HORSES whined around the camp. A dense mist has enveloped the army's position, hindering their ability to see anything beyond fifty paces. The soldiers stood on high alert, for they were well into occupied territory. It'd taken them six days of marching, after answering the Prince's call to muster, to reach this area. Already they'd been victorious in a number of small skirmishes against their savage foes. Spirits were high, morale was incredible, the tension was thick as the aged cheese some men nibbled upon.
Along a low ridge-line, the army had encamped. It was the highest ground for miles in either direction; during the day it offered a commanding view over a wide swath of prime northeastern marsh land. Now though, the oppressive fog had rolled upstream from the sea as winds shifted in preparation for a nasty gale.
A single small regiment made up the prince's rear guard; the main force, having descended the slope already, was somewhere in the distance.
Sounds of men blowing horns, and faint drumbeats beckoned the garrisoned troop away from their makeshift defenses.
With visibility low, the advancing force relied on their remaining senses to scour the surroundings.
A sound of gently trickling water arose through the mist.
"We approach the river." A man whispered softly; as to not alert any potential enemies of their position.
Another horn blew in the distance, louder than before.
"Shhh," one man said as he dropped to the ground, pulling his comrade down with him.
A They waited a few moments, slowly rose to their feet, and crept towards the direction of the horn blast.
As they neared, they heard something moving up ahead. "You hear that?" A man whispered. "What is it?" Another asked "I didn't hear anything." Came a third voice.
"Quiet!" One man demanded, turning his head about to focus on the sound. "There! He pointed into the fog.
"It's getting closer!" Said one man leaning forward, trying to peer through the dense cloud. "What is tha…" a whirling sound flew through the air, interrupting the man, as the group stopped in their tracks, the sound growing louder.
"Must've been a cra…" an axe appeared from the mist, it flew quickly, twirling as it went until it thudded against metal.
The man dropped instantly, an axe handle stuck out of his helm; it's blade driven firmly into his face.
"TO ARMS!!" The commander screamed; as a rush of northern axe-wielding berserkers charged out from the mist. "SHIELD WALL!" He screamed again. Immediately the men surrounding him thrust their shields forward interlocking their edges.
Upon hearing the opposing command, the berserkers slowed their charge and aligned into formation, each man shifted into a densely packed wedge shaped block. Their 'boar's snout' formation crashed into the Saxon's shield wall. Wood splintered, swords shattered, limbs were cleaved through, leaving a trail of bloody stumps and screams as they savagely attacked; against such sudden and fierce onslaught the defender's line risked buckling. Men in the front ranks, having their shields destroyed, were cut down like dogs; whole limbs, heads even, were severed from their wailing owners.
"STAND YOUR GROUND! THRUST THEM BACK! Came the commander's desperate shouts. No sooner than he ordered his men, the fourth and fifth ranks of his shield wall lifted their spears between the heads of their forward comrades; jabbing into eyes, throats, faces, anything they could get, in an effort to stem the tide of northmen.
Against such renewed, albeit desperate, defense; the berserker's driving wedge collapsed into a chaotic mob of axes and blood-curdling screams. With their wedge formation now broken the Saxon shield wall now rallied and pushed its offensive. Spears jabbed from behind the leading ranks of swordsmen, as they themselves hacked and stabbed their way into the unruly horde.
The wooden wall held, as the Saxon infantry slowly pressed forward, thrusting their opponents back. With each shove, northern axemen stumbled and fell, they were slain where they lay.
The ground became sodden with blood and dying men. A sickening sight of wood chips, broken sword hilts and bodies.
A nearby horn blast sounded and the remaining berserkers turned to flee.
"CHARGE MEN! Leave none alive!" Came the Saxon commander; as the front ranks unlocked their shields and rushed the fleeing men, stabbing into backs and slashing at the legs of the foe.
Some axemen turned back towards the charging Saxon infantry. In a fit of rage an wreck less abandon, they lifted their broad two-handed axes over their heads; bringing them down with loud crunches as the blows landed. Arms flailed, men begged, the slaughter continued until Saxon spear men enveloped the group of rampaging axemen. Blocking them inside a ring of shields they stabbed inwards until the shouting ceased.
The remaining few scampered back into the mist, following the beckons of the horn blast.
"Reform men" the Saxon commander cried out, as his men rallied to his call. They lowered their shields and cautiously trudged forwards into the dense fog.
After a few steps they came to the riverbank, bridge timbers appearing before them.
"Should we cross sir?" One soldier asked.
"With extreme caution." Was the response.
With much anxiety the first ranks filed onto the bridge deck. Nervous eyes scoured ahead, trying to pierce the oppressing cloud.
Men creeped gingerly along the squeaking boards, when another horn blast sounded out; this time it was much closer.
The men at the head of the column froze in their places lifting their shields to cover their faces and chests.
