by M J Porter
I know what that means, and Halfdan glances at the missile as though disbelieving it’s truly there. My cheeks lift in half a smile.
“Come, Jarl Halfdan, fight me now, and your men can leave here when you’re dead and return to whatever god-forsaken hole from which they crawled.”
Halfdan’s moves to wrench the spear from the ground, but it’s held tight, and he’s forced to abandon the attempt, kicking it as he stands so that it only fucking hits him in the face again.
He steps back, his men doing the same, their faces perplexed. Behind the black helms, the nose guards splitting a man’s face so that it’s hard to focus on the pair of eyes, I see some unease. These men don’t want to die, not today. Some of them would happily allow their leader to take a chance instead of themselves.
Another spear lands in front of Halfdan, the sound almost a shriek as it thuds into the ground. Fury coalesces on Halfdan’s face, and I know what he’s going to do, even before he raises his hand.
“Angreb,” he calls, as he merges once more into the row of men, disappearing before I can rush at him.
“Gutless bastard,” Icel rumbles, and then another spear hits its target. The man looks from the wood sticking from his chest to his hands, suddenly covered in blood, horror on his round face, blood dripping into his black beard. Poor bastard. At least it’ll be over quickly for him.
I can hear the disorderly arrival of my warriors from behind, and I quirk an eyebrow, lick my lips.
“Which one of you bastards wants to go first?” I call, and then as one, Icel, Rudolf, and the remainder of my men, crash into Jarl Halfdan’s elite warriors.
We meet as though two waves vying for the same space, some tumbling over the top of others, others being entirely engulfed.
The first warrior I face carries a shield and seax, but he has no time to aim a strike before I barrel into him, and he lands heavily on the floor, both falling from hands as his elbows jar on the hard surface.
I stand over him, giving him half a chance, but when acceptance enters his eyes, I stab down through his heart, feeling it judder and halt.
“Where the fuck have you been?” Edmund is beside me, his white face twisted with rage. No doubt he’s seen that Jarl Halfdan has left his warriors to fight.
“Fighting,” I exhale, turning my back on him to shove my shield into the next warrior. The man is squat, reaching only just above my waist, and that makes it more challenging to unsettle his balance with the shield wedged against him.
His weapon, black-tipped, seeks out my seax arm, and I turn aside, allowing Edmund to stab into his chest before he can have more success.
Edmund’s chest hardly rises and falls, as though he does this more easily than simply breath.
“My thanks,” I call, but he’s not listening. I can tell just from his stance that his thoughts are far away. Edmund wants to kill Jarl Halfdan, as do I. As does Icel. We might come to blows yet about who gets to make the killing blow. I thought I’d done it. Damn that fucker who looked so like Halfdan. Damn him to wherever the Raiders go after death.
Hereman fights beside me. He jabs with another spear, I think perhaps the one he’s retrieved from the ground, and with the extra reach, the Raider he faces stands no chance. None at all.
“Skiderik,” is spat into my face, and I rear backwards, the stench of bad teeth and rotten ale too much for me to take.
“Fuck off,” I reply, shield in his face, knocking the blackened stumps of his teeth to the ground. The bastard doesn’t even notice. No sense, no pain.
I thrust the shield again, this time aiming for his neck, but he’s a clever fuck, and skips beneath the sharp movement, coming up, seax aimed at my stabbing arm. His eyes glint, the growing light making it appear as though he burns from within.
And he’s good. I feel the sharp sting of the blow.
“Bastard,” and I swivel, shove my arse into his groin and rear back with my head. This time I get his nose, and he staggers. Allowing my momentum to take me, the shield impacts his chest, and now he can’t breathe even though he still stands, a look of triumph in his eyes for drawing my blood.
“Tell whoever the fuck needs to know when you’re dead,” I call, slicing into the area beneath his shoulder, the rapid stream of blood assuring me that he’ll be dead soon enough. “Let’s hope they have songs of who killed you where you’re going,” I finish, dismissing him even though he still stands.
