Traveller Inceptio

The morning dawned, as do many in England, with a welcoming shower of chill rain to enhance the misery of a sleepless night. Each of the Traveller team had taken turns at guard, their woollen cloaks sufficient to keep them warm and dry.

The monks conducted a brief mass and a communal prayer as most of the warriors knelt to receive blessings while the visitors stood with their heads respectfully bowed. Brother Oeric told Michael that he understood the miracle of the angelic warriors was more than a mere coincidence, for the monk accused Michael the Archangel of calling together his holy Brothers to defend the divine word of God. The sacred relic was paraded for all to touch, to give faith and strength. To the monks, what greater proof of the blessed nature of the relic was needed? To conclude the ceremony, Brother Oeric went to each of the heavenly warriors and knelt before them to kiss their hands, a humble supplication that they free this people from the marauders. A few of the warriors placed a hand on Brother Oeric’s head, unwittingly giving the appearance of bestowing a blessing upon the frail monk. When he went to offer the same plea to Michael, he was raised to his feet and Michael hugged him tightly.

“Thank you,” was all he could say.

The Vikings, confident to the point of being almost nonchalant, gathered in the light drizzle. Though a few were roughly bandaged, they appeared in good humour and laughed often, though they were now kitted with any scrap of armour upon which they could lay their hands. Michael saw their swagger and calm, more akin to professional footballers before a big game than murderous marauders.

As the village defenders gathered and made their final preparations, the new arrivals were hit with the realisation that now they were to finally engage in real combat with their swords. They were trained for it, but the inability to know what they really faced gave each an enormous adrenalin boost. Michael knew there was fear. After the battle of the previous day he felt afraid, but his fear wasn’t out of control. He was more afraid for the lads and for Godric, for the villagers, and especially Tatae. He did not ponder too deeply on the consequences of the conflict for his own safety. The all-too-familiar fear wasn’t a hindrance as he, like his fellow Travellers, knew it would pass as soon as they went into action.

“Amazing,” muttered Anderson as they watched.

“What?” asked Osborne.

“This whole thing,” stressed the American. “I still can’t believe we’re here. We’re one thousand years in the past! My brain knows it, but it just blows me the shit away. Imagine what Murdoch and old Taylor would say if they saw us now.”

Osborne chuckled. “So much for rescuing Hunter. Like that was going to happen without a fight.”

Anderson only smiled sadly. “Look at them. There’s something surreal about watching Vikings gather for battle. I mean, we never see that in modern warfare, do we? And there’s not a clichéd horned helmet in sight.”

Osborne grunted. “Yeah, but they look very capable though. I could walk out there with an Uzi and pretty well kill the lot of the fuckers,” he muttered. “It’s the weirdest fucking thing I’ve ever imagined, let alone done.”

Michael smiled as he shrugged in his armour to make sure he was comfortable. “I’ve been tempted to shoot them, believe me.”

Anderson shrugged. “Well, this is one of the weirdest for me, that’s for sure.”

Osborne and Michael looked to the American incredulously. “One of? What the fuck have you been into, old mate?” asked Osborne with a laugh.

Anderson smiled. “You know the story; if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

Osborne grunted. “Fair enough.” He gave Anderson another look and shook his head in disbelief. “Anyway, this’ll be interesting. I’ve always thought there’s something more…fair-dinkum…about fighting a man face to face. This will be the scariest thing I’ve ever done.”

It was Anderson’s turn to give an odd look. “Oh, God, your fucking Aussie slang! Speak Aenglish, for God’s sake.”

“Okay, that means something real—sincere. I’d rather not kill a man face to face, mind you, but..,” Osborne shrugged as he continued to make his preparations, his pocked face placid. Tall and lithe, his long, muscular arms had a deadly reach and Michael knew he was one of the fastest on the squad. If anyone could do some real damage to their enemy, it would be Osborne.

The villagers also quietly waited and prepared. As the Vikings assembled, there was jeering and insults from both sides. Morris and Anderson concocted some insults that were particularly imaginative. There was something about ‘your mothers must have had sex with a pig to produce such ugly offspring’, and while many of the villagers, and indeed a few of the attackers, laughed, some Vikings became livid at the villagers’ apparent lack of fear.

