I expect there to be chaos outside the hall. After all, the Wessex warriors were called to protect Ealdorman Wassa. But it’s eerily quiet.
‘Which way?’ Wulfheard demands.
‘Where are we going?’ I huff.
‘Towards the rest of the Wessex scum.’
‘Then I suggest we head towards the river.’
The rest of the Mercians under the ealdorman haven’t waited for us. That leaves me feeling exposed.
‘Where are they?’ Frithwine gasps. I don’t know if he means the Wessex warriors or the Mercians. ‘We can’t have killed them all.’
‘No, they’re no doubt running for their lives. Probably towards the fort,’ Wulfheard confirms as he jogs in front of us. Each jolt sends a spike of pain through my throbbing hand.
‘Shouldn’t we go to the fort then?’ I ask. Why else did we go to all the trouble of capturing it?
‘No, the river, as you say. We can return to the fort once we’ve killed as many of them as we can.’
I swallow against a fresh wave of nausea. I’d like to believe my remorse causes it at the death of Brihtwold, but I know it’s the pain of my hand.
Ahead, a blaze of leaping flames draws my eyes, almost blinding me so that I stumble and then trip, landing heavily, shield flat to the ground, a shriek erupting from my mouth before I can stop it.
‘Don’t look at the fire,’ Wulfheard warns me as he helps me to my feet. Tears run from my eyes. Damn, it hurts.
Frithwine lets forth a bark of laughter. I turn, thinking to swing my other fist into his gloating face.
‘Leave it,’ Wulfheard cautions me. ‘He doesn’t have to be your friend to stand at your back and guard you. He merely needs to be a Mercian, and he is a Mercian. He’s proved that.’
When I’m back on my feet, I purposefully keep my eyes away from the flames and ensure I keep pace with Wulfheard. My rage at Frithwine powers me onwards and won’t allow me to stumble again. It allows me to smirk when I hear him kick a loose stone, followed quickly by the thud of his knees hitting the hard surface.
Wulfheard pulls up short. ‘Can neither of you stay on your feet?’ he glowers.
We’ve yet to encounter anyone, but suddenly, we’re joined by others.
‘What’s happening?’ one of them calls, his distinctive rolling accent marking him as the enemy.
‘A fire, at the waterfront,’ one of the others replies to him, as, in front, Wulfheard slows his steps and comes behind the first man. I know what he’s about to do, but all the same, I wince as he lifts his seax and holds it against the man’s throat before slicing it open.
Frithwine rushes to mirror the action. Just as he’s about to loop his hand around the Wessex warrior’s neck, the Wessex warrior himself stumbles, landing heavily on the floor, Frithwine unable to do anything other than fall with him.
Both land with a clatter of bones and blades. When Frithwine stands once more, he has half a smirk on his lips, and his blade is bloody. Lucky sod has managed to kill our foeman without injuring himself.
‘Well done,’ Wulfheard snaps, but he’s moving as he speaks. I keep pace with him as more and more Wessex warriors tumble onto the roadway, their cries of outrage making it evident it’s the fire that concerns them. Somehow, it’s yet to be common knowledge that the Mercians are inside the walls. But it means there are too many of them to attempt the same tricks again.
Instead, Wulfheard slows his steps, allowing the eleven Wessex men to shamble onwards in front.
‘We get them ahead of us, and then we take them,’ he whispers to me, his words just audible above the jangle of footsteps and clanging iron. Ahead, the sky grows brighter and brighter. I appreciate that the fire is ripping through anything that’s wooden close to the gate that leads out towards the quayside. I don’t know if Ealdorman Ælfstan has started the blaze or if we’re simply taking advantage of the conflagration for our own ends. I hope the rest of the Mercians are already there. If not, the three of us will be vastly outnumbered. Not that we aren’t already.
‘Hurry up,’ a voice cries as one of the Wessex warriors powers his way through our slower progress.
Wulfheard speeds his steps a little, as though following his commands, and then hooks the man to the side, stabbing him with the seax at the same time. The man falls heavily. Wulfheard bends to heave him out of the way. Frithwine assists him because I can’t, not with my shield tied to my throbbing hand.
And then we’re before the fire. The Wessex warriors mill around unsure what to do. A handful have formed a chain, buckets in hand, as though to douse the fire, but only a bucket or two of water makes it onto the fiercely burning buildings.
‘Mingle with them.’ Wulfheard gathers us both close to him as he gives his instructions. ‘Kill ’em, when you can. Try to do it quietly,’ is his parting shot as he moves away from us.
Sweat beads my face from the run and the pain in my hand. It takes me three breaths to realise that Frithwine has already obeyed Wulfheard.
Once more, I’m alone amongst a sea of the enemy. I even miss Frithwine’s presence, for all I despise his mocking of me.
