by M J Porter
The fact that Siric and Ordheah haven’t joined our group assures me that there aren’t Raiders trying to attack from the snowy plain beside the woodlands. No, despite Ordlaf’s words, these bastards have been hiding in the trees, just as we have.
The moment stretches before us. I think the Raiders might just make a run for it; try their luck with getting lost beneath the trees. But, of course, they don’t. Instead, another eight Raiders coalesce before me.
They all look as though they’ve been fed well and recently. They glow with health and vibrancy, which is wrong when the weather’s as grim as this. These must be some of the missing ship-men.
“There’s no way to escape. The ships are all burnt; even if it hadn’t snowed so much, you wouldn’t be able to find them.”
“They’re not our ships,” the first man states confidently. “Not that you could call them ships. They were barely able to stay afloat even in that shit-pit known as the Thames.”
I can’t tell whether he’s bluffing.
“Now, just give us the horse, and we’ll be gone. Well, we’ll go when we have a horse each. It’s not the weather to be travelling on foot.” His renewed confidence speaks of something about which I’m ignorant. It could unsettle me, but I can’t see that they have enough men to counter my warriors. I’m sure by now, all of my men are preparing to defend us. I just hope someone realises they need to stay with the horses.
I’m not about to let more of the Raider bastards steal our mounts. Again.
“He’s not your horse,” I smile as I speak, summoning Haden to my side. He comes immediately, not even looking at the other man. “I think, you know, that he might just be my fucking horse,” my cheeks break into a cheery grin. “I think I might have been there when he was foaled. Fancy that, you fuckers. I can tell you about his dam and his sire.”
My opponent sighs heavily, a look of regret on his face, although it’s trickery.
“I chose my words poorly. He will be my horse. Now, hand him over, and we won’t have to attack.”
“You won’t be getting your hands on my horse without shedding my blood.” I’ve caught sight of Rudolf beneath the branches, Pybba as well. I want Haden to go to Rudolf, but of course, he glares at the enemy, not at his friend. Could he make it any more challenging to keep him safe?
“I have no problem with that bargain,” the warrior announces expansively, sliding his seax clear from his weapons belt. It glistens with menace, the iron bright in the gloom. But it’s nothing I’ve not seen before. All that remains to be seen is who will make the first move.
The other leading Raider licks his lips, his black beard wobbling with the action, his tongue little more than a flicker of pink. He looks keen for a fight, his war axe steady in his hand. Rings glint from his fingers, and I look forward to slicing the fingers to get at his prizes. Rudolf will be delighted with such precious gems to add to his store.
I step forward, making way for Haden to walk behind me, but of course, he doesn’t. I don’t want to give away my intentions, but it would be easier if Haden were out of harm’s way. He stamps his hoof into the soft ground, the sound far less menacing than he might hope on the spongy texture. It seems Haden wants to fight all the same.
“Go on then,” I murmur.
Haden has bunched his long legs beneath himself and launched at the Raiders between one heartbeat and the next.
The gap between us is small, and yet Haden still manages to reach a gallop, stopping with perfect precision, just before the two front warriors. He rears, one hoof impacting the first man, the second smashing into the raised arms of the other, who’s had the speedy reactions to try and stop his nose from being broken.
The crack of both impacts echoes louder than iron on iron, and then all hell breaks loose.
I rush forward, determined to complete the attack that Haden’s begun, Rudolf dashing to do the same, Icel’s heavier tread just behind me.
Pybba calls for Haden, his voice shrill with the order. I don’t think Haden will obey. I slap his wound, hating myself for the action, but knowing I only do it to protect him. He doesn’t wear his saddle or any of the accoutrements of battle. It would be too easy for one of our opponents to wound him once more.
Haden whinnies with pain, plunging towards Pybba. I only hope Pybba can bring the brute under control before he tears his stitches. But then I think only of my foe-men.
The man who spoke with such confidence is on the ground, his nose broken, possibly his jaw as well, blood pooling all around him. He shrieks, hands going to his face while his legs kick out.
