by M J Porter
This battle shouldn’t even be taking place.
But it is. Determined not to let my ill-temper get the better of me, I view the shield wall. From here, I can see nothing but backs, stretching away to either side. Every man has a shield, apart from me, and I’m the only one available to fill any gaps if one of my warriors should fall.
But it gives me more freedom than usual. Just like earlier, when I fought without my men, now I can consider other possibilities. And the one that calls to me is to mount one of the stray horses and ride through the enemy.
I grin, tasting my sweat and consider the possibility for all of five breaths.
“Fuck it,” I state, and then I’m running to where I remember the horses going. Down the line of my men to the right.
“Hold,” I order as I run, Edmund and Hereman repeating my words up and down the line, as they always do.
My warrior at the far end, Eoppa, has curved back on himself, just a little. It means an outcropping of tall trees acts as additional warriors for him, ensuring no one can come at him from behind. I step back into the woodland, manoeuvre my way around a handful of trees and then erupt to the other side of him.
I approve of the initiative Eoppa’s taken. And then I see a flicker of black and know I’ve found the horses.
There are many of them, and they’ve not really gone far from the battle, but it must just be far enough for them to feel no fear.
From the edge, I can see the two shield walls easily, and I could just attack the rear of our enemy, for they’ve not taken the precautions that Eoppa has. But no. I decide the aid of a horse will make my endeavours quicker and more deadly.
With practised ease, I run hands over long noses, and along sleek backs, until I find a horse able to support my weight. The animal is brown, apart from where mud streaks the back legs, and there it appears almost black.
“Come on then,” I coax softly, trying not to focus on the increasing noise from the warring men. The horse whinnies softly, and I take it as an invitation to mount up. From his back, I can still see everything that’s happening.
I don’t like it. It seems as though the enemy men might actually be winning.
But enough of that. They tried their tricks on me, and I’ll repay the favour.
With my seax in my left hand, I guide the horse amongst the other milling animals, and then, I kick him hard, hoping he’ll leap to carry out my wishes, pleased when I feel his muscles bunch beneath me. We take off, almost too fast for me to strike the first of the warriors who face my men.
Only, I do manage to complete the movement. With satisfaction, my blade slices cleanly and deeply along the small area visible between the shoulders. The cut is just that, but immediately blood shows, only the horse has taken me on, to the next man, and the next. None of them is expecting an attack from the rear. Although gurgles of howling pain echo, their allies don’t notice it, thinking it comes from where my warriors fight.
All along the rear of the shield wall, the horse carries me, and then, I turn him tightly and repeat the same action. Most of the men do still stand, but the shield wall is not as tightly held as it was, and with my next cuts, it fractures apart in confusion.
“Charge,” my men are swift to take advantage of the rupturing line of attack, and I turn the horse again, seeking out the man I almost killed before the real fighting began. From my vantage point, I spot him quickly and using my knees, direct my mount through the warring men.
The animal is more used to this than I expected, and in no time at all, I leap from his back and face the warrior with the dragon helm.
Hereberht has engaged him in battle, and when I appear, I think it’ll be an unfair attack, two against one. Only then another two of the enemy join their jarl, and Hereberht and I are kept busy fending off swords and war axes. I hope it doesn’t mean that one of my men has fallen. I don’t want to lose another, not when we have more battles to fight after this one.
Hereberht works with his smaller war axe, and his shield, hammering into one of the enemy mouths. Blood erupts, and I can step in close, while the warrior’s distracted, and slip my seax inside his byrnie, close to his armpit. The cut is deep and will be fatal when he realises.
Hereberht moves onto the next man, and I face Jarl Sigurd, my bloodied seax dripping menacingly.
At some point, the tie that binds the two sides of the chin guards has been sliced through. Despite his precautions, the jarl is as vulnerable as any other man.
I eye his neck keenly, as he prepares to attack with his sword. Neither of us has shields. We’re equals, other than for my greater reach and his longer weapon, and the fact that I’ve already almost killed him. Something like that will weigh heavily on his mind, as I determine how to attack, and then just run at him.
