by M J Porter
I punch a warrior aside who thinks to take Rudolf from behind, bringing an end to his heroics. I thump into his back, stunning his actions, and he turns, breath rattling, and it’s almost too easy to slit his throat.
Rudolf fights on, but his actions are earning him more and more attention. I rush in close, keen to ensure no one else tries to interrupt him by attacking from the back.
“Behind you,” I huff, aware my words are laboured. It’s hard work over the slippery surface. It’s fucking deadly, having roused a swarm of bees from their slumbers.
“Aye, My Lord, I won’t slice you,” Rudolf offers. His voice is suddenly deeper, and I smirk. Damn the bastard. He’s enjoying this.
Turning so that we fight back to back, I thrust aside both a sword with my seax and a shield with my war axe. The shield overbalances the man, and just to finish him off, I apply a firm kick to his backside. He lands on the ice, hands put down to prevent his face from crashing into the ground, slipping to either side. Blood erupts, and I quirk an eyebrow.
“It’s fucking easier when you do it to yourself,” I comment, elbow high to fend off the next foe-man. He ducks aside from the movement, a spear in his hand, allowing him to keep his distance. The sword wielder comes in close. I eye him, time the action, and bend to steal the discarded shield from the man still floundering on the floor. It counters the sword, and then the spear, and then I use it as well, aiming for another nose, but instead crashing into a neck, or so the gasping sounds alerts me.
Another one down, but behind, there are more and more rampaging bastards, and there’s only Rudolf and me.
I take a steadying breath, steal my resolve for what’s going to be a long and bloody battle. There’s no easy way out of this.
I could berate myself for being a fool, but that would be a waste of my thought process.
Instead, I stab outwards with my seax, thrusting it up into an armpit, the scent of an overripe body making my head swim.
“Filthy bastard,” and I finish the job with the shield. I feel him fall, but I don’t see it because the man with the spear is back. Damn bastard is persistent, but then, men with a long piece of wood between them and a seax tend to be.
Next time it comes close, I slice upwards, trying to sever the spearhead from the piece of wood and almost succeeding. It dangles, half attached, and with my shield, I punch the rest aside.
“Now, let’s see what you can do with that,” I eye the spearless spear. “I might get a nasty splinter,” I allow, moving my neck from side to side, eager to dispel some of the tightness there, ignoring the sharp scratch of my old wound. It’s been too cold for too long, and my muscles remain cool and not blazing hot. I’m going to hurt tomorrow. That’s a certainty.
But, the man is mown down before my eyes, another warrior using him as a means of gaining greater height, his sword dangling in his hands.
“Move forward,” I roar at Rudolf, stepping backwards and hoping he has the wits about him to understand my instruction. The Raider misses me, his blond hair hallowed in red from the fire, so it appears he emerges from hell. He lands so heavily on the hard ground, I hear his bones creak, and then, he slips, sprawled out on the ground beneath me. I sigh, reaching for the spear-less spear. I’m not wasting good metal on this daft fucker. Even without the shaft, the wood easily pierces below his ear, and another one is dead.
I cast my eyes around. Rudolf and I are gathering quite the horde of the dead, and I’ve also caught sight of the Gainsborough Mercians battling through the fray. I hope they’ve left enough to ensure Gainsborough remains intact. I wouldn’t want to win the battle just to find the Raiders have succeeded where they’ve failed so far.
I don’t want to have to fight my way in when it should be easy to keep the bastards out.
But, I don’t see Icel, and neither do I see the rest of my warriors.
“We need to get to the building,” I call to Rudolf.
“What do you think I’m trying to do,” he explodes, his words more powerful than some of the attacks being made against us.
The Raiders are sleep-addled, some half-naked, although why they’d strip off in this bastard weather, I’ve no idea. If my muscles are frozen, then theirs are unresponsive. Time and time again, I thrust into a weak attack, noting the surprise on the face of the dying man.
Jarl Halfdan, damn the bastard, has brought men to their deaths. He’s forced a battle in the depths of winter, with snow lying thickly on the ground and his men too cold to fight for their lives.
