The Last Sword

by M J Porter

  “It’s what we do,” he offers, with a slight tremor, as I notice the blueness of his face and hands.

  “Here, bring a drink,” but there’s already one waiting, and a colossal cloak covers him, all at the same time.

  “I’ll reward you,” I announce, already thinking to reach for my coin bag.

  “Aye, and who are you, the bloody king of Mercia?” Only the laughter dies as he looks at me, contrition already showing on his face.

  “Sorry, My Lord King. No disrespect intended.”

  “None was taken. But yes, I am the bloody king of Mercia, and I’ll reward you if I want.”

  “Then, I’ll not turn you down, not for the good of the village.”

  He rallies quickly, and I admire him.

  “Tell me, do you help everyone without first knowing who they are?”

  He shakes his head; hands clamped around the steaming beaker he holds.

  “No, but we recognised the bishop’s messenger, so assumed you had to be someone important. Didn’t think it’d be the bloody king himself.”

  “Then, I’ve had the last laugh. I have news the Raiders are in London. Don’t let them cross the river if you can do so without injury.”

  “We wouldn’t help them. We’re more likely to put the river between ourselves and their sort. You need not worry. But you won’t make it to London tonight. Not in this bastard weather.”

  “We have to try, all the same.”

  “There’s a settlement, about halfway between here and Icknield Way. They’ll give you the use of a barn for some sleep.”

  I nod. Edmund and I must have missed such a place on our journey back from Grantabridge.

  “Hopefully, it’ll be drier when we come back this way. I’ll speak to you about a bridge then.”

  “As you will, My Lord King. Travel safe and kill the bastards, whoever they turn out to be.”

  Somehow, even though I’ve been in a river, I feel drier now than at any time since we set out. Two lads run ahead of my reconstructed warband, lighting the way back to the stone road. Voices call from the houses when we approach, and one of the youths shouts back, ensuring all is well.

  “My thanks,” I offer, once more, and then turn Haden back towards London. We’ve still got a long way to go.

  Chapter 6

  Eventually, I have to call a halt to our headlong dash along Watling Street. The horses are tired, and we’re tired. More than once, I’ve had to jolt Rudolf awake in Dever’s saddle.

  Gregory spies the next settlement easily enough, flame light piercing the night. It’s a relief to step under the roof, the constant drumming moving from on top of my head to further away. It didn’t stop raining for long. And it’s colder than a day old corpse. I shake myself, hastily remove Haden’s saddle, and then find him water to drink and oats to eat. He seems content enough, and with everyone pressed together, it almost feels warm.

  The morning dawns, watery, and with the threat of rain, but no actual rain falls from the sky.

  “Come on, mount up quickly. We might yet avoid the worst of this fucking weather.” The thought is surprisingly cheery, and the distance is quickly covered by horses eager to enjoy their freedom, even though it’s bastard cold.

  I’d almost sooner the rain.

  By the time the sun is beginning to set, the clouds have turned the forbidding shade of grey and pink that can mean only one thing—more bloody snow.

  “We’ll have to press on,” Gregory insists. I agree. I don’t want to be caught in a snowstorm.

  “But what of the Raiders?”

  “They weren’t within London when I left. They shouldn’t be now.”

  “Where were they then?”

  “To the west. They’d made themselves comfortable. The ships had been brought ashore, wooden tents erected. Hardly a pleasant way to spend the winter.”

  “But to the north of the Thames?”

  “Yes, to the north.”

  “Take me there, not to Bishop Smithwulf.”

  Confusion forms on Gregory’s thin lips, and I can sense he’s going to argue with me. But I’m his king.

  “Very well, My Lord King. To the Raider site.”

  “What do you plan?” Icel questions me.

  “Kill ‘em and do it quickly. Then bloody King Alfred can sod off back to Winchester, and the problem of London and whether it’s threatened or not will be solved. Then we can turn our thought to bloody Jarl Halfdan.”

  “A passing good idea,” Pybba announces, as though he’s thought of it himself.

