The Last Sword

by M J Porter

  “Can you fight?”

  “If I fucking have to, I’ll use my teeth,” Pybba rages, no doubt, directed at himself as well as the Raiders.

  “Why do we bloody do this?’ he asks next. My eyes swivel to meet his, my mouth opens in shock so that snow settles within it. Does he genuinely mean to question me, here and now?

  “I don’t mean this,” and he points to the chaos around us, his eyes alight with mischief. “I mean this,” and he points between us.

  “Makes the time pass more quickly,” I retort over my shoulder. I’ve seen the next problem.

  Icel and Hereman are surrounded, Wærwulf trying to fight his way back to them, alongside seven Raiders.

  “Come with me,” I order, and Rudolf rushes to do as I ask, but Pybba remains, his gaze on something else. And I see the problem. With the shield wall gone, there are patches of fighting. In some of them, my warriors are triumphing, but in others, they’re hounded by our foe. Sæbald and Gyrth are as stranded as Icel, Hereman and Wærwulf, where they battle, backlit by the orange glow of the burning ships.

  “Go with Pybba,” I order Rudolf. His mouth opens and then snaps shut. “Gather others as you go.” He doesn’t argue. For once. A fucking miracle.

  This might be about to become a stand-off, two smaller fronts raging against one another. I’m starting to realise that while there might be seven ships, there certainly aren’t warriors to crew those seven ships. Not here. Has this just been another of the lies that trip from the mouth of men who should be my allies? Or are they elsewhere, doing who knows what?

  I’ll consider that later.

  “Ælfgar, Gardulf, with me,” I bellow their names, rushing to assist my warriors. They’ve successfully beaten back those who tried to kill them. Gardulf, with practised ease, is checking the dead, his seax offering final cuts where they’re needed. His father would be proud had he been there to see it. Perhaps that was why he didn’t come and nothing to do with my Aunt. Maybe it’s easier to hear of such exploits after they’re accomplished rather than witness them first hand.

  I’m not a father. I’ll never know. Although, well, my eyes betray me as they flicker to Rudolf, making his way to the others.

  No, I’d always rather be there, just in case.

  I genuinely wish I knew who Gardulf’s mother was, but it seems I’m never to be offered that information.

  “Aye, My Lord,” Ælfgar responds, and I know they’ll follow on behind, Gardulf straightening, his face shadowed by flames and snow. A dazzling combination.

  For now, my focus is on the man encouraging the other Raiders. He stands slightly back from the coming altercation, a fine weapon in his right hand, the iron glinting with the promise of death. Thankfully the screams of terror from inside the broken building have stopped. There’s no one alive in there to rescue, but that’s not stopping the Raiders from battling against Icel and Hereman.

  The seven men hounding my two warriors are all dressed. I notice that first. They wear leather byrnie and weapons belt. Perhaps, they were guarding another entranceway, or, and I think I’m probably right, they’ve just returned from elsewhere. Have they been trading, or most likely, stealing from a local settlement? They wear dark cloaks laden with snow, swept aside to allow access to weapons on belts. They couldn’t be more visible unless they set their hair on fire, as so many others have.

  Including the commander of this group, there are eight Raiders. I should like to know his name if only so I can make some mention of it next time Icel decides to share stories of long-ago battles. Perhaps, Edmund might even sing of my triumph over him. But no, I’ve had enough of such fucking tales of my exploits.

  “Wærwulf,” I recall him to my side. Now there are four of us, against the other eight.

  “Bastard,” Wærwulf grumbles. His chin is awash with blood, and when he spits it aside, a thin stream of pink steams from the settling snow. It’s a more violent act than decapitation.

  “We rush them,” I pant, ensuring the three hear me. “We rush them, and then we try and separate them, and that way, we’ll release Hereman and Icel. I’ll concentrate on the fucker there,” and I nod toward the commander once more. His stance, and actions, speak of an arrogant bastard who thinks himself above actually wielding his weapons.

  Warriors like that disgust me. Have they forgotten how much such tossers frustrated them when they were merely ships men? How quickly the mighty forget from where they’ve come.

