by M J Porter
Cinder is level now. One hoof to either side of me. A long horse’s tongue reaches down, a whiffle of hay and fear reminding me of the stable, and not this bloody field of slaughter, where the snow has become the sword on which a silversmith might hawk his wares.
“Fuck.”
“Are you alright?” Rudolf offers me his hand, even as I stroke Cinder’s nose, assuring her there are no hard feelings, well, other than the persistent ache in my chest.
“Maybe.” I expel, taking his hand, pushing Cinder aside, Wærwulf with a firm hold on her reins.
I go to stand, breath catching at the shriek from my neck wound and the piercing ache of a rib, broken, no doubt.
“My Lord,” Icel’s voice is filled with menace, and I know what he’s going to say, even before the words leave his mouth.
“The horses are gone.” There’s fury in the statement, impotent rage, boiling anger, and worse of all, absolutely no condemnation, even though I know it can only be my fucking fault.
Chapter 8
“Fuck,” I explode. I’m running through the rapidly building snow. Well, if you can call it running. I look like a young child on unsteady legs. I might topple at any moment. And fuck, my chest hurts.
I’ve abandoned the battle site. I’m not alone. All of my warriors rush back the way we’ve come. Only Wærwulf is mounted, and he walks Cinder close beside me, not risking her by asking for a canter or even a trot. All the same, I know what we’re going to find when we get there. Icel wouldn’t lie.
Hereman has remained behind, Wulfred beside him. Only Icel rushed back with the terrible news.
“Some fucker’s stolen my bastard horse,” I mutter to myself. I could scream with rage. Bellow with it, as well. It’s not just that it’s snowing faster and harder than ever before. They’ve taken my horse. My friend. And it’s all my fucking fault.
My arrogance astounds me, as does the presumption of those bastard scum.
But more than anything, they’ve taken my friend.
I can’t imagine that Haden made it very easy. Not at all. Yet, I fear that they’ll have injured him trying to assert their dominance. I’ll bloody kill all of them if those wounds are mortal. I’ll send them to their deaths, and I’ll fucking enjoy it.
“Coelwulf,” Hereman’s snapped words emerge from before the flying snow. It almost blinds me as it gusts into my face. I have to find Hereman by sound, not by sight.
“Be fucking careful,” he growls, holding me back with an outstretched hand that trembles as I finally find him.
“What?”
But I can already see why the caution’s needed.
“They lead that way,” Hereman indicates the marks in the snow. I can’t orientate myself enough to see which way he points, whether it’s towards the battle site or the river. There’s snow festooning his beard, and eyes pierce me. He wants answers as much as I do.
“Are they all gone?”
“Yes, all of them.” And then he pauses, and I wait. Whatever he’s about to say won’t make easy listening.
“There’s a trail of blood.”
“Bastards,” Wulfred explodes, beating me to it. The comfort of the forest beckons to me, promising shelter from the intensifying blizzard. But if we don’t follow the impressions in the snow, I might never see Haden again. I know what needs to be done.
“I’m going after them,” I call to my warriors trailing behind. We’ve left a fiery and bloody mess behind us, but it’s invisible from here. Sæbald has thought to bring a flaming piece of wood with him, the cloth from one of the dead men, wrapped around it. I can just about make him out as he’s rimmed in an orange bright enough to blind me.
“I’m fucking coming.”
“Me too.”
“Don’t even think about saying bloody no,” I expect the response from them all.
“Is anyone injured?” I growl. “Does anyone have a wound that will hinder us? If they do, speak now. We need to move fast, or we’ll lose them forever.” I hold my silence about my potentially broken rib. I’ll pretend it’s that which makes my chest ache.
“My Lord.” It’s Tatberht who speaks, emerging from the curtain of white, his face paler than the gleaming snow. “I need to remain behind.” I can see how he’s hunched against a wound. I don’t want to leave him, though. Not if he’s going to die. I couldn’t. I bloody won’t.
“Sæbald, get a fire going. Rudolf, quick, find some twigs and branches, help Sæbald. Ælfgar,” but he’s already moving to Tatberht’s side.