  “Warn us when we’re just close enough not to be seen,” I demand of Gregory. Again, he merely nods, perhaps voicing his objections in his mind rather than out loud. I find I like him more and more.

  My air puffs before me as we work our way westwards, the scent of London reaching my nostrils, the promise of heat and warmth, quickly lost as we skirt the broken-down walls of the place before moving on, to the market site, from Londinium to Lundenwic; my Aunt knows the history. It’s just easier to call it bloody London. Only the most pompous will correct the mistake.

  Someone should really think about rebuilding those broken defences. Fuck, I realise that ‘someone’ should be me.

  And then the snow begins to fall, and the landscape transforms before my eyes.

  This isn’t one of my crowning glories. But, when are my decisions ever the right fucking ones?

  “Stay wary,” I encourage my men. We’ve been cold, and wet, and very, very cold, and now we must face an enemy while the world becomes black and white. Mostly fucking white.

  My blood pulses with heat, the promise of the coming battle restoring me. I know I’m not alone.

  “There, My Lord King,” Gregory’s voice fills with foreboding as he brings his horse up short, his breath wreathing him. I’ve already smelt the wood smoke from the campsite.

  “Return to Bishop Smithwulf,” I instruct Gregory. “You’ve done what must be done. Inform him that I’ve arrived. I’ll be with him within a day or two, all being well.”

  “But, My Lord King, there are seven ships.” Incredulity laces his words.

  “It doesn’t matter how many there are,” Rudolf’s confident words make good listening. “There could be thousands of the bastards, and we’d still finish them all.”

  “Won’t you wait?” it seems Gregory isn’t to be told, his face pale beneath the cloak over his head.

  “It’s not what we fucking do,” Icel offers the only explanation.

  “Now, be off with you,” Hereman’s words are the very opposite of a gentle caress and both Gregory and his mount startle and are heading back the way we’ve just come, without even realising.

  I watch his departure as he rides towards the light and uncertain shelter of London’s broken walls.

  “It’s no better than a bloody pig’s sty,” Hereman mouths, his nose wrinkled against the smell, which is pervasive, despite the blanket of snow covering up even the most unsightly of scenes.

  “I’ve never much liked the fucking place,” I confirm. We were here, not many years ago, fighting for King Burgred. It could have gone better, that’s a certainty.

  “So, we’re taking them all on?” Rudolf’s voice is resolved.

  “Yes, we will, but first, we’ll have some fucking fun. Over there, beneath the trees.”

  By chance, an area of woodland has risen before us, visible as a mass of black against the white.

  “I’m surprised they’ve not chopped it all down to burn or build houses.”

  “Let’s just be grateful they bloody haven’t,” I mutter, shaking my head at Icel’s dour words.

  It’s impossible to stay hidden from even a cursory examination on the snowy landscape. All the same, I feel better beneath the reaching branches of the pine trees. The wind has dropped away. Now it snows, obscuring the view before me, but not before I’ve decided what we’ll do.

  “Burn the ships?” Icel demands to know.

  “Scuttle the ships?” Rudolf asks,
and I glance at him, perplexed.

  “Where have you been learning such fucking words? Surely, you should have just said ‘ground them.’”

  “Been gathering some knowledge,” Rudolf retorts. “Nothing wrong with learning stuff you don’t already know.”

  “Of course there isn’t,” I feel stung into replying, but a smile plays around my lips. I should send him to a monastery. Have the monks teach him to read and write. He’d be a natural. But then, he’d have to hang up his sword, and I don’t believe that’s likely.

  “Slit their throats while they sleep?” Pybba seems to approve of that tactic.

  “A combination of all three, I think,” I grin at them. “Why choose only one way of killing them when the options can be so fucking varied.”

  “Provided you organise it in the correct bloody order, that is?” Wærwulf chuckles darkly.

  ‘Well, obviously,” I expel. It doesn’t dissuade him. He just grins all the wider.

  “So, My Lord, what is the correct bloody order?”

