The Last Sword

by M J Porter

  A rush of wind brings the unmistakable scent of horse manure my way, my heart thudding in my chest. Haden is just over that rampart, as are the other horses. I’ve never been happier to smell horse shit in my life.

  “Watch it,” Icel’s whisper is not quiet. I would hush him, but at least we’ve all seen what he’s found. There’s the ditch, but it’s not a deep one. Hereman’s spear meets the snow before the deadly glinting blade at its end.

  He moves to the left and then the right, continuing the action. The ditch is complete, as far as it’s possible to tell. I gaze along the rim of the rampart, and it’s visible, just perceptibly, where the growing sunlight touches the snow, as a dip.

  “How are we going to do this?” Pybba has made his way to my side. Lyfing, Sæbald and Gyrth have gone in the opposite direction. They’re crouched low, their cloaks so covered in snow that if I didn’t know they were there, I’d hardly see the movement. The rest of my men are close, huddled low, preparing themselves.

  Another voice drifts towards us. I hold myself tight, not wishing to give away even the smallest of movements, head lowered, cloak over my body. The unique sound of boots walking through snow grows louder, the unmistakable crack and crunch. Will we be seen? Will our presence be detected before we can plan our attack? I know what’ll happen if that’s the case. Perhaps it would be better.

  A shouted instruction echoes from behind the barricade, and the footsteps pause and then begin to turn aside again.

  I wait, all the same, until I can’t hear the brittle sound, and only then lift my head. Icel’s eyes meet mine.

  “They’re preparing to leave.” The words fall heavily into the chill air.

  Quickly, I assess the situation. I know so little about this place, and yet does it truly matter? I’ve attacked other unknowns in the past. I did so yesterday.

  “Beornstan, Siric and Oda, follow the others and attack when we do.”

  “Aye, My Lord,” Siric states flatly, Beornstan nodding, while Oda doesn’t meet my eyes but rather checks his weapons belt before moving to follow the indentations in the snow.

  “Icel, Rudolf, Pybba, Osbert, Leonath and Ingwald, circle in the opposite direction to Sæbald. Again, attack when you hear us.” It’s not the greatest of plans, but it’ll work. It always has in the past. Not, I appreciate, that we usually have horses to bloody rescue.

  “Hereman, you and I will go first. Wulfhere and Gardulf follow on behind, while Wulfred and Goda are to follow them. The rest of you,” and I wish there were more than the six remaining men to act as reserves, “get to the horses. Take them away from here, if it gets fucking nasty. The way to London is that way,” and I point back the way we’ve come, “but anywhere there are no Raiders is fucking good for me.”

  Resolved faces meet my look. I don’t have to tell anyone how important it is that none of the horses is injured. At least, I hope it’s not.

  The snow sparkles before me as though precious gems, but beneath it all, the same old muck and filth lie hidden. I find a grin for my frozen face, eyes feeling as though they’re held open by the cold. I rush forward, leap across the ditch, and I’m scurrying up the exposed mud rampart before I can consider another way of doing this, banishing all my aches and pains, the thrill of what’s to come overriding everything else.

  Hereman is quickly at my side. I catch sight of Icel and Rudolf, Sæbald and Lyfing doing the same.

  My eyes are everywhere, trying to find the horses, to determine what we face. There are the smouldering remains of a fire, the ground almost free of snow around it, and the backs of at least twenty-five warriors greet me.

  I growl low in my throat.

  Our horses are there. Heads hang low, exhaustion in their stances, while these bastards pilfer the saddlebags and stuff items back into them. They’ve spent a reasonably comfortable night thanks to our provisions.

  I scan the animals, seeking out Haden, but the quick sweep shows me Billy, Stilton, Keira and Dever’s similar black and white markings, but not his height. Of Haden, there’s no sight. Not yet.

  The snow reveals lumps and mounds, perhaps fragments of quarried away walls, the stones put to use elsewhere. There even seems to be a level area, maybe a road of some sort, and it’s along that part of the structure that Sæbald is loping along, his movements steady. The rest of my warriors follow him.

  I rush to catch up before Sæbald meets our foes.