His sword isn’t pointed at me, but rather at the ground, and before he knows it, I’m close enough to lash out with my seax and take a swipe at his chin. The blade connects, although only just, and a flash of scarlet bubbles and drips immediately.
As he recoils, belatedly raising his sword, I follow up with my war axe, aiming for his shoulder, and hitting it, hard, although the leather holds.
His sword, without the room to move it in, is still far from attacking me, and so I jab with my seax, aiming for his throat. Predicting the attack, he’s already moving away from me, and the strike does nothing more than rebound from his shoulder.
I can see, out of the corner of my eye, that Hereberht is closing on his warrior. I snarl with frustration. This warrior is no match for me and should be dead already. Certainly, many of his men have fallen beneath the blows of my warriors. I just need to kill him, and before Hereman can finish the job he started with his almost too close spear throw.
“Come on, you fucker, just die,” I breathe, and then I see his weakness. Not the exposed chin, but rather his need to fight only with the right side of his body. Even without his shield, he’s not claimed another weapon for his left hand, leaving it empty.
Almost skipping closer and closer, I swing both of my weapons, making it impossible for him to know where to point his sword to best protect himself. He makes a movement to cover the left side of his body with his sword from my seax. I haul my axe back, preparing to finally slice through more than just leather and the first layer of skin. My axe hits home, on the left side of his body, and I force it ever deeper, relishing the flow of his hot blood over my hands.
I can smell it. I can fucking taste it.
But he’s not done yet, and his hand scrabbles around my bloody one, his gloved fingers trying to fight me off. His sword hand struggles to manoeuvre it into position so that he can stab me with his dying breath.
But I can see what he’s trying to do. I work my hand free from his slick grip and leaving my war axe in his neck, step out of his reach. He totters there, for a long moment, his eyes seeking me out, as though to ensure he knows who kills him. Only then does his sword drop to the ground, and this time, he follows it.
I’m heaving great gasps of air into my body, aware that the fighting is almost all over.
“Tricky bastard,” Edmund comes to stand beside me, gazing at the body thoughtfully.
“Aye, he was,” I confirm, about all I can manage as I recover my breath.
“What took you so fucking long?” Hereman bellows from where he stands over three dead bodies, one folded on top of another, as though he felled them to make a pattern like I’ve seen on ancient Roman floor tiles.
“You nearly fucking killed me,” I bellow, turning to stride toward him. Hereman’s grin falters, and then it returns, just as cocky as ever.
“I knew you’d get out of the way. I’m not quite as bloody stupid as all that.” The final words die away to normal speaking volume, as I abruptly rear up before him.
“Then, thank you. For only nearly killing me,” I all but shout.
Hereman grins, even wider, even more delighted.
“You are most welcome,” and he inclines his head, as though addr
essing his king, and I thwack him on the arm.
“Daft bastard.” I turn to survey the scene of death and destruction, only then noticing that to the far side, the battle isn’t yet over.
Not only is it not over, but three of my men are outnumbered, and two are lying on the floor.
“Fuck,” I exclaim, pointing, and everyone looks to see Eoppa, Osbert and Hereberht fighting on while Lyfing and Ordheah are on the ground. I can’t see their wounds from here, but they must be severe if neither of the men is standing.
Oda, Wulfred, Beornstan and Ælfgar are closest, and with their enemy dead, they rush to aid their allies. I watch, trying to decide whether I need to interfere as well or not. In no time, Oda has used his seax to cut the throat of one of the enemy. In contrast, Wulfred has gone for the more confrontational approach of thumping the man’s back so that he turns to face him, weapon raised. Distracted in such a way, Osbert stabs down into the man’s back, and he falls to the floor without Wulfred doing anything else.
Hereberht and Beornstan work together then, to tire the remaining warrior, and sure that they’ll kill him, eventually, I rush to Lyfing and Ordheah. Lyfing has a long leg wound that I’m sure will heal if only the bleeding will stop. His face is pale and lifeless, and I have to slap him to get him to look at me.
