Dashing forwards towards them he saw the sneers of underestimation passing over what little could be seen of their helmeted faces. The first rider reached him, sword held high and to the side, ready to slash. Bjorn did not allow that to happen, striking the horse’s chest with his spear. It neighed, thrashing violently and raising hooves into the air as the rider came crashing down onto the floor. Before Bjorn had the chance to finish him off his head was turned to bloody pulp by the incoming hooves of his fellow soldiers.
Dancing around the oncoming enemies, he slashed and stabbed with axe and spear, aiming to dismount as many of them as he could. He was acutely aware of the great advantage the riders had over him, but if he could unseat them, this skirmish would be over in a flash.
To his right, Ullr was following his lead. Far faster than Bjorn, she dodged the oncoming riders in a graceful fashion which almost seemed to be slowed to Bjorn’s glancing eyes. Slashing at muscled legs with her seaxes, she attempted to unseat the riders as Bjorn was. However, despite her agility, her slashes were not deep enough to fell the horses which circled, trapping the two of them in a pincer.
“Ullr,” Bjorn roared. “Focus on the ones on the ground, I will deal with the horses.”
Not waiting for a reply, and trusting his oathsworn to follow his commands, Bjorn turned quickly on his heels and launched a glancing blow at the armour-clad rider nearby. The man laughed as the spear tip failed to pierce his armour, but his amusement was cut short as Bjorn used the armour to scrape his spear tip upwards, cutting the man’s chin and knocking him off his horse.
“This will not stand!” The man on the hill bellowed, watching his men flounder as they pitifully attempted to kill Bjorn and Ullr. “In the name of King Edmund of-”
“Oh be quiet, Saxon,” Sigurd shouted, cutting the man off as he fired an arrow at him.
The shot was true, but the man easily deflected it with his large shield. Then Bjorn was drawn back into the melee as a group of attackers attempted to rush him whilst Ullr was busy slitting the throat of the latest unseated rider.
Unsure of how much longer his skill would last, Bjorn leaped high into the air just as the riders closed in on him. Yelps and neighing caught his ears as they crashed into each other, most of them falling from the backs of their mounts, some of the horses struggling to get back up as they slipped in the heavily churned mud at their feet. Then Bjorn was switching out his axe and spear for the great axe on his back and bringing it overhead as he landed in the middle of them. The ground shook as he landed, severing limbs and butchering the men like animals.
Berserkr’s Wrath has ended.
Forlorn Hope has ended.
As the skill’s buffs left him, Bjorn felt suddenly winded, deflated as his muscles returned to their normal size and his strength with them. Taking a few deep breaths, he surveyed the battlefield. Dying moans cut his ears, bloody mud squelching at his boots and Ullr was running around like an excited hound, ending the lives of the unseated riders.
That seemed too easy, he thought. The goblins were a far more worthy foe.
With the battle all but over, Bjorn turned his attention to the man on the ridge of the hill.
“All your armour, and our blades still cut true,” he called out, a whisp of a smile at his lips. “What say you, Saxon? Do you surrender?”
The man’s face grew red, teeth gnashing as he stared down at Bjorn.
“Of course I do not surrender, I… Wait… you speak our tongue?” He asked and at first it appeared as if his anger was abated, until his face grew redder and he began to shout even louder. “By what right does a filthy heathen dog like you dare to speak god’s chosen language?”
“I do not know what you said, brodir,” Sigurd called with a gleeful expression. “But he does not seem happy about it.”
It seems my new skill also allows me to converse with them, Bjorn thought. How do I turn it off though, will I still be speaking the language of the Anglo-Saxon’s when I reply to Sigurd? I suppose I will have to test it.
“I told him to surrender,” Bjord said to Sigurd. “Pointed out their fancy armour could not protect them.”
“That will do it,” Sigurd grinned.
So he understands me, Bjorn thought. It seems that the skill changes my tongue for whomever I speak with. This is useful.