  For now, the men seem unaware that they’re not alone. But the horses aren’t.

  Dever picks up his hanging head, eyes fixing on Rudolf, with a look that borders on the calm acceptance that he’d come, mixed with slight dejection that it’s taken so long. He lifts his right foot, and almost languorously, stamps down on the foot of the Raider, trying to adjust the saddle so that he can mount.

  The man’s howl of pain covers the sound of our advance, and even better, draws the eye of every single Raider to their comrade, derisive cries filling the air.

  I smirk. It seems even the damn horses have learned the art of distraction.

  Sprinting through the snow, legs held high, until I reach the clear area, my seax twirls into my hand. I’ve already chosen my first target.

  Once more, blood stains the snow. I consider the pleasure I take in such a sight.

  There’s nothing more satisfying than seeing my enemy's body fluid slowly draining through the crusted layer of snow. If I were a scop, I’d have the words to describe the interplay of the wine-hued substance, through the crystalline structure, all infused with the glowing sunlight. But I’m fucking not. It looks like what it is, red on white. I’ve never seen a better sight.

  The Raider slumps to the ground, head impacting the snow with a satisfying crisp snap. Billy all but winks at me; only I know that horses can do no such thing.

  I run my hand along Billy’s nose, appreciating his warmth. I twist his reins around the saddle and then slap him aside on the rump. He goes keenly. He’s free. He needs to remain so, and that’s the position I’ve entrusted to Wærwulf and the others. Yet, I hear him falter and Hereman’s soft murmur. It seems I’m not the only one to have missed their mount.

  All eyes remain on the wounded man, so it’s easy to free Stilton, another of the Raiders taking a sharp stab through his neck. Only, he wavers, refusing to fall, almost coming to rest against Stilton’s back. I’m forced to shove him aside so that he more thuds to the snowy ground than collapses into it, even with my one hand holding him tightly. This time, I know the Raiders will realise they’ve been found.

  Stilton rushes free, eager to join Billy without any further encouragement. They’re not the only horses to have been freed from their captivity because there’s no other word for it. Keira is free, Kermit too. Added to which the party led by Icel and that by Sæbald have our foes just about encircled. They could escape, to the north, but only if they’re fucking quick.

  Hereman lopes beside me, a grin on his face because Billy’s been retrieved. But the rest isn’t going to be so easy. The Raiders know they’ve been found.

  The words of one of the warriors, face dark behind a hastily donned helm, snap through the sharp air. The Raiders reach for weapons and helms immediately, but not shields because we carry our shields. The horses didn’t have them when they were taken.

  “They mean to protect the horses,” Wærwulf calls, his words reaching everyone. I can see the eager look on Rudolf’s face. The warrior, still hopping in pain, thwacks his long sword against Dever’s side, not to hurt him, but certainly a threat.

  “Rudolf, no,” my words echo louder than Wærwulf’s and are matched by Pybba. We both see the danger.

  Haunted eyes in a greyed face glare at me with fury, and I think he’ll disobey. Rudolf surprises me.

  “I’m coming, Dever. Don’t worry. I’ll kill the bastard in good time.”

  Laughter rings through the air. It draws my eye, and I’m not alone. Only Hereman seems immune as he swings his axe at the man who stands between him and the rest of the an
imals. That sound restores us all to the task ahead. Our foe might laugh at us for rescuing our mounts, but he’s the daft bastard who’ll be bleeding his last into the powdery substance.

  So we fight. Hereman’s warrior puts up a good enough defence, but he has no shield. Hands can only resist a war axe for so long. I take the next man. Hereman’s movements are enormous, leaving me little room to use my shield, but I have my seax, and that’s all I need to slice the reddened nose from the face of the bulbous man who thinks to ride Chocolate.

  Yet, the squat warrior isn’t without skill. As my seax flashes in the growing daylight, his sword counters the movements. Each and every one of them. I feel my arms growing heavier and heavier. I’ve walked all night in my byrnie, carrying my weapons and my shield. My stomach growls, and my throat is dry, but I know where my succour is if the stealing swine haven’t feasted on it already.

