The Last Sword by M J Porter

Author:M J Porter [Porter, M J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: M J Publishing
Published: 2021-04-28T23:00:00+00:00

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.

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