The Last Sword

by M J Porter

“So how many did we kill this time?” Of course, it’s Rudolf who asks the question. He’s none the worse for wear despite the three battles we’ve fought in as many days.

  “Not enough,” is Icel’s less than helpful reply, for all his voice thrums with amusement, not frustration.

  “Not enough to account for all those ships,” Pybba confirms.

  “But I didn’t think the ships fully crewed?” Rudolf retorts.

  “We have only the words of our enemy to tell us that. They were no doubt talking horse shit.”

  “So, a number then?” Rudolf presses.

  “Thirty in the woodlands, plus the five you lot faced off against, and the men that Tatberht and Ælfgar killed.” Hereman joins the conversation.

  “There was a man for every horse up on the ridge, so that makes twenty-seven.”

  “So about sixty so far, or one ship’s worth.”

  “And however many there were down by the river.”

  “How many? At least fifty?”

  “More like seventy,” Hereman argues.

  “I would say eighty-nine,” Pybba interjects, a grin on his old face. Pedantic old fucker.

  “Not bad, I suppose,” Rudolf’s words are far from filled with satisfaction. “About a hundred and fifty then, so between two and three ships full.”

  The knowledge brings an unhappy grin to my face. It might mean there are a lot more of the fuckers out there. Let’s hope the weather has them trapped, or better yet, has frozen them to death. Not a nice way to die, but dead is dead. I scan the sky, noting the white fluffy clouds, looking for some indication from the birds that they might be feasting elsewhere.

  Of course, there’s nothing to be seen. Not here.

  The Thames estuary slowly comes into clearer sight. I glower at the outline of land to the far side. Wessex, or rather Kent, a kingdom to which Alfred lays claim. He’s as bad as the fucking Raiders. Can no one keep their eyes inside their own possessions?

  My mood sours. If I could get all of my adversaries together in one room, I could end all this now, but of course, that’s never going to happen.

  And then I trip over something lying hidden in the snow.

  I land, face averted from the wet slush, arms disappearing up to my elbows, while Rudolf cackles behind me. Little shit.

  “Wait,” I sit back on my knees, unheeding of the dampness oozing into my trews. I’ll regret it, but for now, there’s something more intriguing that concerns me.

  I push the snow to one side, eager to know what’s felled me. I’m not as surprised as I might be when a marbled body emerges from the snow.

  “Urgh,” Rudolf has joined me, his humour gone, tongue sticking out between his lips.

  “Raider or Mercian?”

  “I don’t know, not yet.” I lift my head. “Does anyone have a body?”

  I hear the sound of boots in the snow, the white blanket turning translucent with each step; damp, not dry anymore.

  “Here.” It’s Siric who calls in the affirmative.

  “Frozen solid, poor fucker,” I’m on my feet now, wincing as the cold of the water touches my knees when I walk. I mean, I could hurt more and be more uncomfortable, but I’m not sure fucking how. Not at the moment. I consider my men who carry wounds as well. This is a miserable experience all around. Damn the bastards for thinking to fight through the winter months.

  Passing Haden’s reins to Rudolf, I slither my way to Siric. He’s further down the line of miserable men and horses. If the Raiders attacked us now, they wouldn’t know what hit them. So much fury would be unleashed upon them, caused not by their appearance but by the damn weather.

  “Urgh,” the sound leaves my lips unbidden. “You could have fucking warned me.”

  Siric shrugs. “Which bit of ‘frozen solid, poor fucker,’ didn’t you understand?” His words are acerbic.

  “Well, the staring eyed bit. The blue eyes glaring into my very soul bit.” It’s not easy to explain what unsettles me so much.

  “Raider or Mercian.”

  “Raider, look at his arms,” and I do, noting how the inkings, normally so fearful in life, seem to sag along his unmoving arms. It’s as though, while he’s frozen solid, they’ve become deflated.

  “You’ll never get his rings from those fingers, not unless you chop them off.” It’s Gardulf who offers the words, leaning from the back of his mount. He looks altogether too cheerful.

  I dig down with my foot, a cry of triumph when I hit something solid.

  “The road,” I explain, as Siric’s brows furrow in surprise.

