by M J Porter
A bellowing clash fills the air, and I wince. One of the Raiders, a tall man, hair flashing white in the moonlight, has decided to take on Icel’s provocation. His fellows cheer the endeavours, but it won’t end well.
I watch, as do my warriors, slightly fascinated to see how the foe-man thinks to fell Icel. I consider that they know one another but dismiss it just as quickly. It’s Jarl Halfdan’s man, the jarl whose name I forget, that Icel wishes to kill above all others, Edmund as well. This man isn’t him, I’m sure of it.
The enemy fights with a war axe, the edges looking far from smooth even from this distance—a dirty bastard, eager to make death as painful as possible. A growl begins in my chest, reaching my mouth without me even realising. Icel better not fall to such a cocky bastard.
Icel counters the move easily, seemingly effortlessly. I hear the sound long before I’ve seen the responding thrust from Icel’s sword. I smirk—Icel toys with the man. I know what he’s doing. Not that I disapprove, but it would be nice if the fucker took my commands and didn’t simply do as he wished.
“Come on, while the stupid gits focus on Icel.”
We move forward with some care, the ground slimy and uninviting, the detritus of battle meaning we’re right to be wary. I have Hereman to my left, Edmund at my right, although I appreciate that Gardulf has been shipped off far down the line. Goda has taken the far right, Sæbald the left. Seasoned men who know what tricks the enemy might try to play if they manage to overwhelm the centre or if they decide to attack one of the ends instead. We’re only one man deep. It’ll be more than enough.
Pybba and Rudolf are beside Hereman. Pybba would sooner be at my more immediate side but knows better than to jostle into place as Edmund has done. I notice the tense faces, the bruises starting to form, the blood that’s stopped flowing, helms set straight, more than one man ducking low to run snow over the edges of their filthy weapons.
Fuck, they make me proud.
And still, the Raiders cheer their man, thinking perhaps that I’m Icel, that Icel is me, that they can finish this before it truly begins, that their losses will only be the men who are dead so far. My cheeks tighten, and it’s not the cold this time. The Raiders need to know their enemy better than they do.
My steps are sure, the promise that the horses guard our backs, more than enough for me. There are no Raiders to the south of me, only to the north. I spare a thought for the lad and Eahric. But, Eahric is hardly incapacitated. I simply won’t take the risk with him. And Magnus is no warrior. And still, the Raiders watch Icel.
The moonlight is so strong, it sends an image of the ensuing battle crawling towards us. I don’t know whether to watch the actual fight or the one that’s being played out in shadow form on the snow. The noise of the weapons clashing together seems to drown out all sound, even that of the gurgling river beside us. Even that of the horses and Eahric. I imagine he’s found Magnus. I imagine he’s already forced oaths to be sworn. Eahric won’t take any chances, and I’m surprised that I have. I’m not one for taking kindly to those who battle us. But then, I don’t think Magnus is our enemy, for all he has a Norse sounding name.
A thundering hum, iron on iron, and the Raiders cheer. I lift my head, take in the sight. Icel isn’t weakening, but he pretends to an infirmity, encouraging the man closer. I shake my head. The poor fucker stands no chance. He might wear a byrnie that flashes blackly in the moonlight, greaves and even the hint of metal at shoulders and groin, but he simply doesn’t have the skill, not against Icel.
We’re closer now, almost close enough for Hereman to send a spear into the concaved shield wall. They can’t keep a straight line, not even when that’s their only purpose.
I think to shout to Hereman, but he nods when I meet his eyes over the iridescent snow. Hereman knows not to give the game away just yet.
The snow is deeper here but still glassy. It’s a fucking effort to keep lifting my knees higher. I hazard we might be going slightly uphill. It might give the Raiders an advantage, but they’ll need to be paying attention for that to happen.
“Attack,” I roar, close enough to smell Icel. The white-haired man startles at the noise. He dies on Icel’s blade with a soft whimper, mild surprise on his face. The Raiders cries of terror tell me they’ve miscalculated. A spear flies through the air, impaling the most alert of the men, running towards Icel, revenge written large on his broad face, no need to see his eyes clearly because it oozes from him.