“I’ll stay with him,” he grunts. I’m grateful I don’t have to ask.
“Here,” and I’m surprised when Wærwulf lands in the snow. “Keep Cinder with you. In the morning, go to London. There’ll be a healer there.” I’m amazed by Wærwulf’s offer, and I think Tatberht will argue against the necessity. But something passes between the two men, a lingering look before Tatberht limps beneath the branches, Cinder, head trailing, following meekly behind. All traces of the terrified horse have gone, but I can see where she bleeds from a wound on her belly.
I understand then that Wærwulf concern is for his horse, as well as his comrade. Both Cinder and Tatberht need help that we can’t provide. Not here, in the freezing conditions, the snow seems to grow taller between one breath and the next.
The scent of pine needles catching alight makes me wish for heat and a hearth, but I’m not going to abandon my friend or any of the other horses. We need to get them back, and we need to get moving. Now.
“Eat the food, drink the water,” Wærwulf commands. “There’s some moss as well. Use it for Tatberht’s wound.”
Rudolf erupts from the woodlands, his arms loaded with decent sized branches. There might be enough to keep them warm during the night.
“There’s blankets as well. Perhaps a spare cloak,” Wærwulf is fumbling in the saddlebags.
“We’ll find it, thank you,” Ælfgar announces firmly, a hand on Wærwulf’s shoulder. “I’ll ensure she’s well,” he continues. “Go now, before you lose the trail.”
I meet Ælfgar’s pained eyes, Tatberht already slumped beneath the sheltering branches of a pine tree, hidden from view, even the fire obscured.
“We’ll find you in London,” I confirm, and it’s a threat, not a promise.
He grins and turns aside. Only then do I realise he holds his left hand in his right. Ælfgar must carry a wound as well.
I almost reconsider. The lives of my men are too important to me. But, Ælfgar and Tatberht are hardy fuckers. If they’ve realised they can’t keep up with us, then they’re perfectly capable of ensuring one another stays alive. I’ll have to trust them to do so.
“Aye, My Lord,” Tatberht’s words emerge from beneath the bowed branches. “You’re not getting rid of me that bloody easily. You know it. I know it. Now, go and find Haden before he eats one of the Raiders and Wombel before he does something fucking stupid.” The words are meant to cheer.
“Stay alive,” and I firmly turn my back on them, heading back into the raging storm.
“We need to stay close together,” I throw my words to my warriors. “Make sure you always know who’s beside you. If we leave anyone behind, or someone falls back, they’ll be dead before we can find them, if we can bloody find them.”
It’s as though snow bears face me, not men, the creatures appearing before me as though from a story the Norsemen tell. Cloaks are enclosed in white, fat snowflakes dancing between us, and every single face is set in a grimace beneath helms and hoods.
“We know what to fucking do,” Pybba announces, daring me to argue with him.
“You bloody better,” and I turn to follow Hereman.
He’s been growing increasingly impatient, and I understand his fear. The tracks are already starting to disappear. Only, between the translucent snow, and the light from the increased number of brands, we can see the trail of bright maroon.
My eyes fix on it, a hundred different scenarios in my mind. I allow my ire to drive my feet in a
nd out of the piling snow. It’s hard going, and sweat beads down my back, even before we’ve moved beyond the trees, my breath trying to melt the snow before it can land on the ground or me. Fuck, my chest hurts.
The line of hooves continues in a reasonably straight line close to the tree line, although I detect that our mounts didn’t neatly follow one another. In the strange glow from the snow-laden clouds, I can almost see how difficult Haden and Billy would have made it. Samson and Dever as well. I can’t see that any of them would have been easy to quell. That only makes me worry about the blood. Not that the line grows any wider. But it’s persistent, long, and without any breaks.
I hope it’s from one of the fucking Raiders. Not one of the horses.
“Where the fuck are they going?” Hereman’s huffs over my shoulder. I don’t waste the breath to answer. They could travel to Frankia, and we’d still have to follow on behind. Although, I understand why he’s uneasy. Now that I’ve worked out which way’s which, I can’t help thinking that we might be following our horses back towards Grantabridge. It would be fucking typical.
