by M J Porter
“Rudolf, ‘ware,” I bellow, hoping my harsh cry reaches his youthful ears above the rest of the unholy racket. He hears everything else he shouldn’t. This better be one of those occasions when he listens to the parts he needs to know.
I can’t see him, or Icel, or Pybba, but I have sight of our opponents. Muscles bunched, I surge through the rest of the enemy. There are enough of my warriors to finish them. But Rudolf is about to be faced with desperate men. And desperate men never fight fair, or well, or even with the skills they’ve honed throughout their years of fighting. But sometimes, they can be fucking lucky.
I won’t allow luck to win this day. Not when skill should be the only answer to these fuckers.
Easily, I push aside any knife, blade, or axe that comes close to me, almost as though I’m immune to the attack. I focus only on the two Raiders, both tall men, both well provisioned, both determined to live through this. They couldn’t be more wrong.
They collide with Rudolf and Pybba with a din that almost blocks out the shrieks of the wolf-eaten man. Almost. Rudolf heard me, which gives me some respite, as does Icel’s square face, knowing and determined, standing behind Pybba and Rudolf. He’ll step in to assist them once and if he’s needed.
Leather byrnies greet me, arms raised, helms slightly askew. Were they ready for this attack or not? I really can’t tell.
The first man thrusts towards Rudolf, perhaps expecting it to be easy. Rudolf’s seax flies through the air, countering every attack, almost at the point of anticipating every move before it can be made. Fuck, Rudolf is a good warrior. Wiry, strong, light on his feet. I remember being like him.
The other warrior hesitates for just a moment, noticing Pybba’s missing hand, no doubt thinking it’ll be easy. How he fails to note the hulking shape of Icel behind Pybba, I’ve no idea. I don’t have selective eyesight. I don’t allow myself only to see what I want to see.
Not that I need worry. This second warrior is slow, his movements laboured. I suspect he already bleeds. Pybba anticipates his first blow, easily parrying it with his sword. While Rudolf and his warrior trade strikes with lightning speed, Pybba and his opponent are precisely the opposite. While Rudolf blocks his foes movements, Pybba becomes the one to lead the way. I pause, my bloodied hand aiming towards the ground, eyes noticing what Pybba won’t be able to see.
His opponent leaks from a wound on the back of his arm. Where there should be a continuous line of inkings, blue or black, impossible to tell in the muted light, there’s a river of maroon, even the flash of pink and white. This man is dead. He just hasn’t realised yet.
Over the heads of my labouring warriors, I meet the eyes of Icel. He meets my gaze and nods. We both know what needs to happen.
A roar distracts me, and I turn, eyes wide.
“Fuck.”
The wolf-eaten man still squeals, the howls of the pups, the growling of the mother, more menacing than a hundred Raiders. Yet, I’ve become the focus of the attention of the fifteen or so ship-men who still fight for their lives. While half their number counter my alert warriors, Lyfing and Sæbald refusing to back down, encouraging the rest of my warriors, seven men eye me up. They carry cuts; some look deep and painful. Two men have lost their helms. Another has only a shield with which to fight, his weapons lost. Three others leer at me: nasty looking bastards, the lot of them.
What they do have, is the determination to live.
What they don’t have, is the ability to make sure that happens.
And I’m quite happy to kill every last fucking one of them.
My seax counters the most desperate of them, the man with just the shield. The wood splinters, leaving my seax no more than a finger’s breadth from his nose. It would be cruel to prolong his agony. I loosen my grip, thrust the seax upwards, only to catch it, my grip reversed, allowing the blade to stab into his nose, and through it, into the softness of the mass behind.
He doesn’t even blink in the time it takes me to end his life.
“Which of you arseholes is next?” I huff.
A moment of indecision and one of the helmless men is before me, although his face, scratched and torn open, especially down his right cheek, tells me he’d sooner any of the others stood in his place.
His brown eyes, and darker skin, shaved head, and beardless chin, make him look no older than Rudolf. But his build speaks of an older man. Still, old men can know fear, and he shows it. I don’t need to look down to know he’s pissed himself.