“What took you?” Icel rumbles, focused on the skewered foe-man, even as we absorb him into our shield wall.
I don’t respond. I’m focused on the two men before me. Edmund should take one of them, but for some reason, they’re bunched too tightly here so that two men stand in the place of one. Edmund has his foe already, Hereman has his, and I, of course, have two. Fucking marvellous.
I slam my shield into that of the first of my enemy, an effort to hold him while I strike out with my seax against the other man. He labours to knock my weapon aside with his shield, and I’m forced to duck aside, rein in my seax so as not to lose it.
Not a successful attack. Far from it.
Hereman is busy with his opponent, the two of them trading blows with weapon and shield. I catch sight of Edmund, and he’s fully engaged as well. Not that I mind facing two men. I shove my shield at the face of the first man again. He’s probably expecting a new tactic, but sometimes repetitious is just as effective. My seax goes above the other man’s shield. This time, I feel an impact. It’s not the strongest of blows, but a cut on the chin, dark hair fluttering to the ground, gives my second opponent such a shock, he jerks backwards.
He overbalances with the force of the action, the ground polished. His shield rushes upwards, about to impact my face, as I rear backwards, ducking low, even as I thrust my shield upwards. The second enemy is slower with his weapon this time. By the time I see it with my peripheral sight, I’m stabbing down, finding a gap between byrnie and beard, drawing blood, but not enough because I have to thrust aside to avoid the war axe the other man flings at me.
My shield batters aside the war axe, my legs shaking beneath me. I can feel the slipperiness of the ground, the tension in my feet trying to keep me upright. The war axe is pushed away, the shield following the movement. Only then I reverse it and slam the shield boss into the face of the prone man. Eahric’s wound gives me the idea, and the questing hand with his weapon, slumps to the ground, lifeless, for all, he’s not dead.
My first enemy growls loudly, frustrated by the failure. Not that he has long to live to decry the second man’s death. Hereman has killed his foe. Almost languidly, he slices a blade into the side of the war axe-wielding Raider. As he stills in death, I move my shield aside and cut down, slowly and with precision, to end the beating heart of the prone foe-man.
“My thanks,” I call to Hereman. I get no response and blink away the sweat of my efforts to see he’s now assisting Pybba. Edmund is close to finishing his enemy, face white with fury and rage. The man bleeds from a wound on his chin, his byrnie darkening as breath rattles through his throat. It’s not going to be long.
It’s not going to be protracted for any of these warriors. My men have made their kills or are close to it. Rudolf continues to battle. His opponent is a giant of a man, towering over my young one-time squire. I could interfere. I will intrude if needs be, but no man ever learnt to fight without fearing that each stroke might be the last he ever makes.
Pybba’s enemy is down, and he stands much closer to Rudolf, war axe in hand. I know he mirrors my resolve.
Other than Rudolf, Goda and Sæbald are still fighting fiercely. Of course, the enemy they face is more than aware they’re alone, and the chance to survive is much closer for them. If they can just make it to the horses, of course.
A cry rips through the air, and my gaze is drawn to the horses. Eahric stands there, chest heaving, and I’m moving without thinking.
“Fucking bastard. Never trust a man from the north of
the Humber,” I’m chuntering to myself, already preparing to sprint towards Eahric and whatever trouble Magnus is making, all thoughts of forgiveness and understanding fleeing my mind.
“My Lord,” Hereman’s bellowed words stop me, something in his voice drawing my attention away from Eahric. In a blur, I turn, appreciating that Eahric is alerting me to something behind me, not in front of me. And I peer into the distance, hand over my eyes. There’s no fear in the men, or at least, I don’t think there is, but by now, they perhaps welcome the fuckers dying on their blades and so don’t feel any.
But that’s not what it is, far from it.
The Mercians have arrived, Kyred leading his warriors towards me, and I grin, only for my joy to falter. Has he killed Jarl Halfdan already? I want that bastard for myself.
Chapter 20
Not that Kyred and his warriors seem hale. The closer they come to us, the more my eyes pick out small details. One of the horses limps a little, breath blooming in the cold air with the effort, one of the warriors has a swollen eye, another a sodden linen around his face.
