by Lexy Timms
Pulling her down on his chest he knew without a doubt that he would fight and win, he would return to her and take her to his castle and that if she wanted him to – he would be King of the Saxons.
Whatever she desired... that was his course of action.
Chapter 17
Marcus
Multiple days passed by, their plans being put off by the storm above them. How it could rain so much in this forsaken pit of a country was beyond him. On the second day of the weather, Marcus finally made the call. The next morning come rain or shine they would attack.
The damn fog had returned with a vengeance, the air so thick before them it was almost hard to pull into their lungs. Marcus sat upon his horse, his eyes narrowed as the men were in rank just behind him. He turned to face them, Halfdan on his massive beast just beside him.
"Stay in formation. The English were nothing compared to the Highlanders. They’re all made men, untrained farmers, but loyal to their land and families beyond anything you might imagine. Expect a war today, boys."
Marcus moved to view the large Vadula Valley as it stretched out before them. They would march down the center, giving the appearance of being willing to play by the rules. If the stories of their structure and strategy had moved up the coast, then the Scot's would be expecting one large mass advancing forward. Erik had done the same move each time, their girth so wide and strong that they had simply plowed over everyone, but Erik wasn't in charge anymore.
"Do you want me to ride forward when they bring their boy who commands them to stand in front of us?" Marcus looked over at his commander.
Halfdan shuddered. The first sign of weakness Marcus had ever seen in the man. "Make sure you win this. Do it quickly. Your reputation is on the line. And your life. Don't forget that."
"My reputation?" Marcus looked back toward their leader, the older man lifting his brow at him.
"Of course. Are you as good as the slain crowned prince these men march for? Do you have what it takes?"
Marcus knew what Halfdan was up to and locked his jaw shut. He wanted to scream at the portly bastard, to cut his head from his dastardly neck and yet the manly thing to do would be to simply respond and then show all of them. The questions hung all around him, not from the commander, but from the whispers of the men.
Halfdan shifted his horse away from Marcus and yelled to the men. "You’ll be under the command of your captain commander, Marcus. Heed his words as you would have Erik's. Fight for your fallen comrade, for your families, for the pussy you'll get tonight. I don't care, but win this. Whatever you want from these shite towns is yours to keep."
The men yelled, the laughter and joking starting.
Marcus yelled a ferocious battle cry, and picked up the marching horn. The men grew silent, waiting for him to blow it. He chose his words wisely before pressing the bone to his lips. "This battle is yet to be won. Save your celebrations and focus. Some of you have prematurely enjoyed a victory that won't be yours, for you will die today. Stay in the moment and leave the future where it belongs." He moved forward about to blow the horn. He squinted into the fog, seeing what his eyes could not depict.
An Arabian Mare moving toward the center of the field carried a hooded figure, the man much more stout than Marcus had thought the leading command of the Scots was. The bastard had moved to the field before he had.
Marcus sent his horse racing to the valley, refusing to not be the first leader there. He rolled his eyes at the Scot's antics, the man’s hood covering his face. He pulled his horse short, hearing the angered cries of Halfdan behind him. "I am Marcus! The commander of the great Viking Army. Is it your wish to die today? To let your sons and daughters fall before me and my men? We fight on behalf of our fallen king and prince and we will bathe in your blood to ease our pain. Relent and we will spare some of your men and women." He sat there for a moment, his eyes on the stranger, a sense of trepidation rolling over him.
The figure lifted his hood for only Marcus to see. "Don't ride on my behalf cousin. I'll do that for myself, and as for my brother who was murdered in his bed, I’ll find the man responsible and when I do... no mercy will be granted to him or his blood."
Marcus sucked air as if he had been stabbed. "You’re… you’re dead."
"Then today you shall fight my ghost. May the gods grant me the right to avenge my life." He moved too fast for Marcus to react, Erik swinging something blunt and knocking him from his horse. He hit the ground and rolled, standing as quickly as he could.
