by M J Porter
“You little shit,” I spit into his face, only for Dever to intervene.
I swing my head aside, a thick globule of flesh landing on my chin, the crunch ringing in the air all I need to hear. The man is dead. His skull caved in. That’ll teach the fucker.
“My thanks,” Rudolf heaves air into his surging chest, stretching for his horse.
“We’re not done yet,” I grumble. My warriors were outnumbered two to one, perhaps three to one. With the horses, the odds have somewhat evened out, but the animals don’t wear the protective equipment we do. And, these Raiders don’t seem scared of trying to ride away.
I clasp his hand and lurch to my feet. The ground gleams wetly with blood and piss. Hereman continues to roar, Icel fights on, his movements lethal and measured. Edmund is hammering away at any who comes close to him. Blood shimmers on his byrnie and down his face. The rage has him, and it’s not about to leave him—his missing eye glimmers with the intent of the seeing.
“Pybba, can you fight?” I demand to know.
“Yes, My Lord,” he seeks out Brimman amongst the mass of churning horseflesh.
“Protect the horses,” I bark at Pybba and Rudolf, Ordlaf and Leonath as well. “Use them if we need them.”
Haden noses the body far from gently, only to glance at Dever, almost as though the pair of them converse about the kill, glib words light with the relief that the enemy is dead. I shake my head.
It’s not fucking done yet, no matter what they think.
The Raiders who emerge from beneath the snow drip with living ice, faces blue in the moonlight. And it’s made them all mean fucking bastards.
Their weapons gleam, expressions thirsting for their privations not to be a waste of time and effort, and my men and I are outnumbered.
“Gyrth, Wærwulf, assist Hereman,” I snap. There’s no oversight here, no plan to bring this battle to an end quickly. And why would there be? I thought we faced an equal number. I didn’t realise we’d been tricked. I should have been more cautious.
“Beornstan, Wulfhere and Osbert, take the Raiders around Edmund.”
Edmund fights as though he’s alone in the world, with a thousand warriors to kill, but he doesn’t need to do it single-handedly. Not when there are so many of us. And even if every single one of his offensives is successful, the maroon flying through the air speaking of terrible wounds being inflicted.
The rest of my warriors fight one on one. Gardulf remains close to his uncle and father but held back by the deadly enemy. Oda and Eadulf have three men trying to attack the two of them, fighting together, one drawing the Raiders aside so that the other can hack into exposed necks and arms. It won’t be long until they’re dead, especially with Jaspar and Simba nipping at the men and generally getting in the way of any attempt to escape. There’s nothing like being trapped between two horses to make a man realise he’s not the master after all. A horse allows you to ride it and direct its steps. That should never be forgotten.
“Lord Coelwulf,” the taunting voice emerges from the snow before me. He wasn’t there a moment ago, but now he is, large hand on huge war axe, a knowing glint in his moon-darkened eye, the weapon’s blade promising nothing but death. He could be dressed in glinting rings or merely the leather of a byrnie. It’s impossible to make out the detail.
“So, you’ve come to save Mercia once more,” I don’t know the man, I’m sure of it. I note that he speaks my tongue. His conceit is misplaced, but then, one day, mine will be as well, and my overconfidence might be the death of me. But not today.
“No, I’ve come to end your life,” I roar, running at my foe, placing my feet with care to avoid the slippery blood and shimmering ice. I could knock myself out just by landing heavily and be skewered through the heart before I even came round. I’m forced to leap as one of the Raiders crashes to the floor beneath me, slipping, and in mid-air, time seems to slow. I turn, seeking out my warriors, ensuring all is well, deciding where to strike the sneering bastard.
Ideally, I’d like to take him through the top of his head, but his helm looks sturdy in the flash of moonlight that reveals so much more to me. I don’t want to dent my seax or injure my hand with the reverberation from such an impact. It still aches from the spear that impacted my shield.
No, I hang in the air, sucking my lower lip, considering the best way to kill my foe, and only when I land does time return to normal. By then, my blade is busy, cutting one way and then another, slicing across his belly with one hand, taking his neck with the other, my enemy, for all his cockiness and confidence, too slow to counter any of the strikes.
