The Sixth Lost Tale of Mercia: Hastings the Hearth Companion Read Free Page A

of smoke. The king
of the Vikings wore glittering mail and so many weapons that he
seemed to have sharp steel points protruding from every corner of
his body. Hastings squinted, hoping to see the man’s thick tufts of
hair on either side of his mouth for which he was so famous; and
even if he could not see it, he imagined it, the forked beard
twisting as he scowled with rage.
    Sweyn shouted in Danish, and whatever the
word was, it made all of his warriors rush forward at incredible
speed.
    Hastings nearly froze with terror. But his
feet kept moving, for he had no choice.
    In a jolt that smacked the bones of his arms
and overwhelmed his eardrums, the two armies clashed.
    He moved instinctively, shifting his shield
up and down, shuffling his feet as the first Viking sword tried to
chop off his toes. Whether it was a wise battle tactic or not,
Hastings did not know, but he found that he survived his first
opponent by not looking him in the face at all, nor even staring
directly at his weapon. Instead his eyes remained forward, focused
on nothing and everything at the same time, and his body reacted
accordingly. He moved, blocked, thrust his shield forward, and
stabbed. Meanwhile he stayed aware of the man behind him, crouched
low and thrusting a spear around his legs. It would be all too easy
to slice himself against a friendly blade.
    The dance of the shield wall was a complex
one. Just as he could not stare into his enemy’s face, he could not
ponder all the things he ought to be doing at once, or all of it
seemed too complicated. Instinct took over, so that he was little
more aware of what he did than a beast would be; and yet his
survival was at stake, so his body reacted dependably.
    He held his shield in one arm and his sword
in the other, though often both arms were braced against the wood,
absorbing the blows of the enemy. He had to watch the men who
rushed forward with swords and axes, but he also had to watch for
the spears flying through the sky. As he blocked himself from an
axe at his fore, he glanced a spear descending on him from above.
In one fleeting moment he had to decide which part of himself to
protect. At last he decided to swipe his sword over his head,
knocking away the spear just in time.
    The earth at his feet soon became squishy
with blood, and now as Ulfcytel’s army tried to push forward, they
nearly stumbled over the freshly injured. Some of the dying men
were their own, but sometimes it was hard to tell; Hastings, less
familiar with the faces of the East Anglian men, dared not kill
anyone still alive, lest it be an ally. Many of Ulfcytel’s men
compromised by taking the weapons and shields of the injured. This
served two purposes, for it robbed the enemies while reinforcing
their own supplies.
    “ Foist!” Ulfcytel’s voice
rang over the melee.
    Hastings froze in a moment of panic, trying
to remember what he ought to do. He heard the sound of heavy boots
thundering behind him, and knew that these were the warriors who
would break into the front lines of the enemy. No doubt their
swords were already bared, and they would run him through if he did
not get out of their way. But if he moved too soon, he would expose
them to danger. So he watched the lines in front of him and he
listened to the shuffling behind him; and when the moment was
right, he swept himself to the side, arching his shield around
him.
    “ Now!” he screamed, and one
of Ulfcytel’s warriors rushed by, roaring with rage, chainmail and
belt jangling like a thousand bells. The tip of his sword seemed to
graze by Hastings’s ear, then plunge into a Viking’s chest. Above
the sunken sword, the enemy’s face became locked in a permanent
expression of surprise as death seeped into his body.
    From one end of the shrinking shield wall to
the next, great warriors slipped through the openings, their swords
clanging in a cacophony against the Vikings’ axes, their spears
twirling about their bodies like barbed tornadoes. He wanted