The Last Sword

by M J Porter

  And, it’s not the Raiders that I want, but the Mercians.

  My breathing labours, the passage through the snow even more difficult than when the Raiders stole our horses, but ahead, I can see what I want. There has to be an entrance to Gainsborough, and I need to get inside, tell Ealdorman Aldred my intentions and have him ready to assist my warriors. We’re a small force, but that shouldn’t stop us.

  The snow in front of me abruptly shimmers, and my hand is on my frozen seax, even as I hear the huff of another’s breath.

  “Mercian,” I hiss, my words only just visible.

  “Wha?” the voice cuts off halfway through the word, a pale face emerging before me, eyes gleaming brighter than the moon.

  “Fuck, get inside, quickly,” I’m relieved the man recognises me, even though I don’t know who he is. I follow in his wake, not that his breaking of the deep snow makes all that much difference to my labours.

  “Help me,” and two sets of hands reach down from the gloom to grip his arms, held above his head. He slips from the snow, and I can hear a heated debate before the same is offered to me. I emerge with a soft popping sound, face down, on ice and mud strewn ground. The idea of warmth is close by, but I’m not led to the brazier. Instead, I push back onto my knees and meet the fascinated gaze of four men.

  “My Lord King?” the first stutters, horror on his face with the recognition.

  “Aye, if you like. Where’s the ealdorman?”

  “He’s, well, he’s sleeping,” the second offers, a cloak covering most of his face. I look around me. There’s an opening between the rampart, and I’m just to the side of it. In the distance, it’s as though a thousand fires blaze, a threat, not a comfort, and I swallow down my unease at what I’ve done.

  I’m in the heart of the enemy, and I don’t even have Edmund or Icel at my back.

  “Wake him, and take me to him,” I command, rising swiftly, although the movement costs me dear. I’m too old for this shit.

  “My Lord King,” the voice is filled with trepidation. I allow the man. He’s shorter than I first took him to be, to lead the way. I tower over him, eyes trying to see as much as possible.

  It’s a small settlement, Edmund was right, but I can see that the ealdorman has plans for it. A half-built barn is covered in snow, it lacks a roof and most of two walls, but it’s large, bigger than anything at Northampton. There’s also a stable, fully enclosed, and from within, the usual sounds emanate, even the loud fart of one of the sleeping horses. I grin. It’s good to be reminded of the mundane when all around has fallen to shit.

  The building I’m taken to is about half the length of the half-built hall, but it’s too dark to see a great deal. The door is opened after a hurried conversation. I feel the first blast of hot air for many days. Immediately, my skin starts to ache. Too hot, too cold. My body isn’t happy either way.

  The man, casting his cloak over one shoulder, rushes to a door and enters with only a cursory knock. An outraged voice greets the action, and I turn aside, smile at the door warden as we all try not to hear the altercation. There are about fifty men, and women bedded down around the heaped hearth. Some of them stir at the noise, others startle awake, hands reaching for weapons that aren’t there while they sleep. I nod at them, pleased to see the number of warriors.

  Ealdorman Aldred stumbles from the room, pulling his arms into a tunic. I turn and glare at him. His eyes boggle from his thin face.

  “I would expect a man under siege to be more alert,” I comment, ice in my voice.

  “My Lord, My Lord King, what are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come for the good company and ale,” I retort, my skin crawling with frustration. He opens and closes his mouth, entirely lost for words.

  “Have your warriors made ready. We’ve come to relieve you, and drive Jarl Halfdan back across the Humber, if not to his grave.”

  “How many are there, My Lord King?”

  “Enough,” is all I say, hoping I’m right, my thoughts with Rudolf, not with the ealdorman.

  “Of course,” and he bows, but I don’t miss his gulp of unease. The fucker better not have done anything stupid such as forge an alliance with Jarl Halfdan, in the same vein as King Burgred, because if he has, I’m going to have to cut him down, and in the not too distant future.