  “Makes sense,” is his grudging reply. “Still, I’d asked how they got here and where the rest of them are.” That’s always the problem. We can find them in one place at a set time, but without knowing exact numbers, we can never be sure that we’ve tracked them all down, offered a sacrifice of their blood into Mercia’s soil.

  “Are you going to?’ Gardulf asks.

  “Going to what?”

  “Slice his fingers. Those rings look like they might be worth quite a bit.” The gems flash with more life than the body. I appreciate the pull of them.

  “No, help yourself. Cold little sausage fingers, not my idea of fun,” and I make my way back to Haden. Pybba has been digging through the snow as well.

  “The road is here too.” That makes sense. It ran close to the river, but not too close. It’s never good to advertise the proximity of a road that’ll lead somewhere affluent when there are Raiders on the hunt.

  I stride back to Haden, closing my ears to the sawing action from behind. I’m not a squeamish man, but I don’t fancy what Gardulf’s doing. Even Rudolf has left the body I found alone.

  “I can’t imagine there were only two of them,” I call over my shoulder, refusing to turn and look. The wet sound is enough to know that Gardulf has retrieved one of the fingers.

  And so it proves. There’s a patch on that road, about twenty horse-lengths in total, where Raiders have frozen to death in the snow. I would expect them to have more sense, coming as they do, from somewhere much colder than Mercia. Damn arseholes.

  We walk on, the occasional strike of a hoof on the stone road assuring me that we follow the route back to London. I’m more than half curious to see what we discover there. Will London be under attack? It wouldn’t be the first time. The Raiders came to London five years ago, when King Burgred was Mercia’s king. Ineffectual fucker. He should have killed them all then, but of course, he didn’t.

  I won’t be making that mistake.

  I hope we’ll make good time, but of course, we don’t. The wet slush makes the road both slippery and challenging to cross. There are entire patches clear of snow, melted away under the feeble heat from the sun. They lull me into believing the way will become easier, but it doesn’t. It’s trickier. I slip more than once, relying on Haden to keep me upright. I’m sweating and cold, and then hot, and damn, my thighs and feet hurt. I don’t even want to talk about my knees.

  And then the sun begins to sink, disappearing in a cool haze of mauves and crimsons, the promise of a cold night ahead. I’ve had enough.

  “We need somewhere to spend the night,” I call over my shoulders, hoping someone sees something that I don’t. If there were a hall or a settlement close by, it’s no doubt been overrun by Raiders. No, what we need is more woodland, or a cave, or just for fucking London to appear on the skyline.

  None of those things happens.

  My men grow sullen, the horses cantankerous. Haden nips at my ear, making it bleed. Bastard horse.

  “It’s not my damn fault,” I just about explode. “Can you smell smoke in the air? Can you see lights in the distance? Can you so much as see a strand of trees as opposed to an individual one that’ll offer no protection from the plunging temperatures?” Just to add to my misery, the wind has returned. It’s not quite a blast of frozen pebbles on my face, but it’s not far from it.

  If the hedges demarcating land and territory were in full bloom, they would assist
us, but they’re more skeletal than a corpse left to rot from a noose throughout the winter.

  I resign myself to a long, cold and miserable night plunging through the snow. At least the moon is bright enough by which to see—a small mercy.

  No one speaks, and yet, I’m sure we’re all alert. My legs are cold, my knees even colder, my neck wound aching.

  “What the fuck is all this shit?” Hereman roars, coming to me despite the gusting wind. He must have shouted those words. I find a smirk touching my ice-rimmed lips. It must be bad if Hereman is moaning.

  And then I see it, thank fuck. London.

  “Nearly there, boys,” I call over my shoulder, grinning and then regretting it as my teeth ache when I open my mouth, the deathly cold flooding in. There better be a fucking fire waiting for us in London. A fucking massive fire and a feast to fill my hollow belly, or, fuck it; I might just set the fire myself. If London burns, then King Alfred will have nothing to claim.

  The thought warms me through the remainder of the journey, a wolf grin on my rictus face.

  Chapter 14

  Not that I get a chance to fucking enjoy being behind the dubious shelter of London’s crumbling walls.

  The gates might well have been pulled open once I’d proved I was the king of the damn place, but news of my arrival preceded me.

