The Last Sword

by M J Porter

  But for all I want to rush, the day advances too quickly, the snow hazardous for the horses, and for me when I dismount and try and walk myself.

  “We won’t arrive before tomorrow,” Edmund mutters gloomily.

  Our long line of warriors is much tighter now, all of us ready for any unexpected attack. I keep searching the river, but there’s no sign of detritus in it, and why would there be? It would flow the other way—frustration claws at me. I want to be where the fire burns. I need to know what’s happening there.

  And then, the Trent drives us back before allowing us forward again, and it feels as though half the day is spent merely repeating steps already made. With my eyes on the smoke, I’ve not noticed where we were, and neither have those of my men who’ve been this way before. The snow hasn’t helped. Everything’s obscured, apart from the river at our side. It’s as persistent as the fucking Raiders.

  At least I’m warm, the promise of yet another Raider attack driving me onwards.

  Above my head, the sky darkens, a lack of clouds and a bright moon, making it possible to keep moving, even as the temperature drops lower and lower.

  It’s a good thing I have my wrath.

  My world narrows to the white snow beneath Haden’s hooves, the sound of men and horses laboured breathing and the crunch of hooves through snow that grows colder and colder. Can I be grateful that no more snow falls? Not at all. I need a thaw, and I need a thaw quickly, but that’s not going to happen.

  Eventually, Haden stumbles, his hoof slipping before him. I’ve been expecting it to happen for some time, my body tense on his back. Lithely, ignoring all the aches and pains of my wounds and muscles, I leap clear from him, landing with a crunch in the crystalline surface, just about managing to keep to my feet. A cry undulates through the air, and I quirk an eyebrow at Rudolf’s horrified face, even as Haden regains his balance.

  “Not quite as old as you think I am? Aye?” But I don’t wait for an answer. I hurry to check on Haden, hands running along his flank, eyeing his wound, pleased it doesn’t bleed afresh but is knitting tightly together.

  That’s when they fucking come.

  Chapter 19

  They erupt from the snow before us as though bears from hibernation smelling food for the first time in months. My hand is already on my seax, even though my vision realises what’s happening after the rest of my senses.

  How long have they been there? I hope they’re cold and useless, even as heat burns through my body, all aches dispelled, all muscles working.

  It’s dark, but the moon is bright, and I detect no more than thirty Raiders. I understand who they are even before their leader shouts his instructions from somewhere amongst them.

  “Angreb,” his deep voice bellows. Followed by “skjolde” and “våben.” We all recognise what that means, and I don’t need to offer the same. My warriors know what to do, even though we’re burdened by the narrow track and the presence of our horses.

  Not that it hampers Hereman. He crashes through the snow, circumnavigating horses and comrades as he goes, spear already flying through the air, glinting with the promise of ice from the heavens. A heavily bearded man shrieks in terror, the cries choked off in a wet gargle, even as I smirk. They thought to have the element of surprise, but I have Hereman. He’s a fucking surprise to me. Every single day.

  Hereman is already raising his war axe to slash at the next warrior in his way. I hurry to follow him. I don’t want him surrounded and cut off from the rest of us.

  Only Gardulf is there, wildly following his uncle into the fray, leaping through the snow reminiscent of the stag earlier, and of course, Edmund has no choice but to follow his son and brother with a growl of frustration. At least he won’t have to think about it, just act.

  “Arseholes,” Pybba huffs, dismounting with more care and ensuring Brimman can’t trip on the reins by tying them up high in the event the horse has to flee.

  I hurry to do the same with Haden, wishing there was more room between the river and the path, but there isn’t. The horses will need to stay where they are. We’ll have to take the attack to the enemy.

  The slice of a spear falling through the snow informs me the animals are in danger. I risk glancing along the line to where Lyfing has realised the problem. He slaps a flank, his horse belatedly realising what needs to be done, turning to evade the Raiders.

  While the rest of the men hasten to assist Hereman, Edmund and Gardulf, Lyfing rushes down the line of horses, a slap here, a quick turn there, and too slowly, the horses retrace their steps.