  The ground before us rapidly clears of snow beneath the heat of our movements. I’m just about to make a killing blow when the man stops, pinned, blood pooling and dripping onto the layer of grass and stones revealed beneath the snow.

  “Stop fucking around,” Hereman instructs, surveying the dead man, pinioned by the spear that ended our altercation. I shut my mouth tightly. Better that than tell him what I honestly think of his unwanted interference.

  Gardulf’s foe also stumbles in the snow, blood welling from his foot. My forehead wrinkles.

  “How the fuck did that happen?” I bark, but Gardulf is too busy beating back the Raider to answer my question. Hereman’s too eager to smack the horses’ backsides and have them escape their captivity, even if it means coming through me.

  Fusty breath engulfs me, the horses’ acknowledgement of their rescue, and I run my hand along nose after nose. It’s as though we’ve broken the shield wall, and in doing so, gained allies.

  As the horses stream free, I check for Haden but don’t see him, even as I rush inside the circle and begin to attack our enemy from behind. Those who face Icel and Sæbald expect only a horse at their back, not a reaching blade.

  And then, all the Raiders are dead or dying, and all the horses are free.

  “Where’s Haden?” Rudolf calls harshly. I peer into the herd of mounts, all claimed by one of my warriors, well, all apart from Billy, because Hereman, and his spear, are busy ensuring all the bastards are truly dead. He’s so powerful; the spear passes in and out of their bodies without seeming to encounter any resistance.

  “Isn’t he there?” I demand to know, worry making my words sharp.

  “No, no, he’s not,” Rudolf shouts, the words spoken in panic.

  “But all the others are?”

  “Yes, I’ve accounted for them all,” Wærwulf assures me of that. I turn, peering all around me, making use of the growing daylight, wondering where my damn horse is. Has he run off? Has he been injured? My thoughts return to the trail of blood that’s brought us here. Was it from my Haden? My chest aches once more. Fuck.

  “Hereman, stop,” my hand is on his arm as his fierce eyes greet mine. Beneath him, one of the Raiders is writhing in agony, his hand on his belly, bright blood flowing from it.

  “Where is the black and white horse? The big horse?” I demand to know, my eyes trying to hold his against the oncoming blankness of death.

  I get no response. My hands are abruptly around his neck, shaking him, repeating the question, only Wærwulf has appeared as well.

  He asks the question in Danish, and there’s recognition in those eyes and a quirk to the moustached mouth that speaks of amusement. For a moment, I think there’ll be no answer, especially as the prone man chokes on blood, barely able to breathe at all.

  But then he garbles something, rich with derision. I turn to Wærwulf. But there’s no need to ask for a translation, not when Wærwulf reaches forward, grabs the man’s cheeks, between one hand and forces the lips together, trapping the tongue. Wærwulf severs the tongue in a neat movement, the pink flesh landing on the choking man’s chest, and then he’s still. Everything’s still, and I breathe deeply, fear threatening to undo me.

  “He said the big horse had the heart of a mouse. He said the big horse was no use to anyone. He said,” and Wærwulf hesitates, no doubt judging me, ensuring I can take the news. “He said the big horse is over there, in the far corner.”

  Wærwulf stands as he speaks, pointing to where he means, to where the dying man’s hand is pointing.

  “No, he’s not,” I begin, only then I understand.

  Fatigue forgotten about, I leap through the snow and exposed stonework, my eyes raking the area before me, looking for my beloved horse because he’s not standing, not in the far corner.

  And if he’s not standing, that can mean only one of two things, and it better be the fucking second of those.

  Chapter 9

  Rudolf hurries to follow me as I career onwards, others not far behind. Here, the snow lies deeper, the hilltop lower than the more exposed area where we’ve just battled against the Raiders.

  The light shimmers so brightly now, my eyes water from the reflection of the snow, the water freezing as it falls down my cheeks.

  “Haden,” I suck in air to call his name, time and time again, but there’s no reply.

  “Haden, where are you, you damn brute?” I’m not ashamed to own the desperation in my voice as I reach the extent of the enclosed area without finding him.

  “How fucking hard can it be to find a massive bloody horse?” I’m babbling; I know I am. Fear, panic, the edges of my grief, all about to explode from me if I don’t find my horse alive and breathing. The longer it takes to find him, the more convinced I am that it’ll all be too late.