  It’s still dark when I return to the watch post. It’s been reinforced by a further five men. They bristle with weapons and the cold. There’s been a swell of anticipation within the hall. The warriors there are keen to fight, far more eager than the ealdorman who’s been directing them for the last few weeks. That’s changed because I’ve arrived. I don’t sit on my arse thinking about the battle. What would be the fucking point in that?

  I’ve made it clear what I want them to do. Now it just remains to be done, as I slip back into the ditch, shivering at the touch of the snow on my body.

  I know where Jarl Halfdan sleeps, thanks to the observations of the gate wardens inside Gainsborough. Now I just need to make my way to his side. And then, at my command, the warriors inside Gainsborough will surge out, just as my warriors surge inside. Provided Jarl Halfdan is dead by then, we’ll win.

  I know that Halfdan isn’t dead yet. I don’t know if that means that Rudolf is close or if he’s been captured. But I’m not about to second guess myself. I have a plan in mind. I just hope it works.

  I continue to follow the ditch, cloak over my head, an attempt to ensure no flame reflects from my weapons or my helm. It’s even more challenging going, my limbs aching, my body cold before I even start the attempt.

  I listen keenly, expecting an eruption of outrage, but nothing comes, not yet. Rudolf hasn’t succeeded. But neither has he been caught. That cheers me. My thoughts turn to Edmund and Icel and the rest of my warriors. By now, my deceit will have been noticed. If I’m lucky, and my men remain loyal, they’ll come all the same. If not, it must just be Rudolf and me who face the Raiders, alongside the Mercians from inside Gainsborough.

  When I deem it safe enough, I slither from the ditch, more like a snake than a man. The continuing darkness should cover my movements. I hope it does. I don’t wish to be skewered to the floor.

  Snores fill the air, most of the warriors fast asleep, unaware that soon they’ll be roused from their sleep, forced to fight in whatever they have to hand. I grin, desperate to rekindle my enjoyment in this venture, even though my neck aches with the cold, and I can feel where every stitch was written into the skin down my back. I’m too fucking old for this. I’m the king of Mercia. I should be sending men to do this. But, who am I trying to fool? I’d not let them have all the fun to themselves.

  Beyond the first line of canvasses, the fabric rigid with ice, I slowly rise, first to my knees, and then to my feet, my head the last thing to come upright, allowing me to cast eyes on the Raiders finally.

  I shudder. They’re here with little more than fabric above their heads, the base of the tents hidden beneath the dirty snow they’ve traipsed through, pissed into as well if the dark hue of some of the snow is indicative. Dirty bastards.

  I take one step and then another, trying to move silently, even though I can’t, not with the weapons on my belt and the helm over my head. It fits perfectly, and still, it makes a noise. My cloak covers it, but that might not be enough.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I grin then, turning to meet Icel’s eyes. Damn the bastard. He wasn’t supposed to follow me, but he rears up from behind me, rage on his face, fury in his tight movements. He worries I’ll kill Jarl Halfdan before he gets the opportunity.

  And then another head appears, and this one isn’t quite as furious. In fact, a flicker of relief shows in the hollows beneath his eyes.

  “Coelwulf, what are you doing here?” Rudolf emerges from behind one of the canvasses, his face so blue with cold, it’s visible despite the darkness, the vestiges of dawn still some time away. The fact he calls me by my name attests to his surprise and relief.

  “I,” but I don’t get
time to answer.

  “He thought to do it himself, damn bastard,” Icel huffs, striding beyond me as though the need for quiet and gentle steps is long gone, as though there aren’t a thousand warriors all thirsting for our blood snoring around us.

  “But, I’m here,” Rudolf sounds a little bereft but then brightens, coming to my side, as Icel continues onwards, his focus on the structure beneath which Halfdan must shelter. It’s the largest of them, and once more, as at Torksey, benefits from being made of wood, not material.

  A warrior stands on watch duty by the door, but he sways on his feet. Hardly alert.

  “I was about to go in,” Rudolf states, even though he’s standing a step or two behind me.

  “I know lad, I know. But, just on the off chance that you needed a hand, I decided to join you. The others will begin the attack soon, and the warriors from inside Gainsborough will do the same.”

  “And what of Icel?”