The Raiders who faced us are better at this task than the initial group of warriors, but still, we’re cleaving through them easily enough, so where the fuck is Jarl Halfdan? Has the bastard run, tail between his legs again, hoping for a ship to save him? He better not have done. I’ll not miss the chance to kill him this time.
But I don’t have time to look. Not yet. I eye the next target. He’s been standing just to the rear of the rest of the men, perhaps uncertain about what to do, but more than likely, just too fucking scared to do anything.
There’s a world of difference between sparing and facing twenty raging Mercians in full flow. I doubt he’s ever seen the like.
It could be easy to kill him, but suddenly he straightens, as though someone else has pulled him tight, elongating every muscle, and he meets my eyes. Fuck me. It’s as though I face death itself. I’ve fought dead eyes, black eyes, lifeless eyes, but these seem to absorb what little sun there is, and he growls at me, one cheek raised, teeth on display. Is he a man or a beast? Have the Raiders forged the skill to turn wolves into men, and vice versa.
I acknowledge the intent in that look, and he runs at me.
His steps are light, his knees almost hitting his elbows, bent upwards, weapon in hand, and I imagine he’ll slip any moment now. I don’t know if I want him to or not. I might like to kill such as him.
And of course, he doesn’t slip, instead jumping from prone body to prone body, finding height with every leap. I know what he plans. I’ve done it myself. It’s not a terrible tactic. Well, it wouldn’t be if he faced anyone other than me.
I hold my ground; easier to make him think he’s got a chance than have him veer aside. At the last possible moment, I sprint sideways, feet firmly planted so that I don’t fall, and the Raider sails overhead, my body held low, too far for his weapons to make any impact.
The passage of his air ruffles my beard, the scent of him making me wrinkle my nose, and he lands, or rather tumbles. By mischance, he misses the seeping body waiting for his feet and instead, his eyes spiral widely, trying to stay upright, and I hear Hereman chuckle.
He looks funny as fuck; that can’t be denied.
“You showed such promise,” I offer, moving almost languidly to slice across his exposed back. Sometimes they make it too easy.
Rudolf will enjoy pilfering his wealth, that’s for sure.
With Hereman watching me, I appraise the battle. My warriors hold the upper hand, but something’s not quite right.
“What’s Icel doing?” I ask, expecting no response. Icel is engaged in a fierce attack. I’d expect him to win easily, his movements so fast, but no matter how often he jabs and thrusts with his seax and war axe, his enemy isn’t giving any ground. I’m not the only one to notice.
“Who is it?” I furrow my brow, moving around Edmund so that I can get a better look. Rudolf is already standing there, mouth open as he watches, running his fingers over his seax blade and removing clumps of hair and flesh without seeming to notice.
“Who’s that?” but suddenly, I know.
“Damn the fucker,” Jarl Halfdan hasn’t run. Far from it, in fact. No, he’s decided to counter my attack with one of his own, against Icel. Icel, usually so cool and calm, fights with barely suppressed rage. He hungers for Halfdan’s death. How Halfdan knows that I have no idea, but it’s a powerful weapon.
And now, as I watch, and more and more of my warriors cease their endeavours to do the same, I finally understand why Jarl Halfdan can bring such men to his side.
“He fights like you,” Rudolf breaths,
the words escaping his mouth unbidden.
“Aye lad, he does,” Pybba agrees reluctantly.
“Then I must be the one to counter him,” I assert, pleased to have that as my excuse for interfering. If you can call it interfering when I intend to save Icel, because one’s things for sure, he’s failing, growing tired. While Jarl Halfdan has a rapidly shrinking group of warriors as his comrades, they’re still there, determined to take advantage of Mercia’s weakness, but today, Mercia can’t be fucking weak.
Chapter 24
Icel is forced down on one knee when he overextends his right arm, almost losing his balance on the slick surface. Grounded, Jarl Halfdan darts forward, stabbing ferociously. I expect Icel to counter it, but he must carry a wound because his movements are too slow. Halfdan lifts a bloodied blade, a smile of pleasure on his ugly face.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” I bellow, my voice so loud it resounds like thunder, distracting Halfdan, my intention all along.
