by M J Porter
Without further words, I turn and stride away. With each step, I crouch a little lower, hunker closer to the ground. All this creeping isn’t my idea of waging war. Still, the option has presented itself to me, and I’m not about to kick it in the face in place of being more fucking honourable.
It feels as though no time passes at all, and then I’m back at the spot that Edmund and I scouted, able to just make out the camp and smell the smoke from the fire. The enemy is far from quiet, while my men sound as though they’re purposefully stamping on each and every twig they can find.
I’ve winced many times, and now I bite my lip, realising how thirsty I am, and try not to yell at the noisy fuckers to keep it quiet. I’m sure we’ll be heard, but perhaps I'm just overly sensitive.
“Do you think this will work?” Despite our work at dawn, Edmund’s face is white and sweating once more, his hands shaking with the fear of what will come.
“Of course, it will. We’ve killed all the other damn fuckers,” I state, the words more confident than my thoughts on the matter.
Hereman and Edmund have not spoken, and while we shelter together, preparing to go to our assigned positions when the time is right, I move aside, giving them the privacy they need to reconcile.
I can see my warriors slinking through trees, and under low hanging branches, and to me, it seems impossible not to discover them. They’re hardly dressed to blend in with the tree trunks. But, the enemy remains unaware. Sheltering within the woods has made them cocky fuckers. It’ll be their death. But it works as a reminder that I never make the same mistake.
“Are we ready yet,” Edmund’s voice almost trembles, and again, Hereman rolls his eyes, but with a thump to his brother’s back. The two have clearly sorted out their temper with each other.
That pleases me more than it should.
“Just a few moments longer,” I hiss. I’ve caught sight of my warriors to the right of me, low and in position, weapons ready, shields resting on the ground. But to the left, the camp curves too tightly, and I’ve not yet spied whoever has the unfortunate task of reaching the further position.
Hereman meets my eyes.
“I like this tactic,” he rumbles. It’s not often Hereman shares his true feelings with me.
“I don’t,” I complain, but he smirks, his eyes flashing with the idea of the coming attack.
“It’ll be good to be on the offensive,” he states, and then moves aside, keen to return to the place he’s decided will give him the best angle to hit the campfire with.
“Well I’m fucking pleased he’s happy,” I whisper, but Edmund hears me, and rarely for him before an attack, grins too.
“It’s always best to keep the daft fucker happy,” Edmund assures me, reaching for my arm. We clasp forearms, and I feel him trembling but in control of himself. It’ll take but the sound of iron slicing through flesh, and Edmund will be as keen as the rest of us to kill the enemy.
Eventually, I relent, the heat of Hereman’s looks becoming too much for me to tolerate any longer.
“Do it you daft sod,” I hiss, and before the final word has left my lips, I can hear the spear flying through the air, the sound a soft hiss of deadly intent.
I reach for my seax, grimacing as I realise blood still covers the blade and stains the incised depiction of the double-headed eagle on the handle. I should have cleaned it. I’d berate my warriors for such an oversight. But there’s no more time.
The spear hits the fire perfectly; a shower of sparks marking its arrival. Not one of the enemy notices. But I’m flying over the rough ground, and I can feel the rest of my men doing the same.
None of us is fleet-footed, they’ve proved that adequately already, but we act with a unity of purpose, and that is more important.
The first to notice the camp is under attack is a man sat by the fire, half-nodding in sleep as he rests against a tree stump. His yelp of surprise and warning is cut short when Hereman takes aim with another spear. I’d not realised that someone else had given him another to throw.
“Urgh,” I grimace, the spear transfixing the man as he tries to stand. It’s a fitting tribute to Hereman’s skills, as the body slowly begins to slide down the pole, leaving blood and torn flesh in its wake.
And still, the enemy hasn’t realised the hunters are in the woods with them, not outside.
I determine on my first target, a man with his back to me, fiddling with harness or clothes or some such. I raise my seax, breathing heavily from running. At the last moment, the man turns, mouth open in shock, eyebrows almost reaching into his hairline, as I once more stab with the seax, aiming for the unprotected flesh that covers where his heart beats.
