The Last Sword

by M J Porter

  “Maybe they’re in London with Bishop Smithwulf or Wessex with King Alfred,” Hereman’s words drip with scorn. But, it’s something we need to consider. Have we been lied to, or are the fuckers close to London, on Mercian land?

  “They could have made their way to Grantabridge,” Lyfing states, his words easily reaching me, even though he rides at the rear. “There are any number of roads, and trackways, if they’d had a guide.”

  “But, wouldn’t they have taken their ships?” Rudolf’s question is almost a jibe.

  “Not if the bloody things had massive holes in them and couldn’t be risked along the Thames or the open sea. Even staying close to the coast, I imagine a holey ship wouldn’t last that long, and some of them were more holes than ships.” Lyfing tempers the words with just the right amount of humour. But they rouse me from my stupor, lolling on top of Wombel. His gait is smooth enough, but I’m not used to him. It’s uncomfortable to ride a different horse.

  “So, the others might be hiding elsewhere,” I state, the idea forming in my mind as we get closer and closer to the tree line where we left Tatberht and Ælfgar last night. “They could be anywhere, seeking shelter, but maybe, using the trees for cover.” Only Lyfing and Sæbald are working themselves into an argument.

  “And what the fuck do you know about ships?” Lyfing directs at Sæbald. The words are so loud, I’d be amazed if they didn’t hear them in London.

  “More than you, you daft bastard,” the words bely the affection they’re spoken with, and of course, Lyfing completely misses it in his rage.

  “Shut up the pair of you,” I call, but the words falter. I cough and begin again.

  “Shut up, all of you. Listen to what Rudolf’s telling us. If we didn’t kill them all at the ships, and we didn’t kill them all up that damn hill, then where are they? Might they, perhaps, be hiding in the fucking woods, where we left two of our men last night?”

  My words crack with thunder. Immediately comprehension dawns on Sæbald’s face, the bright light highlighting the scar on his shaved chin, despite the bristles covering it. His eyes flick towards the trees, rising from the ground before us as silent sentinels, the only element in the distance that isn’t shrouded in white.

  “Fuck,” he complains. I can see where exhaustion rims his eyes. I imagine I look little better, but this probably isn’t over, far from it.

  “We concentrate on finding Ælfgar and Tatberht. If they’ve gone on before us, then we do the same. I’d rather stay and kill ‘em all, but not in our current state. With rested horses and some decent food, we might be able to return. Even better if the snow thaws.” Of course, the Raiders who stole our horses did the same with the bounty of food they found. Perhaps I shouldn’t object to them enjoying their last feast before they died. But I’m hungry. So are my men. We can’t eat the oats meant for the horses.

  “We’ll know where they are,” Icel calls from the front. “Our path is well marked, even now.” I can’t truly see it, not from my position behind him. By the time Wombel paces the place Samson has already traipsed through, the snow is so disturbed, it’s impossible to tell whether we stick to the same route or not.

  I can’t even see the river, not from where I am. There are the trees, growing larger and larger, and the hill, which still burns behind us. If there are Raiders out there deciding when to attack us, we’re not exactly making it difficult for them to find us, far from it.

  “I imagine the Raiders are keeping themselves warm at King Alfred’s hearth. The Wessex royal family always knows when to fight and when to use words and treasure to ensure they win.” Icel’s words are filled with disdain. I’m already more than half-convinced of the truth in that statement. Not that I’ve ever met King Alfred, or in fact, any of his brothers. But sometimes, there’s just no need. His actions, and those of his brothers, and his bastard father, speak for the sort of individuals they are. I wouldn’t trust him. I don’t trust the Raiders. They’re probably perfect allies.

  “So why would the ships be by the Thames?” Rudolf presses. Some of my warriors slump in their saddles, sleep taking them because we move so slowly through the snow, the horses unable to do more than copy the actions of the mount in front of them. In effect, only Icel needs to be awake to ensure that Samson doesn’t diverge from the path. We know there are no impediments to our passage, provided we remain as we are.

  “As Lyfing said, they were hardly ships at all. They were leaky barrels, meant to give the illusion that there were more Raiders there. It’ll be a trick. Or, and we can always think the Wessex warriors capable of killing so many of them, they’re somewhere else.”

