The Last King

by M J Porter

  “And what of Oda and Eahric?” I can see the monks are no longer caring for them.

  “They’re with the rest of the men. They only have to come here twice a day to be assessed.”

  That cheers me, to know that two of my men are near enough healed. I need them back to full fighting strength, and sooner than I’d like.

  Resolved, I stride from the hospital, Rudolf accompanying me. I imagine he has many questions, and a sign of just how much he’s changed in the last few days, is that none one of them slips through his lips.

  I’ll miss my young companion. I will. Now, I must learn to treat him as one of my warriors, even if I don’t want to.

  “Tomorrow, I’ll travel to Kingsholm. I’m going to take as many of the horses as I can. You can decide whether to stay with Pybba or to come with me.”

  I don’t wait for an answer. The flicker of surprise on Rudolf’s face alerts me to the fact that he too has realised the change in our relationship, even if only just.

  I’ll need a new lad to care for Haden. But that’s a problem for another day.

  I stride back into the bishop’s hall and easily slide between Edmund and Icel. The two are eating and drinking as though there’ll be no food tomorrow, and I join them.

  It’s an important lesson to be learned. Eat when you can, sleep when you can, drink when you can, and if you’re that way inclined, fuck when you can as well.

  I banish Bishop Wærferth’s words about claiming the kingship from my mind. I don’t have the capacity to think through all he’s implying. First, I need to rebuild my ranks of missing men, but before that, I need to make it to Gloucester without being attacked.

  “Take a ship?” Bishop Wærferth’s suggestion isn’t a bad one. But.

  “I need to take the horses with me. It’ll take too long to load them.”

  He subsides, wisely holding his tongue. He’s not spoken to me about becoming Mercia’s king again. But his guarded looks are enough for me to know that he’s not given up on the idea.

  I don’t think I have, either.

  With all the horses we can manage, well over a hundred, we don’t exactly make a timely escape through the remains of the ancient Roman defences in Worcester. I’m surprised that Rudolf rides with the rest of the men. I was sure he would stay with Pybba, Sæbald and Gyrth, as well as Oda and Eahric, who I’ve forced to stay behind. But he doesn’t. Instead, Wulfhere remains in his place. I’ve not dared to make my farewells to Pybba. I don’t think his complaints would be short, and in that time I could have made it to Kingsholm and back.

  Edmund and Hereman are engaged in a heated debate as we make our way to the riverbank, below Worcester. I don’t ask what’s riled them both, but rather stay clear of them. Brothers will always argue. It used to be the same while my brother lived.

  The day is bright and clear, the river sluggish and rife with the smell that infected Worcester. I doubt it’ll clear before we reach Kingsholm.

  My thoughts turn to what I’ll find in Kingsholm.

  My father died a decade ago, fighting the Raiders. My mother lost her life birthing me, a guilt that’s never left me. In place of parents, I have my Aunt. She’s a formidable woman. If she could ride to war, then I know she would. And her reputation would then be far greater than any I’ve garnered in my lifetime.

  She’ll be displeased by the tide of change in Mercia. Of a generation with King Burgred, she never accorded him any respect. My father chose to keep her at Kingsholm rather than antagonise Burgred. After my father’s death, she decided to seclude herself there. Some sort of punishment, but whether for her or my father, I’ve no idea.

  The first I know that we’re riding into danger is Hereman’s bark of ‘Raiders.’

  I’ve not been riding blindly. Icel and Goda have been riding one to the front, and one to the rear of my small collection of warriors, and large group of horses. So where is Icel?

  I peer into the near distance. I’d not expected more Raiders to infiltrate the Hwiccan kingdom quite so deeply. I’d assumed that they’d hover, on the edges, waiting for me to appear. It seems I’m wrong.

  Ahead, I can clearly see what Hereman is warning me about. I can also see Icel, face filled with rage, as he races toward me.

  Whatever apology he wants to make, I shrug aside, focusing on those who come against me now.

  I can’t blame Icel. Not for this. It’s my mistake. I should have travelled via the River Severn as the bishop suggested. I only refused because of the smell. It’s hardly an excuse worth dying for.