  “He does what the fuck he wants, it seems.” I’m keen to follow on, but even I’m aware that the three of us are making far too much noise, although Rudolf and I whisper, one to another.

  “He’s going the wrong way,” Rudolf comments, and I don’t immediately catch his words because I’m biting my lip, trying not to tackle Icel so that I can get to Jarl Halfdan first.

  “What do you mean?” I turn to glare at Rudolf as his words finally register.

  “Halfdan isn’t in there. He’s over here, in one of the other canvasses.”

  “Really?”

  “No, My Lord, I’ve been lying beside it all night just for the hell of it.”

  “Show me,” I demand, and Rudolf nods and then moves so quickly, I almost lose sight of him amongst the maze of canvasses. About now, I could do with some more light, the grey promise of dawn to streak the distant horizon, but it seems that dawn is to be delayed, today of all days.

  With a glance to ensure Icel is stalking the guard ahead, I can hardly recall him to me, not with the distance so great, I follow Rudolf, sliding beneath two canvasses, gritting my teeth with the hope I won’t trip over something forgotten about in the snow.

  I become aware of the dull sounds of a man and a woman coupling, and I roll my eyes. If I’m going to kill a man, I’d sooner it wasn’t because he’d been caught with trews around his ankles. But Rudolf stops beside the tent, a flush of heat to his pale cheeks visible in the glow from a smouldering fire in front of the shelter.

  A man grunts, a woman encourages him onwards, or at least, that’s what it sounds like, and then Rudolf is slipping between the two pieces of fabric, held taut over the wooden structure and before I can stop him, he’s inside.

  “Fuck,” I didn’t want him to go before me, but evidently, Rudolf has been considering how to kill Halfdan, and he’s chosen to do it now. I expect there to be a roar of outrage, but there’s nothing, if anything, the woman’s cries grow shriller, a little more desperate. I consider that Rudolf is standing, goggle-eyed, at whatever’s happening in there.

  And then I hear a cry of disbelief from the wooden building, quickly followed by the unmistakable sound of two weapons clashing. Icel has begun his gruesome work, even if his intended target isn’t there. It won’t be long until Jarl Halfdan hears it as well.

  “Hurry the fuck up,” I whisper, wishing Rudolf could hear me, but of course, he can’t.

  I wince, listening to the growing sound of the attack, aware that Icel stands alone, that the men of Gainsborough won’t join the battle, not yet, because I’ve not given my signal, and I don’t want to, not until Halfdan’s dead.

  And then there’s a shriek. It’s worse than iron over scraping over stone, even more distressing than a pig forced to slaughter.

  “Skiderik.” From inside the tent, there’s an upwelling of activity, no doubt Halfdan staggering from whatever position he was in to his knees. I track the movement, thrust my sword through the winter-hard fabric.

  “Fuck,” the blade takes more effort than I’d like, the sound of ripping too loud for my ears, and yet I skewer something, the blade slipping into flesh, just as another screech of fury erupts from the wooden building. The canvass tumbles to the ground, a familiar hand reaching for the slit doorway as I reclaim my sword. I tug on Rudolf, but he holds firm as the material defies its hardness and billows and buckles.

  Rudolf erupts from the doorway, blood on his face, a grin on his cold cheeks, and I’d like to think that Halfdan is dead, but I know better.

  “I took the woman,” Rudolf explodes, “and you killed her with your blade. She’s skewered, right through her breasts, and out her back.” He mimes the act as he speaks. I didn’t want her dead, but it seems I miscalculated about who rode who.

  “Hum,” I didn’t want her. I wanted Halfdan.

  “And Halfdan?”

  “Lives, for now.” Rudolf indicates the canvas, but I’m aware of an upwelling of noise from all around me. We’ve been discovered while Halfdan still lives.

  “Set something ablaze,” I instruct Rudolf. “Make it big, and make it quick, or the others won’t come.”

  He pauses, and I shove him away because something is emerging from the doorway, and that something is mine to fucking kill.