His death isn’t instantaneous, a strangled cry issuing from his open mouth, and he’s not alone. All of my men have chosen someone. As men caught pissing, or eating, or cleaning their weapons, become aware that they’re under attack, their lives end on the end of a seax, the edge of a blade, or with the hack of a war axe.
But those outside the trees have finally realised what’s happening, and they rush into the camp, weapons raised, murder on their faces and voices raised in incoherent fury.
They have no helms, and some don’t wear byrnies, but their weapons are ready all the same. They carry anger and confusion, and we exploit it. As far from the treeline as I am, I’m aware of my other warriors taking their kills, while I wait for one of the faster-moving men to face me.
I lick my lips again, seax ready, shield poised to do its duty. I’m thirsty. I miss Rudolf’s care for me.
The warrior who reaches me is of a slim build and fast. That’s why his heavier comrades take longer to arrive than he does.
For all that, his face shows scars drooping down his left cheek, disappearing into his flimsy beard and I realise he’s a survivor of battles. He carries a war axe, not a seax, and I raise my shield, ready to counter his attack. Only it doesn’t come. Perplexed, I lower my shield a little, just enough that I can see, and almost shriek in surprise.
“Hereman,” I bellow.
“It seemed the quickest thing to do,” he retorts from behind me. He’s probably right. Yet another spear has the man affixed to the ground, his mouth permanently open.
“That was my fucking kill,” I complain beneath my breath. Edmund is engaged with a warrior, and so is everyone else, but I have no one, not now Hereman has killed the man I was going to take.
With nothing else to occupy me, I stride amongst the small spots of fighting. All of my men are fighting well.
“Nice kill,” I call to Wærwulf, appreciative of the reverse blow he’s used to knock the enemy to the ground, blood pooling quickly.
“Boss,” Wærwulf acknowledges, skipping around the dead man, and rushing to assist Eahric.
“Steady,” I bellow to Eadulf, noticing that his enemy has palmed a small knife into his free hand.
“I got this,” Eadulf grunts, and indeed, he has. I watch as yet another man surrenders to the ground. I turn then, my nostrils alert to the scent of burning hair, and watch Hereman kick his dead enemy clear of the fire, stamping on his body to extinguish the flames. The last thing the wood needs is to be burnt down.
I turn aside, watching yet more of the men, critically examining how they attack and parry. I don’t often get to see them like this. I’m typically stood beside them, or they’re practising, and not one of them ever fights as well as they could when they confront one of their friends.
“Watch out,” the cry is directed with no name, and I duck, all the same, feeling foolish when I realise it was intended for Eadberht and not me at all.
Eadberht ducks out of the way of a racing warrior, and I casually step into his path, offering an extended leg. The man goes down in a flurry of windmilling arms, and I bend to slice my seax across the back of his neck. The body judders and then stills, and I wish I’d killed him while he faced me.
I don’t think I’ll count that one.
The closer to the treeline I come, the more I’m aware that
not everyone has run into the wood.
“Fuck,” I complain.
“Shield wall,” I bellow, and more than one startled glance comes my way.
“Bollocks,” Edmund is the first to realise what’s happening. “That must be Jarl Sigurd,” he states flatly.
“Let’s hope he only has a handful of men with him,” but the thunder of hooves is clearly audible, and I know I’ll not get my wish.
My warriors, heeding my words, rush from their individual combats when the opponent they face is dead. In no time the twenty-one of us stand side by side, shields down but in easy reach.
I glance up and down the line, seeing if everyone is well. I see a few with cuts and nasty looking impacts that will bruise or swell, provided we live beyond the third battle of the day.
“As one,” I shout the order, from my place not quite to the centre of the shield wall, and we walk firmly forward. There are still solitary trees to manoeuvre around, and we do so quickly. I’m not sure that Jarl Sigurd has realised what’s happened yet. Certainly, I hear no outraged cries from the fresh arrivals.