  My eyes sweep the battlefield. Pybba and Rudolf are already battling to aid Sæbald and Gyrth. Lyfing and Ingwald are beating four men into submission, as though the snow is eating their foe. Wulfred, Osbert, and Ordheah are fighting for their lives, just like Sæbald and Gyrth, their grunts reaching me after I’ve watched their action. But Goda is alert to what’s happening, so too is Siric.

  Content that all is as well as it can be, I seek out the commander once more. I hunger for his death. Cocky fucker.

  Gardulf moves with the ease of the young, loping through the snow. I envy him, but then I have no time for that because the commander has realised his mistake.

  While Gardulf attacks the back of the first man, unbalancing him so that he falls face first in the snow, and it’s nothing to stab into his back, the commander leers at me.

  His white teeth shimmer with leaping flames from his shadowed face, the rest of him black as night. He appears etched with snow. I can’t imagine he appreciates the cold, but what do I know of these Norseman and those with whom they ally?

  I spare a glance for his weapons, noting the curved blade he brings to hand and allow myself to grin.

  This might be more fucking fun than I thought.

  He inclines his head toward me, an offer, or a greeting, I hardly know.

  Words stream from his mouth. I don’t understand their lyrical quality, although those he orders have no problem. Not that they turn aside from their endeavours. If anything, they redouble their efforts.

  I kick snow aside, wincing as the movement jars my neck. I might typically crack my neck from side to side, but that’s currently unimaginable.

  “Come on then, show me what you’ve fucking got?” I taunt. Whether he understands or not, and I imagine he does, how else would he have survived in Wessex this year? He leaps forward.

  He moves like lightning, one moment before me, the next almost upon me. I’m ready all the same. Shield raised, it absorbs the blow easily enough, even if the weapon is curved. I’d already noticed that my foe must use both hands to direct the blade, so while he’s trying to regain control of it, snatch it back from my shield’s weight, I slash cross ways, and then upwards with my seax.

  The impact isn’t as significant as I planned, and no blood slicks my gloves. The weight of my shield drags at me as well, pulling at my neck wound. I’m almost pleased when he’s once more free from its clutches.

  “That went bloody well, didn’t it?” I mock, but the warrior’s eyes remain focused. He doesn’t even glance to see how his men fare. I do, and I’m pleased. Wærwulf has taken one of the other foe-men with a slicing blow that’s severed his nose. Blood stains the spot, a desecration, even while the man tries to fight. I don’t think he’ll stand for much longer.

  My opponent hesitates this time. He’s tried speed. Perhaps now he’ll attempt to fool me by hardly moving at all.

  I eye him, searching for a weakness, but there doesn’t seem to be one. His hands are clasped, one above the other on the handle of his sword, as he sways softly. I remain still. I’m not going to offer a tell as to my next action. He’ll just have to wait.

  Only then, a crash fills the air, not one of a falling building but something else.

  Fuck, some of these men are mounted.

  A screaming horse rushes, riderless, from the depths of the darkness, legs driving into the snow, eyes wide with fear. It’s all I can do to evade around its wild hooves, and of course, my foe-man is there to take advantage of my distraction.

  I hear the blade whipping thro
ugh the air. I jab upwards with my shield, bending my knees, ensuring I’m beneath the protection of the linden-board.

  The blade hits at an odd-angle, knocking against my knuckles painfully, while my arse dips into the snow, my legs apart but rock-solid beneath me. Gritting my teeth, I erupt from the camouflage as though a whale from the green waves, in the stories the scops tell, my shield arm fully outstretched.

  My opponent has his curved sword in the snow, dropping low, balancing only on one foot, although he faces me. Or rather, he faces my shield, and it whacks into his open mouth with a ringing sound louder than dropped iron on one of the ancient tiled floors, the colours lost to the passage of too many feet, and the open-air above it.

  He buckles, head thrown backwards, falling, falling into the snow, his sword swallowed by the weight still falling from the sky as though ash from the funeral pyre.

  But it’s not done yet, even as I drop my shield to loom over him. His hand is busy around his waist, but again, it’s a distraction. A shimmering blade abruptly appears in his other hand, no doubt from some hidden place up his sleeve. He explodes from the snow in a fluid movement that doesn’t require knees, and the blade is before my nose.

