As he stood, under a cold, clear winter sky, breath misting in the air before him, he grinned. He lived for moments like this. He could feel the weight of his maille, pressing down on his shoulders, through the thick padding of his gambie. He leaned forward, resting his weight on his broad kite, and looked up and down the line. He shook his head, the links of his coif jingling. Those they fought for clearly had no idea what they were doing. They had ordered the wall be formed, but rather than spreading the veterans evenly, or even, using them to bulk up the flanks, where the fight would be decided, they had using them for the center, the middle of the wall, where nothing would be accomplished
‘Twas for that reason that those holden to him, and to his companions, were all stationed on the left flank, where it was vital the line held. And why he, and those selfsame companions were on the right. Where the fight would be won. He straightened, sliding his left arm into the strap for his shield, a heavy kite of linden, canvassed in hunters green, with the wolf rampant in white on its front. The leather of his gauntlet rubbed against the rough wood, stained black with oil from his armour. He ran his gaze across the enemy’s shield. There were fewer kites, there, relatively speaking. Not so many heads gleamed from helm, or coif.
But there were more of them. Far more. For every man who stood on his side, the Warrior saw four across the field. His grin broadened, as his eyes, the colour of blued steel, sparkled. He turned his head to the left, and examined his shieldmate. It was a boy, scrawny, in a crude gambie. His shield was a round, with a dented boss, canvassed in blue and yellow. “Easy, Lad.” The oldtimer drawled. “Battle goes to him what holds his nerve.” The boy turned his head, meeting that easy gaze, as the warrior drawled on. “You shield yersel’ from him in front of you. You shield me from him on your swordside. And should a line break, you stick with me.”
The sound of scores of booted feet striking ground snapped his gaze to the fore. The enemy had begun to advance. Their step was ragged, not quite in unison, and the Warrior half-turned to his left. There were two men, ‘twixt him and the far right flank. The position of honour, on the very end was held by an Ostman, from Eire. Though not much taller than our warrior himself, he was broader by far, with a shield to match, and a helm that covered his face. He too bore the white wolf on green, as did the man between them. That worthy was of Flemish origin, taller than the warrior who now fixed him with a gaze, and just as lanky. A spangenhelm graced his head, and his kite was on his arm.
“Ostman. Flanders.” The warrior addressed them with a nod, and they met it with nods of their own. “Vinland” they named him, and it was true, for he did indeed hail from that fabled land. “Shall We?” He asked, and their grins matched his. They knew the plan as well as he did, hold, and take the charge. And they knew it was suicide. Around midway across the field, the ground changed. Flattened, levelled. Up till that point, the enemy had rougher ground to traverse, rocky, pitted with divots and ruts. After? Flat, smooth. Perfect.
If they met the enemy there, where it changed, they had a chance. So, the Ostman called out. “ONE!” He bellowed, striding forward, and then, a moment later “Two!” bringing his over foot up to match. The line hesitated for a moment, and followed suit, as he called the numbers. Within a few strides, they were advancing in good order, much to the consternation of the knights who claimed to be in command. But they recognised that to call them back now would be even worse that what would happen if they advanced. If they were to have any chance of victory they would have to follow these… these… Mercenary upstarts.
As they advanced, the one they called Vinland began to slam the head of his axe against his shield, in time with his steps. Seconds later, a sharper sound joined it, as Flanders did the same with the trilobed pommel of his sword. The next pace, Ostman joined in, along with those warriors on the left flank. Vinland’s expression took on a feral quantity, as he gloried in the noise, in the gleam, in the scents of oiled steel and stale sweat that surrounded him, that permeated the air. He knew well enough that they would soon be replaced with less wholesome smells.
With a great effort, he held his pace back to that off those who flanked him. It was all he wanted to be in the clash, to let everything come down to skill and speed and will and steel. Soon, he whispered to himself in the depths of his mind. Soon, you will be there. Soon nothing else will matter, nothing but the fray. He laughed then, laughed with glee, and with joy, and with the lust for battle singing in his veins. And then, as quickly as he had told himself it would come, it was time. His axe plunged forward, a twist of the wrist trapping the head inside a shield, and then he wrenched it back towards him.
He saw Flander’s blade lick out, the razored tip plunging deep, before it twisted and returned to a guard position. As the stricken foeman tumbled, Vinland disengaged his blade with a practiced flick, swinging it right and up, bringing the steel butt into an unarmoured shoulder with an audible crack. Even as the next warrior stepped up to take the gap, the second man Vinland had struck staggered, and Ostman was ready and waiting. He too wielded a sword, a shade long for a broadsword, almost a hand-and-a-half, and it struck with lethal precision.