“Shields,” I bellow when we’re beyond the last tree, and the shields lock into place, one into another, into another. Sweat beads my back, and stepping into the daylight is a new problem. We’ve been beneath the trees for so long, that we’ve become used to the dark. The stark sunlight is blinding in comparison. I raise my shield, and lower my eyes, for the time being seeing only horses hooves and men’s feet.
Behind the shield wall, I take the time to re-orientate myself, and I imagine my men do the same.
Heated words fill the air, and I think Jarl Sigurd has probably seen us.
I see more and more feet in front of me, and then a force hits my shield.
“Hold,” I instruct my men, the cry echoed by Edmund and Hereman. I don’t want to give them the chance to get organised, but I know nothing about the force I’m faced with, and so I choose caution over speed.
More Danish words are exchanged, heavily accented and hard to distinguish, and then I feel another impact against my shield. But it’s not another shield that attacks me. The sudden weight makes my arm strain.
“Bastards,” I mutter. Someone has impaled my shield, rendering it almost useless. I’ll not be able to keep hold of it, not with the added weight unbalancing it, and that makes me vulnerable, and I fucking hate being vulnerable.
I thrust the shield aside, keen to be done with it, and take my axe in my empty hand. In place of my shield, I must use my byrnie and my speed. I prepare to counter all attacks.
I can clearly see now. A swift reckoning tells me there are twenty-one men. Our forces are matched.
“Attack,” I roar, and we’re moving forward, as the abandoned horses of the enemy rear and scream in horror. This new enemy hasn’t yet thought to push them aside, and they will cause problems. For all of us.
Neither have they yet formed their shield wall. It’s evident in the sudden shuffling of feet and the cursing that accompanies it. Or at least, I assume the angry words are cursing.
I can see everything clearly, although my focus is on avoiding the bucking horse in front of me. With a darting movement, I reach to slap the animal on the rump, avoiding the wild legs, and sending it on its way down the long line of men.
Before I can re-join my men, a warrior appears before me. He’s encased almost entirely in blackened leather and iron. One quick glance tells me that this is perhaps Jarl Sigurd and he’s come to fight me, man to man. I admire the thought. Not one of the war leaders I’ve so far encountered has thought of putting himself between his men and me.
His helm is heavily decorated with tempered iron. The impression of a dragon snakes down the right cheekpiece before wrapping its tail along the neck guard, where extra protection ensures I can’t easily access his neck.
My enemy’s shield is covered in the same image, the dragon turning to meet with glinting teeth that seem to drip blood. I arch an eyebrow, impressed despite my intentions not to be. Perhaps, when Jarl Sigurd is dead, I might have his helm and steal away his shield.
All I can see of the man is his blond moustache.
I raise my seax, not at all dismayed to find my opponent so well-armed.
Wealth will bring a man such excellent weapons, and that wealth need not come from battle spoils.
My war axe is loose in my arm, and I hear, although I don’t turn to see, that the shield wall has closed around the space my departure has left.
“Fucker,” I drawl, considering the best place to try and land a strike.
The word means something to my enemy because he grins ever wider. Heavily stained teeth warn me that if the fighting gets close, I’ll have to combat his foul stench as well as his sword and shield.
The sword, like the shield and helm, is heavily decorated, and the pommel has a smaller image of the snarling dragon depicted on it. At least, that’s what I assume it to be because I can’t make out every detail, not with his gloved hand covering so much of it.
A sudden silence fills the air, the rest of the stray horses, finally finding what they consider to be a safe area. At the same time, both shield walls wait, no doubt to see what will happen between the two leaders.
I consider drawing the tension out further, making my enemy wait to launch an attack against me, but I’m fucking hungry, and I’ve really had enough of the day.
On light feet I aim for the shield, held in his left hand, with my seax, and only at the last moment, do I raise my elbow and swing the axe against the far edge of it, hoping to dislodge it.
My seax remains unused in my hand, and my opponent’s shield wavers. Quickly, I raise my seax, keen to stab down, rather than slice, and aim at the uncovered right hand of my enemy.
