by M J Porter
The men who held the door tight against any more escapees, Ordlaf, Eoppa and Beornstan carefully lift the heavy iron lock. The creak is overly loud in the church that’s flooded with the final words of the dead and little else besides. Wærwulf and Ælfgar fill the gap with the enormous wooden tabletop. It just fits, as though we’ve taken the door from the hinges and moved it forward, a step at a time. That might have been easier to accomplish.
“Fuck, it’s bastard heavy,” I can hear the strain in Wærwulf’s voice, and wish I could assist him, but it’s a job for only two men. There’s no room for more.
The thunk of a heavy object hitting the moving door makes us all instinctively crouch lower. But when nothing else follows, I make my move.
Behind Wærwulf and Ælfgar, when they’re far enough clear of the door, I slip, ten other warriors with me, Edmund and Hereman amongst them. I pause, risking a peek around the side of our shelter and then I allow everyone through because, surprisingly, there’s no shield wall waiting to meet us.
This was my biggest fear about our plan.
But, while this area has clearly been lived in recently, and by many warriors, fires still smouldering with cook pots over them, it now appears deserted.
This is my first intelligence about the enclosed part of the enemy’s fort. It seems to me, in the blink of an eye, that this is where the jarls and their favourites have been sheltering. There are four large canvasses, and many, many smaller ones, although not close to the larger ones.
I can see that items have been snatched in a panic. A scattering of coins lies forgotten about in front of me. A byrnie has been left hanging close to a fire, and the smell of pottage is ripe in my nostrils.
“Where the fuck are they all?”
But I’ve lifted my eyes, and I can see what they’ve planned.
“The ships,” I point to where the sails of the ships can be seen in the bright daylight, and where some of them make jerky movements forward. Now I can see the sigils on the sails. I’m unsurprised to see the one-eyed raven at the front of the group, followed by a wolf, an owl and a snake. And there are others as well. One of them surprises me by having a dragon on it.
It seems Jarl Sigurd had more warriors than just the fifty he took to find me.
We’ve planned our attack carefully.
We knew the ships would be a problem.
I rush forward, keen to make my way through the campsite and see what damage I can cause to the men trying to escape.
I confess I didn’t actually expect them to do this. I thought they would sooner die than retreat. It seems I was wrong.
Only then, I’m not.
As I rush beyond the largest structure, a flurry of warriors abruptly pours forth from it, blocking my path with a thin, long shield wall. It aims to prevent me from reaching the object of my headlong thrust, wolves and owls working together to ensure their jarls manage to escape.
“Fuck,” I complain. We don’t have shields. I didn’t want to face a shield wall, and while we encounter one, I can see the ships beginning to move more smoothly. Perhaps the ships are clear of the quayside. Maybe the wind, beyond the slope of the defences, has quickened.
“Bastards,” I bellow, but already my men are joining me. We might not have shields, but we have our battle greed, and it’s nowhere near sated yet. Hereman and Edmund ensure they surround me. I’m not surprised they’ve decided to work together. Not at our greatest moment of triumph.
The shields that meet us are various colours, only the sigils remaining a constant. With my first blow, I delight in seeing the colour sheer away beneath the edge of my blade.
My men are busy doing the same, but my eyes keep flickering to the sails. Why I consider would they have kept them up? I understood that any ship’s captain worth his salt would bring the sails down when docking. Perhaps, this has always been their preferred method of escape, taking them back to Torksey and hopefully further away, to the Humber, and then back to bloody Denmark.
With my second blow, I feel my enemy falter. With a movement born of desperation, I jump, as high as I can, and slam my seax over the top of his shield, bringing it hammering to the floor. I only just miss my naked feet.
My arm moves instinctively, flicking over the Raider’s tongue and then inside his mouth so that he chokes and bleeds, all at the time. I’m sawing my seax forward and backwards, enjoying the feel of bone over the blade.