“Shut the fuck up,” and I stab down, eager to silence him. All around me, I can hear the winged denizens of the woodlands taking to the air. The cry of an animal in distress, even a man, making it imperative they all escape with cracking wings, powering against the icy chill of the air.
Ordlaf takes the other warrior, and then we all gather to face the remaining Raiders.
I’ve not studied them, partially obscured as they are by the first two men, but they’re equally as well provisioned.
My seax slicks out, a feint towards the first man’s throat. He steps backwards, ducking as he does so, and encounters my fist. The force of the blow almost knocks me to the floor, and he buckles, gasping for air, hand clutching at his throat. He’s only winded, for now. A single stab and his heart is forever still.
Icel barrels one of our opponents to the ground with a sweep of his massive hand, following it with a lethal cut to the Raiders exposed neck. Blood arcs into the air, but he’s already focused on the next enemy.
Hereman is dismissive of this new attack. His spear flies through the air, his aim never in doubt, and now one of the enemies is suspended in mid-air, his legs flailing beneath him, pinioned to the thick tree trunk.
His shrieks are feral, ringing louder than a church bell.
“Fuck’s sake,” I hear Hereman complain, but my eyes are on my next opponent.
He has shifty eyes, busy behind me, as though waiting for someone to come to his aid. But what he doesn’t know is that if there are more of his comrades out there, then my other men will have ended their lives. There’s no hope for him.
His belly is huge, straining the byrnie that covers him. I imagine how easy it would be to slit that open, his entrails following quickly. It’s as though he reads my mind, stepping backwards, not forwards. I tilt my head to one side. I might be a frightening proposition, but fuck me, he’s supposed to be Raider scum. Does he genuinely mean to bolt?
Rudolf’s shriek from behind me, ‘to get fucking down,’ brings a grin to my face once more. Daft fucker.
All the same, I do as he asks, feeling the weight of his foot on my back, and then he’s in the air. My warrior has frozen in terror. I wince as Rudolf’s seax embeds itself into his exposed skull with a satisfyingly grating sound. The man drops, Rudolf scampering to stay upright.
“A little showy,” I call, ensuring I’m there to sweep aside the seax of the man to his right, who thinks to make a strike from behind.
“You were too fucking slow,” Rudolf calls, voice high with exuberance, sword now in hand, as he battles another of the Raiders. The man behind him is moaning on the floor, his hands already covered in the slickness of his innards as I catch sight of Hereman finally silencing the shrieks of his impaled victim.
Ordlaf is busy beside me, his sword in one hand, seax in the other, as he counters the attack of one of the Raiders. He’s of middling height, his helm in place, black leather byrnie impervious to Ordlaf’s attack, although I know it’s just a matter of time.
“And you were too damn impetuous.”
“I thought we should get it done with before it gets dark,” Rudolf still argues, even as he elbows the warrior in the nose and then uses such distraction to jab the sword hilt into the man’s throat. I skip across, wincing at the motion, use my seax to slick open his throat. Only then do I turn, force Rudolf’s seax free from the dead man.
“Here, you left this
,” I offer him, blood and gore dripping to the floor.
Rudolf screws his face up at the sight.
“You could fucking clean it.”
“I,” and I thrust it at him. “Didn’t make it dirty,” but I’m laughing as I speak.
The enemy is all dead, bar one—Icel toys with him.
“Are there more of you?” I shout, even though I doubt the man will hear me. Icel swivels at my words.
“Are we after a nice chat, or am I fucking killing him?” His words are slow, laced with a strange combination of amusement and frustration.
Behind him, the warrior looks from Icel to me, his lips curled, plotting his escape.
“You could ask him before you killed him?” I hedge.
Icel swirls his sword, the blade coming to rest on his opponent’s bulging throat.
“Answer the man.” Confusion, wars with malice.
“How many of you are there?” But still, there’s no reply.
Wærwulf lifts his head from where he’s stripping a corpse and mumbles the question in Danish.