  “Fuckers,” Icel complains. “Hiding in the woods like sodding pigs looking for acorns.”

  I allow that and turn to assess my force. Rudolf has stilled on his small pony, his face white, his teeth clenched. Fuck. I should have insisted he stay in Worcester. But I couldn’t. Not now he’s taken his first life.

  I have fewer men than ever before. I wasn’t going to Kingsholm because I fancied a hot bath.

  I left Gloucester with twenty men, and the young lads, who number about the same.

  I lost two good men, Athelstan and Beornberht in my first meeting with the Raiders.

  Pybba lost his hand as well.

  That’s taken me down to seventeen men, although I should add Rudolf into the number, so that makes eighteen.

  Only Sæbald and Gyrth are also incapacitated in Worcester, and I insisted that Oda and Eahric remained as well. So again, I’m down to fourteen. One of that number is a young lad, with his first blood on his hands. But I doubt the skill to fight as I want him too.

  I should have left Rudolf in Worcester.

  And of course, I have my young lads as well, all riding with three other horses under their command. Once more, I’m richer in horses than I am in warriors. And yet, I feel no fear, but rather a calm reckoning of what I have that the enemy doesn’t have.

  They number the usual fifty, or thereabouts, and they have horses. I can see where they’ve been discarded to the near side of the riverbank. The animals crop the lush grasses there.

  The enemy also seems well provided with weapons, and battle wear, and already they taunt my force. Their words are incomprehensible from such a distance. The intent is not.

  “Four each,” I call to Edmund. He and Hereman’s argument has finally fallen silent, but only because of the coming altercation. I swear, if they live through this, then they’ll resume it before they’ve taken their last kill. Blood will sheet blades, but the words will be about whatever the fuck it is they’re arguing about.

  “Easy,” Edmund licks his lips, his battle fears evident in the white of his face. As always, the thought of what’s to come doesn’t appeal to Edmund. Not until he’s had his first kill.

  I can hear the rest of my men preparing for battle. The mass of horses have been moved to one side by the lads, not the riverside, and I consider calling them back. Only perhaps not yet. I swivel on my horse, looking for Rudolf, and then beckon him to me.

  He comes with mutiny on his young face, but when I speak to him, his tense shoulders relax.

  “I fucking like it,” he comments, a hint of his former cheek restored to him.

  “Good.”

  While Rudolf directs his horse through my fourteen men, I squint into the bright daylight.

  Fifty warriors. Without their horses.

  Damn fuckers.

  “We begin this on our mounts,” I inform my warriors. No one comments on the unusual battle tactic. “That should reduce the numbers to more manageable levels.”

  Hereman mutters something under his breath, but I ignore him. He’ll be complaining, or praying, or whatever it is he does when he faces his death.

  I reach down and lay my head along Haden’s long neck. I don’t want to risk my horse, but I can’t ride another. I trust the damn bugger.

  With no more thought, or consideration, or even time to take in the banner that the Raiders fight under, and which hangs limps in the summer heat, I encourage Haden to a fast gallop. In one breath, we go
from stationary to flying, and I grin, despite it all.

  The feel of my horse’s steady gait beneath my body is invigorating.

  I’ve done little but fight battles for the past eight days. And now I’ll fight another.

  The Raiders stand across the trackway, weapons gleaming, stances lose. I’m not sure who leads them. I don’t much care.

  I grin, thumping my helm over my mass of bright blonde hair, reaching for my seax, all while my horse flees, fleet-footed, over the summer-ripe trackway. It’s not rained for days. The ground isn’t yet hard-packed. It might be after this. Or maybe we’ll water it with red rain.

  Only when I’m close enough to see the flicker of unease in the eyes of the warriors who stand before the others, five men, weapons bristling, do I appreciate that they really expected me to leap from my horse.

  With a light touch of my knees, Haden keeps his course steady but begins to move to face the front-most warrior.

  My chosen opponent is not a giant, far from it, but he has the girth of a man who uses his weight to win. It’ll do him no good against a charging horse.