  I’d no sooner led Haden to a warm shelter, hay and water hastily provided by an innkeeper with a broad grin on his face at the size of the ruby on the ring I pressed into his hands than I have not one but two unwelcome visitors.

  “My Lord King,” the innkeeper, a thin man with a long face and even longer beard and hair, neatly tied back from his face, almost hits his nose on the floor he bows so low.

  “What?” I’m eating, savouring the warmth if not the texture or the taste of the bowl of pottage laden with a whole single piece of wrinkled and indeterminate meat.

  “There’s someone here to see you.”

  “Edmund!” I’m on my feet before I even think. His familiar face is as weather-worn as mine. It seems he’s been caught out in the bitter weather as well. But he wears no smile, not even the hint of one.

  “Tell me,” I demand to know, dragging his arm so that he’ll follow me to somewhere with more solitude. Only Bishop Smithwulf is there as well. His face is just as twisted as Edmund’s and far from as welcome.

  “Wait,” and I hold up my hand as the cleric opens his mouth to greet me.

  While Rudolf goggles, his hand spooning the mixture so quickly I swear that boy doesn’t even chew, I take Edmund away from the rest of my warriors.

  “What?” I insist this time. I think Edmund will um and ah, beat around the bush, tell me anything rather than get to the point. I’m grateful when he doesn’t.

  “Your Aunt is well. Northampton is secure. Kyred isn’t, and neither is northern Mercia.”

  “Fucking cocks,” I explode. Those bastard Raiders, will they not give me a moment’s peace?

  “You need to return to Northampton and then ride north, or you risk losing everything we regained last year.”

  “Jarl Halfdan?” I ask, just to be sure. Edmund nods. He looks decidedly unhappy. I’m not surprised.

  “The news came in only two days after you left. You can’t imagine how pissed off I was when the bishop had no idea where you were upon my arrival.”

  “I’ve been burning ships and killing Raiders. As usual.”

  “Well, I hope they’re all fucking dead because you can’t linger here, no matter what Bishop Smithwulf says to you,” and that’s all the warning I get before Smithwulf, a thick cloak around his shoulders, interrupts our conversation.

  “My Lord King, where have you been? There’s much that needs to be done here. Surely my rider, Gregory, warned you of the problems.”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing, Bishop Smithwulf?” I find I have no patience for the man with his broad face and long body, piercing eyes and petulant mouth. Already I’m considering what we need to do, how quickly we can get to the north, whether Haden is well enough for the journey. Certainly, Tatberht will need to remain here. I can’t risk him. But, I could return him to Northampton. He won’t like being left behind. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Too many problems and too little time.

  My heart thuds in my chest. The thought of good food and sleep fleeing through my mind, only to be dismissed just as quickly. I need to get north. If there’s a chance to kill that snivelling little shit once and for all, then I must take it. No matter what. I’ll not eat for a week if I can face him in open combat once more. I’ll block the river. I’ll have all the ships from Torksey laid across the expanse of the Trent. Then, no one will be coming to rescue Jarl Halfdan before I can slice his throat open. I grin, despite myself. It might be a significant problem just to get to the north, but I’ll do it. No matter what.

  “My Lord King?” a flicker of unease on Smithwulf’s face assures me that he has no idea what I’ve been doing.

  “The Raiders, threatening London. The seven ships filled with Raiders. I’ve been off killing them, burning their poor excuses for a ship, and ensuring London is safe.”

  “But, but,” he blinks, once, twice, three times, words beyond him. Edmund has manoeuvred so that he’s standing beside Bishop Smithwulf. His remaining eye rolls. I try not to glare furiously at him. Surely, he could have ensured Smithwulf didn’t know where to find me when I arrived.

  “What of King Alfred of Wessex?” Bishop Smithwulf’s voice holds too much reverence when he speaks of Alfred.

  “What of him? We do not need to do anything but berate him for encouraging the fucking bastards onto Mercian land. He should have killed them all. It’s not that hard. Slash their throats open, drown them in a river, cleave in their skulls with a war axe, run them through with a bloody spear. Or, and I quite like this one, get the fucking horses to do it on your behalf. They don’t like bastard Raiders any more than I do.”

