The Last Alliance: England: The First Viking Age (The kingdom of Mercia: The Ninth Century Book 9) by MJ Porter

Author:MJ Porter [Porter, MJ]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MJ Publishing
Published: 2024-06-29T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

The scent of smoke increases the closer we get. No one has run our way, either in terror or to meet our far-from-subtle approach. This many horses make a fucking lot of noise over the interchangeable packed earth and stone roadway.

Icel and Ingwald have taken themselves to the front. Goda and Sæbald hold the rear. I’m in the middle, although I’d rather not be, but I’ve determined to be almost sensible in this. Better to risk Icel and Ingwald than myself. Hereman’s almost level with the front two. His hair streams beneath his helm as I fiddle with the knots to undo my own. Until now, I’ve not wanted to add the linen cap and iron helm to my head. It’s been too hot, but I won’t risk a blow to the head when I can prevent it.

The sound of the river close by grows in intensity. I thrust my helm onto my head, allowing Haden to ride without direction as it takes both hands to accomplish. The smoke grows thicker, and I stretch for my shield, ready to defend Haden, myself, and my men. I don’t want Haden to be wounded again. The cut he took within Gloucester has yet to heal fully. It’s left an area where I think his coat will never grow back.

‘Ware,’ Icel calls when we’re on the edges of the encampment. The tents have been either set aflame or broken down. I can see from one end of the campsite to the other, and there are a good number of bloodied bodies lying with blades ripped from hands, or so I assume.

‘Bastards,’ Icel shouts, the first to dismount and stride through the ruins of the tents and men. I wince at the innards on display, noting these dead men weren’t armoured. I imagine they had blades to hand, but no byrnies. They must have been caught with their arses out.

I dismount, Haden rearing back at the cloying smell of smoke and blood. I offer him a word of caution and bend to dip and examine the bodies. Ingwald and Icel stride through the camp, shields in hand, checking to see whether any enemies are lurking. We’d be able to see if there were, but I don’t call them back.

I touch the face of the first body I come across, meeting the unseeing gaze of a man some indeterminate age with grey hair and a grey beard. He’s not young, or he wasn’t young. Neither was he particularly old. He’s cold and marbled.

‘They’ve been dead some time,’ I call, perplexed. There’s not a lot here to burn, so if the smoke still lingers, the campsite’s been torched long after the men were dead.

‘And he has,’ Rudolf calls, hands already busy patting the man down for anything of value he might still have. Rudolf stands abruptly, a small coin bag in his hand, testing the weight before delving inside. I watch him. He pulls forth a handful of coins. They glint in what light there is.

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