“My Lord?”
“What?” I huff, forcing another seax aside with the borrowed shield.
“I can see Icel.” I lick my lips, tasting the salt of my exertions and only the hint of ice. I test the two Raiders considering attacking me and deciding there’s time yet, turn to see what Rudolf has seen.
Icel has been set upon by just as many Raiders as Rudolf and me. He stands with his back to the half-destroyed building, his war axe in one hand, shield in the other, and he simply scythes down those who think to attack him. He looks to be in no danger, none at all, but no man can keep up such an attack. Sooner or later, he’ll lose all power in his arms, and then he’ll be easy picking.
“Lead us there,” I order, meeting the thrust of a sword by moving aside, knocking the Raiders arm downwards so that the sword does nothing but bounce off the frozen ground. Not even the amount of blood, sweat and piss can thaw the bastard snow.
“What do you think I’m fucking doing,” Rudolf roars once more, and I chuckle, meeting the second foe’s attack with the force of my helmed skull against the softness of his face. I don’t quite get his nose, but blood pools from where teeth used to be.
He howls, there’s no other word for it, and comes at me quicker this time, colossal war axe in hand, swinging it from side to side as though that’s the way to tackle me. He broadcasts his attack so clearly that I almost grow tired, waiting for the eventual slash. I cut down, sever his forearm, thrust him aside. I feel the space behind me and step back into it. Rudolf and I can’t become separated, not now we have so many of the Raiders trying to kill us.
I’m busy with the shield. The weapon of choice might be one that cuts and slices, but there’s nothing like a shield for sheer brutality. I lose count of the number of faces I thrust the shield boss into, the number of men who stagger away, unable to see, tears in their eyes, teetering into their comrades, slipping on the ice, so that both go down for every single one of my strikes.
Sweat pools down my back, drips into my eyes from my drenched hair, but my breathing stays even, my movements effortless, and for the first time all day, my feet feel fucking warm.
Rudolf moves slowly but surely towards Icel, cleaving a path through abandoned canvasses and the rapidly growing pile of bodies. Not that it stops the Raiders. They’re no better than cows maddened by the summer flies. They come at us both, thinking only of our deaths, but it’s they that end up cut and bleeding, breaths rasping through chests scoured with blades.
And then, almost within touching sight of Icel, I finally face a foe who’s taken the time to dress and arm himself.
The man is tall but not as tall as I am, his face elongated beneath the blackened helm that covers his head. No hair shows beneath it, and I think him bald or shaved, no hint of a beard on a pointy chin. Damn, he could cut without the need for a blade.
His eyes are cold and flat beneath the nose guard and the rest of the helm, and he doesn’t play with his weapons, testing them for balance or weight. This man is a true warrior.
Arms flashing in the growing grey light of dawn, he comes at me with two seaxs, one held in either hand. They look deadly, sharpened to a slim point. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like them before. The fact that those Raiders thinking of attacking me step aside to allow this man to come at me, tells me the others respect him.
A man with a reputation. I might allow Edmund to add a verse to his scop’s song when I kill this one.
I spit the taste
of blood and sweat from my mouth, eyes narrowing as I consider my next move. Rudolf moves in behind me, and I step back, the feeling of his absence telling me all I need to know.
The Raider nods at me, almost as though two equals meeting. Is he a man of honour? I doubt it. None of the Raiders is honourable. They’re all just hungry and desperate to win battle renown. I’m not about to add to this warrior’s reputation, but he might add to mine.
And still, he doesn’t attack. I notice his boots are layered with fur, a man who like to keep his feet warm, and then I menace forwards. He wants to lead the altercation. That much is clear. He wants to be the one to decide when our weapons will clash first and where they might clash.
Fuck that.
Reaching for my weapons belt, I flick a small eating knife into my hand, throwing it directly at his face. I know it won’t cause an injury, but the warrior steps back, avoiding the missile. Fury kindles in his cold eyes. I’ve got him. He approaches me then, and that’s good. I can’t rush him; that would leave Rudolf exposed.