His cousin rode toward his men, pulling his hood from his shoulders and yelling loudly for all to hear. "You scorn me, my own men! You killed my family!” Erik screamed, his horse galloping back and forth along the line of men too stunned to move. “You lie in bed with the enemy and bring death to my door. Today is retribution for your actions! I will become the monster you thought me to be! It is my name you’ll cry out when I take back from you what you stole from me. History of this day will scream the truth of my lot!”
Halfdan appeared, his face tight and angry. “History will remember you as the Saxon who killed his own people."
Marcus got on his horse, riding toward his cousin as fear tore through his chest, the looks on the faces of his men crippling them before they even began.
"Go home, or prepare to die." Erik's voice wrapped around him as they passed one another, his battle cry bringing out more Scot's than they imagined.
Marcus moved in front of his men, unable to say anything to bring his men back into focus. Halfdan sat on his horse white as a sheet. Lost in his own terror.
"Do not be fooled by the Scots’ tricks! Your prince was slain by them! This is an imposter!" Marcus surged forward. “Charge!” The men began yelling behind him as they moved in for battle with the Scots.
He scanned the foreign faces for Erik, searching until he had himself turning in circles. Was he really alive? Did he know Marcus had planted the arrows in his back? Certainly not. Surely he was angry at the deceit and was now willing to kill them all, most likely the evil of their actions spreading to cover all of them in Erik's view.
Marcus finally spotted his cousin, his axe and knife flying into the chests of several of their men, his tactical skills leaving the soldiers dead at his feet. Another group surrounded him, their hesitation causing a few of them to lose their lives. Marcus slid from his horse, pulling out his own sword and axe.
How in Valhalla had he survived? If the bastard was still alive it was time to kill him. If he were truly dead then killing a ghost would be easy.
Other men moved back, not willing to fight Erik. John at the front on the ground, dropping his sword before the dead prince. The battle raged around them and yet the group in the center seemed to have become hidden.
"Erik. Only you can stop this madness.” John kneeled before Erik. “We fight for you, my king. We were told you were dead."
“As you can see, I’m clearly not.” Erik held his weapons ready, his body ready to pounce.
Marcus rushed through the men standing, forcing his horse through even though the horse whinnied and tried to stop. The horse did not want to be there. Marcus jumped off, sword aimed for Erik’s heart. "I told you he’s gone mad! He's killing his own men, deranged and deadly.” Marcus turned and faced the men. “I command you to raise your weapons!” He spun back to Erik. “Did the arrows from the Scots not kill you, old boy?" Marcus snorted, lifting his weapons.
Erik was the most skilled of all of them, but if Marcus could get in the other man's head, he could bring him down. Surely he still had to be wounded. And he had his men. He was their commander.
"Scots?” Erik scoffed. “I was murdered by my own men, someone from my own camp shot me in the back as I watched the last city we took as it burned to the ground." Erik lunged, the tip of his blade cutting Marcus across the chest, reopening his wound as he growled loudly, pressing his hand to it.
Halfdan appeared beside Marcus, sliding off his horse and moving in to battle Erik. "Go Marcus. Thi
s bastard child is mine to put down."
Marcus growled softly, the men around him moving back behind Erik, pulling others with them. Marcus knew the battle would be lost, Erik's presence alone changing everything. This was his chance to let Halfdan fall, to remove another obstacle from the crown. He climbed on his horse and raced from the group around Halfdan.
"Retreat," he called as he moved through the valley, his hand brushing by men as he ran. "Halfdan's the demon who tried to kill our prince. Retreat and we shall regroup with Erik by our sides again. Retreat."
He ran for coverage, many of the men running with him. Marcus turned and lifted his hands in the air as the Scot's moved forward.
Erik lifted his hand for them to stop. "Are you surrendering, cousin?"
Marcus dropped to his knees, wondering where Halfdan was. If he lie dead on the field or had crawled off to hide in some pit of shite. "I wasn't the one who killed you, Erik. I mourned your death more than the others… like a brother. The bastard who called himself the new king lied to you and to us. Finish this and come home." Marcus turned as he moved the men back toward camp, the Scots dropping their weapons and the sudden screams of Halfdan leaving a smile on his mouth. If heaven did exist they wouldn't allow him entrance, but it was better to rule a day in hell than serve an eternity in heaven.