Eadulf is the first to take advantage of the gap, sliding through and around, hacking at backs. The orderly shield wall disintegrates. I’m off again, running for the riverbank and the small guard that hovers by the gate. They wait to let their allies through and thwart us.
“With me,” I instruct, and the rush of feet assures me that I’m not the only one racing to force a path through the small gateway. The land has been built up in an earthen wall, even though the riverbank lies to the far side of it. Only one small gateway allows access either from the river or from the fort. At least ten warriors stand, weapons ready.
I’m so close now that I can’t see what the sails do on the other side. That simply makes me more furious, and more determined to scythe through the waiting warriors as though they’re no more than wheat waiting to be cut down.
I take a quick glance to either side, not at all surprised to find Edmund and Hereman still flanking me, although I do wish that Rudolf and Pybba were not with us. But then, where would I rather they were? At least here I can keep an eye on them and support them if they need it.
Rudolf’s eyes blaze fiercely from beneath his borrowed helm, the female warrior’s weapons belt slick with blood but still around his waist. He holds his seax, and as though noticing my scrutiny, he meets my eyes and grins. I’ve never seen a more unsettling sight.
His teeth gleam maroon, his chin shimmering with his blood, and his nose at a strange angle. He’s taken a mighty blow and can’t feel it. Not yet.
I return his smile, allowing my delight at his successes to actually show.
I can’t quite believe how successful we’ve been. Genuinely I thought we’d set ourselves an impossible task.
And then we’re at the gate, and although I’d prefer to linger over yet more kills, I must get to the ships.
It’s Pybba who taunts first. His lost hand has been masked, beneath a cleverly applied glove to his wrist, but now it’s gone, ripped away, and all can see the puckered skin as he waves it before the ten fearful warriors. They’ve realised that waiting for their comrades was a bad decision. The only payment they’re going to get is their death.
“Let a one-armed man kill you, would you?” I’m astounded by Pybba’s threat, but equally, this is what he needs to recover his self-belief.
An opponent steps forward, his eyes gleaming with malice, and Pybba takes a few swings with his war axe. It’s the easiest weapon for him to handle. I reach out and grip hold of the back of Rudolf’s byrnie when he jerks as though to join in.
“Let the old man,” I caution him, as Pybba sweeps one way and then the next, drawing the warrior out so that he steps entirely clear of his fellow comrades.
A flicker of movement behind the warrior Pybba means to kill, and my eyes stay firmly on Pybba as he makes his attack. First one way, and then the next, and only then does the really dirty work begin.
When Pybba hits out with his war axe, his opponent goes to move away, but Pybba is too quick. With a too satisfying sound, he lets the axe fly, having tested its weight perfectly. The axe embeds itself into the enemy warrior’s forehead, the bloom of red instantaneous.
Pybba’s opponent drops to the ground more quickly than if he’d jumped from a great height.
Pybba yanks his axe clear, using his foot on the man’s shoulder as leverage, twisting the body at the same time. The sound is terrible to my ears, but Pybba turns, grimacing to find his next kill.
Only there’s no need.
“Sorry it took so long,” Goda offers, breathing heavily and clutching his side. He’s appeared from the other
side of the gate and quietly and quickly ended the lives of the nine warriors whose attention was on entirely the wrong enemy. For all that, Goda looks terrible, and blood laces his hands, adding to his battered face.
“Not mine,” Goda explains, when I look at him, eyebrows high, seeking an explanation.
“What of those retreating.”
Goda’s words bring a smile to my lips, and I turn, gloatingly, to face Edmund, who merely shrugs as though unsurprised.
“The Gwent Welshmen have stopped all but three ships. They’re lethal fuckers. They crawled onto those ships trying to escape, and killed every last warrior on them.” Goda’s shaking his head. His surprise at the ferocity of the Gwent Welshmen assures me that everyone who tried to escape and was caught by them died a particularly gruesome death.
The knowledge cheers me, even though I imagine all four jarls have managed to escape.