Godric stood alone by the sparse barricade that was all that remained of the hedgehog. He was the heart and soul of his village, while the newcomers saw him as everything they imagined a Saxon would be: his grey eyes, his big moustache, his armour, and his stern mien. His round, battered, wooden shield was inlaid with iron and his sword was unsheathed to allow the beautiful patterns to be clearly visible. Michael watched his comrades buckle on armguards, don helmets and heft shields that looked impossibly shiny and new compared to Godric’s. Their new, silver swords seemed to glow, even in the dim light.

Oeric came to Michael and questioned the actions of the Travellers as they placed the small, innocuous camera buttons around the village and hedgehog area. “Oh, leave them be,” said Michael dismissively. “’Tis a ritual of sorts. It is best that the villagers leave them untouched.” Professor Taylor had fifty camera feeds of a live battle that would automatically stream data to the base-station in the forest. All grimly hoped the footage would show their safe and victorious return.

Morris stood like a mountain, gestured to the Vikings with his chin and said to Leishman, “Heavy shit.”

Leishman just raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “No-one has done anything like this for hundreds of years. Our training was good. Let’s see how it works in real life.”

Morris laughed and clapped his friend on the shoulder before he hefted his own shield and shrugged to make sure all fitted as it should.

Tatae stood by Michael, her hand on his arm. She looked afraid. Michael smiled at her to ally her fears. She, like the rest of the villagers, was heartened at the arrival of the Travellers, though she didn’t share the belief they were angels of God. Only she seemed to understand they could die. With Michael, she watched the preparations of the strangers and the young village men who tried to emulate them.

Eadric was very much a warrior now, as were his cousins. Irminric hobbled, trying not to show his limp, while Hengist sat as he ran a sharpening stone over his blade, as taught by his father. He smiled and nodded in response to Anderson, who slapped his shoulder in friendly support. Like most of the Traveller team members, even with the linguistic corrections he had taken so much time and effort to send, Anderson’s accent was appalling.

As Michael moved to don the helmet the Travellers had brought for him, he bent and kissed Tatae’s soft lips and paused to touch her golden hair, feeling the silken texture in his fingers as if for the first time. This was a moment when his senses were at their most acute, his mind as sharp as his sword. All he thought of was the Now. He watched as she smiled sadly and he patted her cheek gently. “Pray to the Goddesses for me today.”

She looked at him fearfully, her lips parted as if wanting him, yet knowing she must wait until he returned.

Leishman watched them and smiled wistfully.

Anderson snorted. “Lucky bastard.” He hefted his shield and stood ready.

Godric shrugged his shoulders, and seeing his men were ready, strode through the shattered barrier into the area the Vikings had left for battle. Godric walked like one of the old Gods, tall and proud, and the villagers loved him and prayed for his safety and victory. After the catcalls and insults, the Vikings and the villagers fell strangely silent. Behind the second barrier, Hilda held Eabae as they tearfully prayed.

The Vikings recovered to shout scornful taunts. They knew Godric was the village leader and Michael imagined he had garnered some grudging respect, for the villagers had slain some of their number the previous day.

It was only when more warriors than expected strode forward that the Vikings fell silent. Michael could see their thoughts. Here were warriors they had not previously seen, fresh reinforcements who had obviously crept past them in the night. Not just warriors, but well-armoured warriors with shields, swords and helms. He knew the newcomers walked with the casual, cocky assurance of experienced fighters and their armour and equipment looked of the highest quality. As they strode forward, Parker bellowed, “Remember your training, lads! You’re up for this. You’ve killed before; this is no different. Make these ugly cunts wish they’d stayed at home.”

Michael saw there were too many young lads in the Saxon side to make for an even battle. As the warring sides prepared, the priests sang hymns and held the psalters and the jewelled box aloft. The remaining villagers joined in until the sweet sound of singing filled the narrow defile.

Parker, in his usual manner, gave the troops a final pep talk. “Ok, lads, watch the spears and keep to teams. Let’s finish these bastards off and we’ll be home for tea.” To Michael, he looked amazing in his armour. To their gathered enemies, his darker skin would have appeared as a mystery.

There were chuckles. Silver swords were gripped and ready. The rest of the village warriors moved into formation and waited.

Osborne growled, “Fuck me drunk! Look at those bastards.”

They watched the approaching Vikings. Many were big, bearded, and terrifying as they confidently hefted their axes and spears. To the young lads, they must have looked fearless and unstoppable. Michael watched Godric raise his sword and call out in a parade voice that would have impressed Parker, “Men of Giolgrave! Fight for your wives and little ones. The enemy will not spare them. May God bless us and our friends this day. Praise God and his victory!”