Gregory implied that these Raiders, known to King Alfred, were an entirely separate group from the jarls at Grantabridge. Perhaps he was unaware they knew one another. But I don’t fucking think so. What other tricks has the crafty and deceitful Alfred of Wessex tried to present as fact?
Beneath my feet, I feel the ground begin to climb, steeper and steeper. My steps falter, and I’ve no idea how much time has passed. We could have been walking for half the night or only a matter of steps. The blizzard is disorientating. I walk through a tunnel, and there’s no hope of ever reaching its end.
And I’m beginning to be weighed down as well. I’ve not appreciated just how heavy snow can be. I remember then some half-heard story of sheep caught out in the snow on the hills surrounding Hereford during a late winter storm. The animals, protecting their young, were entirely covered by the snow and unable to escape its confines when the storm ended because of its weight. I’m beginning to see how easily that could happen.
And then Hereman stops in front of me. I don’t even notice, barrelling into him slowly. I reach for Hereman, keen to pull him backwards, only to fall back myself.
“Bollocks,” I complain, my arms disappearing into the thick snow that ends just below my shoulders, my breath ragged, my chest agony.
“Shhh,” is Hereman’s cantankerous reply. He doesn’t help me up. I consider staying there. How much easier would it be just to lie down, allow the snow to cover me, the cold to warm me, or so they say? I could be just like those damn sheep. Just as stupid as them.
“Get the fuck up,” Rudolf’s words are tight with anger, his hand waving in front of my face, even as Icel ignores me to stand beside Hereman.
“Is it stopping?” I ask, but Rudolf shakes his head, dislodging snow from his shoulders in the process.
“I don’t think it’s ever going to fucking stop,” he grumbles. I haul on his arm, considering just for a moment, pulling him down as well, but there’s no need for us both to be wet and cold.
When I’m back on my feet, I’m facing the wrong way. I pick out the exhausted faces of my warriors. Some offer me a grin, but most are head down, chastised like a hound caught chewing the deer instead of returning them to their master.
I would shout some encouragement, but again, Hereman demands silence.
“What is it?” I whisper, using Icel’s tracks to join the two of them.
“Over there. I can see something.”
I look where Hereman indicates but can detect nothing but the continuing blizzard. I shudder, the sweat already cooling on my body. I need to get moving again and quickly.
“A building or horses?” I ask with frustration, only for Hereman to round on me.
“If you shut the fuck up, I might be able to work out what’s happening.” His words are as sharp as the jagged wind that’s compounding my misery. I bite my tongue rather than tell him what I think of him—damn bastard.
“The blood has stopped,” Rudolf points out. He’s not wrong.
“And where are the tracks?” I’ve been following blindly behind Hereman.
“They stopped back there, but the blood continued.” That makes no sense, although perhaps it does. Lyfing appears with his brand. We’ve all been picking up whatever we can find and setting the scraps aflame. We’ve been travelling for far longer than I thought we would.
“See, the hoofprints have been filled in, only the blood’s survived, and then, only when the snow’s scraped away.”
“So, where are they?”
“Over there, perhaps,” Hereman admits. He doesn’t look happy about it, well, on what I can see of his face. His beard is entirely frosted, his nostrils rimmed with white, his lips pressed so tightly together, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he told me they were stuck together.
“Or, we’ve lost the path,” Icel rumbles. Lyfing is busy with his brand, and I know what he’s doing. While I breathe heavily, each gasp agony, I wait for his cry of discovery, hoping it won’t come. It better fucking not come.
“There’s nothing here, as far as I can tell.” No one corrects him. He’s hunting in the snow; we all know that.
“Then, we’ll go that way. It’s as good as any other,” I announce. We’re exhausted, pushed to our limits and then beyond. Yet, if I call a halt, no one will follow those orders. We’re hunting for our horses. We won’t stop until we find them.