  Again, my tired eyes glance toward the trees. Are we being watched? Do I feel the heat of another’s gaze on my back? I’m not convinced, but neither do I dismiss it out of hand.

  “How many oars were there?” I ask, and then when I realise how quickly the words emerge, I raise my voice. “How many oars were there.”

  “We didn’t count the oars, Coelwulf. There were some. That’s all I can honestly say. And, if there were more, wouldn’t they have kept them somewhere out of the elements? You can’t get far with a warped oar. Or a leaky ship,” he adds as an afterthought, causing Sæbald’s head to whip up from where he must have been sleeping. Damn the fuckers, is there nothing about which they won’t argue?

  “Then, we won’t know. Not until we either get set upon by the Raiders, or we reach London, and Bishop Smithwulf can tell us all where they are.”

  Rudolf nods at my words, but his eyes are on Haden’s wound. I catch his eye, wrinkling my forehead, a question there. I don’t want to make a fuss. Rudolf tries to smile, offering reassurance, but the worry fails to lift from his young face. His cheeks are glowing pink, no doubt from a combination of windburn and the heat of the sun on them. If anything, it only serves to remind me of how young he is.

  Rudolf is the youngest of us all. Yet I’m relying on him to keep Haden alive. It’s too much of a burden for him. I doubt he’d have it any other way.

  And then the forward momentum of our journey comes to an abrupt halt.

  “What is it?” I call to Icel, unsure why our slow enough progress has come to a stop.

  “This is it?” And he’s already dropping into the snow, tangling Samson’s reins on the saddle to prevent him tripping.

  “What are you doing?” I caution as Icel moves towards the trees. “We need to get to London.”

  “That’s as might be,” Icel confirms, “but no one’s left this spot this morning. It seems to me we might need to check that Ælfgar and Tatberht have managed to leave.”

  “Fuck,” I’m already dismounting, looping both Haden and Wombel’s reins together, cursing as I do so. I don’t want either of them wandering off while I’m beneath the trees.

  My back flames with agony, my feet as well, my chest a persistent ache. I’m not used to such a long walk over treacherous terrain. Gardulf hastens to join us, even quicker than Rudolf.

  “Check on Haden for me, Rudolf,” I call to remove the sting of the betrayal. Then I’m bending, allowing the low hanging pine branches to brush against my back. I grunt at this fresh outrage but hurry to keep up with Icel. If he’s walking into a shit storm, I’ll be with him.

  “Tatberht,” I call, my words a harsh whisper. “Ælfgar, where the fuck are you?” But there’s no response. Beneath the branches, it’s a whole new world, and I have to blink to clear the reflection of the snow from my eyes so that I can see.

  All sound is muted. It wouldn’t help if I roared for my missing men. I doubt they’d be able to hear me.

  “Where the fuck are they?” I hiss to Icel instead. He doesn’t reply. I grit my teeth. I know how valuable Icel is to me, especially after I thought him dead, but fuck, he’s an annoying old bastard.

  We move from below the branches of another tree, the ground beneath it, deep with discarded pine needles, and the general softness of a forest floor. There could be bodies buried here for all I know. Not even
the smell would appear wrong to my senses. Of course, I hope there aren’t bodies here, well, nothing more than the small animals that have breathed their last.

  I’m abruptly too warm and wish I’d thought to discard my rigid cloak, but I can’t, not now. It’s difficult even to stand upright.

  When Icel stops in front of me, I almost walk into him.

  “What the,” but my words tail off. Icel has found our warriors.

  I step around Icel. The first thing I notice is the stillness of Ælfgar and Tatberht. In the half-light, I can’t tell whether they live or not, but sure as anything, the Raider lying on the floor before them, not one, but two swords, in his back, pinioning him to the ground, is about as dead as it’s possible to be.

  “Bloody bollocks,” Gardulf’s words are shrill. I turn, hand already on my seax, but he’s pointing his weapon at another body, further out, almost where the branches finally touch the ground. And it’s not the only body there, looking more carefully, as I do now.

  “What the fuck happened here?”