For a moment, as the replacements tested the three warriors, there was room for naught but a defense. Twisting slightly, to take blows better on their shields, a pair of swords and an axe spun and twirled, left, right, now forward, now high, low, back, everywhere in between. The blades were of good steel, well-tempered, and high quality, and they had that look about them that marks a well-used weapon. No rust, but a sort of dullness, in their gleam, that belied the smooth, perfectly maintained edges, something that spoke of experience.
Then the left-most warrior made an error. Struck slightly too far. Ostman’s blade caught it expertly, trapped the blade against his guard, and threw it wide. Afore the warrior could recover, Ostman’s sword had cut back and down, slicing deep into the man’s calf. He stumbled to the side, and a roll of Ostman’s wrist impaled the man on his blade. The good news was that that stroke marked the beginning of the end, for it is a well known fact that when the left flank falls, the shield wall falls with it. The bad news was that, for the time being, that blade was irrecoverable.
Fortuneately, Ostman was experienced enough to know this. Even before the body had slid all the way down the sword, he had let it fall, his hand going for his dagger. His companions stepped up their efforts, to buy him the time. Flanders blade knocked a blow aside, but Vinland, he took things even further. As the warrior afore him stabbed for Flanders, he stepped forwards on his right foot, bracing the side of his shield against his opponents. At the same time, he shifted his grip on his axe, raised his arm, and straightened it. The flat top of the steel head impacted against Flander’s foe with the crunch of shattering bone.
Not finished yet, Vinland thrust his hip to the side, catching his foe’s blade on the flat, and throwing it wide, even as Flander’s foe fell. Not skipping a beat, he began to swing his axe back to the left. He loosened his grip again, the distance between hand and head lengthening, afore it buried itself in his foe’s skull. Within seconds of taking his step forward, he stepped back, letting the now useless axe drop with the man it was stuck in. By the time the latest to step forward had done so, Ostman had his foot-long dagger in hand, and Vinland had his Saex ready, almost a foot and a half of steel, razored on both sides.
As the new opponents made to strike, almost simultaneously, the three warriors who bore the Wolf on their shields reacted as one. Ostman stepped inside his foe’s strike, ramming the dagger to its hilt in the man’s armpit. Vinland dropped to a knee, letting one blow fly harmlessly over his head. As he dropped, he twisted to his left, and his blade snicked out, severing the tendons of both men he could reach. He rose as they toppled, his knife ending their suffering with deft strikes. Between them, Flanders had trapped his opponents knife twixt his shield and Ostmans, and it took but a little pressure to snap the steel, even as he struck above his shield. His blade came down in a flashing arc, cutting to the teeth.
He tore it free, and the warriors three realised that there were no more opponents facing them. The last three on their end of the line looked panicked, and were stumbling back. Vinland grinned. The flank had fallen. Vinland bared his teeth, and with a snarl, gave himself to the storm building in his soul. Pausing only to rip his axe from the ground, a firmly placed foot granting him the extra force he needed to tear it loose of the skull in which it was stuck, he slammed into the side of the line, and Flanders and Ostman joined him.
It was too much for their foes. Faced with an attack from the side, hemmed in by their fellows, and unable to properly defend, they were like sheep before the wolves, and like ravening wolves, the warriors three tore a swathe through them. The line shattered, and in the swirl of the grand melee, the better equipment told more than numbers. Before long, it was all over but the aftermath.
As the cold breeze scoured the field, the survivors stalked across it, taking what they could from the dead. Those wounded who had fought on the winning side, or at least, that portion of them that had a reasonable chance, were aided from the field by their comrades, to where the leeches were ready to alleviate their suffering. At one side of the field, a cluster of perhaps a score of warriors, all well-armed and armoured, and all bearing the heraldry of the rampant wolf, wandering seemingly aimlessly. Every so often one would drop to their knees, and say a few words, and then a blade would descend, and the moans and screams of the injured would get a little quieter.
Mercy, they called that bit, where those who would not survive were put out of their suffering. And, then, usually, relieved of any valuables. Coin. Fine arms or armour, jewelry. Later, those less well-off would slip unnoticed past the fat ravens, gorged on the flesh of the slain, to salvage clothing, belts and boots and hoods, and even the shattered remnants of broken blades, to be reforged, or sold in trade to the smiths. And it was amidst the stink of blood and flesh and less mentionable things that Vinland came across a familiar face. A scrawny boy sitting off to the side, barely a scratch on him. Tears dropped from his face, and he looked up as a strong hand clamped itself on his shoulder.
“So. You didn’t run.” A strong voice spoke to him, and he looked up, blinking tears from his eyes. “No shame in crying boy. My first fight, I left my lunch on the field. Aye, and my dinner from the night afore.” A self-deprecating chuckle shook the boy out of his reverie. “No shame in not being cut out for the fray.” Vinland gazed down at a face marked with confusion. “You live your life best you can, boy, and waste no time on might-have-beens. And leaving the killing to those of us as can cope.” With that, Vinland dragged the boy to his feet, and led him off the field.
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