Traveller Inceptio

The Vikings dressed similar to Saxons. Their tunics were shorter and more ornately decorated, and they wore their beards long and unkempt, though a few beards included braids. They were dressed for battle, for two of the older men wore leather skullcaps and one, the leader, a battered helm of metal. They were filthy but carried themselves with a swagger as they smiled at what was obviously a fleeing family group: a soft target, and a wealthy one at that.

As Desmond drew his sword, the helmed Viking cried out in good humour. The Danes had lived long in England, so Michael found he could understand him, even though his speech was accented.

“Hoo hoo! Brothers, look to this fool! I claim that sword as my own and ye can have the cart and contents. That will come in handy to move our loot. C’mon, let’s be quick about it!” He grunted and hefted his axe, a well-used, long-handled weapon with a deep slim blade that flared with a terrifyingly sharp curve. The other axemen laughed and the younger men smiled and fanned out, weapons ready. It was an all-too-familiar move born of deadly repetition. One of the spear-wielders, barely more than a lad, pointed to Aedgyd and made a lewd comment that had the others laugh and make cat-calls to the women, who huddled, terrified, beneath the cart.

In their desire for spoil, the Vikings forgot to check their ground and surroundings before making their attack. Michael, aware of the imperative to gain the advantage, knew he had to act. Eadric watched fearfully as Michael drew his sword from the bolster between his shoulder blades. Illogically, Michael recalled how his sword was, as yet, unnamed. His heart beat faster and he hoped he and Eadric could name their swords together.

Michael jerked his head for Eadric and Hengist to follow. He saw their uncertainty and fear, but they gritted their teeth and nodded, so he smiled. Looking to the Vikings, he stood, and with a great cry, ran at the nearest warrior, the young, good-looking spear-bearer who had made the lewd comment.

One of the sword strategies Michael had learned was the traditional Samurai run-through attack. The Travellers had often discussed the effectiveness or stupidity of such a move. It might look great on Japanese samurai movies, but would it work in battle? Even Master Kim prevaricated on whether it was a sound strategy or just showy martial arts. As Michael ran forward, he hoped this would work and wondered how his sword would feel when slicing through human meat and bone. He was certain his momentum would force the sword through.

His training took over. There was no longer time to think.

So clear was his perception of the moment that Michael watched as if it was in slow motion. The Vikings turned in surprise at the attack from an unexpected quarter. The young spearman’s face barely had time to register surprise when Michael’s terrible sword fell in a blow that took his head clean off. The heavy, blonde head fell and bounced to the ground only a few paces ahead of the body while the man’s heart, designed to pump oxygenated blood to the brain, tried vainly to feed the now missing head. Blood surged in a crimson spurt as the body instantly collapsed, merely a puppet with its strings cut.

The run-through attack had worked. Master Kim would be pleased.

One enemy was down in a manner so bloody it would cause the others to hesitate. All of his training, drills, fighting and study had led to this moment. Michael felt exhilarated and free, the sword a terrible extension of his body. The first man died so quickly the Vikings had no time to react, and the second, an axe bearer, barely had time to raise his axe in a defensive reflex. The sword flashed and the Viking’s axe, with his hands still gripping the haft, fell to the ground. There was no time to register pain, only complete shock as Michael’s blade struck his leather helm above his left ear, neatly severing his head above his nose. The leather-clad skull case struck the ground and spilled its grey and white brain onto the gravel.

***

Brother Oeric watched in paralysing panic, for the Vikings had appeared from nowhere. He had never seen a real Viking, but had seen what they had done to young Brother Cearl, and in his beliefs they sat as far from God’s grace as the imps in hell. He watched as Michael felled two of the enemy, but the Vikings were well experienced in death and one immediately ran to thrust himself at them. The monks had practiced—oh, they had practiced—despite Brother Oeric’s strenuous objections, never knowing they would need those warrior skills. The monks would normally rely on the saving graces of the Lord, for if they were to fall it would be as martyrs, but Lord Michael had once told them that some of the mightiest warriors were monks. They laughed that off as a jibe.

The terrible steel of the spear blade sped at them, the young Viking a lad little older than Eadric. He gave a savage smile as the spearhead thrust neatly into Brother Tondbert’s chest and the young monk fell with barely a cry. As they had been trained, the monks raised their staves and blocked the second attack, though they cried out in fear and despair.

Brother Oeric cried to Brother Horsa as the spearman positioned himself for another thrust. “Brother, the relics!”

Brother Horsa nodded, for they must save the relic and the psalter from the destroyers. The learned monk’s face screwed up in terror as the spearman struck again.

***

Desmond saw the attack of the spearman, but was unable to assist the monks for he had troubles of his own. An attacking axe wielder fell upon him with a savagery he had never dreamed possible. Though he parried the blows, the big Viking was devastatingly accurate and fast. Desmond felt surprisingly calm, yet he knew that if he did not receive assistance soon, he would die this day. The grin on the Viking’s face showed he knew it too. Desmond fought on, his back against the cart, and as he dodged the Viking’s assault it received more than a few hefty axe blows. To his horror, the women and girls squealed as Plod, startled by the thuds on the light cart, took a few frightened steps forward, so threatening to expose the women and children as they hid on the ground beneath.