A loud thump echoed off of one man's shield. "Archers! Take cover!" Came the commander's now hoarse voice. Shields rose to cover heads and exposed flanks as they adopted a testudo-esque formation. They quickened their pace in effort to clear the remaining bridge before being shot to ribbons.
Upon reaching the other side they reformed into a crescent shape arcing the mouth of the bridge. Their wall proved effective at blocking oncoming arrow fire, so much so the enemy archers ceased their fire. A few arrows had hit their marks, killing a couple exposed swords men and striking a few more on the bridge and behind them, yet those injured limped onwards with their comrades.
More Saxon spearmen funneled quickly down the bridge to join their company, within moments the entire force had crossed unimpeded. Now with archers and javelin throwing skirmishers, they loosened their own volleys in the direction of the horn blasts.
In the deafening silence, arrows could be heard whizzing through the air, thumping into the damp earth, and an occasional 'clinging' sound signified that something was still present within the mist.
"Shall we advance?" A captain asked the Saxon commander. "No, something's awry. Hold position!" The general replied to the inquiring captain, then ordering the whole army.
Silence encroached upon men's souls as they waited for something, anything, to happen.
"First rank shall advance five paces, second and third ranks will follow!" An order rang out. The men crept forward into position. "Spears shall advance behind the third rank! Swords shall advance in reserve! Axes to the rear!" Men shuffled about the contained area, shoring up their crescent defense. A leading rank of spears was hugged closely by a rank of swords, this pattern repeated for the first six ranks. The idea being - if an enemy penetrated the leading spear tips, the adjoining sword would cut him down before he could reach the line.
"Archers, light your arrows!"
Several men along the central line struck pieces of flint upon clumps of straw they'd carried within their quivers. Using such, they ignited torches, with which to alight their arrow points. "Knock!" Came the booming order.
"Loose!" Arrows fluttered through the air, flames flickering as they flew. Upon striking the ground they cast an eerie orange glow in the distance.
Between their number and the glowing flames, shadows danced.
With their cover blown the northmen advanced; emerging into sight all along the Saxon line, fixed behind their own shield wall.
Archers switched to their heavy shot, continuing to loose a hail of arrows upon the opposing ranks. The heavy tips pierced chain mail, causing men to slump to the ground spilling life from oozing holes.
"Brace yourselves! The Saxon captains shouted as men hunched leaning forwards to absorb the charge, spears leveled at ready to meet their targets.
The two lines collided with a thunderous roar.
Spear points stuck into shields, swords grazed across the surfaces. Men grunted as they thrust their weapons into the tightly packed horde. The battle quickly turned into a grinding shoving match. No one seemed to move as the two groups pushed at one another's wall.
Saxon archers loosed arrows over the helms of their comrades, occasionally scoring hits, other than these minor victories, no resounding progress was being made.
However, back at the ridge-line camp; the fog to the north was beginning to dissipate. Riders, and a retinue of heavily armored huscarls (heavily armored great-axemen), were quickly spotted approaching from the northwest.
"Mercian banners." One man said to his captain as he peered into the distance, squinting as he looked.
"Must be some locals, for our supply column isn't expected here for another five days." The captain responded.
Some time passed until the riders arrived at the encampment.
Their seemingly leader waved his men to stop as he approached alone. His accompanying riders fanned out into a line flanking the northwestern approach to the camp.
The leading rider rode up to the captain and his few remaining company of fyrd militia spearmen, cooks, clerics, and a single priest.
"Is this the camp of Prince Cenwyn's army?" The rider asked.
"Yes it is indeed good sir" the captain replied. "Yet my lord Prince is not here now, he's investigating possible enemy positions a little further to the east. This damnable mist still lingers in the river valley, we've lost sight of his position, yet I'd say he's possibly three hundred yards in advance of us." The captain concluded as he watched the mounted man look to the east, still covered in a dense fog.
"Is that so?" He asked the standing men around him.
"Uh… yes… sir?" The captain replied with a tinge of confusion. "May I ask whom I address?"
"No you may not." The man drew his sword in a flash and relieved the captain's head from his shoulders as he stood. His body briefly remained standing as his head landed some distance away. The surrounding company screeched in horror at the sight; quickly they rushed to arms.
The mounted rider signaled his flanking entourage, at his command they came charging into the camp, their horses trampled men underfoot as they raced through them. Skills crunched, and spines snapped under the horses as they ran amok.
Only four men made it to their weapons, shortly though; they too were ridden down by the charge, without ever being graced by landing a singular strike upon their surprise attackers.
"Burn these tents, take all the supplies you can. Leave the prince nothing in case he should return."
The men followed his orders to the letter. Barrels were smashed, spilling the ale, food stuffs were taken, tents were removed and piled up. Everything that could not be carried was soon set alight.
