The Last Viking: England: The First Viking Age (The kingdom of Mercia: The Ninth Century Book 8) by MJ Porter

Author:MJ Porter [Porter, MJ]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MJ Publishing
Published: 2024-03-12T00:00:00+00:00

Not that I get my wish. As Haden crests the river bank, the water swelling ever higher, from what source I’m unsure, the shout of someone arrests my attention. I peer across the river’s wide expanse and meet a Viking raider’s snarling face. I don’t recognise him, but it’s easy enough to determine his Norse ancestry. His face is inked, although I can’t tell if it’s an animal or just a random pattern, his long hair tied with trinkets, blowing in the gentle breeze. He’s not alone.

There are more of them than there are of us.

I smirk, taunting them, hoping they’ll not think to swim the river. They disappoint me.

The first five men, eyes on my horses, rush down the slope.

‘Goda, Leonath, Wærwulf, Sæbald and Wulfred, get your arses here.’

I don’t summon Osmod. His face remains flustered from his tardiness to retreat. I need to ensure he makes some headway on his horse should the Viking raiders overwhelm us.

‘Rudolf, Pybba,’ while my men hasten to protect the ford, Rudolf brings Dever closer.

‘Get to Northampton,’ I command. ‘Take Pybba with you. Find out what’s happening. Take half of the men with you.’

‘My lord?’ he squeaks.

‘Don’t fucking argue with me, Rudolf. You need to do this.’

‘You’ll be overwhelmed,’ he argues all the same.

I offer a mirthless smirk in reply.

‘We’ll bloody prevail,’ I counter quickly, hoping I’m correct.

Pybba, forehead furrowed in thought, nods, although he’s far from happy about it. If one of the bastards tells me to run for cover, I’ll kill them myself.

‘Fucking cocks,’ Wulfred mumbles, reaching for his seax, watching the enemy drop into the water. The first man loses his footing, tumbling with the current, flailing with the weight of his weapons belt and byrnie. He’ll be dead in no time. And they call themselves shipmen!

While the six of us watch, preparing for the coming fight, I can hear Rudolf and Pybba picking off the men they’ll take with them. I listen to the names Osbert, Hereman, Osmod , Gardulf and Cuthwalh. I don’t hear enough names to be content, but now two Viking raiders have crossed the ford, arms held above their heads, the water almost up to their shoulders. Behind them, more of the enemy take a chance. The swept-away man can no longer be seen or heard. The current won’t take him to Northampton. Even his dead body will serve no purpose to his allies.

I can hear some of my warriors arguing with Rudolf and Pybba, Gardulf’s most vocal.

‘Get the fuck out of here,’ I shout over my shoulder, menacing the bastards. Hereman and Gardulf join the men I’ve already positioned. My lips twist, but I understand what drives them.

Wærwulf encourages his horse forward to meet the enemy. They emerge, dripping wet, one shaking himself to dislodge the water, bending to run his hand over the few tall grasses in the hope of drying his hands. He dies with a flung spear through his neck. I hear the huff of Hereman and know he was the one to let loose the shot.

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