***

Alric stood by Plod, frozen in shock, his mouth open in panicked indecision. He was a humble farmer and fisherman, not a fighter, and as he had not been able to learn the ways of the warrior from Michael, he did not know how to help. He had practiced a few lunges with a spear, so on seeing Desmond’s peril he reached for his spear on the cart. He was distracted as one of the twins, little Linette, bravely ran forward to settle the pony. Gathering up his courage and anger, Alric thrust at the attacker.

The Viking was a burly bear of a man, terrifying to behold, with a huge beard and savage mien. He wore a simple leather cap, his dirty blonde hair flared out at the sides. Alric imagined this man had caused many an English life to be taken and would just as easily take his and those of the women, including his sister. He stared in panic as the Viking used the hilt of his axe to stun Desmond, striking his forehead with a savage blow that sent the blacksmith to his knees. The young farmer’s hesitant jab was easily deflected. The big man was surprisingly fast and twisted to strike at Alric’s spear, parrying with his axe handle to strike at the shaft with a short, sharp blow. There was a numb of shock as two of Alric’s fingers flew with his spear and he stared, stunned, at the two bloody stumps that were all that remained of the smaller fingers of his right hand.

The Viking smiled and leaned forward to deliver his fatal blow. Alric could only wonder how that must feel, but the blow never fell.

The Viking screamed and dropped to the gravel.

***

On his knees, Desmond had barely recovered enough to lash out blindly as the blood from a cruel gash ran into his eyes. His head spun. Concussed and confused, he glimpsed the faces of his wife and girls as they lay in the gravel and cried out in terror.

He recalled the woman and children at the village.

It was up to him.

He stabbed out blindly with his beautiful, pattern-welded sword and it was only by accident the sharp blade pierced the Viking through the centre of his lower back as he raised his axe to deliver a fateful blow to Alric. The blade entered just below his protective leather jerkin to sever the spinal column. His legs stopped and he dropped to the gravel with a scream, struggling vainly as Desmond staggered unsteadily to his feet. The Viking swung his axe at Desmond’s feet, to have the blow thwarted by the cart’s wheel. The blacksmith groggily wiped the blood from his eyes with his forearm. An axeman was only any good if he could stand. Roaring in desperate fury, the Viking twisted vainly to parry the blows from Desmond, who swayed and swung blindly. There was no mercy before and there was none now. The axeman ran out of luck as one of his hands was badly cut by Desmond’s desperate flailing. Feet astride his enemy, Desmond stood on his foe’s axe handle and swung downward, as if hewing wood. Despite the leather cap, the head was soon cleaved asunder, all but a pace from the dismayed eyes of the women and children under the cart.

***

The iron-helmed Viking flew at Michael in fury. He was highly skilled and was partnered by a spearman, an older and more experienced combatant. Together they formed a terribly efficient team as the defensive spear attacked with a reach that the axe couldn’t match, forcing the three Saxons back again and again. The axeman would then counterattack and together they formed a symphony of deadly skill as Michael, Eadric and Hengist desperately sought an opening.

***

Brother Oeric had blind faith in Michael’s purpose to guide and protect them, a purpose that would be fulfilled whether the monk lived or died. He realised he wasn’t afraid for his own death. He had lived an honest and faithful life and his fearless belief in their victory gave enough presence of mind to divert another vicious stab and strike out at the spear shaft and the spearman’s hands like he had been taught. He heard Horsa cry in pain as the healer staggered, but remained on his feet. Together the monks fought desperately as Tondbert lay at their feet, bleeding, and gasping noisily.

Their efforts were enough to occupy the spearman as Irminric, at the far side of the cart, threw his spear. The timber shaft flew across the cart and struck a glancing blow into the spearman’s side. Realizing the soft target had turned deadly, the Viking spun away, grimacing and holding his side as it bled.

***

Assessing the fight at the cart, with a jerk of his head, Michael sent Hengist to assist. The lad saw his father strike the Viking bear down. There was blood everywhere. Seeing the fallen Tondbert, Hengist watched with relief as his father heaved a breath and gave a grimace as he wiped streaming blood from his eyes.

The monks’ attacker was no older than he and Hengist saw in the Viking’s eyes the sudden realisation he could fall. Three of his comrades already lay dead. Blood ran down his side while his hand on the spear-shaft was bloody. To Hengist, the young man did not look like a murderer. His blue eyes and neatly tied blonde hair showed he could be a man from his own town, yet Michael had continually warned the lads about the weakness of pity for an armed opponent. He thought of the bodies they had only just buried, of the woman and the wee children at Nether Haddon. This man had raped and slain women and children without a thought. The same would happen to his mother, his sisters, his wee brother.

He glanced to the bulgy-eyed young monk, Brother Tondbert, as he coughed and bled from his mouth, and Brother Horsa who held his own bloodied side, his face pale and twisted in pain. There must be no pity for this man or he and the monks would die.

