by M J Porter
The fucking fool.
Somehow, he sees me, and a grin splits his face, teeth flashing bright red before he’s gone again, ducking down low, or swallowed by an enemy advance, I’m not sure.
Why the fuck is Rudolf in the shield wall?
And then I peer closer, quickly realising what’s happening.
With no more time for thought, I stride into the clearing, banging my war axe on my shield, purposefully drawing attention to myself.
Twenty-eight pairs of eyes look my way. I know that, without counting, because only two continue to war.
The brief respite is all Edmund needs, and I watch with some envy, as he seems to leap over the enemy and the shield wall, to stand amongst my warriors and lads.
Goda turns to glare at me, confusion on his face. But Icel is quicker on the uptake.
He’s charging toward the distracted warriors, shield high and axe gleaming. From the corner of my eye, I watch the bright streaks of blood that suddenly stain the air they breathe, before I stride to Goda’s side.
What was moments ago an orderly attack has splintered. The two persistent attackers still strike my men’s shields, but in the core of the enemy, confusion reigns. They thought the attack would be an easy one, but Icel’s offensive has left some of them trapped.
“Let’s do this,” Goda growls at me. Together, we rush our opponents. We might only be three men, against thirty, but it’ll be enough.
It has to be.
My war axe is not my weapon of choice, but in this hacking foray, it’s what I need. There’s no room for elegant sword or seax manoeuvres. No, I need to knock as many of the shitting filth to the ground as possible. I can pick them off later, when the rest of them are under my control, or better yet, bleeding to death.
Outraged shrieks greet our actions, but I’m deaf to the complaints.
“Fucker,” I appreciate that my first true opponent has learned the fouler words of our language. It’s always best to make yourself at home.
My enemy’s voice is rough and deep as my war axe thumps against their right side, just above the elbow. I watch as his hands instinctively open and wait for the seax they carry to be dropped onto the grassy ground.
Somehow, the man recovers his grip, but in his distraction, it doesn’t matter. I’ve turned my axe, well, more swung it really, and now it’s embedded in his shoulder, and blood gushes freely. I lick it from my lips, grimacing it back at him with my teeth, as he realises what’s happened.
But he’s not done yet. A flailing arm, almost devoid of all strength, attempts to scratch my neck with a blade but I step around the action, shove the man hard. I watch with satisfaction as he crumbles to the floor and disappears beneath the feet of one of his ship brothers.
Before the dying man’s eyes have even closed, I’m moving on to the next kill.
The figure that turns to face me wears helm and byrnie. The leather is so tight I imagine I can hear it creaking with each and every move, although it’s impossible above the noise of the battle.
A scream of incomprehensible bollocks erupts from the warrior’s mouth. I take a step back, predicting what will happen next. I’m not disappointed.
Both arms swirl, one with a seax, the other with a war axe, a glint of triumph in the man’s eyes. I almost sigh with the predictability of it all.
I step into the range of his left arm, keen to have the seax out of the way first. It glitters menacingly in the sunlight, but no blood mars it, and never will again at his hand if I have my way. The war axe is well-made, the wooden handle gleaming as though sheened with honey, the blade sharpened, made for slicing, not hack.
I turn, showing the man my back, and then jab both of my elbows into his body. I hear the air leaving his lungs as I batter the seax away with my right hand. Unsurprisingly, it drops heavily to the ground, and I’m already reversing my position before the enemy realises what’s happening.
Wide brown eyes greet mine, and I almost want to grin once more, but the man recovers more quickly than I expect, his war axe slashing down the front of my body, as I jump backwards.
Perhaps he has more skill than I imagined.
Or maybe not.
I slash with my axe, aiming for his hand that holds his weapon. He lifts his axe to block the movement, and I feel the reverberation of the weapons colliding shuddering up my arm.
Definitely more skilled than I thought.