Yet, he’s not given up.
“Skiderik,” he spits into my face.
“Pleasure to meet you,” I growl as he counters my attack with a slash of his war axe. Hair and blood glisten on its edges. He’s struck one of my men, and that fills me with cold rage.
With my seax, I knock aside his war axe, the impact of the two weapons jarring my right arm, even as my left elbow snakes up and jabs him in the throat. He gags. Face already purple, as he staggers, trying to keep upright, war axe flailing ineffectually, eyes losing focus, even as his chest heaves, only no air is going in.
“Fucks sake,” I mutter, and my seax slicks open his throat. Sooner it was over than I have to watch this performance. I jump back, avoiding the warm fountain, as he tumbles to his knees, and then to the ground.
I’m no longer alone, no longer wedged between my men and the Raiders trying to escape, while the rest fight against my men.
Pybba is sprightly beside me, Rudolf’s breath more laboured. Icel has done fuck all but watch so far. No doubt he’ll still have some shit story to regale me with later.
“In the reign of king shit-for-brains, I stood and watched while fifty opponents were killed,” I can hear it now.
Then Icel surges forward, perhaps able to hear my thoughts after all. With a single backswing of his giant sword, one of the three men is all but cut in half.
“Bloody bollocks,” Rudolf complains. I catch sight of him trying to avoid a wet severed ear from landing on his leg.
I chuckle. Icel is a mean bastard when he puts his mind to it.
Pybba launches himself at the next helm-less foe. The man has mean, crazed eyes, ungainly, curly hair moving under some hidden gust of wind, revealing the long scar that runs along his forehead. A nasty wound. I imagine he nearly died from it. I could commiserate with the poor fucker, but he eagerly meets Pybba’s attack, again seeing weakness where there is none. Pybba fights with more than just his seax.
Just before the blades should meet, Pybba almost skips, thrusting up one foot and then the other, taking the man in the nose, blinding him so that it’s easy to stab upwards into his exposed underarm. A howl of agony fills the air.
Will that wolf-eaten man not simply fucking die? Only now, the wolf no longer growls, but instead, I can hear the snapping of those mighty jaws from here. I swallow my revulsion. I would sooner the wolves ate something else, but it’s the winter, and meat is meat. Sooner she eats a dead Raider than one of my men.
The foe-men who were still battling the remainder of my men are all but dead. I watch as Rudolf sizes up his next opponent, Lyfing behind him, keen to take the kill as well. I never thought I’d see the day my men would be forced to squabble over who gets to take a life.
I step back, Icel with me. The Raiders are entirely outnumbered, two patches of fierce fighting all that’s left of the initial force. I rush around the action that’s all but done, watching where I place my feet. It’s not that easy with splayed body parts everywhere.
I catch sight of Wulfstan. He watches the wolf-bitch with dazed fascination on his face as she rips chunks of flesh from the dead man’s upper leg and middle. The pups have tumbled from their den, the scent of fresh meat too much to keep them away.
The injured pup lies beside the man, his cries piteous. I confess I feel more grief for the animal than I do the dead man. Because, thank fuck, he is finally dead. The terror on his face is impossible to look away from, but Hereman has done the right thing. The Raider has a spear thrust deep into his ch
est, stilling his heart.
“What about the pup?” I demand to know, half an ear cocked to the attack still taking place behind me.
“I can’t get close enough to check,” Wulfstan worries. Yes, worries. His face is drained of all colour, and he seems uncertain.
“Will she not let you?” and I stride toward the body and the pup, but her contented chewing and ripping cuts off. I’ve never had such fierce eyes settle on me or heard such a menacing growl.
I hold my hands out to either side, slowly retracing my steps, never breaking our locked gaze.
I swallow, tasting more fear than I have for years.
“See what I mean?” Wulfstan huffs.
“I do, yes, but still, we could help the little shit if she’d just let us.”
“I know that,” it’s almost a howl of outrage, and then Rudolf is beside me. His breath is rough, his chest heaving, but of course, he grins, despite the slither of blood on his lips, which he licks and then spits away.