  He licks his lip, no doubt thinking my death imminent, but I’ve fucking had enough of this.

  I dodge the knife, slipping to the left and beneath it, stabbing backwards as I go. I feel my seax cut fabric, and then deeper, the warm scent almost choking me.

  A garbled roar and my opponent slumps into the snow. I’m panting, eyes busy, even as I watch him. He’s not done yet.

  Or maybe he is.

  One of the fighting men thrusts Wærwulf aside contemptuously and rushes to face me. I see few enough details, but I notice he shares the same weapon as my struggling opponent.

  I think to finish the man before he can grip hold of the flapping skin that threatens to spill his innards to the outside, but a slither of iron, sparkling in the snow and flames, catches my eye. I move aside, just in time, almost colliding with Wærwulf, who doesn’t mean to let his opponent slip away so easily.

  I grin at him, and Wærwulf chuckles low in his throat, seemingly unaware of the deep gash on his nose.

  “Fucking fuckers,” he offers, as though we talk of horses or dogs. “You finish off yours,” he continues. “This little fucker is all mine. Damn bastard.”

  The original opponent has made his way to his knees. His lips are turning pale, his eyes red-rimmed, and yet he’s not about to give up. That much is evident from the way he tries to stand, one hand hidden by the snow, the other beneath his cloak.

  “Fine. But mine’s already half-dead, so get on with yours, or I’m bloody taking him.” Aware of a diverse collection of bruises, and perhaps, some cuts as well, as the wind changes direction, swirling flakes of snow that land wetly on any exposed flesh, I step carefully, one leg lifted high and then the next. Already, the depth of snow reaches my calf.

  “Please,” the bleeding man says to me, the word etched with pain, even as Wærwulf and the other man clash once more in a welter of grunts and crashing iron. A crunch of snow accompanies each step.

  His eyes are only half focused on me. He staggers, trying to retrace our footsteps from earlier. I know what he wants. But fuck it. I don’t know where it is. He’ll just have to die without it. I’m surprised he shares the religion of the Raiders.

  Seeing my resolve, as my hand settles on my seax, shield only loosely held now that he’s all but dead, he surges forward, arm outstretched in the snow, moving from side to side. He’d do better if he were a hound and had a damn nose to sniff it out.

  I jab down, through his neck, with only a passing thought for my injury. He collapses into the snow, warm wine melting it so that it runs red all around him. I half notice that his fingers twitch just on the weapon’s handle as I turn aside.

  Wærwulf’s opponent is bleeding as well, pain-hazed eyes seeking out his commander. He opens his mouth, sucks in a deep breath, as though to shout for aid, as Wærwulf stabs into the gaping maw. Teeth shatter, blood erupts, and then the two are finally still.

  “Stupid fuckers,” Wærwulf spits, kicking the body for good measure. His shoulders move up and down. I appreciate how physical our opponents have been. Other Raiders are less supple. If they could all move with the same elegance as these two, we might need to shift some weight from our bodies and equipment.

  I notice then that Icel and Hereman have won free with the aid of Gardulf and move toward me. The steading is little more than a concertina of flames and lost hopes and wishes.

  Icel’s chest heaves, and he hawks into the snow.

  “It’s too bloody cold for this,” he complains, perhaps, like me, feeling the bite of the air inside his body every time he breathes. We should be before a hearth, not forging one in the heart of a blizzard.

  “Where did that horse go?” A slither of worry has wormed its way into me. I wish we’d not left the horses. Not when there are such desperate warriors. I’m pleased there was only one horse and not the mounted host, I’d assumed at first.

  Pybba, Rudolf, Sæbald and Gyrth can be seen, clashing with a handful of the enemy, but not huge numbers. Sæbald and Ingwald are bending to run snow over their weapons, keen to clean away the stickiness of death.

  It seems the battle is almost won. And yet, I feel uneasy.

  This has been too effortless. Where are the rest of the bastards?