Bastards. They left their men to die. They didn’t fucking deserve the oaths of warriors if they were going to abandon them so easily.
I bend at the waist then, breathing heavily, peering at my bloody feet and wondering just what shit I’ve already stepped into. My toe is throbbing, sending pulses of pain along my leg, and I can see, beneath all the blood and crap, that it’s already swollen. It better not be fucking broken.
When my breathing is finally under control once more, I stand and meet the eyes of my warriors who still stand.
Edmund is there, Hereman as well, the pair of them standing closer together through choice than I’ve ever seen them. Their black warrior's clothes are intact, but blood seems to run from them, pooling on the ground beside them.
Goda is there as well, laughing as he greets Ælfgar and Wærwulf. He admires Wærwulf’s borrowed battle equipment because he’d already set off for Repton when we encountered Jarl Sigurd.
Pybba and Rudolf are picking through the dead, and I smirk to see Pybba so willing to pillage. It seems that young dogs can teach old dogs new tricks, just as well as vice versa.
Sæbald is clutching his side, a grimace on his face, but he shakes away my concern.
“Bruising, nothing more.”
Eoppa, Ingwald and Hereberht are kicking at corpses, ensuring themselves that they’re truly dead.
Wulfstan, Ordlaf and Oda have found a jug of ale from somewhere and swig, each in turn, from their prize.
I lick my lips, considering that I’m thirsty too, but I want water, not ale.
Eadulf and Wulfred are peering through the gateway, pointing at what they can see. I stride to their side and turn and gaze as well. I can’t quite believe how many ships are on the quayside.
“Fucking bollocks,” I whistle, aware than Osbert, Eahric and Beornstan have joined me.
“How many bloody ships?” Hearing the words ‘fifty ships’ and seeing fifty ships is very different. The river is filled with them. In fact, and I smirk to see it, the very number of them has been their downfall. I can see the Gwent Welshmen making their way from one side of the river to the other, just by jumping from ship to ship.
“Daft fuckers,” Osbert exclaims, but actually, I think it not a bad tactic to employ.
In the distance, I can see the three ships that managed to escape, and I do consider whether we could go after them or not. But there are at best about a hundred warriors on those ships. Outside Repton there are two thousand, perhaps more. They’re my priority.
“Well that was fucking easy,” I exclaim, turning back to face into the fortress the Raiders have built at Repton.
The remaining warriors and I realise we’ve lost no more than one or two of the original fifty men that pretended to be Raiders to gain access into Repton, are milling around, kicking corpses, looking for treasure, generally exuberant to be alive.
They’re all laughing and embracing, regardless of who pledges their oath to who, and fuck it feels good to be alive.
Chapter 18
“Right, now for the easy bit,” I exclaim, and the men all grin, buoyant after what we’ve managed to accomplish.
It makes no sense, and it shouldn’t have been possible, and yet it’s done, all the same. I’ll leave the Gwent Welshmen to do what they want with the ships. I can only wonder that those men outside the fort haven’t noticed and tried to gain admittance.
I lead the men back through the door of the church, trying not to look as I go. There are many bodies inside. The stink is obnoxious.
We’ve stolen their lives as surely as they attempted to take the whole of Mercia as well as my life. I didn’t like them being in Torksey last year. I liked them being in Repton far less.
Those men left to guard the exterior doorway watch me with surprise on their faces at my sudden arrival.
I beam.
“It’s done. The fort is ours.”
Relieved expressions flicker over tight faces, and then they grin, their disbelief at our quick successes evident.
“We need to take all of Repton for ourselves, and then we must battle any who still want to stand against us.” I don’t anticipate many warriors making the second choice, but time will tell.
“Do we take prisoners?” It’s one of Ealdorman Ælhun’s men asking the question. It’s been the subject of a great deal of discussion between the ealdormen who now call me their kin.