Both seaxs flash, but I don’t even watch them, focusing only on the man. His eyes tell me where he means to attack. I duck aside from his two-handed attack; shield raised high to ensure the blades don’t take Rudolf in the back.
I expect to hear the jingle of iron falling to the hard earth, but I don’t. I lower the shield just enough and meet his expectant eyes. They’re even warmer now, his lips held tightly together. But, still, he thinks to beat me.
“Fuck this,” I explode, the space between us so small that I can smell whatever he ate last and its rank, like the breath of a boar. My seax stabs upwards, aiming for his chin. Still, he moves aside, feet lithe over the ground, and he stays upright by resting on one of the groaning bodies, a loud fart filling the air as the stomach empties with a foul aroma, another shade of brown appearing on the churned snow.
I’m careful where I step, aware that there are bodies and abandoned weapons all over the place. But, just on the off-chance, I fake a loss of balance, and the Raider is on me immediately, left hand, right hand, left hand, both seaxs trying to batter aside my shield and byrnie.
I feel the coldness of the weapons, but nothing more, because they might look sharp and deadly, but they’re weaker because of that. No weapon so slim is good for anything but piercing, and he’s not about to pierce me.
The shield crashes with his hand, the left hand fumbling the blade so that it falls to the floor. Not that it concerns him, he reaches for another from his weapons belt. There’s at least four of them on there—a strange weapon of choice. Perhaps the man is an assassin, more used to killing his foe when he sleeps than when raging against him.
Those Raiders who’ve stepped back, keen to see what the man can do, share uneasy glances, and I consider whether this is all some sort of trick. Do they hope to distract me with the sharpened seaxs and then attack me with a spear or war axe?
The shield is before me, protecting as much of my body as possible, but my eyes are cast downwards, looking at my boots. The sharpened seax has landed not far from my right foot. I lift my foot, grip the weapon beneath it, and pull it closer, an idea forming in my mind, even as I have to counter another flashing attack with seax and shield.
The rush of air from my enemy’s weapons conveys his intentions to me, and when Rudolf steps forward once more, I risk bending low, knowing that the bastard won’t get lucky and skewer Rudolf instead of me. Then the sharp blade is in my hand, and flying through the air, a projectile, just like a spear, only much smaller, and it easily pierces his chin, holding him there, while blood pools and drips to the floor, sizzling when it hits the ice-hardened ground.
“Stupid bastard,” I complain, surveying my work, meeting the Raiders eyes. They still blaze, only now with confusion. I move into the space Rudolf’s created, almost slipping on someone’s entrails, and the two seax wielding warrior falls to the ground, headlong, body extended, as though he’s been felled from behind.
I shake my head, turn to the next warrior, but they’re backing away, the three men, eyes wild with whatever’s happening behind me, and I shrug. It can only mean one thing.
Icel is now part of our attacking force.
I’d not want to face the bastard in a battle, and I’m Coelwulf, King of Mercia, and quite handy with seax and sword, even if I do say so myself.
Chapter 23
“Fucking bollocks,” Rudolf’s words assure me that I’m right. They’re edged with amazement, and from someone who’s just fought as he has, it reinforces the fact that Icel is a monster with a sword and seax.
I’ve been worried that some part of him is missing, but not anymore. I risk turning my back on the enemy, allow myself to take in the scene.
Icel, decorated with the blood of his enemy, is dealing death as though he were merely counting sheep into the pen.
His endeavours are effortless. For all I think he moves more slowly than in the past; it’s still too quickly for the enemy to correctly interpret what he’s going to do. Screams and shrieks fill the air from those unfortunate enough not to have backed away. Space opens up behind Rudolf and me, the Raiders taking slow and careful steps before racing away. They run in all directions, left, right, towards the river, towards Gainsborough, and more than half of them slip and slide on the ice and blood already showing our path to this moment.
With the dawn a myriad hue of violet and mauve, it’s becoming easier to see, which accounts for the fuckers who run away. I watch and then hear the renewed sound of clashes. Good, the Gainsborough Mercians are not shy in ending the battle.
Not that everyone runs.
