Uhtred's Battle.

My horse nervously shifted underneath me. The blood could be smelled plainly in the air, and pitched battle had not even commenced. Yet old violence was all around us, in the forms of wrinkled, withered corpses that had ran along the long, winding road from the Juntlis to Hrvesgott. They came to a massive head just outside of that city’s palisade. The ravens were picking the scattered bodies for whatever meat was left. No one had tended to them. The ‘gottis were certain to leave them precisely where they were to ensure a warning to those who would come out to mete out revenge.

I was not threatened. I stood my horse upon the center of the road and glowered at the palisade. It was a high wall, not one that could be scaled easily. It would require a siege. Yet I did not want a siege. A siege meant that the resisting forces would defend themselves; that they would keep their pride intact. This simply would not do. So I pointed my sheathed broadsword west, towards the field of grassy plain and rotting corpses.

For Hrvesgott was really two cities. The border town had flourished into a sort of bastion of civilization for those ready to brave the wild, lordless northern lands. From thatch huts came the tall, wooden spire-buildings that gave the city its strange, almost imperial presence; new money and old men who wanted to live in general obscurity turned the place into a dense sort of denizen for the rich. The poor were pushed away, unwelcome in the increasingly pristine portions of the city to fend for themselves; the result of which was an abscess of poorly constructed huts that attached itself to the western gate.

As the bodies were being plucked from the field to set up their camp, I could see that the poor quarter was in an uproar. The western gate had been hammered shut, and it seemed as though no entry would be allowed. Now and again I could see men dropping boulders from high upon the palisade to crush men who dared to scale the walls. There were many of them; far more, in fact, than my estimated fifteen hundred men. Yet I knew that one in a dozen of them might be soldiers, while I had seven hundred professional soldiers to put in the shield wall and cavalry charges.

Then, as the Army of Benevolent Justice soldiers were just readying to raise my command tent, the western gate began to creak open. There was a strange moment of lethargy, for the soldiers figured that mercy must have parted the portal for the poor masses. Yet rather than converge upon the opening, they fell back, parting like ferry boat’s wake down the river way of the main boulevard. Falling to the side to reveal the traitor ‘gotti fyrd.

A knot of fear wrenched through me, but it lasted for only a second. For soon after I was giddy, shouting and laughing, leaping off of my horse and giving it a rough smack to send it away. Today was not the day for him to be in the cavalry charge. Not after so long. I shouted for the ealdormen and knight who would lead their respected contingents and spoke briefly. “Each fyrd on either side of my legion. The knights will hold the rear until we break them, and then it will be a devil of a charge!” It was as simple as that. No need for a grand stratagem, no need to worry about tactics. The ‘gottis would not use flowery maneuvering on this day. They would come, and I would go, and they would buckle and I would take many hearts on this day.

The army assembled swiftly. The rank, the bravest of warriors, hoisted their shields and readied spears for throwing or thrusting. Each rank, four ranks deep of the fyrds carried one spear, one sword, and a shield. The rest was a hodgepodge of weapons and farming apparatus that had been converted for war, and everything from old Other shields to sections of wooden door were used for defense. In my contingent every man had a spear, two swords, a shield, and there were men holding extra shields in the rear that could be passed overhead to replace those that had been destroyed. Even from the still long distance, I could see that Hrvesgott’s army had perhaps one good row of shields and swords, but the unmistakable and hectic array of protruding objects beyond told me that I was fighting peasants once the front rank buckled.

God, there was a lot of them though. It was astonishing to witness what had to be half of a city empty from its strong, defendable palisade to come to a rowdy halt not ten paces from thatch huts. How many? Two thousand? Three? I could almost swear to see men limping in the front ranks, as if they had summoned up their sick to take up arms. It was ludicrous and awe inspiring and I could not help but laugh.

“Look at them,” I shouted at my men. “Women! Weak bladders and weaker brains! Pieces of bird shit. Kill them. Kill them!” I was never much for giving speeches, but my men responded positively because I was confident; because I knew that I would put our weapons through them. “Shield wall!”

I was standing in the front rank. It is an awesome thing, to hear a shield wall being formed across an army’s front rank. The left side of the shield tucks into the right side of the man’s beside you so that your enemy, who is usually right handed, will have to contend with two shields. The sound of wood slapping wood to ensure that the wall is tight makes for a deafening sound that is perhaps more terrifying than any war cry.