I don’t want the blood of two thousand men on my hands, and neither do I want two thousand men in Mercia with twisted loyalties, forced to be slaves. It won’t restore peace. But the other ealdormen do not want to let the warriors go. They don’t want them to have the opportunity to return to Mercia. I’m happy for the apprehended to go anywhere, as long as they never return to Mercia.
Ealdorman Ælhun was aggrieved by that decision, citing that our neighbouring kingdoms might become inundated with the enemy. But Wessex has turned it’s back on Mercia. They can have all the fucking Raiders for all I care.
Ealdorman Ælhun said he spoke of East Anglia and Northumbria, not just Wessex.
“If we must. Provided there are still ships at the end of this, they can leave, but only on swearing an oath to never return.”
For all my previous arguments, my blood is high, and I know I’ll kill rather than accept capitulation.
“Ten men must guard the door. We don’t want them coming back in here. Not when we’ve cleared it of everyone else.”
I leave the particulars to my warriors to thrash out, unsurprised when Ealdorman Ælhun’s men determine to stay at the door. They think it’ll be easy, but I know better. They don’t seem to derive quite so much enjoyment from the kill as my sworn warriors do.
Desperate men are just that, desperate. I think the fighting will be hard at the door, should they be able to break through to it.
“Close it, after we’re gone,” I instruct. “Don’t allow anyone in, or out. Not until you get a signal from us.”
“What will the signal be?”
Keen words, and for a moment, I have no idea what that sign will be. It needs to be specific, not something that others might guess at.
“Coelwulf’s farts smell of roses.” Rudolf’s cheeky voice echoes through the church, and we all turn to glare at him.
“Well they do, My Lord.” I grimace, but actually, it’s a good idea to choose something so obscure.
“Fine, don’t open the door until someone tells you that my farts smell of roses. Now come on. Anyone with an injury must stay here, keep safe, we’ve done the difficult part, let the other fuckers get on with clearing out the rats.”
I know that no one wants to remain behind, and yet, all the same, I hear a few shuffling feet and grimace tightly.
“Good. Now, open the door, and then close it again, quickly.”
I still hold my seax and my sword, but I bring them closer to my body, consider wiping the blood from my face but know it’ll only smear more.
With a creak of the door, sunlight illuminates the space, and I pause, waiting for my eyes to readjust. For all the pageantry of my arrival, work inside the rest of Repton hasn�
��t faltered, not at all. Not a single face turns with any interest at the creaking of the door.
I turn to meet the eyes of Edmund and Hereman.
“This might be altogether too easy.”
With confident strides, I walk from the church, my warriors following me. I allow them to streak off, picking their targets and deciding who they want to face first. There are a few screams, a ripple of cheers from the small remaining Mercian population trapped by the Raiders. Then the three of us are at the exterior gateway.
A crowd of ten warriors watch us arrive from various positions. They’re hardly alert and ready for anything. I hide my surprise in check. How can such insolence have infiltrated so much of Mercia and Wessex? They don’t even seem to recognise me, even though I was only brought through the barricade, bound and gagged earlier. I look down, expecting to see blood covering my body, but other than my naked feet, I appear relatively clear of the stuff.
“Oye, Oye lads,” Edmund calls, high on the successes we’ve already experienced.
Now a flicker of unease appears on the face of one of the men, the only one actually on his feet and appearing to pay even the slightest bit of attention.
“In case you wondered, the jarls are gone, see,” and Edmund points upriver, where one of the bright sails can still be seen.
Now all of the men are on their feet, fondling for weapons, as they sight the ships.
“Shall we?” I ask, but Hereman is already eyeing his first kill, and as he squares up, the sound of battle reaches my ears, and I know that we’ve been seen by the scouts hiding amongst the low lying ground. The Mercians are coming to make war on all the Raiders who’ve been abandoned by their jarls. Four hundred and ninety warriors against two thousand.
I began my day being trussed up like a prisoner, but I’ll end it as the King of Mercia, in name as well as deed.