Fuck. They’re not victorious. And Kyred’s face, when he’s before me, head bowed, tells me both too much and too little.
He wears no helm, his dark hair a matt of dried blood, his eyes haunted. He makes no effort to dismount. I appreciate that he can’t, not without falling. A linen is wrapped around his upper thigh, his face sheeted in sweat, and yet he grins all the same—crazy bastard.
“It’s good to see you,” he huffs, Edmund and Icel moving to my side so that the four of us can speak in some privacy. Rudolf, showing his growing wisdom, moves among the dead enemy, his voice raised high as he and Pybba discuss their spoils for the day. Hereman joins in, although I feel his gaze on my back. He wants to know.
All of the men want to know.
I hear a roar of triumph, and Goda stands heaving, his opponent falling into the snow, the blood visible from here, as it drains into the churned white.
Kyred left Northampton with fifty men. I don’t see that many now. But they aren’t as diminished as they could be.
“And you,” I offer. “But tell me, how bad is it?”
“It seems you’ve met some of Jarl Halfdan’s warriors, but there are more, many more,” his words are laced with fatigue, his face as white as snow, his gaze taking in Sæbald. He, too, has finished fighting, so all our enemy are dead. I can’t see that they’ll be the last we face.
“You’ve already fought them?”
“Yes, we fought through them to get to you, but it seems you’ve already met the advanced force.”
I nod, refusing to glance around at the carnage.
“They tried to trick us by hiding beneath the snow.”
“They’ll try fucking anything,” his words ripple with scorn.
“Are you all wounded?” I ask, noting that one of the warriors has slipped forward, threatening to tumble into the snow. Hereman has moved quickly to his side, two hands holding him upwards. Rudolf has scampered beside him as well, although he and Pybba still offer an overly loud running commentary.
“Tie him in the saddle,” Edmund calls, not that they weren’t already doing so.
“He can’t fight tied in his saddle,” Kyred complains.
“There’s no more fighting for you. Not like this,” I acknowledge, knowing the words will be hard to hear. “Retreat to Newark. It’s not far from here, but first, tell me what you can.”
For a moment, I think Kyred will argue with me, but then his face scrunches with pain, and he nods, words beyond him for the moment, hand resting on his thigh.
“Jarl Halfdan doesn’t have as many ship men as we feared, but they’re trying to take Gainsborough. The ealdorman is inside, we couldn’t get to him to reinforce him before Halfdan, and his men moved into place. I believe they mean to take it and buttress it; hold it as a kingdom inside Mercia.”
The words infuriate me but are far from unexpected.
“How many?”
“More than you, a thousand, maybe, but no more than that. Not that it’s a small number. We encountered a more elite band of warriors when we tried to gain entry last night, but some of them just seem to be sitting around trying not to freeze their arses off in the fucking cold. We’d been with Bishop Burgheard in Lincoln, but I thought to sneak into Gainsborough.” Kyred shivers as he speaks, and I nod, absorbing the news.
“Then we’ll warm them up a bit before sending them into a fiery hell for all time.” There’s bluff in my words, but also a promise. A thousand men is not an insurmountable obstacle, not in weather like this, but it must be done. There’s no choice.
Kyred smiles, a weak thing, and I appreciate that he’s in far more pain than he’s allowing me to see.
“How far is it from here?”
“Half a day, no more. You’ll be on them soon enough, but you’ll have to cross at Littleborough to be on the correct side of the river. We only crossed in an effort to cut off the advanced party, but I see you’ve managed well enough.”
“Go, all of you. Protect Newark and seek assistance there. When you can, travel onwards. Get to Northampton.”
“Aye, My Lord. We will, and My Lord, kill ‘em all. All of them. I’ve had enough of the fuckers.” Kyred holds me with his hollowed-out eyes, and I feel my throat grow tight.
I reach up, grip his arm, far more gently than usual, but firmly all the same.
“You have my oath on that,” I assure him, and then I raise my voice a little.