Outraged cries fill the air, the men looking for someone to take overall control, but the ealdorman is dead, and Lord Æthelwulf has fled by ship. There’s no one unless someone else takes up the mantle.
‘Help us,’ someone bellows from the line of men trying to bring buckets filled with water to quench the flames.
‘Bugger that,’ a voice next to my right elbow opines.
I glance at his outline against the flickering of the orange light. I would kill him if I had the use of my right hand, but I don’t. Instead, I step backwards, and as I do so, I lean towards the left, close to a man who smells of ale, and gouge him across his waist. His body judders, but he doesn’t feel the pain, not yet.
I skirt around him, moving towards the left and where I anticipate the rest of the Mercian warriors have gone. A crack, followed by a whoosh of hot air and the thatch roof of the burning building cascades inside the four stone walls, and the flames leap higher.
‘Help us.’ Again, a strangled cry, but no one rushes to help. The one person that does is easy enough to skewer with my blade through his back. He gargles, but no one hears the sound amongst the growing outrage.
‘Why won’t any of you damn bastards help us?’ a Wessex voice growls.
‘Who’re you to tell us what to do?’ another replies.
‘Where’s the ealdorman?’ yet another demands to know.
‘Too busy drinking and feasting his household warriors.’ The reply echoes through the growling mob, and I know it’s one of the Mercians because his accent is similar to mine.
‘Sod the ealdorman. Help us,’ the first voice begs.
A handful of men do move aside as though they’ll assist them, but they quickly disappear, no doubt beneath Wulfheard’s blades.
I’m not enjoying killing men unawares, and yet, as exposed as I am, there’s little choice. My seax blade is busy, stabbing and slashing, even in my weaker left hand. One man even gets punched with my shield, where he hovers to the rear of the group. All of them go down with little or no sound. Until they don’t.
‘What you doing?’ The outraged shriek reaches my ears. It’s quickly followed by the clash of iron on iron, the action seeming to ripple outwards as though a pebble flung into a pond. It’s followed by more cries.
‘Æthelred is bloody dead. Who killed him?’ And between one heartbeat and the next, the milling Wessex warriors realise they’re under attack. Not that I know who Æthelred is, but it seems enough of the other men do, and they’re immediately suspicious about what’s unfolding.
Men reach for weapons and turn to one another, determining if they know each other. I do the same, mirroring their actions, working my way steadily from the rear of the group towards the gateway that opens on to the riverfront of the Thames, from where Tyrhtil went to face the Mercians only a few days ago.
Yet, much closer to the burning building, I glimpse the flashing blades of warriors fighting one another. I spare a thought for Frithwine as I duck out of the gateway.
Men lie prone on the floor, full buckets of water emptying into the mud and stones of the much-walked path, and there I encounter Ealdorman Ælfstan.
His face glistens with sweat, and his byrnie sags open at the front. He’s been struck by something.
‘Ah, Icel. About time? Where’s Wulfheard?’
‘Isn’t he here?’ I ask. There are also two figures on the quayside. They carry a small flame with them, and before my eyes, they set it against the hulk of the only ship I can see there, and then against the wood of the quayside as well. The dank smell of the river wafts towards me.
‘No, he’s not.’
‘Then he’s fighting out there.’
‘What? Amongst that ruckus?’ The ealdorman has a reasonable view of what’s happening between where he stands and the burning building.
‘Yes, with Frithwine.’
‘Frithwine?’ I’d not realised Garwulf stood shadowed by the ealdorman’s frame, and now he darts forwards into the swell of fighting before Ælfstan can think to detain him.
‘Arse,’ the ealdorman complains.
More blades catch the gleam of the firelight, and any attempt to stop the fire has fizzled out. These men would rather kill each other because they’re suddenly so distrustful of one another now that one of their own is dead. That makes what we’re trying to accomplish so much easier.
‘We can leave them to it and make our way back to the fort,’ the ealdorman informs me. I wish we’d gone there first, but I can see some logic to the ealdorman’s efforts. He wanted to kill Lord Æthelwulf. When that option was taken from him, he determined on killing as many of the Wessex warriors as possible. That meant attacking Ealdorman Wassa, and ensuring no one else could escape through the river gate. Any Wessex men left alive after the fire and the slaughter in the building will have no option but to risk swimming for their lives, or surrender and risk the Mercian king’s wrath.
‘We need to get Oswy. We had to leave him behind. He was too wounded to go on,’ I inform Ælfstan.
‘Yes, we’ll retrieve Oswy as well. It shouldn’t be too difficult, not with the Wessex fools determined to kill one another.’ There’s disbelief in Ælfstan’s voice at what he’s witnessing.
‘But we need to find Frithwine and Wulfheard.’
‘Wulfheard can look after himself,’ Ælfstan quickly interjects. ‘But not the two young fools,’ he concedes. ‘Why are you carrying your shield like that?’ Abruptly, the single ship catches fire, blazing high into the air. It must reveal what I’m doing.
