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

to
watch the strange phenomenon, the brave Anglo-Saxon warriors
throwing themselves fearlessly into the heat of the battle, the
Vikings scurrying in confusion. It was like nothing he had seen
before.
    He knew better than to keep watching, but he
could not help himself; and of a sudden, he felt a jolt go through
his arms as if his bones were shattering.
    It was not his bones that shattered, however.
It was his shield. In a spray of splinters, the wood cracked and
ripped apart. Hastings watched in horror as the edge of a Viking’s
axe worked its way from the wooden wreckage, then rose up again,
ready to split Hastings’s unprotected body just as easily.
    Hastings dodged aside, twirling his sword
like a madman. He made another mistake, and looked his opponent in
the face. The man had a blood-speckled beard, and smoke lurked in
his eyes like storm-clouds; but worst of all, he wore a sneer, and
it filled Hastings’s heart with dread. He realized that the Dane
had achieved two victories at once, for by breaking Hastings’s
shield, he had created a vulnerability in the shield wall, and that
vulnerability was Hastings.
    He considered for a moment what to do. He
realized that his opponent had no reason to kill him immediately;
the longer he stood there, shield-less and petrified, the more time
he gave the Vikings’ friends a chance to gather around him, then
force their way through him and into the heart of the Anglo-Saxon
army. They were already collecting in a chainmailed bundle,
prepared to run him over.
    There was only one thing to do. Hastings had
become a weakness in the shield wall. He had to remove himself.
    He tried to picture Aydith again. He hoped
she would be proud of him. He imagined her gratefulness and love,
as he would no longer be alive to see it.
    He screamed and leapt forward, into the
writhing mass of Viking warriors.
    “ Aaaydiiith!” he
cried.
    And behind him, the shield wall closed
itself, never to let him in again.
    *
    Pain became a nightmare from which he could
not wake.
    When he slept, he remembered the events of
the battle as if they were still happening. He tasted someone
else’s blood as it splashed into his mouth. He saw steel flashing
everywhere: in the smoke covered sun, in the sparks of remaining
fires, in the eyes of his enemies. He felt his chainmail digging
into his skin, bruising and smothering him. He heard the crack of
his own ribs as the blunt of a Viking axe struck him in the chest,
knocking out his breath so that he could not even yell.
    He groaned, trying to awake, but the reality
was even worse. He winced with every breath, which only made him
struggle to inhale more deeply, and that hurt all the more. He
tried to open his eyes, but one of them was swollen, warping his
vision. He saw through a purple, throbbing haze, and it seemed as
if he was still in a nightmare. Despite all that, the room around
him was painfully bright. A fire blazed nearby, so hot that his
skin itched, and the flames seemed to lick all the sweat from his
body. He could not remember the last time he’d had something to
drink.
    “ What’s wrong, Hastings?
Thought your pagan friends would rescue you?”
    Hastings squinted in confusion at the shape
looming over him. It was Ulfcytel, and he smelled of horse. His
beard lay matted against his neck. His eyes seemed to gleam and
twirl like a lizard’s. Hastings felt dizzy.
    “ You’re caught, Hastings. I
figured it out. The Danes sent you and that ridiculous scroll. You
did it so some of my best men would get killed, and so my cousin—my
own brave cousin—would be captured! Captured! ”
    Hastings’s memory tried desperately to make
sense of Ulfcytel’s anger. He recalled cheering, and joy, and the
elation of being alive. It was one of the last things he remembered
before passing out from the pain in his chest and his overall
exhaustion. So why was Ulfcytel so angry? A lot of men had died, of
course ... so many that it seemed impossible to tell one bloody
face