by M J Porter
“Angreb,” the word trembles through me, but my eyes are already on the Raider before me. He’s naked to the waist, the inkings that mark his pale skin, impossible to ignore; his beard rich with trinkets, his dark hair, because I can only see in the shadows and light of the snow and the moon, tightly braided so that a vivid red scar that runs across his forehead is visible.
No doubt he means to terrify with his bulk and menacing face, but I’ve fucking seen it all before.
He rushes me, and then I realise he’s not had the time to put his boots on. A reckless error. A fatal one as well.
My foe leaves marks behind him on the white surface as he rears towards me. I hold my seax steady. This has been close work so far. Those who’ve died have been as sleeping babes content at their mother’s breast. Not so anymore. We’ve roused hornets by killing their queen, and they come for us.
A sharp glance to left and right shows me two things. Firstly, my men are with me. Secondly, we’re fucking outnumbered, massively.
“Skiderik,” my opponent spits at me, considering where to aim his attack. I have no such great thoughts. Instead, my seax stabs cleanly into his armpit, the blood warming and melting the reddened snow, even as I follow up with my forehead smashed against his nose.
He might not have felt the blow that’ll drain him dry, but he sure as fuck felt the broken nose, the wet sound bringing a smirk to my face.
I leave him, writhing in the snow, his weapon waving feebly in his hand.
He should have put his fucking boots on. No man should fight with cold feet.
I feel my body thrum with the satisfaction of a good kill. This is what I’ve been missing. Without this, I’ve felt weak and feeble. I’ve not fucking enjoyed it. Not at all.
Next, three Raiders sneer towards me. They’ve taken the time to dress, or perhaps were already dressed. The shriek of a woman rushing to the dying man assures me I’ve interrupted him. Poor fucker. Dying with his seed unspent.
I don’t mean to kill the woman, but she runs at me and then startles, her breast bloodied.
“Fucking bollocks,” and I wrench my seax free and slice her neck wide-open. It’ll be a quicker death. That’s all I can offer her surprised eyes.
My three foe-men look from the woman to my seax. A look passes between them. I imagine it’s an outrage that I’ve killed the whore. I can’t see it being in compensation for their dead comrade—just one less to vie for her services.
Two of the men are tall, bristling with rage as well as weapons. The other is a full head shorter, but far from being a child, with his grey-flecked beard, snow slowly melting amongst the stiff bristles.
His nose is far from straight, his head entirely devoid of hair, although I detect something inked onto it. That must have fucking hurt. But not as much as what I’m about to do to him.
They think me alone, only for Ordheah and Ingwald to materialise at my shoulders. A more equal battle then.
The shorter man comes first, his pronounced steps, forced to lift his feet high above the rapidly growing snow, slow and steady. His intentions to aim for the right side of my neck are broadcast far and wide, his sword stabbing upwards. I don’t know if his movements are so slow or my senses stretched too tight. A fresh well of blood from his chest, where I’ve decided to throw my seax at him, watching it fly straight over such a short distance, assures me he’s dead.
He falls backwards, and I rush to grab my double-eagle headed seax, my hand bereft without its steadying presence.
The larger man to my right might have some skill, as he and Ingwald clash, sword against sword, while Ordheah’s foe is already silent in the snow.
A temporary grave of snow will hide his bulging eyes quickly enough, no doubt, the stench of opened bowels as well. It’ll be best if a thaw never reaches this bloodied place.
Behind my enemy, I catch sight of Icel, Hereman and Wærwulf. They wipe blades in the snow, the flicker of advancing flames capturing them so that they cast a haloed glow that speaks of death and destruction. Flames begin to lick their way along the sodden roof of the building. It’ll burn the wood and saturated thatch if we’re lucky, but the stones will no doubt remain standing.
Between the three of them, they drag a giant piece of loose stonework, flickering grey and menacing, and wedge it against the door.
The scent of burning flesh tickles my nostrils. The collapsing roof should do the same.
My neck wound twinges, but I ignore it, taking a desultory swipe at Ingwald’s enemy. The two are evenly matched. I don’t have the time to fucking waste.