And then we were marching. The fyrds lagged behind in the rear ranks, but they would catch up. Many of them were drunk. It helps to be drunk in a battle. I do not recall my first battle not because it was long ago, but because I had drunk so much ale that I was vomiting on my opponents when the morning came. The ‘gottis were surely as drunk, or perhaps afraid, for they locked their own shield wall and walked more raggedly towards us. Men were shouting curses now. They all coalesced into one droning sound. Sounds to give a man courage. Sounds to make him seem larger than he really is, and scare the enemy so that he might not have to tempt death with him.

The Hrvesgotti fyrd paused some thirty paces away, but I would have none of it. Shield walls rarely just charge in because there is fear in the air and it is difficult to overcome it. I knew my flanks would hesitate, but I did not care. My men naturally formed a wedge in the line so that the wall would not break. “Shield wall!” I shouted again, just to be sure that we were tight, and I heard men in the enemy’s wall shout the same. My broadsword wagged, for I had hung its strap around my neck for easy drawing. My shortsword (a better weapon for the shield wall, where space is cramped) was spinning in my hand. Ten paces away from our foes, and then our spears were hurdling overhead. A deafening crash of wood and steel rose as shields were raised to deflect the projectiles, and then they were returning fire with miscellaneous spears and arrows.

Then came the sickening crunch. Shield hit shield and we were fighting now. I could look neither left nor right to see if we held. I put my head under my shield and thrust, knocking back a moustached man who reeked of ale before he shoved back. I ducked down and caught the rim of my shield on his and thrust upwards, showing enough of his leg to thrust my blade into his thigh. An axe blade swept at my own, but was cut short when the man to my right put his sword into the bastard’s face. My blade was already twisting to release itself from the meat. I stepped over him and hit his face with my shield, stomped on his neck, stabbed it. The man behind me grabbed the collar of my mail and pulled me back, for I had moved past our wall.

The joy was finally in me again. I was where I was happiest, amongst this crash of wood and blade, but very little shouts. The only cries came from the wounded or dying that threatened to trip us as we pressed onward. They were more than us, but we pushed them backwards. After a time, the sudden sound of ballistae bolts gave an unnerving tempo to the battle as they sank viciously into the rearmost ranks of our foes.

I was nearly tripped, a glancing blow to the ankle by a spear that was deflected by the metal in my boots. I was screaming, now, a solitary voice amongst the fray. Screaming in the old tongue, bashing my shield boss against this man who dared stand before me and call himself a warrior. I pushed until it seemed as if I would once more step out of the line, and then I jerked back, opening up space with which I lowered my shield and whipped my sword in a downward chop. It landed in wood and I hit his shield with mine again to wrench it free, and then I was ducking to avoid a spear that had been thrown. It landed in the shield of the man behind me and its shaft hit me in the head, jarred my helm as my shield took the brunt of my enemy’s quarter-spear. The blade partially stuck and so I spun my shield, turning my arm to try and wrench it from his hand. It put him off of his balance and he slipped into his colleague to fall with him, and then we gave a mighty thrust with our shields to push the wall back and capture the two fallen men behind out lines to be slaughtered.

I was laughing as well as screaming, now. We pushed the rear edge of the fyrd toward the poor quarter’s streets, tempting them to flee. Which many did. Knights would take them with their lances, making forays into the field between the armies and Hrvesgott. Occasionally they would take the flank of the fyrd, but it was rare because cavalry would rarely survive such a tight mass of men. But we were taking them. They were dying under our blades and it was wonderful.

He had no shield, but two short-handled hatchets which he used to chop at my shield. I knew, at that moment, that it was over. I pushed my shield to the side to knock at the arm holding a hatched so that he let go of it, and my blade holed his guts and became stuck there. I let it go and let loose my broadsword, using the heavy shield boss to punch against my next foe’s face before sweeping up to stab him in the groin. He screamed and I silenced it by stabbing my sword into his mouth until his spine snapped.

It was over. I could see it plainly. Men were turning away from the shield wall to be chopped down, and the enemy was running. Knights had their field day, now, chopping bloody swathes into the routed peasants and causing blood to fly through the air in grave rivulets. My hands throbbed and my heart was racing as I ran after them. The shield wall always dissolves, win or lose. We charged into many of them and cut them down before we got control of ourselves. It had been a good day, but now it was time to return and prepare for the next. It would come to a siege after all. I had not realized that there were so many.

The thrill of victory was on me. I laughed and slapped the backs of my soldiers, let the tattered shield fall from my arm, and pulled my short sword out of the body with a boot pressed to its chest. And then, falling reverent, I proceeded to take hearts from those men that I knew for certain I had killed.