A single word is muttered in response.
“There are more,” Wærwulf confirms, swishing his hand as though giving permission for Icel to continue.
“How many more?” I ask quickly, eyes rolling, frustrated that I have to be so specific with my question.
Icel’s huge body sighs once more as Wærwulf asks this new question.
“Tredive.”
“Tredive?” Wærwulf questions, but the man is vehemently shaking his head.
“Thirty,” he flings back to me.
“Thirty? Well, where the fuck are they?”
Once more, Wærwulf makes his demand, but I don’t need a translator to understand the response. Icel’s foe clamps his lips tightly together, the universal indicator for saying nothing further.
Now I sigh, peering into the gloom around me.
“Hurry up, and fucking finish him off,” I inform Icel, turning aside. If there are more of the bastards out there, I want to know where they are.
The sound of a blade slicing into flesh assures me the last of this small group of warriors is dead.
“Haden is with the other horses,” Pybba informs me, coming to a sudden stop in front of me, hand on his weapons belt.
“Oh, I see you did not need me.”
“I do, don’t fear. There are more of the fuckers to kill. Somewhere.” I’m determining where they’ll be. I’m sure they must be beneath the trees. No fool will be out in the snow. But should I check?
Only then, a new sound splits the air, and I turn to my warriors, a smile on my face.
“I do believe that the wolf might require some assistance.”
“What wolf?” Rudolf demands, a lingering look at the treasures he’s yet to take from the bodies.
“The ones that Wulfstan found, over there.” I point, but there’s no real need. The yapping of the wolves is only just heard over the shouting of yet more Raiders.
“We need to help Wulfstan,” I advise, looking to Ordlaf, but he shrugs his shoulders. He knows to remain behind.
“Come on then,” and I surge through the trees, eyes firmly on the floor. I don’t want to trip on a tree root or discarded branch from the winter storms. In the near distance, the unmistakable sound of iron on iron rings through the cold air. My breath plumes before me, but there’s joy on my face.
The Raiders might have stolen my horse, wounded him even, but I’m going to make the fuckers pay. All the fuckers.
Chapter 12
I hear Wulfstan before I see him.
“Fuck, he’s roaring like an old boar,” Rudolf mutters, breath huffing beside me.
“He was adamant the creatures weren’t to be fucking harmed.”
“He should ‘ave told the other bastards that,” Rudolf exclaims as we emerge onto a scene of total devastation.
Here, there’s a small space between the close-packed trees. Just enough for a force of, say, about thirty Raiders, as the dead man told us, to assemble.
But they’re already on the defensive. Any chance of taking us by surprise has long since evaporated. Not, it seems, because of their incompetence, but because of something else.
A man howls beneath the boughs of a tree. His shrieks are the loudest I’ve ever heard. He flails, one hand trying to drag himself back towards his allies, dug into the thick forest floor, one foot trying to beat against the ground, his other hand flailing for a seax that’s just out of reach.
The mother wolf has him, and she’s fucking pissed.
Her growls rumble with the menace of a hundred of the fuckers. Behind her, I can hear the weak and pitiful cries of her pups. Wulfstan is there as well, rage evident in the way he holds his body, weapon ready. He’s become their unlikely protector once again.
Lyfing has my warriors in a tight formation, shield against shield, spears prominent where they poke above shields or beneath it.
The Raiders are entirely screwed.
Wulfstan and the wolf to one side. My other warriors to the other. And now those who fought beside me have erupted onto the scene as well.
“Shut him the fuck up,” I bellow, startling everyone there. Perhaps, at last, I’ve learned to step with more ease. Or maybe, the growls of the mother wolf, the howls of the wounded man, and the jaunting calls of my warriors have merely overlain everything else.
“I’m bloody trying,” Wulfstan grumbles, stabbing down once more and missing the man by a small distance, where he dances, prone, on the floor. Blood covers him. He’s less man than a piece of raw meat, pink, grey and white adding to the scene. And the wolf isn’t letting up. She’s trying to pull him away from her cubs, teeth flashing pinkly, her head shaking from side to side where it has hold of the remaining limb.