Icel has the time to recover himself, staggering upwards, while Halfdan faces me, a look of displeasure on his face. I can see his tactic now. He means to deprive me of my warriors, one by one, isolating me, making me weak. It’s good he started with Icel. Only, it seems he hasn’t.
Inserting myself between Icel and Jarl Halfdan, I realise that another warrior is sprawled on the floor, the back of his head far too familiar to me. He better live; that’s all I have the time to think before Halfdan begins his attack.
I thought him too spineless to face me one to one. That’s not the case.
Halfdan’s movements are supple and fluid. He moves with the ease of a much younger man, but one assured of success.
He carries a seax and a war axe, although there’s a sword available to him as well, the handle visible above his black helm, held tightly to his back. I thought my last kill had the eyes of death. Halfdan has the eyes of a confident warrior, knowing, watchful, eager. They promise death, and that’s an entirely different proposition.
Icel has been helped by Hereman to one side, Sæbald to the other, but he’s not happy about it.
“He’s mine, My Lord. He’s fucking mine,” he rants. It’s not like Icel to be so bloody stubborn.
Halfdan and I both menace with our seaxs. I feel the double eagle-head against the hardness of my gloves. His seax, I note, carries the emblem of the wolf, cold blue eyes peering from the handle.
And then we spring at one another, his seax goes high, mine low, and yet we both move aside, avoiding the cuts for now.
I follow up with a similar swipe low, and he goes low as well this time. Our seaxs clash, shimmering sunlight striking at just the right moment to make it appear that sparks fly. I smell his sweat, as close as we are, and I feel his strength. It matches mine for now.
Face to face, I trace the line of his jaw, just visible beneath a beard adorned with trinkets, so many of them they clack together as his head shudders with the effort of keeping me at bay.
In my other hand, I hold my war axe, and I’d like nothing more than to swing it at his head, but all of my strength is centred on my seax. Whoever gives first will be the weaker of us. It’s not going to be me.
He’s muttering to himself, his words unknown to me, either a chant or something else. Perhaps he calls on something other than himself in assistance. I wouldn’t be surprised. I trust in my skill, my strength, my ability, and if that’s ever failed me, which it hasn’t, I know my warriors will step in. They rescued me when I was outside Northampton. They saved me from the woodlands. They will always rescue me. I doubt Jarl Halfdan has the same assurance.
The fighting all around us has ground to a stop, an uneasy truce. After all, why would men risk their lives when there might be no need to in but a few moments?
I eye his sword, peering at me from over his shoulder. The mocking wolf face earns a wry smirk from my straining face. I could take it right now. I could kill the fucker with his blade.
I feel his stance start to falter, the strain on his face causing spittle to fly with his chanting, and I hold, pressing that little bit harder, aware I’ve not given everything, not yet.
And he breaks aside, panting heavily, his eyes showing fury as he skips backwards. I don’t give him the time he needs to recover. He wouldn’t offer me the same.
I launch myself at him, only realising by the flash of relief on his face that this is what he wants me to do. My war axe swings wide. I thrust it to clash against his right side. His byrnie holds, for now, but he loses balance. Halfdan might think to play with me, pretending to weakness when he’s strong, but a particular blow will always show the truth of the matter.
Now that I’ve considered his sword, I want it. I want to feel the weight in my hand and delight in slicing through his chest with it, or across his throat, or preferably, right through the fucker’s skull.
His seax stabs out at me. I force it aside with my war axe, swiping it across my body to do so. At the same time, I slash with my seax, first blood welling on a section of his beard shorn away by the stroke. A yelp of outrage disturbs his chanting, and again, he darts away from me, feet light, even if he’s using up all of his resources to stay alive.
Icel seethes from behind me.
“Take him, take him now, kill the fucker, use your seax, across his neck, don’t just give the bastard a shave,” and I roll my eyes.
“Shut the fuck up,” Edmund menaces, but actually, Icel is doing some of my work for me, even while he struggles to catch his breath and regain his equilibrium. I can tell that Halfdan expects me to carry out Icel’s instructions. So, all I need to do is the opposite.