  Belatedly, I notice something I’ve not seen before; the trail of blood glinting beneath the topmost layer of snow.

  “Follow it,” I urge Rudolf, Icel and Wærwulf, who help me.

  “How bloody big is this place?” I get no answer, nothing but the harshness of my breath, the fear constricting my chest, and all for a damn horse, that’s left me one too many time to face my death, alone.

  I race ahead of the others towards an area where the snow lies more thickly. Already I’m in it up to my knees, my trews growing dark as the snow melts on meeting the heat of my body. And still, the thread of red continues.

  Until it doesn’t.

  “No,” I’m moaning, the sound low in my chest, a sound I’ve only ever heard from mother’s whose babes are born dead. “No,” but my hands are scrabbling, up to my elbows, and then up to my shoulders and only then do they touch something solid and marbled, even through the leather of my gloves.

  “No,” I cry again, using my hands to dig into the snow, ignoring the shriek of my neck wound, the ache in my chest. Rudolf joins me, Icel too, the big man shifting twice as much snow as I do, while Rudolf thrusts it behind him through his legs as though he’s a hound digging for a bone.

  “No, no, no,” I can’t stop myself, even when I try and clamp my mouth shut, stop the words from coming forth, impossible to know whether they’re spoken aloud or inside my mind.

  Something moves beneath us, the cleared snow falling back into the hole I’ve been digging, covering whatever it is I’ve found before I can uncover it. A soft sound reaches my wind-scoured ears.

  “Did you fucking hear that?” Rudolf asks desperately, his frantic eyes meeting mine across the disturbed snow.

  “I did, did you?”

  “Yes,” he confirms, and Hereman joins me, axe in his hands and raised above his head.

  “No, no,” I cry, only thinking that he means to cleave my mount in half even while he lies beneath the snow.

  “This’ll be quicker, you damn fool,” and somehow, he’s scooping the snow clear, using the axe head as though it’s a spade.

  And the snow moves and settles once more.

  “Haden,” I call, and this time everything in front of me moves. The snow rearing up, as though the waves swallowing a stricken ship. I’m blinded once more, snow covering me,
so I may as well be the one covered, but I’ve heard a sound that makes my heart soar.

  I batter the snow aside, and there, standing before me as though born himself from the snow, is my horse.

  Staggering forward, I aim to fling my arms around his neck, only to trip on whatever it was I found buried in the snow. I fall, at Haden’s hooves, the thud of my landing, on ground clear of almost all snow, sending shock waves of agony through my neck, hands and knees. I whimper once more and then startle aside, face to face with the blued face of a Raider abandoned by his allies, with my horse as well.

  Silence greets my actions. I shuffle backwards, but Haden’s lips rest on my head, and I wait, just a moment longer, taking his benediction.

  “Stop fucking around,” Hereman’s words are laced with worry and frustration combined. Wrapping my hands around Haden’s nose, finding my feet once more, I understand how cold he is. And how bloody weak.

  Rudolf is already worrying about something on his back leg.

  “Here, get his saddle off him, and then we’ll warm him up.” Pybba’s practical words restore me to myself. I can hear Rudolf talking to Haden as he examines him. I want to look, but right now, the best I can do for him is to remove the saddle.

  Only, the catches are twisted, caught up between the matted hair of his white and black underbelly, run through, here and there, with streaks of red.

  “Is it his blood, or that bastard’s?” I spit from beneath his legs. I’m forced to my knees, fingers grown numb from all the digging, unable to loosen the catches and buckles that hold the saddle and sodden under-blanket.

  “A mix, I think,” Rudolf almost reassures, and finally, the straps spring apart, and the saddle thuds to the ground in a jangle of clashing buckles and the thud of a snowy landing.

  Blanket after blanket covers Haden’s back as soon I reappear, but I’ve seen what concerns Rudolf.

  “How the fuck did this happen?” The skin over Haden’s upper rear leg is torn, a jagged gash almost all the way to his knee. It’s that which bleeds, and no doubt, what led to him being left to die with the blue Raider.