  “We’ll just find that out as we go, won’t we,” I laugh, eyebrows high, swigging from my water bottle—the joy of what must be done coursing through my body.

  “But tonight?” Pybba prompts me. There’s no forgiveness for making him ride in these conditions, but the thought of a fight has perked the grumpy sod up.

  “No time like fucking now. The snow will both hide us and make it easier, all at the same time. It’ll be brighter than day, and they won’t be expecting us. And therefore, we can take as many as we can before they’re half-awake.”

  “So, we kill ‘em while they sleep and then fire their ships, or scuttle them, was that the word?” Icel directs this to Rudolf.

  “Yep, we scuttle them.”

  I’m standing in the snow, the horses sheltering under the trees, chewing on whatever lichen they can find. I’ve left no one to watch them. I can’t leave a single warrior behind. Not if this is to succeed.

  I know my Aunt would criticise me for such ill-thought-out action. Equally, Edmund would complain. But Icel, Pybba, Hereman and Rudolf, don’t seem to mind. It might be bloody reckless. It might also be the most inspired thing I’ve ever done. I’ll know soon enough. And so will my warriors.

  I can see the collection of poorly constructed steadings that the Raiders have decided to call theirs in front of me. I’m sure they’re on a farm site, and I spare a thought for those who must have been killed. Bishop Smithwulf didn’t fucking mention this. Either that, or they’ve found some ancient ruins, those that litter the landscape, as though die cast upon a board; without reason, or not that I’ve ever been able to determine.

  Some say that the rivers move their course, that farming land might once have been little more than a bog, that bogs might have once been dry. That the sea might have been closer, that the coastlands, wider. Such words make my head itch. They make little sense to me. Rivers can’t move, neither can roads. Although, well, perhaps that’s not true of roads. I’ve seen steadings built across abandoned tracks, and equally, steadings moved to make way for them.

  There’s a sturdy building at the heart of the site, but it’s not large enough for them all. Not even by half. Light spills beneath the spaces in the stonework, through the pieces of wood that have been used to try and fill the gaps, to make the building tall enough to carry a roof. And with the light comes noise and laughter, some bad singing, and a sense that these warriors have nothing to fear, even here, in Mercia.

  It fucking boils me.

  Some of the Raiders even seem to have upended the ships they brought with them and turned them into shelters. It makes my task easier. They’ll not be going back into the Thames anytime soon. There’ll be no escape for these bastards.

  Sæbald and Gyrth are down at the water’s edge, ready to spark a flame and set those ships that are adjacent to the water aflame. Rudolf won’t be getting his wish because all of the boats are close to the river, not in it. Cocky bastards have decided this ramshackle arrangement will ensure their safety. Only then do I consider how long they’ve been here and why this is the first I’ve heard of yet another invasion on my kingdom.

  The weather turned bad even before the Yule feast, rain falling for days without ceasing. It’s been no better since my men and I fought on into the worsening conditions until all of our foes were dead or fled. Dead would have been more rewarding. I imagine these Norsemen have done the same. I’m grateful for Northampton’s protection and sturdiness then. These Raiders have little more than a canvas above their head, and the fires that pollute my breath are poor things, the wood damp, hardly burning at all. I imagine they’ll be pleased to bleed for me. At least they’ll be warm for the first time in weeks, if only for a moment or two.

  But my wound plagues me as I turn to survey my warriors, all of them eager to begin the slaughter-work. It itches and works at my resolve, trying to undermine me even before I’ve taken the first attacking blow. Will it burst open? Will it be my blood that warms the enemy? It better fucking not be.

  I think of my Aunt’s dire warning. I consider Edmund, no doubt warming her bed and thinking of nothing but heat and fire.

  Fuck him. He’s abandoned me when I probably need him most. I won’t let that stop me. I’ll have this victory without him, and he’ll be excluded from the scop’s next song or verse.

  And then Wærwulf sidles to my side.

  “I’ve heard them speaking,” he whispers. We’re all aware that sound strangely travels when snow coats the land. I could hear a conversation taking place from London itself and think it was coming from just in front of me.