  “The bastards came for us,” Ælfgar speaks, his words old and tired. “But we killed ‘em all. Cheeky young bucks,” he continues, as though talking of weapons practise and not life and death. I rush to him, crouching down, a grunt escaping me as all sorts of fresh hell burns down my back. Wulfhere has hurried to his grandfather’s side.

  “We were ambushed during the night. We killed those we could. Luckily, the rest of them ran off. I,” but Ælfgar doesn’t need to say anything else because Tatberht’s eyes have fluttered painfully open at Wulfhere’s insistence. I can see where blood has seeped through his bandage.

  “We need to get you out of here.”

  “He can’t be moved,” Ælfgar interrupts me. “Why else would we still be here?”

  “Why can’t you move?” His face is a welter of bruises. I don’t know how they managed to kill their attackers, not with Tatberht so injured.

  “Even breathing makes blood pour from the wound,” Ælfgar moves away from where I realise he’s keeping Tatberht upright. The older man wilts on himself while Ælfgar climbs to his feet and stretches his back, as much as he can, beneath the low hanging branches. Wulfhere takes his place.

  Both of them are blue with cold. I can see where the fire has been dragged across the ground.

  “We need to camp here tonight,” I state, brokering no argument.

  “But what of Haden?”

  “What about Haden?” Tatberht’s words are sharp at the mention of my horse, even struggling to sit.

  “He’s wounded. Like you are. We’ll have to get him in here. Start a fire for everyone. We all need to sleep.”

  “What about the other Raiders? What about London?” I sigh heavily. Icel is right to remind me of these problems; even it is bloody unwelcome.

  “All of us together, even nursing Tatberht and Haden, will be more than a match for the fuckers, if they try their luck again. None of us has slept.”

  “And none of us has food,” Gardulf reminds me, a growl from his belly reinforcing the point.

  “We’ll have to hunt if we want to eat. Before we can hunt, we need to be warm and get some sleep.” And then I pause. “Where did your dead come from?”

  “Behind us, we think, in the heart of the woodlands.” It’s not the answer I want to hear, but it’s to be expected.

  “Gardulf, tell the others to get in here. Bring the horses as well. We’re stopping for some rest and to help Tatberht. We’ll be on our way tomorrow.” He nods and backs out from the tight space, but I know he’s unhappy. I’m sure Pybba will relay Gardulf’s interpretation of the orders to me later.

  “Icel, help me move the dead, and then we can find some wood.” Ælfgar makes to stand as though to help us, but I shake my head.

  “Stay with Tatberht. Keep him warm until the fire can.” I’ve noticed Ælfgar’s wound on his left arm, well, really on his wrist. I shouldn’t have left them. I should have realised they’d be easy prey. But then, I hadn’t truly appreciated how small the numbers we followed were. I believed it to be the rest of the ship-men, and that was patently not the case.

  I grab the hands of the first dead Raider, surprised to find they hold some residual heat. I would have expected the body to be frozen in death, as well as from the cold, but they’ve been under shelter since they breathed their last.

  “Where are we putting them?” Icel grumbles. He has the feet of another Raider in his hands, backing away from Ælfgar and Tatberht.

  “As far as we can get them toward the edge of the trees. Sooner they were buried under the snow than here. At least they won’t smell, not for a while yet.”

  By the time we return to Ælfgar, Tatberht and Wulfhere, half of my warriors have arrived, Pybba taking some control, sending Leonath and Siric to hunt for wood. At the same time, Rudolf bends to examine Tatberht’s wound, Hereman hauling the remaining body over his shoulder.

  He grins at me, the ice from his beard and moustache already starting to melt.

  “I prefer it when I have to kill the fucker’s first. This is all too easy,” he grins. It’s impossible to dampen Hereman’s enthusiasm, even now and even here. The sight of his dripping moustache reassures me that I’m not risking a cold death for everyone in staying here. It’s far, far warmer away from the open expanse. The trees provide shelter, while the snow, far up the branches, acts to warm rather than chill.

  Not, of course, that Haden seems to approve.

  His shrill whinny reaches me. I know there’s no choice but to retrieve him myself.

  “I’ll be back,” I fling over my shoulder, bending low and wishing Haden, for once, could just do what needs to be bloody done.