Our foe clutches his throat where my seax pierces it, Ingwald’s face sheeted in the man’s blood.
“My apologies,” I offer. He grunts with thanks, his eyes too shadowed to see his true thoughts.
And then I turn because something’s happening, and it’s not to do with those trapped in the steading. No. Someone has taken command, and a fierce line of men face mine, shields clutched in blue hands, and I think we might be about to have a real battle.
“Shields,” I bark roughly, Ingwald taking up my cry, even Icel turning from his place at the sealed door to see what’s happening.
I see him shake his head as my warriors rush to me, Pybba and Rudolf amongst them. Down by the sluggish river, I can see flames beginning to lick over the boat timbers. It’s not bloody quick, and it’s not fucking spectacular, and I fear a heavy flurry of snow might extinguish the orange sparks, but enough damage should have been done. I hope.
“To me,” I bellow, to the comforting and familiar huffs and groans of my men. Once more, I realise this is what I’ve missed.
I’ve felt excluded, too weak to get involved in their mock battles and playful banter, my Aunt watching me with her sternest gaze. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to be cowed. It was just a cut. It’s healed. It will heal. In time, my Aunt advises it might not even be visible, not beneath the lines of my neck. It doesn’t feel like that, red, raw and puckered as it is. But it’s covered by a neck guard. Not one of my foes knows it’s there. Not with Jarl Olafr dead and buried before he could tell of his brief triumph. The bastard.
Certainly, it’s not affected my arms and hand. I’ve killed. I’ve left a trail of blazing red in the snow.
“Prepare to attack,” I bellow, licking the pure, white snow from my lips, enjoying its freshness.
But the Raiders have learned that surprise is the best form of attack. They rush at my shield wall, even before our shields snap together, one next to another, to another, the sound reassuring, practise making it effortless.
“Brace,” and my order ripples away, even though it’s heard in the stillness. All around us sleeps. But not here. Here we fight for our lives. Here we fight for Mercia. Only our enemy isn’t just the Raiders; no, it’s Alfred of Wessex. He might not be armed and coming against me, but I can smell his stink on this fuck-up.
The thud of our opponents forward momentum forces us all back a step or two, the snow offering too little to brace against before we recover.
Now, sweat beads my lips, not snow, the air before me, super-heated. I can feel the breathing of my enemy. I can smell their sour sweat and rank, sleep-muddled breath. I can detect the trembling of arms. They seem formidable, but they’re not. Why I consider, didn’t King Alfred of Wessex just kill the fuckers and have done with it?
“Angreb,” we all know what that means. It’s no surprise as shields are slightly lowered, and blades snake towards us. I knock the barbed point of a spear aside with my seax, wishing I could sever the edge, but I don’t have the time. I feel another blade at my feet, and I lift one foot, and then another, and then stamp hard. But it’s gone before I can pin it in place. And then the fucking spear is back once more.
My neck aches with the sharp response, the movement like a tear, even though I know my wound won’t have opened, even if it feels like it has.
I try and move aside to avoid the spear but can’t relinquish my position, not while we’re all being ferociousl
y attacked.
“Fucker,” I expel, considering what I should do. There’s no one behind me to take my place, should I step aside. The shield wall is more prone to shattering than an icicle falling from the eaves of a roof. I won’t allow all my warriors to perish because I fear the slice of cold iron through my flesh.
But, the decision is taken from me, as enemy shields seem to vibrate and the spear is snatched back. Something’s happening, but I can’t see what it is. I know what it is, all the fucking same. Somewhere along the line, one of the Raiders has fallen aside, their place hastily taken by those next to them, so that the gap need never have appeared, but it’s given me the chance I need.
I slide my seax around my shield, above the man who tries to kill me, and then I reverse my grip and stab down with all the force available. I whisper a hope that he’s not wearing a helm, and then I hear a shriek of horror, even as my blade slides forwards, before continuing its downwards journey.
I don’t know what I’ve impaled, as I wrench it back, but my opponent stumbles. I rush forwards, driving Ingwald and Ordheah with me, even as blood drips onto my exposed hand. I think it’s snow, but the smell tells me differently.