I bend my neck from side to side, cracking the pain from my body. Determined I’ve had enough of such foolery, aware that the battle is still far from won, I raise my right elbow, in an action more used for felling a tree. At the last moment, I raise my arm yet higher, and aim for his neck, not his body. Despite his axe making a reciprocal move, it’s my weapon that draws blood, his axe missing mine by a fraction of a heartbeat.
The warrior gasps, his lips burbling with fluid.
I wrench back command of my axe, exhaling heavily. The man still stands, and I snatch his axe from his lifeless hand.
“Fucker,” I spit into his face, using his axe against him. This time, the cut is even deeper, and I leave the weapon there, wedged in his neck, blood pulsing around it.
“Bastard fucker,” I complain again, moving beyond him.
I eye up who’ll be my next target, my chest heaving, my rage under control, even though I’ve once more caught sight of Rudolf in the shield wall. I’ve realised what he’s doing. The damn sod will feel my wrath when all this is over. He better bloody well live to let me flay him with my tongue.
Behind me, the sound of a heavy object hitting the ground finally reaches my ears.
I’m always surprised by just how long it takes an upright body to fall when life has fled.
I catch sight of Icel, weaving bloody violence amongst the enemy, but of Goda and Edmund, there’s no sight. Not that it worries me.
The two know their business well.
I’m getting closer to the shield wall, pleased to see it standing still, even if bloody Rudolf is involved. The tenacity of my warriors is no surprise to me.
Those who’ve fought with me for many years have survived, where others have fallen. Those who are yet young in making war take heart from those with grey beards.
The next warrior I face is beardless and slight. I note it and consider that I face another woman. I tighten the grip on my war axe and then rerelease it.
The warrior wears blackened leather, and it doesn’t creak but seems to move fluidly around the slight frame. There are scratches here and there, as though scoured with a knife. This isn’t this warrior’s first battle, despite the seeming youth.
Men who’ve fought for much of their lives quickly lose the speed of youth weighed down with experience and the bigger build it invariably brings.
I’m not lithe. But I have experience. Both advantages can quickly cancel each other out.
My opponent pauses, perhaps considering the best chance of survival, or maybe, just the best opening gambit. While they contemplate, I grip my axe in both hands, reversing my grip as I do so, bending my knees and slashing upwards. I don’t expect the unexpected movement to work. Equally, I’m aware I need to pull up short or risk hitting myself at the end of the stroke, but a flicker in my opponent’s eye shows me that they’ve been distracted.
I’m aware of movement behind me and broaden my stance, prepared to take a blow to incapacitate my current opponent.
Too late, my enemy focuses on me, and by then, surprising even myself, my war axe has impacted his exposed chin. For a moment, shiny red drops glisten in the sunlight, a hint of magic about them as they stay stationary, before they, and my enemy, are falling. Surprised eyes meet mine as the body tumbles, halfway down, the fall of the red rain meets the slower body, festooning it as though in jewels.
I turn, before the body has hit the ground, axe already swinging wide.
I catch sight of a blade out of the corner of my left eye, but it’s the warrior I focus on.
All of these men, and women, are well
dressed for war. Three dull silver rings snake up this warrior’s right arm, a sign of a great wealth won in combat, and the man has the girth to go with it.
He breathes lightly, far from exhausted by his previous actions. Perhaps a worthy opponent at last.
“Lord Coelwulf,” the voice that calls to me is filled with derision, and heavy with the Danish tongue. “They told us you were a warrior who couldn’t be beaten. They told us we would never claim Western Mercia for ourselves.” The words ripple, rich with derision.
“Ah, so you’ve won Western Mercia already. You and who’s fucking army?” The smile dies away, the lips purse, as though confused, as I consider how I’ll kill this new man.
I’ve taken two men by the neck already, a constant weakness. This man covers his neck well with his leathers, but there’s always fragility in any warrior. I just need to find it.
“Whichever force beat you. Why else would you be sneaking around on this track?”
I understand the belligerence now.
“This isn’t a retreat,” I advise, enjoying the sudden look of unease, evident in the stubborn chin.