Chapter 18
Erik
Halfdan. His whispers of wanting his own kingdom left nothing to the imagination where his desires lay. Erik spoke a few words to his cousin, a few of his men had chosen to ride against their own country. To side with him against Halfdan. He knew where their loyalties lay.
He had purposely let Halfdan live. An arrow near his chest, but not enough to cause death, if treated correctly. He had ridden to the sides and around. Erik knew full well the traitor had gone back to his tents to regroup his men.
The shock and awe on the familiar faces at the front of the line laid balm to his quandary of loyalty. Only a few knew of his assassination, none of them friends of his. They were all fed a lie and to find out who would do such a thing would be his mission. He moved back toward the Scots’ side of the battle, some of his men following him. The line drawn in the sand and the most vicious of them left trembling by what was about to occur.
Erik knew this for sure; Halfdan had meticulously planned Erik’s death, but he hadn’t done it himself. He had tried to make it look like the Scots or English had done it, but the arrows were Saxon.
Not wanting to give Marcus or Halfdan a moment to rectify what had just happened, by explaining it away and soothing their men from the frantic worry, Erik called the Scotsmen to attack. The large group of men around him stood with fury in their eyes and screamed out a victory cry that far outweighed any he had heard before that day. To fight another who wanted to take something that was rightfully yours created a fire inside the inexperienced countrymen that even the mighty Saxon should be trembling from.
Linzi's face slipped into his vision as he gathered the troops and shook John’s hand. He hugged his comrade and curtly explained that he was truly alive. The ten men who had left Halfdan’s army to follow Erik would prove useful. “You must help hold the line.”
He then rode out toward the massive Saxon Army, his eyes moving to the right to ensure Kenton was beside him. Erik would fight and lose himself in killing, but if anything happened to the boy, Linzi would be devastated. John rode on his left. He leaned over to his faithful officer. “Don’t let the boy on my right die. I’ve a promise I must keep.” Erik yelled to Kenton just before the wave of Celt's crashed into them. "Watch your arse out here today! I promised your sister!"
Kenton replied, but Erik could only make out a few words, and of those, he wasn’t sure he had heard them correctly. “Up yours?”
Erik refocused on what lay ahead of him. The battle. Blood and carnage a language he spoke all too well.
It didn’t last nearly as long as he thought it would. The realization that the Saxon’s had been duped into fighting him pulled him from his murderous haze. Halfdan stood before him, one of his arms gone from the elbow, the large oaf screaming like a maiden in heat with childbirth.
"Stop that and die like a man," Erik growled loudly, circling him like a lion. The rest of the Saxon had retreated, Marcus pulling them back. Erik would deal with his insolent cousin after.
Halfdan spat, his voice rusty and rough from the screaming he had done. "Your father would never approve of your actions. You’ve not acted like a prince, but an idiot." Halfdan sucked at the air loudly.
"I wasn't raised a prince, Halfdan,” Erik mocked. “I was raised a soldier, a captain and the leader of a great army." He stopped moving, reaching for his belt and pulling his small blade. "How about I give you a commander's death? Take your own life and I shall spare you the agony of taking you apart limb from limb." He scoffed. “Though it seems we’ve started that already.”
“The Saxon who killed his own men?” Halfdan rose with no intention of going quietly into the night. “What will the stories be told of you, boy?!”
Erik drew his sword and nicked Halfdan on his wrist, enough for the old man to drop his sword. “I should think you would be worrying about your own stories, old man. Or the ones they never tell about you. You’ll end up forgotten, your bones buried here on foreign soil where the wild animals shite.” He raised his sword to Halfdan’s neck. “You ordered me dead!”
"It wasn't me.”
Erik shook his head. Even now, near death, the man had no Saxon pride. He would sell his own soul to Valhalla itself.