  Chapter 22

  I give him time to get to his feet from the ground but not time to pull his trews up, and his manhood stands proud and unsatisfied. It’s too much of a target, as his naked flesh ripples with the etchings that mark him as the wolf-lord.

  With ease, I rush him, giving him no time to realise the enemy isn’t the same one who just interrupted his fun. But somehow, he has a blade to hand, an evil glint in his eye, as he counters my downward thrust, even if he’s forced to jump back onto the fallen tent to do so.

  “Fucker,” I expel, aware that someone is loudly thumping a shield with a war axe, and the groans of sleeping men and women mean they won’t be for much longer.

  I need Halfdan dead and quickly.

  “Who are you?” Jarl Halfdan grumbles, thrusting forward with his seax in an effort to draw blood while I’m assessing my next attack.

  “Your death,” I offer, admitting it sounds dramatic. Behind me, flames leap high into the greying horizon, and I hear, from far away, the answering call of my warriors. I know it can’t be the Raiders because they’re still not fully alert to what’s happening.

  I also sight the Mercian warriors emerging from Gainsborough in the growing light. Perhaps, this will work, after all.

  I sidestep the feeble attack, slashing high with my seax, distracting Halfdan so that it’s almost too easy to reverse my grip, stab downwards and sever half of his cock.

  His shriek of agony sounds from far away as I watch his flesh tumble to the floor, immediately lost amongst the mess of the canvass and the discarded items that spill from inside to outside.

  Halfdan thunders to his knees, hand around his bleeding loss. I aim for his neck, eager to have this over and done. The movement is quick, slick, and he follows his knees to the floor, pale flesh outlined by the growing pool of red.

  “We need to get to Icel,” I order Rudolf, even as he looks over my shoulder and down at the mess of the man.

  “Is he dead?” Rudolf asks breathlessly, and I nod.

  “He’s not going to live through that,” I point down at the wounds and growing pool of blood.

  Surveying the scene, I appreciate that even with Halfdan dead, these warriors won’t know that, not while the light remains so poor. Even if we thrust his weeping body at them, they’ll not know who it was.

  But, it’s not easy to get to Icel. Not now some of the Raiders are alert to the infestation. The yells coming from Gainsborough and my warriors are hardly quiet, and indeed, Rudolf isn’t alone in forcing the sporadic fires into greater life. Flashes of flame roar upwards, making it hard to see, the light blinding after so much darkness.

  A hand grabs my boot, and I stab down without a thought, a bellow of agony assuring me that I’ve hit my target. In front of me, Rudolf stumbles and goes
down with his seax in one hand, war axe in the other, chunks of flesh flying through the air.

  A man runs screaming at me, shield in one hand, war axe in the other, although he wears no boots even though the ground is frozen rigid. Rudolf quickly moves to stab down, skewering his foot so that when the warrior runs on, unable to stop his momentum, he leaves behind more of his foot than can keep him upright. Rudolf grimaces, accepting his seax is gone, for now, as he leaps high and lands on the falling man’s back.

  Rudolf hacks down into his chest, yet more blood and clots of flesh flying through the air, landing in a sick mockery of heavy snow around us, staining the already polluted crispness. War is a fucking dirty business.

  More and more of the Raiders are advancing, attempting to surround us, even as the thunder of shields on shields assures me that the Gainsborough warriors are quick to erupt from behind the makeshift ditch and rampart. I must assume my men will be doing the same from the other side of the camp. They’ve never let me down before. They sure as fuck better not start now.

  I take my next foe across his exposed middle, the flesh ripping open with the lightest of touches. He screams his rage, square face furious and bulbous, as his war axe thinks to take my right ear. I duck aside, miss the weapon, forcing my seax deeper and deeper into his slit belly. He shudders to a stop, and I spit aside gore that bubbles from his mouth. I dispassionately note that it lands on his slackening face.

  Rudolf is batting aside the next to come at us. His movements are so fast, it’s a blur. The only way I can follow his blades is to witness the wounds appearing on those he fights. A thin man tumbles aside, an axe cleaved between his legs, a smaller man ducks low but still rears up with a seax thrust through his nose.