‘I burnt my hand, aiding Oswy.’
‘How bad is it?’ Ælfstan asks me.
‘I can’t hold a blade, so I have the shield.’ I lift the Wessex shield to show him.
‘It has the wyvern on it,’ he spits, disgust on his face.
‘Aye, well, we couldn’t bring the Mercian ones, and I’d rather have something than nothing.’
‘Be wary. The rest of my men won’t know of this.’
‘I’ll just make sure I shout bloody loudly then.’
Ælfstan chuckles darkly at my aggrieved tone. ‘Make sure you do.’
By now, Waldhere has joined us, Cenred as well. They must have been tasked with firing the ship and the quay. They’ve performed the task well.
‘Where’s Garwulf?’ Cenred asks.
‘He went to find his brother. Amongst that lot.’
‘Stones,’ Cenred exclaims. ‘We need to get him.’
‘If we can, yes, but if not, we’ll have to leave him. His brother is there as well. But our priority, now the daft sods are all killing one another, is to get Oswy from the stone building and make it back to the fort.’
‘What happened to Oswy?’
‘He was wounded. I sealed the wound as best I could with heat. But he couldn’t continue to fight.’
Unease settles around Waldhere’s face at the news.
‘We need to go,’ he prompts Ealdorman Ælfstan, desperate to be gone.
‘After we retrieve the others,’ Cenred reiterates.
‘Only if we can.’
But Cenred hasn’t waited to listen to that. Instead, he sneaks back through the gate and quickly out of sight.
‘Stay close, Icel,’ Ælfstan cautions, following Cenred.
‘I carry this because of a wound to my hand,’ I try to appraise Waldhere, but he’s gone before I can show him what I mean. ‘Wonderful,’ I huff to myself and then follow their steps as well.
All is chaos on the other side of the thick walls. The Wessex warriors are terrified, lashing out at anyone who gets too close to them. They fear they’ve been betrayed, even if they don’t know by whom.
I step over a man desperately trying to pull himself clear of the fighting and then slip in the bloody gore of another. I regain my footing, only to be knocked backwards by two men engaged in fierce hand-to-hand combat. This time, I fall in the slick gore, the shield banging onto the floor. I shriek, the cry ripping from my mouth at the stab of pain that surpasses the throbbing of my burnt hand.
It’s agony to scramble to my feet, keeping my seax in my left hand, for fear someone might attack me while I’m down. The borrowed shield is becoming a liability, or so I think until I move forward again and one of the Wessex warriors attempts to stab at me with his long-reaching sword. I use my shield to protect myself, braced for the throbbing pain from my hand.
My foe isn’t expecting such an attack, and he drops the sword because his grip is too loose. Next, he rushes me, thinking to yank the shield from my arm, but I swing it behind me and lead with my seax. He dies as it stabs into his exposed Adam’s apple, and I continue on my way.
If it weren’t for the flames from the burning building, I wouldn’t be able to see anything, but it gives just enough light for me to avoid the worst of the fighting. I dart out of the way of two men flinging stones at one another, lifting my shield to deflect a badly thrown one. The wet sound of one of the projectiles hitting home makes me flinch. I remember too well how effective a heavy projectile can be against an unprotected head.
It’s impossible to determine how many Wessex warriors remain, but it can’t be more than fifty. And even then, there are so many men mewing in pain, or silent in death, that in no time at all I believe there’ll be even less of them.
Glimpsing Ealdorman Ælfstan ahead, I follow his path and then pause when he veers away from the road I know leads back to the stone building where we left Oswy. In front of the burning building is where the fighting is most violent. Men move as though the sea against the land, wave after wave taking down some, while others fight for breath and to keep on their feet, heads popping up before being sucked back down once more.
I could force myself to Ælfstan’s side, but Cenred is already there, great, sweeping strokes of his seax ensuring no one bothers Ælfstan. If I do the same, my shield will be a hindrance, not a help, and anyway, if we’re about to leave this spot and return to the fort, then surely I should retrieve Oswy?
My indecision nearly costs me my life, as another huge piece of stone lands just beside my foot, the leering face of the stone-slinging Wessex warrior illuminated by a patch of moonlight. That decides it for me.
Turning, I dash back the way we’ve come. I need to reach Oswy and Tyrhtil. I’m sure that the others will extract themselves from the antagonistic fight.
My eyes quickly adjust to the darkness, and I don’t fall. My steps are faster this time.
Within sight of the stone building, a Wessex warrior lurches into my path. He startles on seeing me, hastily rearranging his trews from where he must have been relieving himself.
‘What’s happening over there?’ he demands to know, his eyes touching on my shield, making him think I’m an ally, not an enemy.
‘Big bloody fire, and a fight to boost. The ealdorman isn’t here.’