All cheered with a roar and they walked to meet the Vikings, who did not charge, but marched purposefully, almost casually, as they jeered, laughed, and cursed. They were a terrifying sight, and for the villagers, the stuff of their worst nightmares. Michael knew many of the villagers on the field were petrified, but as Godric had told them earlier in the morning, they could no longer afford to live in fear.

Godric roared his challenge and the rest of the warriors joined in as they launched themselves in a short run at their tormentors. There was a thunderous thud of shields and clash of steel.

The initial blows made for a conflict that was terrifying, bloody, noisy and, like most battles, confusing. Michael was next to Eadric and the young man fought like one gone mad. Through Michael’s instruction, he had learned to channel his aggression and overcome fear. Together they attacked a spearman and axeman team. The young warrior dodged a spear thrust and Michael parried while Eadric’s jab was barely blocked by the axe, leaving a cut in the Viking axeman’s tunic. Michael followed up with a sudden stab of his own to pierce the axeman’s upper bicep but couldn’t follow up the attack as he barely dodged a spear thrust to his thigh. He was perfectly positioned to give the spearman a sidekick to the head, stunning him, so Eadric took a two handed grasp on his sword and swung. The dazed spearman barely parried and was struck with the flat of Eadric’s sword to his head with a blow that caused him to fall, dazed and confused. Eadric followed, intent on skewering the man, but the axeman leaped to his defence, blood streaming from his arm while his powerful downward swing struck Eadric’s blade and stunned his fingers enough to make him drop his precious sword.

Eadric looked up in surprise. He knew he was finished. His attacker gave a quick, knowing grin, but then there was a sudden blank look of shock as Michael’s sword severed his arm. The sword point then took the man in his chest and he fell, as if he had tripped, landing on the stunned spearman’s chest as he struggled to gain his feet. Eadric swiftly scooped up his fallen sword, and as the spearman struggled in vain, Eadric’s patterned blade caught him just above his collarbone, thrusting obliquely into his chest. The Viking screamed in terror, rage, and agony as he died.

Michael gave Eadric a nod and wiped his face. He turned from the spearman to see a Viking run at young Hengist. The lad was alone, but managed to block the initial rush as he fought valiantly. Michael cried out to Eadric to hurry to his aid. They were only paces away when the Viking spearman shoved hard against the young man’s sword attack. As Hengist stumbled, the Viking’s spear shaft struck him on the jaw. Stunned and defenceless, he reeled. The Viking swiftly removed a small axe from his belt and struck the young man once, twice, three times in the face. The attacker moved fast, savagely striking again as Hengist finally fell with a spray of gore, his face a bloody ruin.

The Viking spun at Michael and Eadric and swung his spear in an arc that caught Eadric on the side of the head, leaving a bloody gash that carved a horizontal slit from behind his left ear to his cheek, severing his ear in two. Eadric’s hand went to his face and he screamed and staggered while Michael engaged Hengist’s killer. Above the din of battle, they heard Desmond roar as he witnessed the death of his son.

Desmond had repeatedly told Hengist to stay back.

***

Desmond fought in a tight group of struggling men, each vying to gain some advantage. The blacksmith wore the iron helmet they had looted from the Viking at the river and his head was bandaged still, his forehead painful under the metal. He had wanted Hengist to wear the helmet. Hurley was beside him as they battled, but soon threw his shield aside to use his sword to its two-handed advantage. He heard Desmond weep as he fought, his teeth gritted in the agony of his loss. But the Irishman had little time to notice as an opening finally came where he was able to strike a savage downward blow at a spearman’s fingers. The man panicked as his fingers flew and the spear slipped from his grasp as he vanished into the press and escaped. Desmond parried another spear to present the opening Hurley needed to strike the man with another downward chop that neatly divided the leather helmet and split the man’s head to his chin. However, Desmond’s distraction at his son’s death was enough to give an opening from an unseen quarter. A shield bearer charged from behind and knocked the unprepared blacksmith against Hurley, who stumbled. He looked up and cursed as a devastating, glancing sword blow struck him in the head. Though wearing his helmet, the blow drove him to his knees as his adversary howled in triumph. Hurley was too dazed to realise what was happening, but had the sinking realisation that he was finished.