As quickly as they'd came, the riders fled. Their despicable purpose fulfilled and their end of the wicked deal completed, and having no further reason to linger they departed the way they'd come.
In the underlying valley the army at the bridge held firm. No significant progress, except tiring, had been accomplished. Both sides pressed firmly against one another with an occasional man falling amongst their ranks.
With the fog beginning to lift in warm morning sun, the axemen on the bridge, stationed in reserve; now sounded the army's peril.
Gasps of shock escaped their slackened jaws as they one by one looked to the west behind them. "Our camp is alight!!" One man shouted. "We've been flanked!" Cried another.
The commander, Prince Cenwyn, turned about to see the commotion.
At the top of the ridge, a towering inferno raged where their camp was supposed to be.
"We've been flanked!" Another infantryman cried out.
As the words left his mouth, the heathen horde pressed their attack. At the combination of ill news, physical exhaustion, and a fresh unrelenting enemy surge; the Saxon shield wall began to waver.
"STAND FOR MERCIA! FOR ALL ANGLE-KIN! STAND YE BRAVE MEN!" The prince roared as he personally ran towards the wavering line. His pleas fell on deafened ears. All the men had heard was that they'd been outflanked. Morale immediately plummeted.
On the extreme left of their crescent shaped defensive line, along the riverbank adjacent to the bridge timbers, the Saxon shield wall broke. Heathen axemen, including the same previous rampaging berserkers, poured in through the breach.
Seeing this new peril, Cenwyn and his retainers ran from their position at the center to try plugging the gap. "HOLD THE LINE! HOLD FAST MEN!" He boomed as he locked his sword with a northmen's bloodied broad bladed axe. Cenwyn smashed his shield into the man's side, causing him to wince in anguish. With the man's defense lowered; the prince slashed him across the chest.
"WE MUST HOLD!" His voice thundered over the shouts of battle.
Still though, the Saxon line was faltering.
The northmen pressed hard on the center trying to alleviate stress on their successful comrades to the left. The front ranks held their shields against the Saxon defenders, whilst the ranks immediately behind charged. The following concussive shock was enough to shove a hole through the straining defense.
The whole Saxon line buckled under the pressure, men in the rear ranks debated whether to fight or to flee while they still could. Some being more loyal chose to stand with, and for, their brethren rushing forward to plug the gaps in their waning line.
"MEN OF MERCIA! STAND WITH ME!" Cenwyn cried out in desperation as his force's morale dissolved.
Northern axemen, barely being held back at multiple breaks in the line, hacked away exposed men apart with extreme prejudice.
Only an instant passed between the prince's last cry, and the army's complete collapse.
The center finally crumbled as more of the rabid, rampaging axemen slammed against the Saxon ranks.
With the shock of force, exhausted and disheartened men were thrown to the ground. Limbs were cleaved off as they struggled to regain their feet.
"We're undone!" One man screamed as a broad axe blade fell upon his right collarbone; carving its way through his mail exposed his still beating heart from above.
"God have mercy upon u…" another cried out as he was struck in the stomach, his intestines spilling out to the ground.
All down the line men faltered. The center collapsed first, followed quickly by the left. Heathen axes enveloped the remaining stalwart defenders, surrounding them completely. Blades rose and fell as the stranded men shrieked in terror. Those who could, ran back toward the bridge.
Cenwyn and his retainers, in an effort to salvage the situation, attempted a fighting withdrawal across the bridge. The flood of fleeing men made his last stand an impossible task.
Heathen archers again began firing into the panicking throng. Arrows pierced eyes, jutted through chests, severed elbows, and lodged into skulls as they loosed volley after merciless volley.
Such murderous rain was impossible to endure. Many more men succumbed to it than to any axes thus far.
The berserkers weren't far behind though. Hacking terrified men to ribbons as they came, they neared the prince.
"Gentlemen this is our stand!" He shouted to his retainers, one of which had already ran for his life.
"Save yourselves!" A man cried out as he too suddenly dropped as his legs were removed out from under him. Another man near him saw the spectacle just as his own head lifted off and flew some distance.
One soldier, in a desperate gamble, buried himself under the corpses of his comrades; upon being seen dragging a body, he plead "no please! No!!" He raised his hands to shield his face, as a broad axe blade bore down on him. Such blade split his left hand down to the wrist, it's edge lodged itself vertically through his forehead.
Men continued to fall by the hundreds. Cenwyn and his band tried channeling the survivors down the bridge, yet the apprehension towards the burning camp hampered them.
Some men, unwilling to be shredded, took their chances in the water. Their mail shirts and armors drug them to the river's bottom.
Men trampled over their fallen brethren, as the panicked rabble rushed the bridge; those unfortunate enough to be in the way were stomped underfoot.