Hastily, I turn aside, batter my seax against the shield there. I’ve forged a path, but not for long. Not if the number of Raiders rushing toward me is to be believed. Behind the Raiders shield wall, the fire has caught on the building's roof, while Icel and Hereman move to spread it as far as possible. Wærwulf is engaged in a battle against two Raiders, his movements concise and placed with care. He’ll triumph. It’s just a matter of time.
A sudden tempest sees the fire spread evenly over the roof, the screams of those trapped within, causing more than one of those rushing to the shield wall to reconsider their actions. They could help their allies. If they fucking wanted to. It would aid me if they did, but then it might imperil Icel, Hereman and Wærwulf. The three stand together now, blocking both the entrance to the steading and access to the rock that keeps the door shut. I can see where the wood of the door bows. There are desperate people in there. I spit aside my distaste. They should have stayed at bloody home.
Not that the fire on the steading burns alone. The one from the ships is starting to drive back the falling snow. It falls in patches now, making it more difficult to see. I imagine Sæbald and Gyrth are already rushing to assist the rest of us.
I brace myself for the warrior careering towards me. Only his steps falter, his head turning, no doubt called to aid those who’ve decided they might benefit from rescuing those in the burning steading—my face twists with consternation. I hope Icel, Hereman and Wærwulf will know to do the right thing now because I can’t shout to them. The instructions are too long and complex. They’d be lost in the gusting flames.
The black smoke threatens to choke me as the wind stirs it. I expect to taste only smoke, not ash, and I’m forced to bend double, hack up whatever I’ve inhaled. My old wound screams in agony.
“Fucking stand up,” Rudolf’s voice is rough with fury, the clang of metal on metal, assuring me that I might just have to thank him for saving me. I spit aside the ash, inhale sharp, clean snow, raising my seax to counter the next attack.
Pybba has joined Rudolf, as have Ingwald and Ordheah. The five of us fight all-comers, those who still rush to join the battle, and those members of the shield wall who surely feel it faltering.
A wide-eyed blond-haired warrior screams his rage at me. His byrnie is speckled with snow, the leather flashing blackly against the leaping flames. He carries not one but two war axes in his hands, one much larger than the other. I grip my shield, pressing it forward as I rush him. The blows send shockwaves along my left arm, while with my right, I stab and slash with ferocity, mouth shut, careful not to inhale more of the acrid smoke.
It smells like pork, and I know it’s fucking not, even as my belly rumbles.
A tumbling piece of ash settles onto the head of my enemy, but he doesn’t notice, even as I watch the flames flicker along the edges of his hair, no doubt dried and cracked. I wait for his scream of agony, even as I hope the snow doesn’t quench it. I stab with my seax and my shield.
Blow after blow connects, his axe on my shield, his other axe trying to stop my seax, but the movement of swinging and aiming is much slower than that of stabbing. Blood erupts from between my gloved fingers as I finally land a blow on his exposed forearm, the force pinning it to the side of his body.
Fuck, that must hurt. And now, of course, he’s aware that his hair is wreathed in a halo of heavenly fire.
His eyes reflect the fire of the ships; his lips opened in a shriek of agony. I wrench back my seax before he runs screaming into the snow, tripping headfirst into a pile of the stuff.
He sizzles. I watch him, knowing it would be easy to kill him now, to drive my seax through the back of his neck, his weapons lying to either side of him. For a moment, just a moment, I think I might let him live.
“Ah, fuck that,” and Rudolf drives his sword through my foe’s back.
“Get on with it,” he growls, and my eyebrows rise into my hair while Pybba cackles evilly.
“You let loose a real tyrant,” Pybba continues before he lays into his next target, a tall, wiry man with black rims for eyes.
I spare a glance for what’s happening around me, but all is chaos. The twin shield walls have long since collapsed. There’s no order to this battle. But then, there rarely is when it comes down to it. We all fight for a cause but not one of us wants to fucking die in the stinking mire of piss and blood, gobs of flesh and cracked bone.