  I hear the next spear before it impacts the snow, and thrust my shield upwards, my arm quivering with the impact, but Haden’s safe. He nickers softly, perhaps in thanks, or a complaint that it was a bit of a close one. Then he reverses into the next horse, and those in front of him, alert to the danger, begin to do the same.

  Hereman has been joined by ten of my warriors. They’ve quickly formed a shield wall, and the Raiders, spaced out while hiding beneath the snow, are already struggling.

  I turn my shield with difficulty, tugging on the spear. It’s well-wedged, falling from such a height. It refuses to release itself, and then I hear the sound of another missile fleeing through the air. I thrust my shield high once more, aware it’s ungainly, but this spear clatters harmlessly to the floor.

  I smirk, bend my knees, shield still raised, and retrieve it from the snowy ground. I lower my shield, aware that the presence of the horses behind me has gone. Not that I rush the throw. I’m not as talented as Hereman. Scratch that; I’m not as bloody lucky as Hereman. Not with a spear. A seax and sword are my weapons of choice; an elbow and a forehead, almost as effective.

  I need to sight my target, and I do. A figure watches me, shadowed by the light of the moon so that I can see little but a shape. My heart thuds. Could this be Jarl Halfdan? But no, it can’t be. The build is too slight, but he’s the one giving the orders to the rest.

  With half a smile, I aim and thrust the spear high into the air. My foe watches my movements, expression inscrutable at such a distance, as he turns to run away.

  I don’t need to watch the rest. His shriek of pain drives me to join my warriors.

  The fucker is dead. I aimed for where he was going to go, not where he was—damn fool.

  Without him there, I notice that another voice resumes instructing the Raiders from amongst those battling Hereman, Edmund, Pybba, Rudolf, Gardulf, Gyrth, Sæbald, Siric, Goda and Wærwulf.

  I expect the snow to lie deeply here, but it doesn’t. The enemy has done us all a favour by clearing much of it so that a crisp white hollow makes it easier to move without lifting legs high. At the same time, it’s made the ground more treacherous. The ground is slippery, the ice far from inviting. Men might die here from a shard of ice just as easily as a sharp blade.

  The shrieks of the Raiders fill the air, an unholy sound. Do they mean to wake their gods, or are they merely craven arseholes?

  The rest of my warriors stand at the backs of their comrades, but a movement in the distance catches my eye. The horses are safe, I hope, but perhaps not.

  “Lyfing, with me,” I beckon him, and he glances at me in dismay, chest heaving, as I hurry to retrace the steps he’s just taken.

  “What?” But he must see it too because his steps are following mine, the crunch of boots in the semi-cleared area of the path, assuring me that I’m not alone. What is it with these bastards and my horses? Do they mean to repay me for all the ones I’ve taken from them? I merely reclaimed those mounts for Mercia.

  Behind me, the shouts and bellows of men fighting to the death threatens to pull me away from my purpose, but even though my eyesight isn’t as clear as Edmund’s, I know what I saw.

  This is about distraction, and I’m not one to be easily distracted.

  “There,” I huff, the air burning through my throat, already dry from the cold air.

  “I see it,” Lyfing wheezes. At least four shadows are converging on the horses
. They can’t have anything but malevolent intentions. I’m frustrated. I’d not felt as though we were being followed that day, but it seems it was worse than that. We were being hunted, and that boils me.

  And then I misstep, sliding perilously towards the ground, only to collide with Billy. His backside arrests my fall, even as he surges forward.

  “Steady boy,” I gasp, Lyfing somehow gathering up Billy’s reins, preventing him from fleeing in fear.

  “Thanks,” I exclaim, swallowing the words with a sharp inhalation.

  Lyfing doesn’t speak. He’s scurrying onwards. I glance forwards. The shadows are closer now.

  I slip between Billy and the river, a slap on his shoulder in apology and thanks, ducking low as I move more slowly. I have no idea if the Raiders have seen me or not. They’re likely to catch sight of Lyfing as he continues to run, his crunching footsteps audible this far from the site of the attack. Well, I call it running, but it’s more like flailing. If he’s lucky, he’ll keep upright. Fuck, it’s impossible to hurry over snow.

