Young Writers Society

The sun was at its apex, a furious red ball high in the sky, brining its full fury to bear on the people below. The river ran with its course, as it had done a thousand times before, ignorant of the world-changing events around it.

He stood on the bridge, his legs shoulder’s width apart, his fair hair swaying with the breeze, his gnarled hands tightening around the wooden shaft. Behind him the Raven banner fluttered with the wind, before him the Dragon did the same. The Vikingr wore little, his armour absent, a simple bearskin rested on his wide shoulders; the beast’s head lay over his, fitting the shaved scalp like a well worn glove. A stained yellow tunic lay discarded on the wooden planks beside him, his leather breeches were stained with mud, spit, ale and blood, a thing he shared in common with the thousands around him.

That was all he needed. Armour was a luxury, unnecessary in his line of work. He was a berserker, blood drinker, shaper changer, lord of the battle fury. To his opponents he seemed more beast than man, a vicious and roaring bear with the body of a warrior. His eyes blazed and his spittle flew in every direction. He raved and roared at the Dragon before him, its guards flinching as he slammed the huge single bladed war axe against the wooden planks of the bridge. No man moved, they stayed at the edge of the bridge, uncertain and fearful. They wore mail shirts that glimmered in the sunlight, shields that covered their bodies - leaving only a few choice areas to strike at.

“A suit of mail and a sword from my own smith.” Offered a young man, wearing a full faced helm and a suit of mail that reached his knees, in a tongue alien to the Vikingr. “To whoever brings me his skull.” The man’s sword pointed at the bear-like beast.

The first man came forwards - a short, sneering man with a sword as long as his arm. Wrapped around his biceps were rings of gold and silver, one of the few signs of status the two sides shared. He came on cautiously, his small eyes watching the wild eyed Vikingr warily.

The faired haired warrior eyed him with a wolfish grin spread across his face. The short warrior leapt forwards, his powerful arms punching his shield forwards. The Vikingr met it with his entire being, throwing his considerable weight against the shield. The two met with a crash that threw the short Saxon backwards. Only his strength stopped him from falling to the ground. He stumbled back, off balance, the sun glaring in his eye. He saw the shadow of the Vikingr’s axe rise and fall. The curved edge bit into the flesh of his neck, severing his vocal chords. As the blood erupted in a torrent and the warrior sank to his knees as he tried to speak, but neither words nor sound came to his mouth. There was a clatter as he let go of his sword and shield. His hands shook uncontrollably as he clawed at his throat in a vain attempt to preserve his ever decreasing life blood. The Vikingr roared at the Dragon and spat on the warrior’s soon-to-be corpse.

The second man came on more warily than the first and died just the same, as did the third, the fourth, the fifth and the sixth. It did not matter to the Vikingr how many came at him nor how many of their blades pierced his flesh, he no longer saw the faces, the swords or the shields. No longer felt the pain, it was a pitiful thing something meant for others. His bloodlust was up; they were but red shapes that moved across his vision, his axe sang to him, calling him to carve into their flesh.

They came again and again; sword, axe or spear it did not matter; he hacked, slashed, hewed, cut and bit into their flesh. By the time they stopped coming to challenge him he struggled to move without standing on some man’s carcass. They came as a group, the Dragons painted on their shields overlapping, spears snaking out to bite at his unprotected stomach. It did not matter to the Vikingr; he cared little for his own skin.

He flew at them, his axe rising and falling in vicious arcs to cut into the shoulders, skulls and arms of the warriors. The two sides shouted and swore at each other, neither side understanding the other. The Dragons stumbled back to their side, cowering and shaking. The Vikingr stood and gave one last triumphant roar, his body bleeding from a dozen cuts and wounds. His legs shook, his strength weakening, his body still unaware at the spear embedded in his stomach. The red faded from his eyes, the world’s light flooding back as the giant fell. Even as he died, his fingers stayed firm around the wooden shaft. His lifeblood soaking into the wood around him, the Vikingr gave one last defiant whisper. “Valhalla.”

Tostig braced himself as the Dragons threw themselves at his fractured shieldwall for the last time. It would not hold, he knew that, even the braggarts and the simple minded new that. There were gaps where there should have been men, bare arms where there should have been shields, linen where there should have been armour and eating knives where there should have been swords. The two sides met again and the familiar sounds filled Tostig’s ears.

The boom as shields crashed together, the ring as steel clashed with steel and the cries of men, ready to fight to the death, and their screams as they did just that. They put on a brave show, the Vikingr did. Though in the end the weight of numbers and the lack of equipment on the side of the invaders proved telling. The shieldwall bent inwards, those with shields were forced back while those without died. The sides folded as they were flanked but the men stood their ground, they would not flee, they would not die a coward’s death.

To the far left Harald, the battle king of the North, gave a defiant roar and charged into the Dragons. The Raven banner flew at his back as his hirdmen followed him into the fray. His axe rose and fell, each movement bringing death to another opponent. Tostig lost sight of his ally as the Vikingr forced their way deeper into the Dragon's ranks. His own bodyguard, his Huscarls, the men who had stayed with him ever since his exile, were the only men who remained of his own shieldwall. The sight of their long bearded axes convinced many of the Saxons to find easier prey.

It was a thankful reprieve that gave Tostig and his men a chance to recover their breath. To his left a great cry went up from both sides. From the Dragons it was one of triumph and victory, from the Vikingr it was one of despair and defeat. Harald the battle king stumbled back from the fray, a goose feathered shaft embedded in his throat. Blood ran from his mouth as he clawed at the arrow, his fingers working vainly to tear it free. Eventually even the King’s prodigious strength failed him, his legs gave way beneath him and he fell from sight. The hirdmen gave another cry, one so savage and feral it chilled Tostig to the bone. They threw themselves forwards with abandon. They too died, brought down by the sheer weight of numbers as the hirdmen lost all thought of personal safety, revenge filled their minds completely.

Tostig even saw tears on the face of one - a tall, scarred grim faced man, crying like a child as he slashed and stabbed into the killers of his king. A challenge brought Tostig back to matters more concerning to himself. The Dragons had finally braved the bearded axes of his Huscarls. His men did their duty and died well, the axes cleaving and hewing into the enemy. He saw Orm, the Huscarls’ captain, on his knees. Blood poured from his wounds but still his axe swung out at anyone who ventured near Tostig. Even dying they were loyal. Orm was eventually put out of his suffering by two spearmen, though one earned an axe in the ribs for his efforts.

The attack pulled back as a shinging warrior in the finest mail and carrying a sword that would make him the envy of the camp made his way to the front.

“Hold!” His voice echoed with the strength of a man used to being obeyed. “Brother!” Tostig’s head perked up at that. “Lay down your weapons and you can come home." Tostig looked across at the man he had grown up with. He had changed - the boyish grin and puppy fat was gone, replaced by a scowl and guant face. "Your son needs a father." Tostig almost took a step forwards, he missed the laughter of his boy and the smile of his wife. But he could not crawl from exile to a gilded prison, he was a Godwinson - He took what was his, with the sword and with the axe. Orm’s bloody body filled his mind, Harald’s death throes, the giant’s stand on the bridge and the tears of the hirdman would not leave him. They were his family now, and he would not betray them, he would not leave them. Nodding to his two remaining Huscarls, Tostig tightened his grip on his sword and with a roar he leapt towards his brother.