  Haden doesn’t even hesitate, let alone consider that he’s not customarily directed to ride through a man. His ability to follow my special instructions is born from our long years together.

  Haden’s hooves crash into the man, who’s too slow to move, too dazed to realise what’s coming. And then we’re amongst the remaining warriors. A shimmer of panic seems to envelop some of them, as though time hangs unmoving. Into that void, my men and their horses gallop.

  The first man is not the only one to fall beneath Haden’s hooves. Another two also buckle from the knees and descend. Terrified eyes meet mine before I can get my horse under control and turn him to see the outcome of my unorthodox attack.

  The screams of the wounded men are overridden only by the terrible screeching coming from Ingwald’s horse.

  “Fuck,” I complain, sliding from Haden’s back and slapping his rump so that he moves away from the rest of the fighting.

  It seems that every horse has taken down at least one man, often two. There are just over twenty men standing. But not all those on the ground are dead.

  I watch as one man reaches for his lost weapon, his lips bloody, his legs shattered below the knees, pulling himself forward on his arms, fierce determination on his battered face although he leaves a trail of blood in his wake.

  I grimace, take the necessary five hurried strides, and slice cleanly through his neck. His hand stills its frantic reach, but just to be sure, I stamp on the fingers, enjoying the crunch of broken bone as a counterpart to the clash of iron on iron.

  Hereman is still mounted, turning his horse, which kicks out, front legs flying, against the two men who menace him.

  I take the time to admire the action. I didn’t know the damn thing could do that!

  A grip on my ankle and my blade is moving before I’ve considered who might be there. Another lies dead, the fall of his blood on my hooded face, coming only after the breath has gurgled from him severed throat.

  Another kill.

  Edmund, his face finally robust with colour, faces two men, one to the side, and one to the front. As I make my way to assist him, my seax stabs down into the backs of two more men who lie, broken, but not dead, after the onslaught of the horses.

  I leave the man with the broken skull alone. The white of the exposed bone casts the grey matter of his brain into sharp relief. I grimace. A quick death. But far from pleasant.

  “Take the man to your left,” I call my instruction to Edmund, as I heave myself against the man in front of him. The blow catches my opponent on the shoulder, my blade glinting with ruby, but making no impact against the warrior’s mail coat.

  Damn fucker. I recognise the exquisite workmanship of the warrior’s coat. This is Mercian. He’s taken it from one of his kills.

  It’ll make him hard to kill, but I will, all the same.

  My opponent turns to face me, his black beard flecked with spittle, a smirk on his face. I slice my seax as close to that smile as I can, only for him to counter, and thrust my seax away.

  The blade he carries is good Mercian iron, I can tell from the way it reverberates along my arm. Made from iron mined from north Mercia, smelted with charcoal made from Mercia’s vast forests. The man deserves to die for such an outrage.

  Who did this bastard kill to take such prizes?

  Soon, I consider, they’ll be mine, and I might even take the time to find out who they once belonged to.

  He tries to slice my belly, aiming his blade low, the shimmer of it reflecting the bright light of the day.

  I step aside, aware that facing only one enemy, Edmund is enjoying himself by hammering his war axe repeated against the man’s neck. Blood flies through the air. Edmund, it seems, has chosen to vent his rage at his brother, over whatever their stupid argument was about, on the enemy.

  I’m glad he didn’t so against Hereman. I would have lost yet another valued warrior.

  I flick my right arm out, twisting the grip on my seax, stabbing, as opposed to slicing.

  Such a movement makes the target too small for my enemy to counter easily, and his good Mercian sword slides effortlessly against my knuckles. They’ll be bruised, maybe bleeding later, but it doesn’t matter. My seax skewers the man, high on his shoulder.

  It grates, as it slides ever deeper.

  My opponent’s attack falters but doesn’t stop.

  His breath is musty in my face, as I step in closer, and closer, keen to grip his blade, to ensure he knows I’ve taken it.

  I meet fierce hazel eyes, the mouth moving, although no sound comes forth.