When he falls to the floor, warm breath leaving his body and washing me in the first bit of heat I’ve felt for some time. I shake my head a little. Why didn’t he defend himself? Daft bastard.
But he’s not alone.
Another stands to face me. The jeer on his face, long beard obscuring his neck, tells me that these men believe themselves invincible. Perhaps, I consider, they’ve never fought the Mercians before. Has Jarl Halfdan been forced to find new blood? Were the rest of his men too damn scared to face us? I fucking hope so.
“Bastard,” I spit, pleased to get the gob of blood out of my mouth. It catches the moonbeam, flickering and flashing as it lands on the dead man, a loud fart filling the air, the smell of piss making me wrinkle my nose.
“Jarl Halfdan has offered a reward for you, dead or alive,” the man cackles, his hands busy on his weapons belt. But my eyes are drawn behind him. How many are there? One on one, I can fight all night, all next day if I must. If they form a shield wall, I can still keep fighting, but I’ll need my warriors, and we’re spread out. Cries and shrieks fill the air, the huff of effort, the thuds of the dying and the dead.
My foe flicks his head back as though to show me his neck, to pretend to his superiority.
“What is the reward?” I ask just because I’m curious to know how much my death is valued. Before I was the king, they sent two thousand men to track me down. How many have Jarl Halfdan sent this time?
“As much gold and silver as will keep a man and his family an entire lifetime.”
“Well, that really depends on the nature of the man, surely?” My tone is conversational. I refocus on my enemy. I’m content that my warriors are doing well without me. I’ll learn what I can before this man is dead. I don’t mind chatting before I kill him.
It seems my words are too complex. My enemy glares at me with incomprehension.
“A man who wants nothing more than to live in a hut all his life will need little. A man who thinks himself a king will want more. What, precisely, do you believe Jarl Halfdan will give you? What does he have in his power to gift? Mercia isn’t his. And, I doubt he’d be in Mercia if he held great swathes of land elsewhere.”
A rumble of fury begins somewhere deep in the man’s chest. I roll my eyes. It seems this man is no great thinker. I’m not to question what his lord has offered. He’s a damn fool not to have uncovered all the details before committing himself to the task.
“So, it seems you want to kill me for a pittance of silver and little else. I assure you, I’m worth fucking more than that.”
I launch myself over the farting, dead man, aware his clothes will be the easier way of gaining a decent purchase for what I plan next. Seax in my right hand, my war axe in the left, I direct the one at his heart, the other at the top of his left arm. Either blow will work. But of course, I have the momentum, and I move far more quickly than he’s expecting. When my forehead impacts his nose, I hear the satisfying crunch of breaking bone. It’s almost disappointing to realise that my seax has pierced the man’s heart. I aimed it upwards, not downwards, my impetus ensuring it penetrated what I now discover to be a leather byrnie.
“He’ll hunt you down and kill you,” my falling foe is all bluff and hot air.
“Well,” and I stamp down, wrench my seax free. “He better find someone who can fucking fight,” I offer, dismissing him and moving on, eyes keen to
ensure my warriors aren’t overwhelmed.
A dark pool of glowing fluid surrounds Edmund, the snow almost hissing as it melts beneath the hot mixture. And yet more come against him. I turn aside, checking the others. I believe all of the hidden men are now in full sight. I can count too many of them still, but I also think we’re prevailing.
Beornstan moves to reinforce Edmund’s back, the two working together, even though they can’t see what the other does. While Edmund rears upwards, Beornstan is down low, and vice versa. I’m impressed, even as I seek out whichever horse shrieked in pain.
The moon reflects from the snow, almost blinding in its ferocity when I peer towards it. There are shadowy figures and shadowy horses, most of them easily identifiable if they’re my men. I know the stance Lyfing prefers, the way Hereman stands before launching his spear, and the way that Berg holds his head. But my eyes alight on something amiss, and then the sound once more reaches my ears.