“Fucking hate the smell of Raider bastards.” His words are far too loud, drawing the attention of the she-wolf. I stick out my hand, keen to stay his forward movement. But when did Rudolf ever heed my bloody words?
He bends forward, hand extended, as though no more than a tame wolf-hound to be petted, and fuck me, the she-wolf pays him no attention.
I don’t look at Wulfstan. I can feel the outrage from here. I softly chuckle as Rudolf runs a gentle finger along the wounded wolf-pup. The animal’s cries are pitiful, and the she-wolf ceases her chewing. I hold my breath, but she does nothing but tears flesh for the three other wobbling balls of fluff. They chew eagerly.
“What’s the matter with it?” Wulfstan calls to Rudolf. Rudolf, on both knees now, has gentle hands cupping the pup, and he earns himself a lick from a small, pink tongue.
He giggles, yes, giggles. My young squire, become a warrior in the last six months, garnished with the accoutrements of war, with many kills to his name just from the morning’s work, giggles at a soft tongue on his gloveless hand.
I watch, open-mouthed, as he manipulates legs and paws, grinning at me.
“A broken rear leg. We can set it, and it’ll heal.”
“Right, so what, we’ve become nurses to sick animals now?” My words are scathing, and Rudolf’s not the only one to howl. Wulfstan joins him, and they both turn appalled eyes my way.
“Fine, fine, do what you can for the little shit. His mother helped us out, alerted us to the rest of the Raiders. You can do what needs to be done.”
I turn aside, wipe my hands of the matter. They’ll do it whether I say they can or not. Better to give my half-hearted assent.
“Are they all dead?” I call to Lyfing.
“Aye, My Lord, all of the fuckers have breathed their last. Are we going to leave the feast for the wolves?” He demands to know. There’s not as much disgust in his voice as I think there should be.
I feel the heat of many gazes on me. Beornstan sports a wicked cut down the side of his nose, oozing into his mouth, the ragged edges no doubt in need of stitching together. Oda is on the ground, knees drawn up to his chest, hand on the back of his head. It comes away reddened as I watch him. He must feel my gaze because he lifts his other hand in acknowledgement, although his eyes are unfocused, and he sways even on the floor.
“Anyone else hurt?” I ask, buying myself some time to decide what to do with the dead.
It’s not like we can leave them here to burn or bury them; that would be a monumental task when we have so little food to aid us in the endeavour. I want to be going, on my way to London. But, can I leave these men as food for the denizens of the woodlands?
I shrug. I probably fucking can, in all honesty.
A chorus of denials reach my ear, and I nod.
“You fought well, men. More of the Raider filth lies dead before us. Now, enjoy the pillaging. I’d get on with it while Rudolf’s so distracted.” The comment brings a cry of outrage from Rudolf and dark chuckles from those already busy at the task. Rudolf always gets the best results. Always.
But, with the aid of Pybba, Wulfstan and Rudolf are earnestly discussing how to help the wolf pup that started so much of this shit show.
“You could just make yourself a new rug,” Icel rumbles, but his words are edged with humour. And then I hear the whinny of Haden and turn aside. Where is my daft horse?
With Goda at my side, I bend low and work my way back to the camp. Ælfgar and Tatberht are sitting upright, weapons in hands, only relaxing when they catch sight of me.
“Sorry we missed it,” Tatberht winks, but it ends with a groan.
“Well, sometimes you just have to leave it to the youngsters,” I retort, not liking the look of either of my wounded warriors.
“Where’s Haden?” I ask, squinting into the pack of horses. They, too, seem to take my arrival as a sign of victory and begin to spread out once more.
“Over there,” Ælfgar informs me, nudging his chin into the darker reaches of the hanging branches. “He’s in a funny mood.”
That doesn’t surprise me. I’m pleased that my subsequent actions will only be witnessed by a few of my warriors.
“Come here, you daft sod,” I beckon him, standing two horse-lengths away from him. Haden’s brown eyes are more than reproachful. I can see where a slither of blood escapes his stitches.
