Traveller Inceptio

McAlister and Leishman joined McFee as they stood against the Viking chieftain. They had seen Hunter fall. Though his wound may not be immediately fatal, it was certainly worthy of concern for the spearhead would have been filthy with potential infection. Michael was quickly dragged a few agonising metres from the immediate action and the spear pulled free. Kitchener ran from the caves to provide final assistance before he and Anderson carried Hunter to a safer place to remove his armour and cut back his tunic enough to apply field dressings. Hunter panted in agony and was relieved to see Yffi, half covered in blood and missing a little finger, standing guard. They were close enough to hear every sound of the final conflict.

***

The three Travellers spread out to surround the lone Viking. “You don’t have to do this, you know. You don’t have to die,” suggested Leishman reasonably.

The Viking tilted his head to the side, as if deciphering the broad accent, and then laughed. “What makes ye think I will let ye send me onwards, ye dog?” he called out loudly so the other Viking survivors could hear. “’Twill take more than a fool like you and your girls here to do a man’s job as that.”

The message was understood. They stood with their shields up.

Leishman asked, “No shields?”

“Aye, dog. Taste my blade raw inside ye,” said the Viking, who dropped his shield to the ground.

“You choose. Who do you want to die by?” challenged McFee. In their training this had been a familiar taunt, but was now terrifyingly real.

“Ha! Ye woman. Ye will all be dead this day,” Guthorm exclaimed with a bark of laughter. “You!” he gestured with his sword, “ye have fought better than most of this rabble. Come now, man, don’t be afraid!”

McFee smiled and handed his shield to Leishman. The Scotsman then removed his battered helm and threw it to the bloody ground to join the shattered weapons and broken men on that small, forgotten field. He retrieved his sword from where he had stuck it into the ground and walked forward.

The Viking leader was surprisingly young, easily aged under thirty years, but he moved with a maturity and assurance beyond his years. McFee looked sadly at his foe. It was always the young men, the ones the world needed the most. War was such a waste.

The Viking stood on his shield, feet firmly placed either side of the silver boss, and raised his sword skyward. “I am Guthorm, son of Horskuld, kin to King Sveinn Tjúguskegg himself. I have commanded ten ships and slain more Aenglish than I can count.” There was a ragged cheer from the remaining Vikings. Though the battle was lost, the marauders could still attack, so the surrounding Saxons and Travellers remained vigilant.

McFee paused and chewed his moustache in thought a moment before he held his own sword aloft, the silver blade brilliant in the sunlight. “I am Cameron McFee of the clan McFee, and son of John. I have slain many in many lands and serve the Queen with my brothers here. Surrender and you will be cared for, fight me and you will die.” His voice was calm and clear, his red-blonde hair shining. Having spent years in Iraq as a trainer, he had a good parade-ground voice and knew that often his fair, Scottish complexion and red hair gave him a look that was deceptively soft and school boyish.

“Well met, McFee of clan McFee. Prepare yourself,” growled the Viking.

They circled each other and, but for the sound of the dying and cries of the wounded, there was not a sound to be heard. The sun shone and a faint breeze blew in a vain attempt to carry away the stench of battle: the putrid smell of blood, guts, mud, and shit.

Hunter cried out, “Get him, McFee!”

There was a roar of encouragement. A thousand times the team had called out to their comrades to fight.

Parker, who nursed a nasty slice that went the length of his right forearm, yelled, “Relax, lad, you know what to do. Go McFee!”

The Vikings yelled out their encouragement from behind their shields and spears and all were fascinated, for this final conflict, man to man, as of old, would not determine the outcome. The Vikings knew they were done, but were determined to leave this world as men.

McFee had seen his enemy’s tactics with a shield, but was uncertain as to how Guthorm would respond without that weight. All of the Travellers knew the man was not Viking leader through any weakness or mercy, but would have earned the right and would be even more deadly as he had nothing to lose. Light on his feet, McFee darted into a flurry of sword thrusts and parries.

Guthorm smiled and nodded his approval as they circled each other warily. “Well, McFee, ye may look like a girl, but ye fight like a man.”

The differences in fighting styles soon became apparent. McFee darted in to strike Guthorm’s chest and was blocked, barely dodging a thrust to his face and then a sweep at his legs. Both were bone-weary. Hefting swords and shields took immense strength and stamina. These men had been so engaged for hours and were reaching the point of exhaustion. Their chests heaved as they sucked in the chill air.

Guthorm attacked, feinted and spun at his foe, who dodged. He smiled in obvious pride, and at one stage even gave a small laugh, blocking a counterattack as if thoroughly enjoying himself. The other Vikings had put off any further hostilities to watch the battle. This was the old way. There were grunts and nods of admiration as each sought the advantage. Some of the older Vikings wept silently at a fight worth remembering in this life and the next.

The silver sword flashed and McFee loosed a turning kick that struck his target in the floating rib. There was the unmistakable sound of a perfect contact. Boxers know that sound, the sound that someone makes when groaning out a dry-heaved vomit, a sound that comes from the bottom of the heart.

Guthorm went down on one knee and McFee backed away. The injured man looked up with red eyes and he swore quietly, barely able to speak. “Don’t dishonour me, McFee, ye dog. Make it clean and fair. I will not leave this life like a woman and will not have ye do the same.” He struggled to his feet. That blow had hurt and he gritted his teeth as he straightened up, nursing a broken rib. Face pale, he held his sword ready and made a hobbled, futile charge.