Ordheah has taken a wound to his stomach, and it looks deep, but also not long. It might heal.
I look around, Edmund and Hereman with me, as I try and decide what to do for the best. Help comes from an unexpected source.
“Put this in the wound,” Eowa states, waving a large piece of moss at me.
“My thanks,” I snatch the moss, rip it in half, and passing half to Ordheah, bend to cover Lyfing’s wound with it. He moans at the touch.
“You’ll be fine,” I tell him gruffly, not at all sure he will be.
“Bring him into the woods,” Eowa insists. “I can help with the wounds.” I’m not sure he can, but all I know to do is to keep the wounds clean and free from infection. I have nothing to bind either wound with, other than dirty linen and I know that won’t do. All of my supplies of herbs are back with Haden.
“Carry them,” I instruct. “But four of you stay here, gather up the horses and watch for any other Raiders.” Hereman immediately takes that command, and calling Eahric, Wulfstan and Ælfgar to him, begins to issue his own instructions.
I help carry Lyfing back under the trees, grateful when the canopy above our heads disrupts the heat from the sun.
Eowa has made his way to the remains of the fire, and now he adds small pieces of wood and more moss to make it flame brighter and hotter. The Raiders had a temporary arrangement to hold a pot over the fire. Eowa discards it, and simply places the container into the flames, not seeming to heed the reaching yellow flickers that try to make the transition from wood to flesh.
Ordheah is laid beside Lyfing. Ordheah is groaning in pain, his face flushed, rather than white, and I bend to smell his wound. It doesn’t stink.
“It might have somehow missed all the vital bits,” I confirm, and he nods, his hand bloody from holding the moss in place.
Eowa is busy, skipping around the outskirts of the cleared camp, picking up small green shoots, and then sniffing them. Some he keeps, some he discards, and then he thrusts them all into the pot, with a sniff of satisfaction. Then he stands again and goes hunting under rocks for more of the moss he’s found.
I watch him, fascinated, the exertions of my day finally being felt. I almost fear to even blink in case my eyes close and never open again.
I can hear my men about the work of clearing the corpses and burying them, and I know I should help, but equally appreciate that I’m too exhausted. I’m hungry and thirsty, and I wish Haden were intelligent enough to come and find me with the supplies he carries.
Ordheah continues to groan and grumble, unhappy with his wound, but it’s Lyfing that concerns me, for he’s fallen back into a slumber.
“This,” Eowa flourishes a beaker in front of my eyes, and I realise that I’ve fallen asleep, sitting upright.
“For Lyfing or Ordheah,” I point as I speak, trying to focus on them both. Lyfing sleeps, but his colour seems to have been restored, and Ordheah is also silent, his chest rising and forward in sleep. I notice then that both wounds have been dressed and packed with moss and strips of a torn tunic.
“How long was I asleep?” I ask no one.
“For you,” Eowa insists, and I take the beaker and sniff it suspiciously, only then realising that Edmund is also a member of our small party. He grins at me.
“It’s fine. It’ll make you feel better.”
I swig the warm mixture quickly enough that I can’t taste it, but immediately I feel more alert, and my aching body seems much more fluid.
“Eowa has been treating our wounded. The dead are buried, their treasures taken and now we have a shit load of horses once more.”
I chuckle at Edmund’s aggrieved tone.
“My thanks,” I bow to Eowa, and he grins, before scampering away to search a grassy expanse at the base of another tree.
“A strange creature,” Edmund comments. “But skilled.”
I don’t reply. There doesn’t seem to be any need when I agree so wholeheartedly.
“I’ve sent Eadulf and Eahric to get our horses. They’ve ridden around the outskirts of the wood. I think they’ll be fine, although Haden will be difficult, as usual.”
“He will, contrary bastard.”
“What were you thinking this morning?” Edmund asks, as though my words remind him of earlier events.