I wince, feel a moment of pity for the dying man, which evaporates when I spy close by the too-still form of one of the pups. It seems he deserves his death after all. Bastard.
The Raiders have only one path to escape that I can see, and it’s not climbing the trees, although they might well do that shortly. Perhaps one of their Gods will swoop down and rescue them.
“Rudolf, Pybba and Icel, go and shore up that gap.” It’s tiny; it really is. This open space has been formed because one of the trees has seemingly moved aside. My fanciful thoughts make me believe it picked up its roots and moved there to avoid the worst of the fighting, not wanting to risk its precious limbs. Either way, it blocks much of the path. My three warriors will hold it easily, even if all thirty of the Raider scum attempt to make their escape.
And still, the man on the floor screams. It is the most unholy of sounds. They’ll hear him coming if he does make it to Valhalla, that’s for sure. And if he’s a Christian, then I imagine our caring God might well kick him out for spoiling the tranquillity of the bloody place.
Goda’s voice encourages my warriors. I’m keen to get involved, Hereman and Wærwulf at my side.
My warriors move forwards, one step, and then two. Then they’re running. I like this line of attack.
“Get ready for the arseholes to make a run for it,” I thunder.
Fucking cocks. I hate the Raider bastards. I detest them even more when they underestimate my warriors and me.
I reach for a handful of old grasses, run the blade of my seax through them before discarding them to the ground. They’re tinged with the red of my kills, and it feels sacrilegious in this beautiful place. But we’re only just getting going.
Goda and Lyfing urge my warriors onwards. The two sounds clash, the sound shaking the trees, causing any of the hardier birds who’ve thought to remain behind to squawk with indignation and scurry into the sky.
And then the weaker of the Raiders panic.
The first to rush towards me, eyes wild beneath the dull-iron helm, is all legs and arms. He more stumbles than runs, and as though he doesn’t see me, or Hereman, or Wærwulf, he just keeps coming.
It’s too easy to halt his headlong dash, to raise my seax and stab
upwards into his exposed jaw. His pulse thunders in his neck, and then it’s all over, and I don’t think he’s even opened his screwed-up eyes.
Fine Raider fodder, that one.
But, there are determined bastards still fighting in the group that faces my men. Sæbald lashes out with his war axe, thudding it into the skull of a Raider who battles against Goda. Our foe tumbles to the floor, stunned or dead. I don’t know. The Raider behind him doesn’t care either, stumbling over his twitching body to take his place.
Hereman takes the life of the next Raider, who thinks to escape. I can hear more weapons at work, no doubt Icel, Pybba and Rudolf about the same task. And still that damn man screams, the cries of the wolf pups growing in intensity. They’re not scared. Not anymore. I imagine the little brutes are hungry, and there’s some fine meat on display here. The smell of rust must be driving them mad.
I wish one of them would eat the fucker’s tongue.
Wærwulf thrusts his elbow into the face of the next rapidly departing Raider, and he plummets backwards, head impacting an unfortunately placed stone. He doesn’t even twitch in death.
“Shit,” Wærwulf mutters, a bereft look on his face.
“Dead is dead,” I mollify, and he shrugs his shoulders, dismissing the matter.
By now, at least a third of the foe-men are down. The moans of the wolf-eaten man joined by the rest of the sacks of shit who can’t defeat my warriors. I’m not surprised. My men are keen, eager, to finish the task of ending the lives of these insolent ship-men. They’re on Mercian land. They should have remained in fucking Wessex with their new ally, Alfred the weak.
But the fight is far from done.
Now, some of our opponents begin to notice how fucked they are. The chances of escaping are growing smaller by the sword swing. Do they want to die here? I doubt it. Craven bastards.
The eyes of two ship-men meet over the heads of the others. I know what they’re thinking. I don’t need Wærwulf to shout the warning at the gabbled conversation they roar to one another.