Cuthbert, Wulfred’s mount has been set upon by not one but two of the Raiders. Pybba and Rudolf are unaware of the problem because they battle against five Raiders, all trying to get to the horses from the front of the group. Ordlaf and Leonath stand their ground to the rear, but Cuthbert is amongst the horses. He rears and kicks, his screams akin to murder, unsettling the rest of the mounts.
I see the glint of a blade, the threat of grinning white teeth. There’s one of the bastards there, amongst my horses. Perhaps he was hiding beneath the snow in that spot. Maybe he’s rushed into the horses, lucky to escape any injury, and now he’s set his sights on Cuthbert.
I realise I’m not alone in my concern. Wulfred has heard the cries of his horse. He’s torn, I can see, blade raised as he battles beside Goda.
I determine to go to Cuthbert’s aid, only for a blade to flash before my eyes. An ouff of discomfort, and my seax slides into the belly of the dying man. Crouching low to the ground, I dart, first one way and then another, mindful of where I need to go and the slick ground beneath my feet. It’s not just ice that threatens to trip me, not now.
I hear a cheer and imagine our foe think I’m trying to escape with my life. They couldn’t be more wrong.
I crash into the mass of seething horses. Panicked eyes and shrill shrieks show me how unhappy the horses are. Berg nips my hand, Magic my ear, and I slap them both on their flank. Better to get them away from this mess before more than one of them is injured, even if by mistake.
Cuthbert, I imagine, hears my progress because it’s not quiet. His eyes alight on me as I push through Simba and Chocolate and face the Raider who thinks to steal away another horse.
I pause, only momentarily, blade raised because the thief is little more than a child, certainly younger than Rudolf.
His face is devoid of a beard, eyes blazing with fear. I can see when he swallows the action far too prominent.
“What are you doing?” I ask, rather than slice through such an inviting proposition without thought.
He shakes his head, not understanding my words, and still, I refrain from attacking.
“Get off the horse,” I command instead, miming that he should stand beside me.
He shakes his head, brown curls flying with the movement. He bites at his lower lip.
“Mercian or Dane?” I demand to know.
“Neither,” his accent is different to mine, but the word means the same. I narrow my eyes, aware that the battle continues around me while I make polite conversation.
“Slave?” I demand to know.
Again he shakes his head.
“North,” and he points in the direction he must think is north. I notice then that he wears good clothes, too good for a slave, his boots sturdy as he stumbles to the floor.
“From north of the Humber?” I persist. Why can he only offer me one-word answers? Do I scare him? I probably do. I stink of the slaughterhouse.
“Yes. Jarl Halfdan said my father must fight to keep his lands, but my father is ill. I came in his stead.” His long sentence startles me.
“And where are you going?”
His wide-eyed stare assures me he has no idea other than to leave the battlefield. I make a snap decision, hoping I won’t regret it.
“What’s your name?”
“Magnus.” He has weapons on his belt but hasn’t even attempted to seek them out. It’s not natural for him to fight. He doesn’t have the skills for it.
“I take it this is your first battle?”
“Yes, yes, My Lord,” he confirms, bowing and lowering his head at the same time so that I get an eyeful of dark brown hair.
“Stay here. Don’t steal my horses. I’ll protect you as best I can. Stay out of sight of the Raiders. They’ll all be fucking dead soon enough.”
A slow smile steals over his young face, and I nod and grunt my approval.
“Take this,” and I tug a cord around my neck, on which sits one of my only items of nostalgia. “Show it to my men if they come upon you and I’m not here. And give it back to me at the end of the battle.”
I can hear Wulfred over the press of horses. Not all of them have moved aside, and indeed, while Cuthbert has calmed, his eyes showing a hint of embarrassment now that I speak to the man he thought meant to steal him, there’s no need for the others to move aside.
Wulfred’s words are filled with fury for “that fucking bastard Raider stealing his beloved Cuthbert.”
I aim towards the sound, hoping to intercept before he cuts without realising the boy is our ally, not our enemy. It’s often the way. I’d sooner ally with the Welsh Gwentmen against the Raiders even though on another day, I’d happily slit their throats for even breathing wrong.