“Really, you think you could have done more?” I demand from him. Yes, my answer is silence, but there’s a lessening in the tension of his head.
“Come here, and I’ll ensure all is well,” I ask, my tone softer than the words. “Or, I’ll just leave you.” I half-turn, aware he’ll come then. A rough nudge and I run my hands along his black and white neck, working them towards the site of his original wound.
“There you go, and you have my thanks,” I mutter, pleased to note the stitches are still tight and clean, with no sign of inflammation. He might have hurt himself with his antics, and I might have reminded him of the wound with my slap, but no further damage has been caused.
He nickers softly, the sound as much of an apology as I ever get from him, as he lets me lead him back to the rest of the horses. Billy watches him with a hint of interest, Dever walking to greet him, and then everything is over and forgiven.
I stride back towards my warriors, refusing to take note of the smirks on their faces. I’ve seen them with their damn mounts. I’m not the only man made a fool of by these contrary animals. After all, we all braved a bloody blizzard to get them back.
Chapter 13
We leave the bodies where they are, naked, of course. We don’t want to make it too hard for the woodland inhabitants to eat their fill.
I’ll send someone back when the snow clears, and the weather warms, but until then, the meat may as well not go to waste. It’s not my way. It has never been, but I’m assured from the meaningful glances coming my way that not one of my warriors wants to dig a grave beneath the spreading boughs and into the thickly matted loam. And we sure as fuck can’t shovel the snow aside and then force the frozen soil to one side.
The weather might have warmed overnight, but it’ll still take days. I need to get to London. I want to see what else King Alfred of Wessex has been up to, the weasel. And, of course, I have wounded men and wounded horses. I need to consider the living, not the dead.
A parting glance at the pile of greying corpses, the she-wolf contentedly chewing away on a meaty piece of belly while her pups romp in the dark blood assures me that all is as best it can be. Even the wounded one, with a splint, cleverly worked into place using nothing but torn pieces of cloth that should be easy enough to chew through is involved. So, I lead Haden back to where we entered the woodlands.
We have two wounded horses, four wounded men, two of them badly injured, and while the trickle of water is all around us, the expanse of snow hasn’t moved. Yes, it’s become darker, more watery, but we could do without the impediment. I can be grateful that the wind has dropped, that the sun does feel warm o
n my face, but against all that, my belly rumbles and I could eat until I was sick.
My legs continue to ache, my back as well. My feet hurt in odd places. I don’t want to complain, but I quickly realise I’m not alone. None of us moves speedily or easily, the march in the snow robbing us of our fluidity. We forgot about it in the heat of battle, but without our battle-rage, every ache and pain has reasserted itself.
I pause and gaze out towards the Thames. I can see it, a gleam of silvery thread through the white landscape, and from there, I seek out the blackened ruin of the fire. Not that it’s easily visible. The snow has obscured everything, even the burnt-out wrecks of the ships and the single steading.
I risk a glance behind me, thinking to see the hill we fought upon, but it’s too far away. We must have walked a good distance that night, or so I tell myself as my thighs twinge, my knees as well. Even with the rest we’ve had, this will be a long and uncomfortable journey to London. Perhaps we should wait, but no, I have wounded and injured men and beasts. I could wish my Aunt was here to help, but she’s in Northampton, safe behind high walls, or so I hope.
Haden’s head hangs down, even though I don’t even attempt to mount him. Tatberht has been reunited with Wombel, his face as pale as the corpses, worrying me no matter his loud exclamations that he’s bloody capable of riding, Wærwulf with Cinder. Cinder is subdued. Oda remains unsteady on his feet, Jaspar more in charge than Oda. He’s complained of a headache, to be expected, and we’ve all done our best to keep him alert and talking during daylight hours. The last thing we want is for Oda to close his eyes and never wake. Head wounds can be strange like that. I’ve seen enough of them to know that.
It’s bastard slow going. I know we followed a road to this place, but I can’t determine where it lies. All hoofsteps and footprints have been obscured, only the odd scampering of animals and birds around to assure us that we’re not alone in this bleak landscape.
My belly rumbles angrily.