  Bishop Smithwulf looks as though he might be sick on his expensive cloak; his face drained of all colour. I could have been less graphic, I suppose. But, I catch sight of Rudolf watching me with a cheeky grin on his face, Pybba shaking his head although he doesn’t look that angry, while Icel nods along sagely and Hereman grins. Every single one of my men, apart from Tatberht, who’s been tucked up in one of the innkeeper’s few good cot beds, has observed my conversation with the bishop.

  “King Alfred, he’s coming to London to forge a treaty with Mercia.”

  “There’s no need for a treaty. Mercia’s no longer threatened in the south. The Raiders are in the north, and King Alfred isn’t about to get his arse up to the Trent, is he?” I expel my breath slowly, aware I’ve let my frustration show but equally conscious that the bloody bishop of London seems to doubt my abilities. What has he done? Well, he’s evidently had a nice bloody chat with King Alfred, without my permission, I might add. Smithwulf better have stepped foot in Wessex rather than Alfred in Mercia.

  “Remember, Bishop Smithwulf, if King Alfred had truly meant to assist Mercia, then our dear king and predecessor, King Burgred, need never have given Mercia to the Raiders in the first place. Wessex gave up on Mercia, and now Mercia doesn’t need Wessex, other than for Wessex to kill every last one of the bastard Raiders that sets foot on this island.”

  “But My Lord King, I’ve assured King Alfred of your attendance. A place has been agreed, mutually agreeable, in Southwark.” Now my eyes narrow, even as Edmund nods, showing that the bishop has indeed done all this. At least it’s on the far side of the Thames, in Wessex.

  “On whose authority did you arrange this? It certainly wasn’t mine. Was it?” I fix the bishop with my gaze. I could draw my seax here and now, and I think he’d be less sure of my suppressed fury and disapproval.

  “Ah, My Lord King,” and I’ve got to admire the shovel of horse shit for his persistence, “I did it for the benefit of all of Mercia.”

  “No, you did it so you wouldn’t have to fight for the men and women of London so that you c
ould pretend to be more important than you truly are. I warn you, Bishop Smithwulf, I have no argument with the church, but you’ll not take instructions from Canterbury in Kent, rather than your God-given and anointed king, in Mercia.” Well, I never thought I’d use that argument against anyone, and yet it has some effect. I might remember that next time my Aunt tries to make me feel like a ten-year-old child.

  Bishop Smithwulf visibly deflates, Edmund there with a lone stool for Smithwulf to sink onto without thought. It would have been better if he’d just fallen on the floor. Rudolf has returned to his pottage, Icel as well, although Pybba continues to watch me. I have no idea what he’s thinking. Does he want me to forge an alliance with King Alfred? I can’t see it, but I’ve been wrong before.

  Certainly, Icel will think any treaty with Wessex a waste of time and effort. But then, he’s fought the Wessex warriors before. They’ve always been greedy bastards. But ineffectual. Always ineffectual.

  “What will I say to King Alfred?”

  “Of Wessex,” I finish when he seems not to realise the implication in his words.

  “Yes, yes, King Alfred of Wessex.”

  “Thank him for his offer of assistance, but tell him it’s not needed. Advise him that concentrating on killing our mutual enemies will be most beneficial. If he doesn’t, then Mercia will ensure any of the bastards who yet live know that Wessex is a green and pleasant land, with far better vineries than can be found in Mercia.”

  The innkeeper, caught between his king and his bishop, has fallen into what he knows best. He hands a wooden tankard filled to the brim into the bishop’s lifeless hand and hovers with a bowl of pottage as well. I smirk despite it all. I can’t see the bishop accepting what is, essentially, warriors fare. Bishop Smithwulf will be used to a table of more refinement.

  I dismiss Smithwulf from my thoughts and question Edmund.

  “Tell me what you know?”

  “Kyred sent word as soon as he could that the rumours are true. Halfdan means to try and retake Mercia. He has allies from Northumbria. They’re massing on the far side of the Humber, and they outnumber all of the ealdorman’s forces, Kyred’s as well. And they have ships. How else would they get across the Humber?” Edmund shrugs with the words. While Bishop Smithwulf absently sips his ale and even takes the offered bowl of pottage, I return to my warriors.