not his place to interfere. Not here. These are my men. They serve me. They pledged their lives to me, in exchange for my protection. If they won’t let me protect them, then what fucking good was that damn oath.

  “Only a little. Most of it is Sæbald’s.”

  “Good,” I release my pent up breath with the word.

  “And what about you. Is all that your blood?”

  Rudolf’s face gleams with his triumph, not dissuaded at all, or fearful in the face of my evident, and unusual anger.

  “No, Sæbald’s. Although,” and he’s pulling up his torn tunic with battered and bleeding hands. “I think this bit is mine.” Rudolf’s voice is rich with surprise and pride.

  “It’s the battle joy. You feel nothing. Until the end.” Edmund interjects into our conversation. “Let me look at it.”

  Edmund is rough as he turns Rudolf around, forcing the tunic higher, inspecting everywhere. He’s taken the time to shake the seax from the young lad’s hand, and it lands with a dull thud on the ground.

  There’s no more blood, but Rudolf’s skin is shaded. By tonight, his entire chest will be purple and black. I want to smack him, hard, but I’ve had bruises like those in the past. I’m not going to make them worse.

  I imagine Rudolf waits for me to praise him for such ingenuity. Pybba, however, knows me better than that.

  Before my fury can get the better of me, I turn and march away. I’m breathing heavily, but I know that as angry as I am with Rudolf and Pybba, I’m more furious with myself. It’s beginning to feel as though I’ve walked into a trap. It’s beginning to feel as though I’m being hunted. Fuck King Burgred. He’s told the Raiders who I am and where I’ll be. If he weren’t gone from Mercia, it’d be him that I wanted to take my revenge against, not the damn Raiders.

  I don’t march blindly. As I go, I take in the scene of devastation, and I look for my men. The young lads are out, looting the dead, while Ordheah scrambles amongst them, driving home his sword into any he fears might not yet be truly dead. He doesn’t meet my eyes, either.

  I go to his side.

  “How many were there?” I ask, determined to decipher just what forces are arraigned against me.

  “Thirty, including those over there.” Ordheah points with his chin towards the few who tried to escape.

  “Good, we got them all.” It’s small comfort. The Raiders have sent eighty warriors to track me down, and my men and I have killed them all. How many more have been sent, and more importantly, how long will the leaders, camped at Repton, wait until they accept these war bands have failed?

  I’m used to being the hunter, not the hunted.

  Next, I seek out Sæbald. He’s sitting close to the remains of the campfire. Wulfhere is tending to him, offering him fresh water, and some rags to try and wipe away the worst of the blood.

  Pybba needs a healer. I think Sæbald does as well.

  I’ll need to consider that when I make my decision as to what happens next.

  “What happened?”

  Sæbald glances at me with hazy eyes.

  “Get some ale,” I turn and shout the command, fully expecting Rudolf to rush to fulfil my orders, even with his injuries.

  “We felt that we were being tracked. We talked about one of us coming back to warn you. Gyrth was adamant that one of us should investigate, and he volunteered. I stayed on the track, but he went through the woodland. I waited, expecting him to return, and when he didn’t, I went after him. More cautiously, but with my horse.”

  “The woodlands were much deeper than I expected, and the floor was littered with roots while the branches routinely hung too low. This,” and he points to a wide graze on his forehead, “came from a fucking tree. Can you believe it?”

  I can, and I note that some small splinters are deeply embedded, even now. They’ll need to be removed.

  “It was almost dark by the time the woodlands started to thin out. I’d not seen Gyrth and was beginning to wish I’d come back to find you. I knew you’d not see where we’d left the main trackway.”

  I refrain from agreeing with him. It’s Gyrth that concerns me.

  “I saw the fire first, and then the sounds of men on the road. It was hard to see anything in the gloom, and the fire was no help. I hunkered down, to wait and see what was happening. I decided if I’d made an effort to come this far, then I needed to know what was actually happening.”

  “It was then that I heard the shouts and cries. Mocking sounds the same, no matter the language spoken. I left my horse, and crept ever closer, desperate to see what was happening, but somehow knowing all at the same time.”

  Sæbald pauses and swigs from the ale skin brought to him by Rudolf, who moves only less sprightly than usual. I’m almost looking forward to watching him when he wakes in the morning. He’s not only going to ache. He’s going to ache all over, and his body will be uncooperative as well. I might enjoy that.

  “They didn’t have canvasses, but they did have a picket of horses, and so I used them to cover my actions. They had Gyrth, of course, they did. I could see that he’d been beaten and was bleeding from a head wound, but he was conscious, and one of the fuckers was shouting at him. They were trying to find out who he was and where you were. It wasn’t the most subtle of interrogations that I’ve ever witnessed.”

  He holds his head to one side, his eyes far away, reliving the moment.

  I wait for him to continue. When he doesn’t, I reach out and touch his shoulder. He jerks at my touch, his hand already reaching for his discarded war axe before he remembers where he is.

  Pybba needs a healer. And so does Sæbald. In the end, it’ll be Pybba who heals the quickest from his wounds. I can already tell.

  “They cut him, and then took one of his fingers, and still Gyrth said nothing. I could see how much pain he was in, and I, well, I could do nothing.” Sæbald’s voice is thick with emotion. Even Rudolf, as oblivious of most things as he is, has settled to the ground, his legs crossed, quietly listening, and his shaded face lacking all mirth.

  I think we all know how
this ends.

  “I decided to wait for the camp to settle and then try and free Gyrth. They set a guard over him, obviously, but the daft fucker fell asleep eventually. I snuck through the horses, and through the sleeping men, and Gyrth heard me coming. He shook his head, cautioned me to go back, but I didn’t listen.

  “I thought I was prepared to die for him. I know he’d have done the same for me.”

  “I stabbed the guard while he slept. My easiest kill ever. It was more difficult to work the rope loose that bound Gyrth to a sodding stake in the ground.”

  “We didn’t speak, not until we’d made it back into the woodland without being discovered. He was limping and bleeding but was adamant he could go on. Only as the daylight began to infiltrate the woodland did we stop. He couldn’t walk any further. I left him there, to go back and retrieve my horse, and his. If I could get it.”

  I’m nodding. I expected Gyrth to be dead. The fact that he lives, or did live, and managed to escape from his captors surprises me.

  “Before I left him, he told me that he’d overheard the leader of the Raiders bragging that they’d get the reward for finding you or killing you. They’ve sent six warbands to find you. Men hope to make their fortune from your apprehension.”

  My face contorts. Three hundred warriors. To kill little me. I suppose I should be pleased, but it means I’ve killed less than a third of the fuckers. My fighting isn’t over and done with. Far from it.

  “So where’s Gyrth now?”

  “Still in the woods. We need to find him.” Urgency fills Sæbald’s voice as he rushes to finish the story. “I retrieved my horse. But the Raiders were in an uproar, arguing over where the prisoner had gone. I could hear them even from where I’d left my horse. I heard people in the woodlands and turned to make my way back here. I did well, for some time, but eventually, they tracked me down, despite my wandering ways.”

  “There were four of the smug shits. They cornered me against a deep beck at my back and thought I’d be an easy kill. It was a fucking shit storm, but I took them all down. Not that it was easy, but then I couldn’t risk going back for Gyrth.”