‘No.’ He shakes his head and almost stumbles with the motion. I can’t tell why. ‘The poor bastard is dead, seemingly killed by his own warriors, or that’s what the one who yet lived told me.’ He must speak of Oswy, and I hope he’s not dead despite our less than pleasant relationship.
‘So, who’s in charge?’ I ask him, turning, as he does, to look at the raging fire.
‘Buggered if I know. But I’m not getting involved in all that. I’m going to the fort. What are you doing? Running away from the fight?’ Despite his intentions, his words ripple with derision.
‘It’s not my fault,’ I counter, checking the grip on my seax by releasing it and then gripping it more firmly again.
‘Where are you from, Kent?’ he continues.
I don’t have time for this, so I pivot quickly, swinging my body in the opposite direction to the one I usually employ, and thrust my seax up into his armpit.
‘No, I’m a Mercian,’ I spit back at him. ‘And we’re going to win this war and kill your bastard king.’
His eyes open wide with shock and pain, but his hand covers mine before I can pull it clear with my seax.
‘You little shit,’ he glowers at me. The gap between us is too small for me to bring my shield into action, but I can feel his blood flowing over my hand. He’s dying; he just doesn’t know it yet.
‘Aye,’ I allow and use my right foot to stamp on his. He hops back, and the seax comes free, bringing with it blood that flows so thickly it’s as black as night.
Free from him, I redouble my efforts to get to Oswy. It’s possible that the man I just killed isn’t the only one to have discovered what happened in the building.
Then, just before the steps that lead into it, a voice cries out from the darkness.
‘Who goes there?’
The voice is unmistakably from Wessex, and I can’t see who speaks.
I hesitate, unsure what to do now. This new threat may have a spear to fling at me or even be hiding just out of sight. I wish then I’d not left Ealdorman Ælfstan and Waldhere behind me. I could do more if I weren’t alone.
I raise my shield and hold it to the right side of my body, peering out into the gloom, with my seax ready for whatever attack might be sprung on me now. Only then do I resume my run. If I can get inside the building, I’ll have walls at my back to protect me. Oswy might be able to help me as well.
I dash up the few steps, mindful of creeping shadows, and then someone steps into my way. He’s wounded, that much is immediately apparent as he holds on to the low wall, and in his right hand, he swings a huge war axe towards me. Its blade doesn’t shimmer but is matted with blood and filth. I’m impressed he can hold it, let alone menace me with it. I brace to thrust my damaged shield hand to counter the blow; only he must be weaker than he thinks. He overbalances, the war axe sending him falling forwards towards me, and he’s on me before I can move aside.
The shield is between us, but his weight crushes me as we fall one step and then another, and I can hardly breathe. I think I’ll die here, like this, unable to move. I try kicking and forcing all my weight behind the shield, but it’s just too painful. Even with my burned hand turned against the wood of the shield, it’s agony, and I’ve lost my seax in the fall.
Worse, the man doesn’t even fight against me. It’s clear he’s knocked himself out, and so he’ll kill me without even trying.
‘Help,’ I call, wishing I didn’t feel so frail at uttering those words. ‘Help me,’ I try again, managing to suck in more air this time.
Yet, I can hear no one coming. I need to get out on my own. But how? My body is crushed into the stone path, loose stones with their sharp corners sticking into my back.
I get my legs beneath the man who crushes me, but it does me no favours. If anything, all I succeed in doing is forcing him further over my chest. I extend my shield as high as I can with my knees, and then I feel some easing, and a perplexed face peers down at me.
It’s Oswy.
‘What are you doing?’ he queries, doing his best to pull one of the man’s arms aside.
‘Coming to rescue you,’ I huff. It’s good to see him standing, even if he shouldn’t be.
As the man’s body slides half clear from me, I’m able to buck my body away from him, the shield coming free last of all, bringing a fresh wave of pain from my burn. I have to stop concentrating on just breathing to drive back the dizziness that means to have me join him on the stone floor.
‘Well, I thank you.’ Oswy attempts to smirk, only to stagger as well.
‘Bloody hell.’ I move as quickly as possible, regaining my feet and forcing my right shoulder beneath him to keep him on his feet. ‘We’re going back to the fort,’ I inform him.
‘What of the others?’
‘Causing a fight down at the riverside gate. The only ship is gone, the quayside as well, and now the Wessex fools fight amongst themselves.’
‘Right,’ Oswy replies, but I can tell he’s confused. I’m not surprised. His half-torn tunic drips with blood, for all his seared wound does seem to be holding.
‘Come on. We’ll do it together,’ I confirm, but Oswy swallows and shakes his head.
‘No, kill him first, and then we’ll go.’ He nods towards the slumped shape before us.
I think I’ve killed enough defenceless men today, but I slip my seax through his fat neck all the same. His body judders and then stills.