“Should we capture him?” Ullr asked, finishing off the last of the wailing, gurgling riders.
“Yes,” Bjorn nodded. “He mentioned a king earlier, but it was not Aella. We do not know this land, anything we might learn from him will only serve to further our purpose here.”
“And if he doesn’t talk…” Sigurd said with an evil smile, pulling his seax from his belt as he sat on the stone wall. “I will make a gelding out of him.”
***
Screams echoed around the silent graveyard that was the hamlet as Bjorn sat on the small stone wall cleaning his blades. The nearby steading, the only one still useable, was occupied by Sigurd and their prisoner. Bjorn almost pitied the man as his blood curdling shouts of agony drifted out of the doorway and licked at Bjorn’s ears.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Despite his wounded legs, Sigurd had insisted on being the one to make the Saxon talk.
“Hrafn,” Bjorn said in a low voice, finally having a moment alone with those who knew of his connection to the Weave. “I have been wondering, did you activate Muninn’s Sight on my behalf last night?”
“I did,” the raven replied, looking up from the corpse he was pecking at, his beak slathered with congealed blood, eyes wild. “I thought that you would appreciate being able to see a lay of the land and felt that you were asleep through our contracted connection. We raven’s do not have a Weave interface like you do, but I can feel certain things through our bond.”
Bjorn nodded slowly, taking in the information. It was useful that Hrafn could activate it, could show him things he thought were worthy. Though he was not too keen on the idea of the bird being able to disturb his sleep at will. A tired warrior makes more mistakes.
“Ullr,” he said, turning his gaze to the uneasy Ulfhedinn who stood with folded arms outside the steading. Every scream deepened her grimace. “I need to ask you something as well, now that Sigurd is out of earshot.”
She looked up at him, the yellow in her eyes had dulled and returned to their normal bluish colour as her eyelids drooped. “Ask then,” she said.
“When you saved my brodir, could you hear my voice calling out to you?”
Even as he said those words he knew how ridiculous it sounded. The idea of being able to link thought-cages through the weave was a fifl thought. Still…
“No,” she replied, her brow furrowing. “I was nearby and I saw the firelight… though now that I think harder on it, I was facing in the opposite direction and had originally planned to avoid the place. It is not wise to wander into an unknown camp in a stranger’s woods.”
“Why did you change your mind?” Bjorn asked.
“I do not know…”
“The Weave works in mysterious ways,” Hrafn squawked. “Perhaps in your desperation, Bjorn, you managed to touch her thought-cage. You are connected after all, just as we are.”
“Maybe,” Bjorn said. “But even if that is the case, I cannot rely on it if it is such an unsure thing. This is good to know.” After a few minutes of silence, broken only by the prisoner’s cries, Bjron spoke again. “Your battle-craft is improving Ullr. What I saw in that goblin camp, and just now, was more impressive than our fight with the dragon.”
She nodded and grunted her affirmation. “I levelled up, the extra stat boosts are useful.”
Furrowing his brow, Bjorn looked up from the axe head he was polishing. “Why did I not know this?” He had assumed that he would receive a notification when it happened.
Ullr simply shrugged and it was Hrafn who answered him. “Check your status screen.”
Oath sworn (1/1):
- Ullr – Class: Ulfhedinn / Level: 1
“Though you are Weave-bonded,” the raven continued. “You will not see everything the other person is shown by the Weave. If you check that screen often enough though, you will be able to check on things. Just like with your armies.”
Bjorn saw the wisdom in this. The numbers on his Allied Forces Tracker had not dropped since they had reached England. So Bjorn could see that his family were still alive. It was comforting in a way.
“I guess you put all of your points into agility then?” Bjorn said to Ullr and she nodded. “Clever. Though next time it may be worth investing a little in strength, your blades still need to cut your foe deep enough.”
The three looked at each other for a long moment as the screaming in the background abated. Then Sigurd was hobbling through steading doorway, using a pilfered sword as a crutch. He was covered in blood, yet he smiled like it was his name day.