The seax seems to slip over the thickness of his byrnie, rather than make an impact, and I have to step back quickly to avoid his sudden attack.
It begins with his shield, as he tries to thrust it at me. Without mine, to counter the move, I’m vulnerable. But, I realise, so is he. As the shield comes toward me, I again move on quick feet so that I can hack my axe behind the shield. I don’t aim for my enemy, but instead for his shield.
It doesn’t splinter, not straight away, but his grip slips with the unexpected movement, and while his sword impacts my byrnie, I hack with my axe once more. The top of the shield falls away, my opponent’s hand holding the handle, but only half the wooden board remaining.
I grunt. The move took a great deal of strength, and now I’m unbalanced and heading toward where the other shield wall waits to attack my warriors. We’ve ended up turned around on each other, and I’m aware it would be easy for one of his warriors to drop his shield and attack me from behind.
I growl low in my throat. I like a good opponent, but I don’t think he is one. He just looks the part.
I want to reverse our positions and quickly. While he’s distracted with the fractured shield, I make a slicing attack on his right arm, keen to have him drop the sword as well. Only it seems to have no effect at all, and he’s coming at me with the sword, and I have nothing but my war axe or my seax to prevent the blow from hitting me.
“Bastard,” I murmur beneath my breath, taking the time to decide which weapon is the best for the deflection. I can’t risk losing either of them.
Only then I make a different decision.
As his sword impacts my byrnie, expelling the air from my mouth with the force of the thumping action, I stab down with my seax. We’re close. Too close, and my seax makes a deep impact on his leather byrnie.
He’s not as tall as me, I abruptly realise, as the seax rests against his chest, but doesn’t quite reach his belly.
I’d hoped the action would draw blood, but it hasn’t. I wrap my war axe around the back of his neck and bring him ever closer.
It’s an action fraught with risk. Broken pieces of wood could impale an eye, or he might realise and use his sword to cut my belly open. But again, my enemy isn’t expecting the action. With h
is head held close to my upper body, I use the pommel to stab down on the part of his arm that sends a strange sensation trickling down the arm.
The sword falls to the ground from suddenly lifeless fingers, and I’m sure I have the man and need only make the killing stroke as he struggles in my hold.
But his warriors feel differently.
The first I know is a sudden change in the atmosphere, not so much breathless anticipation but rather a thrum of denial.
And then two things happen at the same time.
“Beware,” Edmund’s voice is the loudest I’ve ever heard it, but the sound is cut off almost midsentence by a heavy object falling.
I keep my enemy in front of me, a human shield rather than a wooden one. But the spear skewers the man lunging at me, his war axe already almost close enough to make an impact.
My shock at such a close call loosens my arm, and my enemy wriggles free as I look from Hereman to my enemy. Hereman doesn’t quite grin, but there’s a jauntiness about him that makes me want to belt the fucker in the eye right there and then.
“Another few inches,” I roar at him. “Another few inches and I’d be fucking dead.”
“But you’re not, are you, you ungrateful git,” Hereman retorts, already ducking back behind his shield. I languorously stretch out with my seax, and slice open my opponent’s neck guard. It doesn’t draw blood, but the man scampers back into his shield wall via the gap left by the transfixed warrior.
“Advance,” I call to my men, still fuming with Hereman but aware that he has probably saved me from an uncomfortable wound, if not death. All the same, I might kill the daft fucker myself. I can’t believe he’s taken such a chance.
While I silently fume, my shield wall envelops me once more, my quarry lost for the time being, and then the real fighting gets underway.
When the shield walls crash together, I’m in the second row, just waiting for an opportunity to kill someone, knowing I can’t risk being at the front without a shield. Not while the shoving is taking place.
“Damn bastards.” I’m furious. I can’t deny it. Their leader stepped forward, initiated hand-to-hand combat, and then when he was going to lose, another interfered. I might have admired Jarl Sigurd for taking the initiative, but I’m glad that Hereman killed the other man, or I’d have had no option but to hunt him down and kill him.