“We’ll kill all the bastards, I assure you. Now, my brave Mercian warriors travel safely and well. Live to fight another day.” The cheer is ragged, gaunt faces seeking me out, and I grin, stretching my mouth wide, ignoring the chill that’s seeped into my heart and my beard. No man who doubted himself ever won. I banish the worry. I have Raiders to kill.
I allow Magnus to leave with Kyred. He doesn’t know the area, he doesn’t know Jarl Halfdan, and it’s just reassuring that one amongst that number will keep conscious while they travel. I’m not sure how many of the men will make it to Newark alive. I hope they all do, but whether they die or live, I’ll avenge them. I’ll wreak my revenge.
“Leave them,” I call gruffly when Kyred and his men have trundled through the carnage of our brief skirmish, and some of my warriors are still picking over the dead. Jarl Halfdan hoped to catch me unawares. It’s not going to happen. “We need to get on, not worry about the trinkets from these fuckers.” My warriors are grim-faced, the exertion of this battle etched into cold faces, and yet they don’t complain.
They never do.
Eahric refused to leave with Kyred, but between him Icel and Pybba, they’ve managed to remove his helm without damaging him further.
“Fucking hell,” the oath explodes from my mouth, unbidden. “You’ll scare the bastards half to death,” I exclaim, catching sight of his squashed nose and bloody cheek. It looks like it should be hurting a lot, but Eahric has half a smile on his face. Where there’s no sense, there’s no feeling.
“Pity it’s not entirely to death,” Eahric complains, his voice nasally.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” Rudolf asks. We’re supposed to be riding one behind the other, through the path left by the Raiders and Kyred and his men. But we’re not. Obviously.
“Aye, young man, it does hurt. But, it’s bearable.”
I roll my eyes at the words. The camaraderie of my warriors leads them to say and do all sorts of ridiculous things. I should have sent him with Kyred. I really should, but I didn’t want to waste my time arguing with the stubborn fool.
I’ve inspected my warriors. There are more cuts and knocks, a nasty bruise blooming on Sæbald’s left eye, an ugly slice across Lyfing’s nose, and Hereman is wincing, clearly having aggravated his wounds taken close to Northampton, but overall, I believe my warriors are at full strength. Even Ælfgar, who insisted on coming north, is in good spirits even with his deep cut. I think he should have stayed at Northampton with Tatberht, but what do I know?
Edmund has determined on leading the group beneath the moonlight. I’m correct that there’s a slight incline which the Raiders came down. From the top of it, it’s possible to see the flickering lights of what must be the camp around Gainsborough. This must be from where the smoke has been coming.
From this distance, it looks small, as though I could crush it beneath my boots. I wish I could. We’ve tried and been largely successful, with all kinds of misdirection when fighting the Raiders. But, the attack from beneath the snow shows me that they’re learning. Have they always fought in such a way, or am I forcing the actions upon them? I should like to know, and yet it makes very little difference.
Now, I need to determine how to undermine Jarl Halfdan’s efforts to bring his new attack to a premature end. And that means that there’s only one actual course of action to take. No one’s going to like it. Even I don’t like it.
“I know what you’re considering,” Pybba’s words are softly spoken as Brimman comes close to Haden. “It’s madness, and I won’t allow it.”
“How will you fucking stop me?” I could curse Pybba for reading my mind.
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that I will stop you. And you know it. We don’t even know where Jarl Halfdan is. How then, will you take him in man to man combat?”
“There’ll be a way,” I reply stubbornly. I keep looking towards the lights of Gainsborough and the camp that surrounds some of it.
“It’ll be a sure way of dying,” Pybba announces. I can tell he’s not going to debate it with me.
“Then what would you suggest?”
“Fuck knows, but your plan won’t work. Think of something else,” and he turns Brimman aside. I growl beneath my breath. Bastard. Telling me my plan won’t work and having nothing else to offer.
I glance at the sky, a flash of movement allowing my eyes to alight on an owl outlined against the black of the sweeping expanse of crystalline stars. I wish I could fucking fly. I’d hunt him down and land on Jarl Halfdan from behind. He’d not expect that. Not at all.