The Viking drew back his arm to drive Hurley through the throat, but lost his arm as Morris intervened. The arm hung by a string of muscle, still clutching the sword. He barely had time to bring up his shield to defend himself as he fled into the melee, squirting blood as he escaped.

***

Morris knelt to gather Hurley up and together they staggered to the remnants of the hedgehog where it was mercifully free of combatants. With a grunt and a nod, the big Canadian handed his injured teammate to a couple of spear-bearing lads for safe keeping. Left where he was, it wouldn’t take long before the badly concussed Hurley would be trampled and killed in the press. A couple of pretty lasses also stood, terrified, their spears levelled bravely. Filled with battle lust, Morris simply nodded in greeting before he turned back to the fray. Nearby, Anderson and Poxon fought a skilled Viking swordsman. Even two on one, they couldn’t gain the advantage. Further away, a Saxon was struck with an axe and he knelt weeping, clutching his smashed chest until the second Viking swing struck him in the neck. There were bodies and body parts scattered on the battlefield and it was difficult to determine who was who.

Having caught his breath, Morris saw two Vikings break from the main conflict and rush the village entry. The barrier Godric had playfully called the ‘hedgehog’ had been removed enough to allow unimpeded access, and except for the waist-high second barrier, the enemy could easily enter the village. Only some frightened young lads and girls with their spears stood between the marauders and the woman and children. He watched as Alric supported the injured Osborne from the field. Blood poured from a severed left arm and Osborne had the presence of mind to have the lost arm in his grip. Stunned and pale, he staggered, still with his wits about him as he watched the Vikings attack. Handing his arm to Alric, who held the limb uncertainly, he removed his short sword from his belt and stood ready, weaving as he bled in squirts. Morris had to rush in. The Vikings were focused on Osborne, so Morris decided to do something he had always wanted. He dropped his shield and, in full armour, he ran and jumped in a flying side kick as if he was a Saxon Bruce Lee. He knew if he could knock them aside, it would give the injured Osborne time to leave the field and get a tourniquet applied. Failing that, he would surely die from blood loss.

The first Viking didn’t even see what was coming and was struck in the side of his neck, which snapped as he paused to stab at Osborne. His body tumbled into his companion’s path. Morris took two steps to strike at the second Viking, who miraculously dodged the sword blow to direct a vicious upward stab with his spear, striking the big man in the centre of his stomach. Morris roared, slashing two-handed at the spear, dividing the stout shaft. Disarmed, the surprised Viking received a spear in the ribs from Irminric, who had hobbled forward. Morris finished him by dividing his collarbone.

Morris watched Alric rush the fading Osborne to the waiting healers. As taught, the lad placed his hand firmly on the bleeding stump, covering the front of his tunic with spurting blood. Osborne looked pale and faint and had to be dragged the short distance to the cave where Tatae, Horsa, Edyt, and Kitchener from the Traveller team worked.

Morris roared, “Look after his arm,” in badly accented Saxon. Kitchener waved.

Young Alric would never understand why the limb should be preserved, but he did as he was told and placed it carefully in a safe place while the terribly injured Osborne was cared for.

Morris turned to walk back to the battle but his legs wouldn’t work. He then groaned in sudden agony and held his stomach. The spear thrust had been a direct blow to the middle of his abdomen and he knew, despite his armour, that he had internal injuries. He cursed and felt faint as his legs buckled and he collapsed to his knees. Despite his feeble struggles, he fell to one side. Unable to regain his feet, Irminric hobbled to assist the big man, but despite his best efforts, could barely support him. His own injured leg couldn’t carry his own weight, let alone another’s. Thankfully, the bloodied Alric ran to assist Morris from the field.

***

Michael and Godric were joined by McFee. The redheaded Scotsman exhibited a particular skill in directing blows to the enemy with his feet, ruining knees or groins. Vikings were slow to understand how a diverted strike could be followed up with a sly martial-arts kick, possible because the Traveller’s armour was so lightweight. The three Saxons battled against a grouping of axeman, swordsman and two spearmen where McFee managed to stun one of the spearmen enough for Godric to kill the man. This further infuriated the enemy. Michael dodged a spear thrust at his feet as Godric directed a shield strike to the fingers of the axeman, who recovered just in time for it to miss. Michael noticed that the men were beginning to tire and wondered how long they had been at it, struggling man to man in the bloodiest of conflicts. With too few to form an effective shield wall, they had fought the old way, between teams or individuals, so the toll was beginning to mount.