“He’s well,” I encounter a puffing Wulfred, waylaid by the helpful black and white arse of Haden.
“Come on, the horses are well, including Cuthbert. You have my word. Let’s finish this.”
There’s more than our air rising into the clear sky. The scent of horse shit is rife, as are other, less pleasant odours.
“Aye, well, I hope you killed the fucker,” Wulfred chunters, taking me at my word. I’ll handle that matter of the thief’s survival in good time.
The Raiders who attempted to steal the horses are dead or dying, Pybba and Rudolf both breathing heavily. Edmund and Beornstan are also panting, peering around as though amazed they yet live.
But the enemy is far from all dead. They’ve retreated, and I know that they’ll come at us again.
“Rudolf, Pybba, get your arses here,” I call to the pair of them. “All of you, come here, now.” I don’t feel exhausted, far from it, despite all the running and killing. My blood runs hot, warming even my hands and my feet.
Edmund glares at me as though he’s forgotten who he is and what he does, chest heaving, so that’s he’s half obscured by his breath.
“Gardulf, get your father,” I growl. I need them at my side, and fucking quickly. The Raiders aren’t about to have a cheery ale before they resume the attack.
“Hereman, here, now,” I bellow, pleased when Rudolf takes up my cries, realising far more quickly than the others what’s about to happen. I spare a thought for my captured Northumbrian. If he means me harm, it’ll come any moment now, but I don’t believe he does. I’ve always been able to judge most men quickly, apart from the lying bastards.
Lyfing makes his way to his horse, Rudolf doing the same when he finally arrives. Of us all, only Icel remains out there, standing alone, daring the Raiders to come for him. His blood burns too hot. It’s not like him, but I leave him well alone. I won’t allow them to beat him, neither will I allow him to face the Raiders, even if he fancies it.
“Daft cunt,” Wulfred comments, jerking his head towards the solitary figure. Icel looks menacing, and I can only see his back.
“Aye, well, we’ve all got our demons to exercise,” I offer, not about to get into an argument about it.
“Him more than most,” Wulfred confirms. “Cuthbert?”
“A young lad, forced here by Jarl H
alfdan merely wanted to escape. I’ve left him in there. With the horses.” A look of surprise touches the dips and hollows on the old bastard’s face.
“Aye, My Lord. Well, I pity the poor bastard. Won’t know his arse from his elbow, let alone his seax from his bloody shield. And Cuthbert is one for making a fuss about fuck all.”
“My Lord,” Sæbald issues the warning. The Raiders have made some decisions, and now they walk towards us in the moonlight, steps measured, shields, some of them already showing a fair amount of maroon, held in hand.
“Any wounded?” I demand first.
“Me, My Lord,” the voice is surprisingly hale for someone who professes to be wounded. Although it’s also a bit wet.
“Eahric, what the fuck happened?” He makes his way between the rest of my warriors, loosely grouped in a circle around me. His face is a welter of blood, dripping from between two broken teeth and onto his chest.
“Shield boss,” he complains, and I nod, wincing as I see how much blood there is.
“Will the helm come off?” I ask. It’s dented and caved in where his nose should be.
“No, it won’t.”
“Then, stay here, with the horses, and watch out for the Northumbrian lad amongst the horses. You can’t fight like that.”
“Sorry, My Lord.”
“Not your fault, and you’ll live with the pain,” not the most sympathetic, but then, there are twenty-three or twenty-four Raiders coming ever closer. At least we’re just about evenly matched now.
“Scare the horses away if the Raiders come for them,” I instruct as an afterthought, the order closely followed by an outraged neigh from Haden.
“Or let them fight,” I shrug a shoulder, swallowing my instruction. Cuthbert made so much fuss when he felt threatened, but they’re not all like that. They’re as blood-thirsty as the rest of us.
“Shield wall,” I confirm, looking to Edmund and also Pybba. Pybba sighs while Rudolf moves quickly to ensure Pybba’s shield is looped over the handless arm.
“We’ve nearly beaten them already,” I confirm. “Now we just need to finish the fuckers off.”