“Then what of Jarl Ragnar?”
“What of him?”
“His force, fifty of them. They went to the south of here.”
“Then they feed the crows and the wolves already, probably the boars and pigs as well,” I inform, jerking my chin back along the trackway we’ve ridden down.
“All of them?” there’s no denying the slight catch in the voice.
“All of them. I didn’t let a single one live.”
I think this might break the man’s resolve, but instead, he tightens his hold on his weapon, bounces up and down on his knees.
“Then I’ll have the honour,” he announces firmly.
“Of being the second jarl I kill, yes, you will.”
The conversation has run its course, and I strike quickly, moving to faint a blow on his left arm, only to reverse it and strike his right instead. The warrior, for all his silver, doesn’t expect the change in direction. I’ve already made my hit before he’s gathered himself together.
He grunts, readying himself now.
I wait.
I’m curious to see just what need be done to earn a silver armband amongst these Raiders. I’ve not yet discovered it to be more than luck, and only a little skill.
The Raiders pride themselves on being battle-hardened. But, it’s not hard to be battle-hardened against men and women untrained in the art of making war, slain while going about their day to day business. The holy men and women who’ve lost their lives on the end of such sharpened edges, know only how to pray and farm.
And still, I wait.
In front of me, the shield wall remains firm, although I think I’ll have to spend some of Rudolf’s coin on obtaining the aid of a carpenter to repair the fractured and split pieces of wood that used to be shields. Not that I can’t afford it. I could gift a horse in exchange, or perhaps this damn bastard’s silver arm rings when he finally falls below my blade.
His strike almost surprises me, when it finally comes and I counter slowly, or so it feels. Still, I intercept the slashing seax easily. Although the warrior thinks to mask the second weapon he carries, I’m ready for the hastily swung axe that quickly follows.
The man thinks to use tricks. Perhaps his skill is just from being able to wield a weapon equally in both hands. There’s no magic to that. Only time and training.
“Tell me who sent you?” My curiosity forces the question.
“Jarl Halfdan.”
“You’re his sworn warrior?”
“Yes, he has my oath.” A long pause, and I think the conversation over.
“If I bring him your head, he’ll reward me with great riches and another ship.”
“And what will he reward me if I bring him your head?”
“With death.” Hardly an original reply. But, enough of this. I’m aware the frenzy of the beginning of the battle is starting to drain away. The mass of dead and wounded enemy is mounting up. It seems that their jarl is the only one not to notice.
With a burst of speed, I thrust at my enemy, the four short steps having to be enough of a run-up, as I use my shoulder to unbalance him. He stumbles, somehow keeping his feet, one arm out for balance, the other hitting the ground behind him before thrusting him upwards. I almost fall over his tangle of arms and legs. As his body tries to rebound, his belly is exposed beneath the layer of his byrnie. I whip my axe across the mass of pink flesh, noting the red streaks that follow my blade.
It’s not a deep cut, but the warrior buckles, desperate to protect the wound and to prevent me from attacking there again.
No one wants to die from a belly wound. It’s an ugly way to die, the smell of your own body assaulting your nostrils.
As he buckles, his head pops up, and it’s almost as though he slices his own neck on my waiting edge. I count that as one of his kills. Not mine.
“Coelwulf,” Edmund’s voice permeates my senses, and I stand tall, seeking him out over the mass of bodies and fighting men. He peers at me from behind the shield wall, a hint of exasperation evident in his voice and stance.
“What?” I thought I was alert to everything. It seems not.
“They’re fleeing,” he points, to where the abandoned horses are milling around, some tangled in harnesses, others taking unkindly to those who wish to escape.
“Fine,” I sigh heavily. I don’t want to leave the shield wall, but neither can our enemy escape.
“Goda, Icel, with me.” Without waiting for a response, I’m striding toward the horses, ignoring any who try and attack me. Where that’s impossible, I offer my casual attention to have them gone. Little cuts to the face, a slash on an exposed arm. The men would live to tell of their encounter with me. Only I doubt they will.