Beside them, the village carpenter, Ramm, gave a cry as his hand was partially severed. He gasped as he fell back, barely dodging an axe strike.

A Viking was struck and fell. Parker jumped and landed to strike a fatal blow with his shield, shattering the man’s face.

A Saxon youth turned to flee. A spearhead appeared as if by magic from the front of his throat. He fell silently.

McFee rammed his shield at the spearman just as a blow was directed at Godric’s exposed lower face and they heard the Viking yelp as his fingers broke. Finally, they made progress as one young spearman went down to a clean thrust through his neck, his scream a bloody gurgle. The accompanying axeman struck a lightning fast downward blow on McFee’s sword, but it was diverted. As the older, stockier Viking followed through his swing, Godric caught him with an upward thrust, piercing him under the arm to drive his sharp, patterned sword through the leather jerkin and clean into his heart.

The last of the three Vikings, the swordsman, now faced three capable enemy warriors. The marauder knew he would not survive for long, but looked unafraid. His broken nose was grotesque under his helm and his mouth was crooked. Ingimund, cousin and lieutenant to Guthorm, had killed enough Aenglish in glorious battle to be content.

McFee attacked, but his blows were deflected again and again by the skilled use of the shield. Godric, who was plainly tiring, attempted a shield bash but lacked the force. The shields skidded off each other and Godric dodged a lightning fast jab that left his face with a bloody wound. Ingimund smiled and the red-faced Godric growled while Michael skirted around to the swordsman’s side.

Three shielded warriors against one was bound to attract attention and two Vikings soon ran to assist. One was the Viking leader with the ornate helm, accompanied by a middle-aged spearman who immediately stabbed at McFee with an underhanded thrust, allowing the spear to run through his fingers to give extra range. The move caught McFee by surprise and he only just managed to drop his head as the spearhead missed his face and bounced jarringly off his helmet. The Viking leader struck at Godric, giving a momentary reprieve for the ugly swordsman to relaunch his attack on the thegn. After a flurry of blows, Godric gave a jerk of pain and a grunt of shock. He was stabbed in the back of the leg by a low spear thrust. The spearman, a slim warrior with dazzling ability and power, danced around, easily avoiding their attempts to strike him down. The stab was similar to that which had preceded Ceolwulf’s death the day before and must have been a well-practiced attack move.

Michael’s blood ran cold. They must protect their thegn. The spearman was obviously a veteran of many engagements, for he had smoothly moved from Michael to make his lightning strike exactly where Godric was unprotected.

Godric, with a sudden anguished look, realised this day could be his last. As the spearman yanked the spear from Godric’s left thigh, he pulled it upwards to enlarge the cut. Michael saw his friend go down on one knee and desperately hoped the cut had missed the femoral artery. If that had been severed, he would bleed out. There would be nothing they could do to save him.

The big Saxon knew he was done for, for he was barely able to ward off a flurry of blows. Despite his struggles, he could not stand. With a grunt, he jabbed at the scar-faced swordsman, bright-eyed behind his shield. The Vikings knew it would soon be over for Godric. Michael and McFee struggled against the two newcomers. There were futile jabs and grunts as each sought a lapse in defence, but none gave an inch.

Suddenly there was a bellow and a jarring clash against the scarred swordsman’s shield as Desmond was upon him. The blacksmith had cast aside his shield and struck in rapid, frantic two-handed blows. It was a suicidal attack and he seemed to have lost his senses. His mighty arms hewed as he shed tears for his son. Michael knew he could never sustain such effort, but Desmond struck in a rage that startled their enemies. The sturdy, scar-faced Viking swordsman, who had killed Hengist, staggered in surprise. In his moment of distraction, McFee avoided the shield, danced nimbly to one side and struck him in the back of his neck, severing the big man’s spinal column. Ingimund collapsed like a puppet without strings and lay on the trampled earth, gulping for breath as he bled his life into the soil.

***

Guthorm watched, detached and emotionless, briefly without a combatant as the Saxons drew back to protect their thegn. His cousin lay bleeding, dying. Together they had dealt enough death upon the Aenglish. Ingimund would be grateful that his days didn’t end in the halls of a jarl, but on a battlefield. Guthorm gazed around wearily. The tide of the battle had turned. Their losses the previous day, though not many, had taken away some of their most experienced fighters, and today that loss made a difference. As he glanced over the field of battle, he saw a few of the younger lads throw down their shields and axes and turn to flee. One of them was the scout who had discovered this hidden village. They wouldn’t get far. Those who survived the forest would receive no welcome from the locals. Their only hope lay in banding together to fight their way south.