McFee knew not to give any quarter, yet felt a pang of bitterness at the brave man’s decision to die. The Scotsman deftly dodged the clumsy strike and the silver sword flashed as the Viking’s head leaped from his body with a bright spurt of blood, then bounced heavily on the ground. The body fell limply as the blood they knew so well splashed to soak the muddy earth.

The Saxons and their allies roared in victory. For the Travellers, this was a vindication of their training and endless practice. Each had their quiet doubts as to how their training would apply to a battlefield setting. A kill in combat had to be fast and efficient. McFee felt temporarily exultant and then sickened at the bloody death, but smiled calmly as a few warriors gave gratulatory slaps on his back and shoulders. It was combat, clean and pure, and he had given his opponent every opportunity, so Guthorm, son of Horskuld, died as he chose.

McFee glanced to McAlister who stood nearby as the Saxons ran to the remaining Vikings. He knew McAlister would have dived in if he’d had any problems. Despite the name, McAlister was from London’s rougher East-End burbs and was a firm friend. His face screwed up as he looked at McFee. “Serve the Queen? Ya Scottish git, don’t let your fookin’ countrymen hear ya say that. Old Sean Connery would fair shit his kilt if he heard ya.”

“Oh, fuck off. I couldna think of what to say; it was all so formal and such,” replied McFee in weary exasperation. He smiled. After sharing digs together, they were used to each other’s humour.

McAlister picked up his shield and just gave a chuckle. Like everyone, he was bloodied and battered, with a smashed nose and a pair of beautiful black eyes that were beginning to shine. “What queen did ya think that stupid prick thought ya meant then?” He pointed with his katana at the remains of the brave Viking chieftain.

McFee noted that, despite the superb workmanship of the Japanese sword, McAlister had a sizable chip from the blade, so great had been the conflict he had experienced. McFee looked at his friend and grinned. “Fucked if I know, mate. I only hope they caught it all on film. I’ll get me a knighthood from that.”

McAlister snorted and grinned as he looked over the battlefield. It was impossible to tell friend from foe. Even in this small conflict, the blood and gore were terrible. The Londoner frowned and looked uncharacteristically melancholy. “What must a huge battle be like, I wonder? The Battle of Hastings will be in fifty years or so, won’t it? Fook me, what kind of hell would that be like? Fookin’ shocking.” He shook his head in contemplation and, squinting at the sunlight, said, “Ya fought well, mate, even for a Scottish poof. I reckon I owe you a pint.”

There was a grim smile. This had been a very tough business and McFee nodded his exhausted appreciation. “Or two, ye tight bastard.”

***

The final battle was to be played out and Anderson watched as the Saxons gathered around the remaining marauders. The Saxon villagers knew that if this had been a Viking victory, there would be no pause. All in their village, even their little ones, would now be dead. They stood in anticipation, ready to finish the conflict. With Godric taken from the field, Yffi was now in the position to address the Vikings. He consulted with Anderson, the furious Desmond, and Eadric before he called out to the weary men. Only a dozen remained, though three were wounded. “North Men! You have attacked our village and murdered our brothers, but you’ve fought well. We have no desire to murder you like dogs. The choice is yours. You can leave your weapons and be guided away from here, or you can die today. You can no longer do us harm and to kill you is a waste. We’re not like you.”

“Ha! That’s a choice?” yelled the last axeman. “We’ll die like men this day, Aenglish.”

He dashed forward to attack and Anderson yelled, “Don’t! Don’t!” but the Viking wouldn’t stop. Anderson knew he had to make an example, despite the axeman being slowed by a bloody wound to his side. As he attacked, Anderson, who was his target, dodged the man’s clumsy strike. They had seen what axes do to a man, and wounded or not, this Viking was trying to kill and would continue to do so until he was shut down. The blow was parried in a clash of arms and the sword flashed high, the American’s arms straight above him in a momentary pause. Anderson later found out Parker’s camera recorded everything and the footage of his pose, perfectly balanced and concentrated against a murderous and deadly enemy, later became iconic of the battle. The terrible blade flashed and Anderson performed Kesa-giri, a diagonal sword stroke considered most difficult by samurai. The perfectly forged blade struck the Viking obliquely at his neck. Such was the force, and so perfect the blow, that the blade exited under the man’s opposite armpit. The result was shocking as the sword severed not only the entire head, shoulder and one arm but also his two hands. It was as if he had fallen apart and the effect, even on these battle-hardened men, was horrifying.

Anderson was sickened by what he had done, but dared not show it. How much blood must an adult possess, he wondered. He knew the answer intellectually, but as the scarlet pool formed on the chill earth it seemed as if all of the blood from the battle had gathered into this one, tortured spot. He stood grimly to face the remaining Vikings, his sword ready, and he angrily shook the blood from the runnel. The Vikings looked one to another.

There were older men with young men and they had each seen and done much in this land. A look passed between them. Their decision was made.

They chose to never again see their beloved sea and the valleys of home. Their mothers and wives would not know of their fate, but they would dine with Woden and their Gods this day.

With a roar, they attacked and were cut down by the many spears and swords that surrounded them. They didn’t have the time to inflict any injury and they died as they had lived, without mercy.

After the terrible deed was done, Anderson bowed a moment in respect and then shook his head while the Saxons cheered and wept in their happiness and relief.

The battle for Giolgrave was over.