The prince and his retainers attempted to stop the charging mass. "MEN! PROUD MERCIANS!" He shouted . The ones closest to him stopped, yet their rampaging comrades slammed into their backs causing a new pile-up of flailing bodies. Men were thrown over the railings and down into the water beneath. All the while the northern axes continued the slaughter. During the brief pause, the screams of dying men, and crunching of bones resonated within the panic stricken men's hearts. Their escape became more hurried and chaotic. They climbed over the top of the piled up men in a desperate gamble to flee. Once calm waters now churned as men sank and others struggled.
Even the prince found himself being shoved down and stomped underfoot as horrified men rushed onward.
The few that had been surrounded by heathen axemen were being whittled away. Only a single cluster struggled to hold back the foe, in an effort to cover the men barreling down the bridge.
Soon too, they in turn, were overwhelmed and hacked apart by savage axe blows.
Upon the collapse of the few remaining defenders, the northern axemen clashed into the backs of fleeing men on the bridge.
The shattered troops made easy pickings as they panicked. Some jumped over into the river, yet many more were ground into heaping piles of mince meat.
Blood poured through the cracks between the timbers, it appeared like a red waterfall flowing down into the river.
Arms, legs, heads, and entrails floated atop the foaming red water.
The prince struggled to get up, with each try he'd be stomped back down as men ran over him. He couldn't yell, he could hardly breathe under the heavy steps. His face was battered and broken, his garb sodden with blood, mud and gore.
What once could've been a heroic victory had become a ghastly massacre.
If only the prince's army had held their ground, they could've prevailed.
The burning camp was the spark that ignited the rout; what caused it? We're they flanked from behind? These thoughts filled Cenwyn's slowly clouding mind. His scouts had assured him there was no heathen force across the river. No other northmen had landed this far inland either.
While he contemplated his demise, he felt the boards beneath him break.
Time slowed as he fell towards the grueling water. He opened eyes to see the carnage above; piled up bodies of writhing men fell alongside him.
A stretch of thirty yards opened up as the bridge, like their army, collapsed into the river.
Heathen axemen stopped their onslaught as the timbers before them fell into the mire. They stood there glowering angrily down at the struggling and drowned, fury burned their eyes as the water stole their rightful victims.
One kicked an arm over the edge, it's exposed bone smacked against a man's helm as he struggled to come up for air. He thrashed his arms until an arrow appeared sticking up from his dented helmet, ending the man's suffering.
Swimming was futile for the armored men, their heavy mail tunics were enough to take them under, only the strongest of their members hoped to make it to the opposite bank. The few that did collapsed in the mud exhausted.
Stragglers began to succumb to the foaming, gore-filled, water. Heathen archers loosed arrows into the others who tried to swim. They hit with thuds and shrieks, soon followed by gargling and gagging sounds of drowning soldiers.
The prince himself closed his eyes as he began to sink. Accepting his fate, he limply disappeared into the darkness. As he sank towards the muddy riverbed he saw a bright light, brighter than even the flaming summer sun. It was blinding, yet it offered only a mild heat upon his face. His father, the king of Mercia, materialized out of the light before him wearing a crown of stars, he stood upon a golden chariot pulled by four flaming horses. "What's wrong Cenwyn? Why do you lay in the mud?" The king asked. "F-father! Am I dead!?" Tears welled up in the prince's eyes. "No my son. You will not die here, for your pain and suffering has yet to truly begin. One day you will rule these lands; I need you to be strong against the trials and tribulations to come. Can you do so, my son?" The bright apparition asked. "Yes my father, I shall not fail thee." The prince weakly replied; as tears ran down his cheeks he fell to his knees. "I shall not fail!" He repeated, stronger this second time.
"Good." Boomed his fathers voice. "Now arise and take what I have given you, arise to your destiny." The bright ghostly image dissipated as Cenwyn's body jerked to life. His eyes flared widely as he felt his chest burning. Rolling to his side he coughed up puddles of red bloody water.
As his fit subsided and he caught his breath, he looked around trying to find anybody who could've saved him from the quagmire. There was no one, merely a single toad resting on a log blinking emptily at him as it croaked.
He appeared to have washed up on the riverbank downstream of the battlefield. His chain mail tunic was gone, and his shirt clean. His face no longer hurt from the stampeding boots. His hands were shown no evidence of any fighting.
He felt as if he'd been born anew.
A faint line of smoke grasped his attention looming on the distant horizon. Figuring he'd find survivors, he rose to his feet and began the long walk toward the razed camp.
Unknown to him, he was fortunate to have survived. The army originally consisting of 4700 men had been utterly annihilated, merely he and thirteen others had lived through the savage brawl. Each remaining man had ran until exhaustion, collapsing amongst a cluster of trees. They huddled together silently giving thanks to be alive…