A sudden whoosh of hot air and the roof on the steading collapses in on itself, to yet more cries of rage and wrath, more than one of them cut off mid-air. Poor bastards. Still, they’ll have known what it was like to be too hot, even if only for a heartbeat or two. The entire battle pauses, every single attack, eyes riveted on the scene. I shudder at the furtive hands trying to find the means to escape.
One person, hair aflame like the holy men in the illustrated gospels I’ve seen, makes it all the way up one of the stone walls, dragging himself upright, before collapsing in a sputtering heap into the snow that’s quickly becoming thick enough to cushion his fall.
Behind, more reaching hands can be seen, but they’re weak, feeble. They won’t survive.
With quick steps, I’m in front of one of the fresher foe-men, hand on his weapons belt. It gets no further because he’s tumbling to his knees, his belly sliced open, bleeding into the snow too fast for that which falls to cover the outrage.
His enraged cry recalls everyone to the task at hand. I face two Raiders now, one tall and wide, one short and slender. I could aim for the neck on the shorter and hit the groin of the other.
The shorter warrior grins at me as though appreciating my dilemma. But it’s not a dilemma. A blow to the neck and groin will kill an enemy just as fucking quickly.
But before I can aim my seax at his neck, the largest man swings a huge sword toward me. It must be as long as the shorter of the men, the blade far from sharp.
“What the fuck do you mean to fell with that? A bloody lion?” I’ve heard of such creatures, fierce killers. I’d like to meet one if it was inclined not to kill me.
Garbled laughter spills from his toothless maw, and I grin at him, enjoying this respite.
Daft fucker. Does he have the mind of a child, or is this just his way? I’m wary of the shorter man. I know how effective two working as one can be. I need only glance to where Pybba and Rudolf attack one warrior. With concise cuts wielded by Rudolf, the man doesn’t know what to counter, even as Pybba slices beneath his armpit, liquid pooling down Pybba’s hand as though it were honey from an upturned pot.
I keep the shorter man in my sight as the sword weaves before me. It’s almost hypnotic, but when the shorter man rushes me, my seax is level with my thigh, aiming for his belly. He focuses his energy on landing a blow with his shorter weapon. I’m sure such a tactic has worked before, but not tonight.
His steps slowly falter as he runs himself onto my seax. The weight is uncomfortable, realisation slow in coming. I thrust my shield upwards, ramming the sword. Only it’s not enough. I’m forced to drop my seax, the man with it, and the tall man’s eyes flick from me to his ally. Comprehension is much faster, and his sword whirls through the air again, the aim uncanny as he reaches for my neck. I can’t duck away in time, the dying man coming for me with one bloodied hand and his short sword still outstretched.
“Fuck,” I’m trapped between the two, even though the one is dying.
“You didn’t bloody think that out, did you,” Rudolf’s jibe isn’t wrong, but it’s far from helpful. And then he spins into the taller man, Pybba rushing to knock the long sword aside with his shield.
It almost saves me, but the tall man’s face has twisted. He has revenge on his mind. Pybba’s shield may as well be a feather as he batters it aside. Equally, Rudolf is dismissed with a jab of his fist to slip into the snow.
I consider my sword but know it’s no good against my foe. It won’t be long enough. I have my shield.
Only then, the shorter man trying to kill me shudders, his last breath erupting with a bubble of blood. I know what to do.
I wrestle the sword from lifeless fingers, even while holding my shield against the coming attack. I drive the blade at the taller man’s neck. If he sees the projectile, there’s no indication. He abruptly convulses to the ground in a surprisingly compact way, the sword tip just about touching my boot.
I suck in a much-needed breath and bend to assist Pybba and Rudolf to their feet.
The cockiness has been knocked from Rudolf while Pybba flexes his arm, a glimmer of frustration on his face.
For a moment, the battle rages around us without including us.
“Bastard,” Rudolf kicks the dead man in the arm, and his hand releases the sword in reaction. It settles softly in the snow, disappearing and leaving only an imprint behind.
“My thanks,” I mock gently, wishing only to restore Rudolf’s good spirits.
“Well, we fucking distracted him for you,” Pybba answers darkly. He’s clenching and unclenching his hand, weapon held to his body by the elbow of his handless arm.