The sound of heavy breathing is loud in my ears. There are five or six warriors, all trying to escape.
If I had the breath, I’d laugh at their clumsy attempt to mount. I imagine when they began the journey, they had handy tree stumps to aid them. Now they don’t.
The man who dangles from his harness, one foot in the stirrup, the other snaking half up the animal’s back, is taken down with a hack across his back. It leaves him bucking, before falling to the floor, eyes frantic as I stab my axe down with all the strength I possess.
The resistance of the byrnie holds for only moments, before giving way with a whoosh of released air. The man kicks out with his one free leg, but the movement falters halfway, and all he does is add the horse to his problems. I turn aside. I don’t need to witness the hoof impacting the skull.
My next target has faltered in his attempt to flee, his eyes watching me too keenly. Now, as I meet his startled glance, fear slithers over his exposed cheek, where the side of his helm has been ripped away.
“Going somewhere?” I ask, as his hands scrabble for purchase.
I don’t like to attack a man in the back, but he makes it too easy. And in the next heartbeat, he too is sliding to the ground.
Icel has caught me, his heavy tread unmistakable.
“Get down here, you damn fucker,” he shouts at the only man who’s made it into his saddle.
An incomprehensible stream of crap erupts from the man’s mouth. His legs flail on top of the animal, but Goda has grabbed the harness. The animal is going nowhere. Not that the rider seems to notice.
Icel’s rumble of laughter assures me that all is in order and, and I seek out the remaining men.
One, perhaps more intelligent, or by chance, has chosen an animal he can just about mount from standing. I watch the strain in his arms as he pulls himself upwards, his right foot seeking the stirrup.
It pains me to see the lack of skill.
“Arsehole,” Goda has moved on to face another. His voice is rich with disgust as he spits out whatever the man has thrown. Probably shit from one of the horses.
Despite my intentions, I laugh then, the sound overly loud. My targ
et tenses, and why wouldn’t he, as the daft sod mounts the horse, only to find himself facing the wrong way. I almost glide to him then, knocking a few of the horses to one side, my hand much softer than it appears. There’s no need to wound any horse unnecessarily. I grip the horse’s head harness, and without letting go, move to face the rider.
“Well, that went well,” I offer. Furious brown eyes meet mine, as he fumbles for a weapon from his belt.
“I think not,” I comment, a quick slash of my war axe, and his hand holds the seax, but he has no control over it as it tumbles to the ground, the blood rushing quickly from the severed arm.
“Go,” I encourage him then, a slap on the horse’s rump and the animal is heading away, the dying man facing the wrong way and entirely out of control. I watch, for a long moment, as the animal picks up speed, and the sound of a body hitting the hard ground at speed reaches my ears as I turn aside with a wry smirk.
“He’ll be dead then,” Goda calls contemptuously. All of the men who tried to escape are now dead. The danger that remains to Goda, Icel and I is the horses who’re becoming distressed with the stench of iron and piss.
“Embarrassment,” is Goda’s appraisal and I nod, eyes already raking back to the continuing battle.
“Come on. It’s not over yet,” I indicate with my axe hand.
The enemy is outnumbered, but they still fight. They know, as I do, that they either manage to win, or they die. There’s no means of escape available to them now.
“Stay with the horses,” I order Goda.
“Fuck that.” Goda strides back to the group of warriors still fighting.
“Do you want to stay with the horses?” I ask Icel, the threat of command absent from my voice.
“Nah, you can though,” Icel offers, following Goda with his loping stride.
“Fine, you fuckers, I will.”
But of course, I don’t either. I do take the time to yank a water bottle from the harness of one of the horses. I sniff it first, just to be sure it is water, and then I gulp thirstily, keen to alleviate the salt of the men I’ve killed from my parched mouth.
Goda strides straight into the mass of heaving men, Icel picking his target more carefully. The well of noise has dimmed, and I can clearly make out Edmund’s voice behind the shield wall.