I raise my voice above the rasp of the wind. “Check your weapons. Make sure they run clear of scabbards and weapons belts. You’ll be fuck all use to me if your seax is stuck solid.” I’m working my weapon lose, hoping not to be the arsehole who failed to wipe the gore from their blade after killing the fuckers by the river.
Rudolf struggles. One hand on his seax, the other on his weapons belt.
“Fucking no,” he’s chanting, and I reach across.
“Put both hands on your weapons belt, and I’ll pull.” He nods, snow dislodging with the movement. I try my luck, but it isn’t moving.
“Bastards had sticky blood,” Rudolf huffs, but I’m not giving up. With my arm trembling from the effort, it finally begins to move. I expect the seax to come loose with a sudden sundering, but it does the opposite, painfully emerging bit by bit until I’m holding a sharpened blade, darkened by blood and filth.
“Clean it,” I instruct tersely, not wishing to compound the problem by berating him.
“You’d have looked a right bloody fool if that had happened in a battle,” Pybba offers darkly, the hint of reproach impossible to ignore. Rudolf wisely holds his peace, although his eyes are furious and blazing. He’s angry at himself. Not at me.
“Is the snow stopping,” I ask again, convinced that it’s not falling as heavily as it was.
“Maybe, certainly, it must be close to sunrise,” Hereman states, brokering no argument. The pink clouds have turned a menacing brown colour. If it doesn’t stop snowing soon, I fear it’ll be set for the entire day. Getting to this spot was hard enough. Getting back will be impossible. Not that we’re going back without Haden.
“Lead on,” I call then, my words muffled, and it takes Hereman longer than I expect to take the first step. Maybe he didn’t hear me. Or perhaps he was just orientating himself towards whatever caught his eye.
We’re turned so that rather than facing the snow, it comes at us from our left-hand side. It could make the going easier, but it doesn’t, not now we’re shuffling up a steep slope as well. It was hard enough to judge how deep my feet went without the hill. Now each step jars, the ground beneath my feet closer than I think it’ll be.
I glance upwards, hopeful of finding an end to the torment that’s seen me slick with sweat and shivering with cold, my neck itching and growing too hot. My chest aches, although perhaps it isn’t broken because I shouldn’t have been able to walk this far. Only then do I realise what’s stopped Hereman.
There’s something there, hinted at in the darker sh
adows that give way to driving snow at the two edges. I don’t know what it is, maybe a steading or a barn. But, there’s nothing else. No hint of pale flames, such as I see when I look back along my line of men following behind. There’s no promise of warmth.
Hereman pushes on in front. I struggle to keep pace with him and Icel. The pair power through the snow and the storm as though it’s little more than a summer shower of rain, bringing the promise of renewal without the deluge of winter.
I grit my teeth. I came to London to beat back our enemy, not hike through a bloody blizzard searching for my stolen horse.
As we near the top of the hill, I begin to make out the building's shape because it’s certainly no longer snowing as thickly as before. Not that the building is complete, far from it. I harbour a thought it’s little more than an ancient hill fort, perhaps pressed back into use by the thieving bastards who’ve stolen our horses.
The layer of snow thins closer to the summit, although I can’t see any grass or rocks. I grunt with the knowledge that I’ve just waded through the stuff that’s sloughed from here, driven downwards by the fierce wind. But it reveals something we’ve been missing. A selection of hoof-shaped impressions appear. Our horses are here.
A shouted voice, the words unintelligible, sounds close. I’m crouching low, desperate not to be seen before we’ve had the opportunity to plan our attack. We’re facing the remains of a rampart, forged from the earth by the labour of many men, speckled with snow, as though an owl caught in flight. I suspect a ditch is hidden beneath the snow, as does Hereman, it seems. He and Icel move forward slowly, carefully, not wishing to disturb any stray rocks when we’re so close, using their swords and spears in a way that was never intended.
I can’t see over the white rampart, but I reach for my seax, sliding it free of its sheath, just to be sure it’ll come away when required. I might have kept my fury from showing when Rudolf encountered the problem, but it’s a serious matter. It slides easily into my hand while my eyes, rimmed with ice, stare at where Icel and Hereman labour before me.