  I speed up a little, using the tall horses to shield my movements, fleeing towards Lyfing, passing Keira, Jethson, Haden, Magic, Kermit, Jaspar, Brimman, Dever and Cinder, before I need to move with more caution. I feel their interest, and Haden stamps a hoof as though trying to trip me, but it’s more than that. I swear these horses are preparing to attack the attackers. I smirk at the thought. They’ve spent far too much time with their riders.

  The clash of iron on iron assures that Lyfing has encountered the enemy. He’ll need my help, but first, well, I’ve glimpsed one of the fuckers trying to slither his way down the line of horses. I stifle a bark of laughter as Lyfing’s mount stamps heavily on the Raiders foot. His screech of outrage ensures that I take him through the neck as I dive over the horse’s black back, seax held in front of me, piercing the man with all the force of my weight behind the blade.

  He buckles to the floor, pulling me over with him.

  “Fuck,” I complain, arms wild, a face full of horse hair for my thanks, and no doubt, the stench of Lyfing’s arse from the saddle as well.

  I land with a clatter of leather and metal, impacting the still writhing body of the man I’ve killed. Immediately, the scent of shit and blood fills my nostrils, and with it, the even more unpleasant smell of Lyfing’s mount taking an almighty piss on the floor.

  “Fucking bollocks,” I scamper to my feet, aware I’m making too much noise but desperate to be away from the horse’s stream. Bad enough a man’s piss, ten times worse, and ten times more, when a horse empties its bladder.

  Leaping to my feet, I see many things at once, but none of them makes sense until I wrench my seax free and settle to my next kill.

  White-eyes, white teeth and an even whiter neck greet me. I grin while the man shrieks, dropping the rein of the next horse and desperately trying to scamper away. He slips, either on the piss or the blood, I don’t know, and as he thuds to the ground, I quickly reverse my grip and slice open his neck. Lyfing’s horse stamps on the dying man for good measure, the body bucking upwards, only for a roll of green shit to land on the dying man’s forehead.

  I grin, enjoying the moment, even as I remember what I’ve seen in the blink of an eye.

  Lyfing is being overwhelmed, and so too are my warriors further away. There are more of the bastards than I thought, hiding beneath the drifts of snow. More of them than two against one, much more, and I’m here, watching men being attacked by horses.

  And that gives me the impetus I need.

  I can’t hear the shrieks of the far distant battle, but I can see what’s happening as the enemy attempt to encircle my warriors. Damn the fuckers.

  Quickly, I slick the blood from my seax in a clean handful of snow, pulling my sword into my other hand. I tread as quickly as I can, mindful I don’t want to impale myself, and then slide my blade beneath one of the warrior’s byrnies before thrusting it deep into his chest. His slashing movements cease mid-air, a cry half-cut off, as Lyfing makes a wild strike with his seax, crunching the man’s nose. Our foe drops to the floor. Now there are only three of the enemy. Lyfing battles the taller of the three, and I take the smaller. That leaves one man alone, and he turns, licking his lips, trying to decide what to do.

  With a desultory swipe at my immediate opponent, I rear backwards, thrusting my arse into the other man’s crotch, following up with an elbow swipe to his nose. And he staggers, one way and then the other, even as I counter the blows from the man who spits every time he breaths. Lyfing thrusts his seax into the man’s underarm, and I take his neck.

  One each. I grin, the delight of battle bubbling inside me. It’s easy then to concentrate, find the rhythm of the final man’s movements, and strike when he least expects it.

  As he slithers off the end of my blade, a roar of sound reaches my ears.

  “Hurry up, Lyfing,” I call, eyeing the horses. They’ve turned as well, ears pricked. No doubt every one of them hears their masters cry.

  I catch Haden’s brown eyes. If he could nod in understanding, that’s what he’d do.

  Lyfing is beside me, chest heaving, war axe and seax held loosely in his bloodied hands.

  “Bastards,” he states, hawking to clear blood from his mouth. He looks hale. I’ll have to accept that he is.

  “The horses?” he demands to know.