“I tell you no lies. It was your cousin. He has no line to the crown. He took advantage of me as well. I would never have had your brother killed. Are you mad?" Halfdan yelled, swiping at the offered weapon. "I'll not take my own life. I served the crown all my life. Your father, your brother. I deserve something for the years of toil. I deserve this country as my crown."
"That title belongs to me." Erik turned and looked at the Scottish men behind him, slipping the knife back into his belt. "Do you want to see what mercy looks like today, or are you here to take back what is rightfully yours from the hands of these bastards?"
"Are you not the same bastard?" Halfdan pulled his sword and lunged.
A young boy moved in behind Eric and took the blade in his chest, his life crumbling before all of them in an effort to show loyalty to their new commander. Erik screamed and attacked, his two weapons swinging over and over until nothing was left of the scoundrel before him.
He stood and stumbled to the boy, all the Scottish soldiers having moved back during his rage. He dropped to his knees and touched the child's chest, tears filling his eyes. The boy, the one who had brought him into camp struggled to breathe, his body trembling. "You would die for me?" Erik could not understand why.
"I would die for freedom.” The boy gasped and began to shake, blood pouring from his wound. “You will be king? You will right what was wronged?"
Erik nodded, unsure of his plans, but desperately wanting the young boy to believe there was good in him, though he didn’t know if it were true.
"Then make this stop.” The boy reached out, his hand touching Erik's as it pressed to the boy's small chest. He couldn't have been more than ten years old.
"I will. I promise," Erik said hoarsely, his voice raw and his throat clamped in pain. Erik held the boy until he passed and then stood, wiping the tears from his eyes as he walked back toward their camp, his horse moving up beside him and nudging his shoulder. He stopped and scanned the crowds of men.
"Where’s Kenton?"
A thin soldier, his head down, his clothes covered in blood, looked Erik in the eye and said, "He’s not returned, Saxon."
Erik spun around, bodies littering the fields before them. "Those of you able, look through every body and take their weapons. The Vikings will not come and steal from their own dead. If they try, let us use their own weapons against them."
He blinked and scanned their faces, hoping to find Kenton. Their leader w
ould not blend in with his men. Erik hurried to the field, the carnage countless, the bodies littering the ground before him.
Erik stifled a groan as his heart broke as he fell to his knees beside a body. Linzi would be destroyed and it was his fault. If he wasn't to blame for the boy fighting on his own and leaving his side, then surely the very action of the Vikings attacking were because of him. He was the king now and he had allowed this. He should have called rank and pulled back, forcing them to beckon to his words to leave this land, but he hadn't. His pride had overrun his leadership. He screamed up at the grey sky, his howl echoing through the valley.
His need for revenge had killed Kenton. Nothing else. It was his fault. A promise had been made and he had not kept it. He reached to touch Kenton. His skin was cold, his wound in the chest just below his heart. He had been lacerated with a sword, as if a straw man stuffed for practice fighting. The poor lad had bled out and died alone on the field.
Erik reached over and shut his eyes, closing his own and saying a small prayer to his gods and the one of the Scots’ as well. Whoever might be listening that day in the heavens, he hoped to catch one of their ears.
Agonizingly he emptied Kenton's pockets, a small watch with his name carved roughly on the back – probably a trinket Linzi or her father had given him. There was also a purple flower with sharp thorns in his other pocket. Erik had seen them before, they were some kind of thistle. Ironically it had survived the beating Kenton’s body had taken and lay unharmed in Erik’s hand. He put it and the watch inside his shirt pocket to keep it safe for Linzi.
Linzi. His heart had never felt so heavy. He needed to see her and have her hold him in her arms. Would she hate him when he told her of Kenton? He stood and called two men to carry Kenton’s body back to his tent. Then Erik pulled himself onto his horse and rode hard and fast, back to the fiery-haired lass that had stolen his thoughts, his dreams, his heart. He was about to break her heart. Could he even face her to do it? He hated himself, how much more would she hate him?