  “Bastard,” I reply, aware that he can’t see my arched eyebrows beneath my helm. Aware he probably doesn’t understand what I say.

  His response surprises me.

  “Fucker, you’ll lose your life for this.” The words are drenched in agony, as I twist my seax, just for good measure. His right hand hangs limply at his waist, his blade now in my left hand.

  I’m considering stabbing him in the heart with the Mercian blade, ensuring he dies twice, both for invading my kingdom and for stealing from her. Only he speaks again.

  “My father is one of the jarls in charge of the attack on Mercia. He wanted you alive. But now he’ll want you dead.”

  “A pity your father didn’t come himself then, but sent the runt of his litter to do a man’s work.”

  The light in the brown eyes fades, and just for the fun of it, I stab with my left hand, the Mercian blade almost being repelled by the fine mail coat. Only then it does slide into the dying man’s flesh.

  I grin again. Lean forward, planting my lips on his feebly moving mouth.

  “I’ll tell your daddy how you died,” I confirm, and then move quickly back, thrusting him to the floor, both weapons wrenching free with a squelch of flesh and blood.

  Edmund watches me, panting heavily, taking the time to restore himself before he finds another to attack.

  Only the time has come for Rudolf’s part in the battle.

  Fifty or so men stood across our path, blocking the way to Gloucester, gleaming in the bright daylight, the intention to kill us all evident in their stance.

  The initial charge of the horses took out at least eighteen of that number. I’ve killed a further four. But fierce fighting has broken out amongst the rest of the warriors.

  “’Ware” I shout, my warriors won’t be expecting the next attack, but they’ll quickly work it out. Or so I hope.

  Thunder fills the air.

  Edmund looks beyond me, his jaw clenching with fury at yet more enemy coming against us until he understands what’s happening.

  “You’re a sick mother fucker,” Edmund shouts. He hastens to stand clear from the wreck of bodies, and dying men, to ensure the hundred horses being aimed toward the knots of fighting men, come nowhere near him.

  I make to join him, only to catch sight of Ordheah, his back to the riverban
k, an enemy advancing on him with confident strides, a long sword in his hand.

  “Fuck,” I complain, trying to determine if I have time to reach him.

  If Ordheah falls into the river, as turgid as it is at the moment, he might drown under the weight of his battle equipment.

  It’s no way for one of my warriors to die.

  Ordheah’s made mistakes of late. But such errors shouldn’t be rewarded with death.

  The crashing of hooves over broken bodies cuts off Edmund’s cry “Don’t,” but I’m already moving. I won’t allow one of my men to die like this.

  A flash of brown, and then a flicker of midnight black buffet me. Both animals race beyond me, and I keep my feet only by dint of sheer fucking determination. My hand has been jarred, but both weapons are still firmly grasped.

  But it’s not the end of the horses' stampede.

  I can hear Rudolf and the other lads encouraging the horses on. Through the flashes of light, I see Ordheah teetering closer and closer to the riverbank.

  “Bollocks,” I can’t see any way that I’m going to reach him in time. After this attack is done with, it seems I’m going to spend the rest of the day dredging the river for my missing warrior.

  “Fuck,” I cry again, as a fresh wave of horseflesh threatens to overwhelm me. I’ve been a damn stupid bastard, and I fear that despite my best intentions, I might go down here. And not at the hands of the Raiders, but at my damn refusal to allow one of my men to fall.

  I swallow my frustration, dance around the rear of one horse, only to find another charging down upon me. Time slows, as I consider the blades in my hand. Could I get the kill in before the weight of the animal takes me down?

  Only then I notice the hand extended toward me, and Rudolf’s bright face on the back of the animal.

  It seems my young squire will rescue me.

  I reach my hand to take his, digging my heel into the lush growths so that I have a small run-up. And then I release my back leg, feel Rudolf’s weaker grip on my hand, and somehow, I’m on the back of his horse, and we’re racing with the other horses.

  I hunt for Ordheah, ignoring the crunch of bone splitting open, while the horses rush on, taking too long to come to a halt.