“I was just trying something different.”
“Well, don’t do it again. The men need you to lead them. I’ve no interest in it, and Hereman has proven that he always acts without thought.”
I shrug away the comment, trying not to hear the fear that underlies Edmund’s words.
“What now?” he asks, indicating the encampment, and the two sleeping men. They’re not alone either. Eadulf and Eahric might have gone to get the horses, but other than the four that guard the treeline, almost everyone else is slumped in sleep.
My stomach rumbles loudly, and I look at Edmund, and he looks at me. And we laugh.
“I need to fucking eat,” I complain, standing and stretching my back.
“After that, well, we’ll bloody well see, won’t we?”
Chapter 16
My concerns are mostly with Lyfing and Ordheah. I don’t want to ride on with either of them, but neither can I send them back. Not with their wounds. It bedevils me as soon as my stomach is full, and I’ve mingled with the rest of my warriors, ensuring all are well.
There are, as I thought, cuts and bruises forming, and somehow, Eoppa has managed to get his helm wedged so tightly onto his head, that in the end, there’s no choice but to slather the side of his head in the oil that’s leaked from the fish taken from the river for another meal, and slip the helm free.
It comes away with a strange ‘popping’ noise, and Eoppa winces and then rubs his head.
“Bastard thing,” he complains, as we all examine his helm carefully.
“What hit you?” I ask, noticing how dented it is on the back of the helm. It makes no sense to me. It looks as though one of my warriors hit him.
“A bloody tree branch,” Eoppa offers ruefully. “I walked into it, and it did that to me.”
“I hope you chopped it down,” Edmund laughs, and I’d join in, but my hands stink of fish and I’m desperate for something to rub them on.
“Fuck it,” I eventually complain when not even long grasses have rubbed the stink clear. “I’m going to the stream.” It’s only just out of sight of the camp, but I’m cautious all the same, Haden nudging me along. He’s been a shit since he was retrieved from the other campsite.
“I know, I know,” I complain loudly. “I’ve apologised. Can’t we leave it at that.” I don’t much mind that I’m speaking to my horse. Our conversation benefits from the fact he can’t rep
ly to me, other than by nipping my ear, or stamping on my foot, or generally being a total arsehole. He’s opted for the last option, and now he shoves me with his nose, and refuses to go where I want to.
As I’m bending over, swirling my hands clean in the clear, but cold water, he nudges me, and I overbalance, landing almost face first in the water. I splutter, the cold permeating inside my byrnie immediately, and making me wish it were too hot, as opposed to too cold, I swear I hear him laughing at me.
“You damn fucker,” I complain, still standing, knee deep in the pool of water, determined not to give him another opportunity to dunk me.
Only then does he bend his neck, and lower himself so that he can drink deeply, and only as he does so, do I lift my hands clear from the water, liberally covering him with the water I dislodge.
His whinny of complaint brings a smile to my face as I stamp clear.
“Two can play, you know,” I laugh, resting my wet body against him. He stills, lowering his neck to drink once more. I could get used to such moments, but not while the Raiders still stalk me, and worse, have control of Repton.
The arrival of Jarl Sigurd, dead now of course, has me considering what the Raiders know about me. Do they know that my warriors and I have almost single-handedly killed every warrior they’ve sent to track me down? Or was Jarl Sigurd’s arrival for a different reason.
By now, Icel might well have reached Repton, but sure as shit, there hasn’t been enough time to send a fresh warband to hunt me down. If there had, I’m sure that Goda, if not Icel as well, would have escaped to let me know. I can’t imagine we’re difficult to hunt down, not anymore. Just follow the trail of burial mounds.
Disgruntled with my thinking, I lead Haden back the way we’ve come. I’m still dripping wet, and need to change, but the heat of the fire would make it easier for me. Movement in the woods has me reaching for my seax, sopping wet and slick in my hand, before I hear Edmund speaking to someone. There’s no fear in his voice, and I deduce that one of my allies has finally decided to join us.