“I have softened him up for you, brodir,” he grinned and Bjorn nodded back at him.
“Watch the hill and the treeline,” he commanded as he hopped off the wall and stepped towards the steading. “We are too exposed here.”
***
“What kind of godless devil tortures someone without even asking them a question,” the prisoner whimpered through fattened lips and swollen eyelids. “He does not even speak our tongue.”
“But I do,” Bjorn said in a deep, threatening whisper, “and I have many questions for you.”
The man gasped, looking fearfully up at Bjorn who towered over him with tree trunk arms folded sternly. The prisoner’s armour had been stripped from him and he sat naked on a dirty chair; hands bound tightly with rope at the back. His wrists were beginning to swell; fingers pale from the lack of blood. Moreover, his face was puffy and bore patchwork bruises and there were small cuts all over his torso and arms. Sigurd had not been fooling around when he said he had softened him up.
“Please,” the man begged. “My father, he has Danegeld, he will pay for me. Just… just no more.”
“Unfortunately for you,” Bjorn said impassively, “we are not here for a simple raid. I have questions and you have answers. If I suspect that you are telling lies I will cut off your fingers and toes one by one and feed them to my raven. Understand?”
The man nodded, eyes welling with tears as he shivered in his chair.
“Good,” Bjorn continued, examining the edge of his axe which he had been sharpening. He barely spared a passing glance for the prisoner. “Where are we?”
“What?” The prisoner baulked, all shocked eyes and furrowed brow.
“Are you deaf?”
“No, it’s just…” he trailed off, looking fearfully at the hulking Dane. “You are in East Anglia, one of the four Kingdoms of England.”
East Anglia? Bjorn thought, cursing under his breath. How far south did the storm push us. Northumbria is much further north. Aella is not in this part of England.
“How close are we to Northumbria?” He asked.
“Northumbria?” The prisoner asked. “Why would you want to go there? It is dangerous, even for the likes of you heathens.”
Bjorn backhanded the man with a swift crack and tears welled in the corners of his eyes. “I am asking the questions. How far?”
“It is about a day’s ride from here.”
Bjorn nodded thoughtfully. A day on horseback was not so bad, even faster by boat. Not that he had one right now. He wondered if the rest of his army had already arrived in Northumbria, if they had set up camp further north then it would make sense why he had not been able to find them yet.
“Where are the rest of my people?” He asked.
“You… you are the only Dane’s we have encountered in ages. I heard about some who were here last summer, but that was…” he trailed off, likely noticing the fire in Bjorn’s eyes.
My father and his drengir.
Bjorn nodded to himself, keeping his rage under control and swallowing hard to do so. He doubted that he would be able to gain much more information out of this prisoner. He only had one more question and tactically it was unlikely to yield anything useful. He was merely curious.
I will ask, then I will put him out of his misery. We cannot have him escaping and sending more foemen after us. Not when we are so few right now.
“How do you defend yourselves against the goblins in the woods?” Bjorn asked and the man looked up at him. “They are stronger than your Saxon warriors were and from what I have seen, the farmers in this hamlet did not even have weapons.”
“The farmers you slaughtered-” he snarled and Bjorn backhanded him again, harder this time. He felt the man’s jaw crack but it was not enough to render him unable to speak.
“King Edmund,” the man began. “He protects-”
“Bjorn!” Hrafn squawked, cutting off the prisoner’s answer. “Get out here.”
Ducking through the doorway, Bjorn raised his hand against the setting sun’s glare and his jaw slackened at what he saw. Hundreds of men lined the hill. Some were on horseback, some had drawn bows aimed towards them, all wore blue waffenrocks and carried weapons. It was an army.
Standing at the front of them was a large, black stallion. On its back, a thickly muscled man with grey, bark-like skin and warts, but unlike the trolls of Denmark, this one was covered in thick, coarse body hair. Bjorn did not need the weave to tell him what creature this was.
A grendel, he thought. Just like Aella.