Hengist crouched and warily circled the spearman. Wounded though he was, he guessed the man was more dangerous in knowing he was finished. He held his sword with both hands as he had practiced and cautiously watched for his opportunity.

There was a shout from Irminric, who gathered up Alric’s fallen spear and ran to his brother’s aid as the distracted spearman lashed out blindly. Hengist parried, only to see the move was a feint as the spear swept in a deadly arc that he barely ducked. There was a flurry of jabs and Hengist parried again and again. Michael and his father had repeatedly told them that a good spearman was incredibly deadly and this man, though injured, was very good indeed. They paused to circle each other again and Hengist felt warm blood run down his chest from a cut where his shoulder met his neck. A bare two fingers higher and the blade would have severed where a cut meant death. Two fingers higher and he would be bleeding his life away.

He didn’t even feel the wound.

He watched his younger brother edge to the back of the spearman, who saw the movement and swung wildly, jabbing with deadly accuracy in a surprise move that struck true and pierced Irminric deeply in the thigh. Hengist heard his brother cry in pain as he fell, but before the Viking could press the advantage, Hengist was upon him in a rage, slashing and parrying too close for the spearman to use his weapon to his best advantage. The spearman gasped in fear and pain, and used his weapon as a staff, using the spear haft and blade. Though his wound must have affected him, he was blindingly fast and Hengist barely survived. He was struck in the thigh with a stunning blow from the timber shaft and he barely blocked a swipe with the blade, but he had enough presence of mind to lash out and kick the man’s knee as he had been taught.

He pulled back to regroup. The kick had caused the Viking to slow to a hobble. The blue eyes were angry, his face set.

Suddenly the Viking screamed and fell to his knees. Irminric lay injured on the ground, momentarily forgotten, but from his position of vulnerability had stabbed the spearman’s calf with his own spear. Hengist saw the leg of his brother’s breeches soaked in blood. Irminric would die if he didn’t protect him. With a cry, Hengist gave a wild sideways swing at the Viking’s neck and felt his sword strike true. The spearman’s partially severed head toppled sideways, still held by half his neck muscle as blood squirted, blue eyes open in an expression of surprise. As the spearman fell forward, Hengist, his muscles surging with the fury of battle, raised his arms and stabbed the already dead man through his back to make sure he was finished.

It was done. He paused to gasp in a wave of sudden exhaustion.

There was so much blood. It had a smell not unlike the metal at his father’s smithy. Dazed and shocked, he shook his head to clear it and then remembered his brother, who grunted in pain, but as he looked to him and smiled, he felt exultant. Hengist crouched with Irminric and, forgetting all else, they held their weapons high and together cried out a shout of victory.

***

Michel and Eadric still battled the two most seasoned fighters. Too many times, Michael narrowly missed being skewered by the spear or smashed with the axe. Eadric performed capably, his hours of practice evident, as he was still alive and unhurt, though his sleeve and the skin of his right arm had been split by the spear’s razor sharp blade. Though bloody, the wound was relatively harmless, but it had been close. At the lads’ cry of victory, the axe-wielder was distracted for a split second and Michael struck as his sword flashed in an arc of argent. The axeman’s left arm fell to the ground with a surprisingly heavy thud, severed neatly, and he screamed out his anger and despair. He staggered, his axe still in his right hand. Blood spurted from his stump to spray his enemy in the face. Michael flinched and saw the spearman strike. He twisted to avoid the thrust, but felt a crushing blow at his left side, just below his ribs.

***

Eadric heard Lord Michael grunt in pain and before he could think, he struck at the spearman’s right arm, severing muscle and bone so it dangled uselessly below the elbow. He saw his friend and teacher stagger and hold his side, so Eadric swung his sword again in desperation, his arms leaden in utter weariness. The spearman was hit across his chest with a flat blow that cut through his leather jerkin and left a bloody gash as he fell backward onto the river bank’s gravel with a strangled scream. His bad arm flopped and the spear was gone, while his good arm flailed to parry the inevitable final blow.

Eadric knew he had to finish this. There were screams for mercy, but he took a sobbing breath as he stood above his enemy’s head, grasped his sword in two hands and he stabbed downwards into the man’s face. The blade pierced the good hand that was raised to protect, and the spearman’s eye, to pin his hand to his head and the head to the ground. There was a horrible scream. The spearman’s legs twitched and thrashed as if he sought to run. Eadric watched, horrified, as the man wet himself in the frantic, macabre dance.

When the man was finally still, Eadric had to place his foot on the hand-covered face to pull his sword free. Sickened, he looked up to see Michael straighten and lunge as the one-armed Viking staggered to strike at Eadric, his right arm holding the weighty axe aloft. With a strangled cry, Michael pierced the big Viking beneath his raised arm and shoved the silver blade deeply into his chest. The man roared and fell to his knees and, as Michael laboriously removed his sword to strike again, fell like a log onto his face. Eadric looked at Michael in stunned surprise. He would have been killed.

He turned to watch his bloodied uncle wearily stagger across the gravel to assist. As the last enemy fell, Desmond stopped for a moment and looked around in confusion, still dazed and bloody-faced.

His expression said it all. The Vikings were dead. It was a miracle.