  “What did they say?” From his tone, I know it’s not good.

  “King Alfred of Wessex, it seems, has broken his agreement with them. He promised riches and winter in London itself, waited upon by servants and slaves, where food would never be in short supply.”

  I nod.

  “Fucking bastard.”

  The kings of Wessex are only too keen to prostitute Mercia, provided their precious kingdom remains free from attack.

  “They speak of Jarl Halfdan and the other jarls as well. They know of you but don’t fear you. They also say that they’ll first join Halfdan, as soon as the weather allows them safe passage by river and sea, and then they mean to take their revenge on King Alfred.”

  Such information makes me pause.

  Is Bishop Smithwulf aware of this deception? Is he willing to allow Alfred into London? I know the Raiders attacked London recently. Has Bishop Smithwulf been susceptible to them ever since? I have no way of knowing.

  Equally, the thought of these Raiders returning to harass Wessex is fucking appealing; I can’t deny it. Sooner they were there than here. Rather they were keeping Alfred’s eyes from Mercia. But, of course, Wærwulf has heard mention of Jarl Halfdan, and that involves travelling to the Humber, and I can’t have them doing that.

  “We attack them all the same,” I confirm, and Wærwulf grunts. He didn’t expect anything else.

  “There are few enough guards. Some by the river, a few outside the steading. But nowhere else.”

  “Take Icel and Hereman, and direct your attention at the steading. I’ll have Rudolf and Pybba take the men by the river, and then they can order Sæbald and Gyrth to fire the ships.”

  “If they burn.”

  “Yes, if they bloody burn,” I admit. It’s not ideal, but when is it ever? At Repton, the land steamed with heat; Torksey was no better. Outside Northampton, it rained as though it might never cease, and now we have snow. Let’s see what advantage snow can give us.

  “And be warned, there’s some sort of ditch, or perhaps an old, ruined wall, running around the camp. It’s low in most places but might deceive beneath the snow.”

  “My thanks, inform the others.”

  There are whispered conversations taking place around me while I eyeball the campsite. Perhaps, I should take more care, learn the landscape better before attacking. But no. My blood runs too hot, and the only
way to escape the strange sensations fizzing through my skin is to slay these foes.

  I’ll just have to fucking get on with it.

  Ordheah and Ingwald stand to either side of me, eyes straining through the swirling snow. Around them, the remainder of my men stretches to either side.

  We have shield, seaxs, axes and spears to hand, although not all in one hand, while Icel, Hereman and Wærwulf scurry through the campsite, their intent to tackle the steading at its heart. I don’t know how many Raiders shelter within it. It doesn’t matter. They’ll all be fucking dead soon enough.

  A soft shush, and although I can’t see, I appreciate that Rudolf and Pybba have already killed the ill-attentive guards. Now, in a strange reversal of what happened outside Northampton’s walls, we need to do the same.

  The sound of snores and farts fills the cooling air. I don’t blame them. The only way to pass the time when the weather is like this is to sleep.

  I reach the first shelter, the canvas sagging beneath the gathering snow. I could leave, and they might just suffocate when the material collapses. But no. There is to be no chance.

  The waft of warm air burns my face as I pull the entrance aside, moving inside quickly, and stabbing down on the man who sleeps there, his beard hoar-frosted. My seax is in and out without thought, and blood wells quickly along his chest as his breath chokes and then ceases.

  Too fucking easy. They won’t all be like that.

  Outside once more, my warriors are doing the same. They dip in and out of the shelters, some inside for longer than others, and then because even fools might sometimes be lucky, a cry warbles through the deadened air, the howls of outrage, and the familiar sound of iron claimed from weapons belts fills the air.

  It’ll be a bloody battle then, and not just a fucking execution.

  Chapter 7

  The structures before me seem to erupt as though deer fleeing before my arrows.

  Moments ago, it was an almost silent advance against our foe. Now I face leering faces, red with fury, white with cold. These fuckers are angry, and that makes this all the more enjoyable.