How had this isolated, tiny village smuggled in the new, fresh troops? No matter; he would never flee. He sighed, for he knew he would never again sail the fjords of home. He shrugged, then grinned. Before he died, he would send a few more of these Christians to their precious Jesus.

***

With a growing weariness, the men fought on as Michael and McFee vied for any advantage against the spearmen. Godric finally collapsed to both knees and Michael feared the thegn had been struck down. He was exhausted, wounded and unable to fight. Only his shield prevented him from falling completely.

Desmond stood by, panting and red faced. “We’re not as young as we used to be,” he gasped to his brother, who snorted and struggled to gain his feet, but couldn’t. He sank back with a groan of exhausted frustration, his leg in agony and his breeches soaked in blood, both his own and others. Beside him lay a severed hand, while the bodies of a young Viking and a lad from the village lay entwined nearby, having killed each other.

Eadric ran to his father’s aid and Godric looked up with pride to his son, who only months before had been a carefree young lad. Now he was covered in blood, half of his face a mess. Eadric checked the Vikings were under control, then crouched to ascertain his father was well. Godric nodded, grateful for his son’s assistance. He stood with difficulty and rested on his son’s and brother’s strong shoulders. Leaving his shield on the tortured field, he sheathed his sword with difficulty as his hand shook uncontrollably. Slowly the three hobbled to the village.

Victory would be theirs. Only a small huddle of Vikings remained, herded to a far corner of the field. One battle continued, between the spearman and the Viking commander, and Michael and one of his friends. The blood trickled down Godric’s leg and his leather boot was sodden, but he risked that rare feeling, the feeling of hope. It had been so long since he had real hope. Mayhap he would die, or not. It was out of his hands. He felt dizzy, weary, and his chest hurt.

At the village barrier, he felt bone-weary and was grateful to remove his helm and untie the leather ties to allow his chainmail to drop to the ground. The last thing he saw was Tatae’s pretty face before him, hovering in concern, before he was gently lowered to the ground in a faint.

***

Michael and McFee were gaining the advantage and the Vikings knew it as they battled, two against two. Most of the sounds of battle, the terrible roar of voices and screams of dying coupled with the clash of weapons and shields, had faded. The most obvious sounds were of the terrible weeping and groans as wounded men suffered and died. The sun had come out after the Aenglish drizzle and sunlight dazzled off the wet surfaces of helmets and shields. The combatants’ faces were covered with sweat as they circled each other, ever striving for the advantage.

A bellow of agonized fury rang out. Desmond had returned to the battlefield to find the corpse of his son, his face obliterated. The big man held his son’s poor head as he knelt in the mud and blood and screamed his heart-rending grief. The cry was enough for Michael to flinch at his friend’s anguish and the two Vikings attacked in his moment of distraction. The chieftain rammed his shield against McFee, who slipped on the muddy surface of the field, trampled and soaked with blood and rain. He regained his balance in only a split second, but these Vikings were experienced and knew how men would react. Michael parried the shield blow and the sword thrust. He turned his body in defence, but a sharp, downward spear jab caught him in a gap in his armour, just above his collarbone. The blade was shoved downward until the tip exited out of his upper left back. He gave a scream of agony as the spearman pulled the spear downwards savagely to open the wound and break the collarbone.

This was the spearman’s last act as McFee skewered him sideways through the lower ribs, the blow executed so forcefully that the point of the katana exited from his other side. His lungs ruined, the Viking fell, unable to breathe as they filled with blood. His struggle for breath caused a fountain of blood to erupt from his mouth.

***

Guthorm stood alone and glanced at his few remaining comrades surrounded by the Saxons, while two other Saxons joined his enemy. He looked at the ginger headed Pict they had been fighting and absently wondered, what a Pict was doing here? He had seen Pict slaves, but never on a battlefield. Bone-weary, he was calm, never having considered his own defeat or giving quarter. His future in Woden’s great dining halls was assured and now he simply had to take that journey, one he had looked forward to all his life. He could almost smell the roasting meat and taste the ale.

They had almost succeeded but for this cursed village. How easy would it have been to pass it by? Struck with the irony, he smiled as he faced the Aenglish, slowly removed his helm and threw it to one side.