Different Story 2

Continues from my earlier text...

Bjorn coughed and gulped at the same time.

He could hear the keen of the Irish pipes and voices drawing nearer on the reverse slope. It sounded like Satan's own legions were coming to claim them for the eternal dark. He murmured a prayer to Christ - for Bjorn held a well-hidden secret, gifted to him by his Irish mother: he was a Christian - but kept quiet enough that his friends did not hear him.

Halfdan ordered the rest of his men to turn about and face the threat to their rear. He judged the Irish would hit them first on the reverse slope. If he could break that attack quickly enough they might have time to turn again and fight off the main force struggling up the other side of the hill. It was all about the timing.

After 20 years leading the band of Gall-Goidel, Halfdan had learned to make such decisions instinctively, and to trust his gut. Over-complication and consideration were his enemies, among many others. He knew that he dare not split his force - they were certain to be outnumbered - and decided that he needed to encourage his men in the face of impending death.

"Four slave-girls to the man who kills the most", he intoned calmly, "and let's make the Valkyries wait a little longer before we drink Valhalla dry!" The second part of the sentence was roared - he needed to show them he was ready, but the calm tone had been just as critical - to reassure them he was in control.

Halfdan spat. He always spat before a battle. In fact, he spat before he did anything.

Bjorn was not reassured by the words of his leader and kinsman. This was partly because the short, heavy darts of the Irish were singing through the fog, adding to the noises now clearly audible on both sides of the hill. The young man touched the roughly carved crucifix under his jerkin, but it failed to raise his spirits. He tried to pray again but his mouth would not move, and no sound came from his throat.

Next to him, Niall stopped wheezing, his feet stopped kicking. Halfdan stooped and picked up his sword - handing it to Kjartan, one of the men he hoped would help him win the battle. "Get ready!" Halfdan roared like a wounded bull as the first Irish faces appeared through the mist.

Bjorn saw the first man appear, with his small shield held out in front of him and a javelin held high in his hand. Before he could react the Irishman screamed and fell, pierced by two spears thrown by his comrades. Bjorn heard something to his left and instinctively spun to face the noise, pushing his shield forward.

The next thing he knew he was on his back with a heavy weight on top of him, separated only by the shield. It took him a moment to realise that the weight was moving, and then he saw a blade come round the edge of the shield. He rolled away from the blade, swinging wildly with the seax-knife in his right hand, hitting only air. The Irishman's knife cut into his left hand and he yelled.

Bjorn rolled over on top of his attacker, crushing him beneath the heavy shield. His own blade was trapped underneath them both so he let go and grabbed at the Irish hand holding the knife, across himself. He couldn't muster enough leverage and he saw, not felt, the blade slide through his hand and thud against the boss of his shield. Now he began to panic.

The Irishman was holding the shield with his spare hand, preventing Bjorn from getting up. Bjorn, with his own blood dripping onto his shield, rolled over again in desperation. This caught the Irishman off guard and his hand was crushed into the earth by the rim of the shield. Critically, he dropped the knife.

Bjorn's roll had brought his spare right hand back onto the long-lost handle of his seax. He fumbled for it awkwardly and the Irishman rolled again, seeking to free his crushed hand. Fortunately for Bjorn, his opponent rolled his shoulder and neck directly onto its razor-edged blade. Bjorn lost the grip on his weapon for the second time, but the Irishman was now bleeding to death, surprisingly quietly, and let go of the shield. Bjorn rolled over twice from the shock of release.

Then he stood, now covered in Irish blood, his own blood, his piss-soaked trews, mud, and the rapidly congealing blood of Njall whose body he had inadvertently rolled into, when escaping his dying enemy. But he had no time to ponder his first kill, which had made him a man (despite the piss), as his friends were now beset on two sides. Halfdan's plan had failed and they were almost surrounded.

To be continued...