  “There, the horse is down by the river. No doubt it was thirsty. Why else would it have been in such a hurry?” Hereman comments, his voice drips with scorn. He’s heaving great gulps of air into his chest. He coughs, spits as well, and I spare a thought for them, trapped between the burning building and a line of the enemy. They’ve inhaled far more of the smoke and ash than I’d have liked. I try not to consider that the ash could have come from those trapped by the fire.

  I’ve never been one to relish the thought of consuming another.

  The moment extends between us, and then as one, we turn one to another.

  “That was Cinder,” I explode, peering into the darkness as though I can see the horses from here.

  “Wærwulf,” I shout, entirely unsure of what to do. This battle is nearly at an end, that much is clear, but what of our mounts?

  Rudolf hears my words, even from such a distance, as they echo in the air. He takes much less time to make the connection between the stray horse and our mounts and flees through the snow, his long legs perfect for skipping over the increasing layer of fallen snow. Hereman meets my eye.

  “Go back. Check on the horses. Icel, accompany him, Wulfred as well. If those bastards have stolen our horses.” The threat hangs between us, and I try not to consider how ineffectual it sounds.

  What will I do if my horse is gone? I know. I think everyone there does.

  Furious, I stalk through the detritus of the battle, bending when I hear gargled air to cut short any suffering.

  “Sæbald, get your arse over here,” I bellow when I’m sure everyone has survived, even if some of them limp or bend to tie another’s wound with a piece of ripped cloth from one of the bodies.

  Sæbald arrives, Gyrth as well, and behind them, I can see that Rudolf is rushing Wærwulf to Cinder’s side. Between them, they’re calming the horse, even as she dances before the fires. I wince, noticing the rein that trails on the floor. I hope she doesn’t stumble on it. I’m not in the mood to kill a horse for one of my fucking stupid mistakes.

  “What is it?” Sæbald huffs, tone resentful. He’s not realised what’s happening.

  “Go with Gyrth to the horses. Hereman and Icel have already gone to check on them.”

  “What?” This isn’t a usual request, yet Gyrth touches Sæbald’s arm, indicating Cinder. I turn aside, so I don’t have to witness the disbelief in Sæbald’s eyes.

  I just need to gather my warriors together. Then we’ll all be off to ensure the horses are well, but Cinder still needs to be brought under control. I march down the slope, careful
where I place my feet, imagining at least ten different scenarios. None of them has a pleasant ending for my foes who’ve stolen my horses.

  A cry wrenches through the air. I’m running even before I realise it. I know I won’t get there in time, but all the same, I’m going to try.

  My body feels too slow, my legs slow to pump, my arms flailing uselessly at my side, while before me, Cinder rears. The flames have crept too close to her, Wærwulf and Rudolf unable to calm her enough to move away from the carcase of the ships, slowly collapsing in on themselves, one and then another, as though some strange presentation; as though arranged and not some chance.

  And Rudolf is on the floor. He’s slipped in the snow and muck from the foreshore of the river, just as Cinder has reared again.

  I can hear her cry of terror as though a wail from a distant shore.

  “Get her down,” I’m gasping.

  “Now, girl. Come down. Come down,” Wærwulf is reaching for her reins, Rudolf scrambling on his back, but it’s all just too slow.

  Panic beats in my chest. I move faster, faster, as though I’m a kestrel on the hunt, diving from a great height to pluck the tiniest field mouse from a field of barley.

  And then I’m between Rudolf and Cinder’s front hooves, but it’s too late now. I can’t escape myself.

  “Down girl, down,” once more, my voice snaps through the air, so authoritative, it seems to command the snow to cease. Everything around me slows down. I can see the pattern on the snow, winking in the firelight. And then a hoof touches my chest, pain exploding from beneath my byrnie and I’m flailing, head thrown back, hands reaching behind me to ensure I don’t land on Rudolf. At the same time, my left leg tries to absorb the blow, stretching out, lowering my centre of mass, desperate to stay upright, even as my right seems to crumble beneath me.

  Wærwulf’s words are a shriek I can’t decipher. I’m on the ground, the snow a strange comfort, the chill of the blizzard making it impossible to feel everything.