“His belly, slice open his belly.” So I aim for his seax arm, again, a welter of blood showing where he thinks to wear no protection but his wolf tattoos. I blind the animal.
“His thigh, stab into it.” So I jab upwards, aiming for the area below his armpit. I miss it, but a flicker of consternation passes Halfdan’s face. Will he be warier now?
“His neck.”
I slash down with my seax, cutting through the thick leather that protects his calves, leaving part of it flapping as he dances from my path.
The Raiders are sullen in their encouragement to their jarl. Again, the words rumble from them, perhaps a battle incantation, and I appreciate that they’re creating a rhythm to guide Halfdan’s blows.
He aims for my face, no doubt keen to repay the assault on his chin. I swerve the attack, offering my elbow as payment.
Halfdan’s face is growing steadily pinker, finally warming up after days of cold temperatures. His body is growing more limber, his actions more fluid. Yet, blood drips from his chin, landing on the churned snow, our passage spreading it far and wide.
It looks as though I’ve slaughtered a pig and not just given someone an overly close shave.
“Take his right hand,” Icel instructs, the fury still in his voice at being withheld from the attack, but I appreciate the lessening of tension. He exactly knows what’s happening.
I slash at Halfdan’s left leg, opening up a lesion above his knee. The blow doesn’t quite strike true, or he’d be fighting with a broken knee.
Fuck.
While I’m low, his war axe passes over my head, a soft ding showing his aim was almost accurate, although my helm stays firm. I need to be careful. He might be growing weaker, but Halfdan is also starting to read my intentions better.
I rush into him, war axe angled at his chest, his eyes reflecting rage, his chest rising and falling. He attempts to evade the action but tangles his legs before slipping in the growing mass of blood on the ground. He bleeds from two places now. Neither a mortal wound, but I’m just beginning.
And then his seax slicks into my lower arm, just above where I hold my war axe, and a hot spike surges up my arm. He’s drawn blood, although he doesn’t know that because my glove absorbs the tell-tale sign, and I don’t react, even though a lesser man might.
But, he does sense something because he comes at me, seax flashing, war axe loo
ming, a flurry of strikes against me, although not one of them makes it beyond my guard.
Damn the fucker. He has the upper hand. For now.
I dodge and slash, turning, swirling, ducking low, rearing back, mindful of my steps on the slick ground, aware that Icel still hollers but that I can’t hear his words, not while my ears rush with the thrill of trying to elude Halfdan.
Seax arm up, war axe arm low, I keep up with his speeding attack, and then I get lucky, another slick on his chin, and more of his trinkets tumble to the ground, crushed beneath my feet. He bleeds more; this cut deeper, revealing the promise of bone. I sense his wrath and annoyance, but most of all, his pain.
I follow up with a mighty blow against his right side with the war axe, but it only skitters over his byrnie. I’m forced to tense my arm to bring the action back under my control.
Halfdan senses an opening, and he shoves his war axe against my seax arm, and the handle hits home, my hand fleeing open because he’s managed to hit, somehow, that part of my arm that tingles, that brings about an uncontrollable response. My seax thumps to the floor, and I finally hear Icel’s words instead of just his noise.
“Shoulder, back, shoulder, neck,” Icel’s not the only one to be shouting. I detect Rudolf’s higher tones, and I slash downwards, aiming for ankle and foot. Only Halfdan is too fast, and he jumps clear, turning the movement into an advance, his seax running down my bent back, even though it doesn’t pierce the leather.
Instead of rushing to stand upright, I swing my war axe again, eyes focused on where my seax has surely tumbled, but I don’t see it, although my weapon digs into Halfdan’s flesh once more. But it’s still a glancing blow. I’m starting to think he wears some sort of protective equipment designed to evade all but the most direct of impacts.
When I stand upright, his seax is almost on my nose. He’s standing too close as well. I’m thankful for my helm, then. I twist my neck, bring up my seaxless hand, and bang the seax aside. The weapon cuts deeper this time, forcing the earlier cut deeper and wider, but the blood still doesn’t show.