  “Come here, you daft sod,” Oda’s holding tight to Haden’s reins; Oda beneath the trees, while Haden remains on the snow, front legs apart, all of his weight on them, head down.

  “I’ll get him, Oda. You go inside.” Behind Oda, Sæbald waits patiently, his mount calm, for all the wind is picking up. I can see where the snow has been moved, peaks and troughs forming, as though the sea itself has frozen in place.

  “Right, get your arse in here,” I order, with no hint of apology in my voice. “In here, or out there, on your own, because I’m going to be warming myself before the heat of the fire.”

  His eyes glower at me, his front hoof raised as though to stamp down on my foot.

  “You can just fucking try it,” I muse, walking away, looping his harness around his head first. He can’t trip, and I leave it to him whether he follows or not. For a moment, I think he’s more stubborn than I am, and then I hear the sound of hooves impacting the spongy ground.

  Not that it’s easy going for him. I have to stop and hold branches above his head, Sæbald helping from the rear before we make it to the makeshift camp. The horses have been given space beneath the lower hanging branches, and the majority of them have happily slumped to the ground, legs beneath them. They remind me of hounds, not horses. But then, we’re all fucking knackered.

  Leonath and Siric have excelled themselves. Two fires are merrily burning away, stones forming a circle around the burning wood to stop the flames from spreading over the dry pine needles. My tired warriors are drooped, some almost asleep already. I don’t have the heart to send anyone on guard duty, and yet, I can’t allow us to remain unprotected.

  “I’ll keep a watch,” Wulfstan offers, coming to my side and speaking out of the side of his mouth. “Have someone come and relieve me before darkness falls.” He carries his fur in his hands, no doubt to keep his legs warm while he stands or sits, fighting his exhaustion.

  “If you find anything to eat, save me some,” is his parting shot as he bends and then disappears beneath the low-lying branches. I’m unsurprised when Ordlaf follows him, a tired grin on his face.

  “Don’t bloody forget about us,” he calls before vanishing.

  Now all I need is someone to guard against whatever might be in the interior of the woodlands. Three Raiders won’t ha
ve come alone.

  Eahric finds me next. His cheeks are already suffused with a healthier pink, and his brown eyes wink at me.

  “Eadulf and I will mount the first watch. I confess I slept nearly all the way here from the hilltop. We’ll keep each other awake with tales of the women we’ve bedded and those we wish we had.”

  “Aye, well, the women I’ve bedded,” Eadulf comments sourly. “And the ones you wish you had.” I roll my eyes at them, but at least I don’t need to send a more unwilling member of my warband to complete the task.

  Haden has already settled, his eyes closing drowsily. I can see his wound in the glow from the fire. It looks angry and tight. Yet, nothing leaks from it. I don’t know if that’s a good indicator or not. I’d ask Rudolf, but he’s asleep, propped up against Dever, his left hand over his head, his feet angled towards the first of the two fires. Once more, I’m reminded of his youth.

  Tatberht sleeps as well. He’s been rolled onto his side, and a clean bandage applied to his wound. I think of Eowa, in the forest close to Warwick, and my Aunt. If either of them were here, I wouldn’t worry for Tatberht or Haden, but they’re far away, and all we have are our rudimentary skills.

  “Right, Ælfgar, you know what needs to be done.” Ælfgar looks unhappy but painfully scrambles to his feet. The wound high on his left wrist, leaking afresh.

  “Can’t we stitch it?” he asks, and he does have a point.

  “We could, but Rudolf is asleep, and if it’s seared, then the wound-rot won’t take your arm.”

  “Well, get on with it then. I warn you, I’ll scream like a woman in childbirth when you apply the heat.” I shake my head.

  “I’m sure you won’t,” I try to console, but then he shows me the extent of his wound. While I rip the torn cloth aside, I heat my knife in the fire. I should really get another one. It’s supposed to be for eating, not for closing wounds, the similarities merging in my mind, and bringing bile to my throat.

  “Hold steady,” I instruct Ælfgar. Almost everyone is asleep, every horse as well, but Icel watches me, Pybba too, from his place close to the second hearth.