  “The horses,” I confirm. We don’t have a reserve force to assist us, but we do have our mounts.

  Quickly, he jumps into the saddle. I rush to Haden, a word of instruction for the other beasts I pass on the way, an expectation that they’ll follow us without too much difficulty.

  The only problem is the path.

  I slide towards Haden, entirely out of control, the surface too treacherous to risk.

  “We’ll have to do this the hard way,” air explodes from my mouth as I hit Haden too fast. He stands steady, head turned to eye me with disgust.

  “Sorry, lad,” I offer, thrusting myself into the saddle, even though I’ve not managed to take a full breath yet.

  I don’t look at what’s happening in front of us. My focus needs to be on getting there, not on feeling out of control.

  “This way,” and I encourage Haden into the pristine snow to the side of the slippery walkway, the moon as bright as day, lighting the path we need to take through the knee-high snow. Haden rears at my command, and then, just like the stag, he seems to skip through the snow, bounding from hoof to hoof, the other horses following him, Lyfing encouraging from the back. Not that they need the added incentive.

  The moonlight flashes over blades and edges in the distance, my gaze focused on the immediate foreground, checking for any hidden dips and holes, perhaps highlighted by the snow, or revealed by the moon. I don’t want to lose an animal.

  I have my seax to hand. I don’t trust that more of these fuckers aren’t lurking beneath the snow. Mad bastards, all of them. It’s so cold my breath freezes in my beard, my tongue threatening the same until I snap my mouth shut again.

  I risk looking at my warriors. We’re getting closer but not yet close enough to do more than witness what’s coming.

  The enemy outnumber my men, they will even with the addition of the horses, but if we’re not quick, they’ll be cut off from my assistance.

  Hereman rears up from his place in the shield wall, all arms and legs, his rage doing more to terrify the enemy than his accuracy. Icel is beside him, his movements more constrained and twice as lethal. I can see a small knot protecting someone at the core, and I aim Haden that way. I’ll rescue them, and then the horses can knock the others into the snow.

  I lead on, mindful that this could all go wrong between one heartbeat and the next, feeling Haden tremble with effort beneath me. Will we make it in time? We better do because I fear to know who’s so beleaguered. I won’t lose another of my loyal warriors on a Raiders’ blade. I fucking will not.

  Haden crashes into the Raiders trying to attack my warriors from the rear. And he’s
not alone. Jethson, never one to be outdone, is beside him, and so too is Billy.

  I’ve not fully appreciated the speed Haden has managed to attain, almost as though there’s no snow and no one lying on the ground, dead or bleeding. A yell and I see wild eyes as a warrior rolls clear of the high hooves and the snapping teeth. Fuck, I recognise Rudolf in the centre of the circle, Pybba at his side.

  Time seems to slow. I might be too late, even now.

  The Raiders’ voices surround me, ranging from outrage to delight, but it’s the sound of the thunder I bring that drowns out all else. The horses are pissed, and I mean, pissed.

  They don’t slow enough to help my warriors, but they send the enemy running all over the place, hooves high in the air, teeth snapping with anger. They might delicately take an apple from their rider, but those teeth are nasty when riled.

  I can hear my warriors calling to their mounts, and a shrill scream rents the air. Fuck. One of the horses.

  With less control than I might like, I try and turn Haden, but he’s as alert as I am. Between one heartbeat and the next, he’s come to a complete stop, turning and rushing back the way we’ve come. He just misses Pybba and Rudolf, the pair emerging from their struggles, Rudolf’s reactions keeping them both safe. Haden’s focused on one thing and one thing only. Killing any Raider who gets in his way as he rushes to Dever’s aid.

  Dever might be old, but he fights with ferocity, black and white hooves high in the air, swinging his head, eager to dislodge the Raider who thinks to claim his back, a wicked-looking seax slowly working its way into the black horsehair close to his neck.

  “No, you fucking don’t,” Rudolf’s words reach me, but I’m already flinging myself from Haden’s back, knocking the Raider to the floor in a tangle of limbs. I might hold my seax, but I’m punching him with my left hand, over and over again, the air driven from his body, as he looks at me in horror.