“Watch your back,” I instruct Rudolf, and he twists, weapon already raised, edge glinting with more than just the threat of death, tufts of hair and chunks of blood marring it. His foe is an older man, heavier, taller, slower. He’ll inevitably crumble to the floor.
But Icel is still battling, and he might become overwhelmed, and so, with Rudolf at my back this time, I join the fray. The Raiders who face Icel are armed and protected, byrnies and boots on their feet. I take them to be Jarl Halfdan’s special guards. I wish I could parade the dead body before them, but they believe their lord is inside the wooden structure, and between it and them is Icel.
I use my seax differently now, slicing, not stabbing, opening up byrnies where I can and where I can’t, aiming for unprotected lower legs. A man who can’t stand, can’t fight. Not well, he can’t.
I don’t kill all of the Raiders. There’s not the time. Better to hamper them now and get to Icel’s side so that we can despatch them once we’re together. I can’t see beyond the structure, so I don’t yet know if my warriors fight to get to me, but I assume they do.
“I can’t find him,” Icel calls to me, his words barely spoken above his normal voice, even as he beats aside one warrior with his war axe and then another with his seax, leaving them both mewing like babies.
“He’s dead,” I reply, reaching down to slice open the inviting skin above a booted foot. The man howls, and I mean howls, before rearing up at me, fury in his eyes. I shrug my shoulders, and he screams, finding strength from somewhere to lunge at me, full-bodied. It must hurt like fuck, but all he accomplishes is to impale himself on my seax, the blade visible through his neck.
“Fuck,” I complain, the weight dragging at my arm until I lower my hand, and the body slips to the ground.
“How do you know?” Icel isn’t happy.
“Rudolf found him fucking in one of the tents. We killed him there.” Silence greets my words for all of the time it takes to swallow, but then the Raiders must realise what we say, and a voice rumbles from behind us.
“That wasn’t me,” and I face my enemy, Jarl Halfdan, as he appears from out of the gloom, byrnie gleaming, hair slick, the wolf tattoos visible on his arms. He looks shockingly familiar to the man that Rudolf and I just cut down, but this is the man who’s evaded me so many times in the past.
Halfdan calls something in Danish, and a wave of
warriors appear from behind him. These men are armed to the teeth. Byrnies flash as though polished, helms are blackened, and well-fitting and they all have no problem traversing over the snow.
“You killed my brother’s men, but they were hardly warriors of great renown.” Jarl Halfdan speaks my tongue, and that infuriates, even as I accept he’s not dead, and I still have to kill him.
He has at least sixty warriors surrounding us, while the Gainsborough Mercians are busy with the enemy that try to flee. My warriors are still not in sight, and this can only mean that Rudolf, Icel and myself must kill twenty men each before we even get to Jarl Halfdan.
I’ve faced worse odds. The challenge doesn’t dismay me. How can it when Halfdan smirks at me, his face wrinkled and cold, as though he’s won already? Will the bastard never learn?
“Well, if you’ve got some warriors that might be worth our efforts, bring them on,” I retort, heart steady in my chest. Rudolf nods along, Icel steadying his posture, just waiting for one of the men to launch themselves at us.
Halfdan joins them, stepping into the group as they make way for him. He’s dressed for battle, his black helm firmly wedged on his head, his hands resting lightly on his weapons belt.
“I’ll kill you and take Mercia,” Jarl Halfdan vows menacingly, his eyes holding mine.
“You can fucking try, but you’ve not had the most success, now, have you?” I taunt, enjoying the ripple of fury over his face, hoping the jibe will infuriate, make him keen to prove his worth, and that I’ll be able to face him before the rest of his men.
I’ll kill twenty Raiders to get to him, but it’ll be just as sweet to end his life now.
Beside me, Icel stands firm, his still body belying the lethal nature of his attack when it comes.
“Come now, King Coelwulf, isn’t it? You can hardly think to ridicule a man such as I into battle. Why would I fight when I have all these to do it for me?” Only his words are cut off by a black spear, landing just in front of him, so tight to his face that the end twangs into his nose as he moves forward.