Chapter 1
Saxon England, late Dark Ages
The night air lay warm and heavy across his shoulders, like a mantle of darkness.
In the valley below, the Viking army slumbered fitfully. Their invasion of England had gone well until this last week. By the light of campfires could be seen the black outlines of nervous sentries, fearfully shuffling through the sleeping force.
Bill of Thetford grinned wolfishly to himself, and pondered the week’s skirmishing just past. The isolated coastal villages, such as Thetford, had been missed in the fierce fighting between the English army and the Viking invaders. Their King, Harold God- loves-everyone, had driven them back at a fearful cost. Sven Splattergutsen, the enemy Warlord, had personally disembowelled then buggered Harold’s own elite Huscarl bodyguard before a desperate rally by the English had forced them off, trousers around their ankles.
Bill had gathered some eager troops and set out to harry the Vikings, trying to keep them off-balance long enough for Saxon reinforcements to bolster the King.
The last seven days had been the toughest fighting ever experienced by the Grey Companions. Striking from the hills and forests in lightning raids, Bill’s Warband had wreaked awful havoc. Over a hundred invaders had been felled, but not without cost.
Egil’s Long Axe “Breadknife” had been shattered in the fray, only a desperate assault with a ferret saved his life. Renette of the North had gone through over a dozen boys, at least half being killed in combat. Sandy the Gnarly had to put down her Warbeast after he suffered a nasty groin parry. Trev the Traveller actually had to make his own tea at one point. Things were grim, but at least their spirits were still high.
“I’m goin’ home!” sulked Gaynor of the Forests behind Bill.
“Me too!” grumbled Axeman Dan.
“Yeh!” they all bitched in unison.“This fightin’ all day in the hot sun has got knobs on it!” they all chorused.
The various warriors tiredly began packing their gear, ready to go back to their comfortable village.
“But we’ve got them worried now!” cried Bill.“All we have to do is hit them one more decisive blow and they’ll break and run like rabbits!”
“Like rabbits?” asked Gaynor, excited.
“Yes!” persevered Bill “And we’ll be hailed as heroes and showered with gold!”
“Don’t like showers,” mumbled Egil and scratched his matted beard.
But the promise of gold had done the trick. At dawn they would strike the Vikings once more!
Dawn came all too quickly. The Cops nabbed her and she got a fifty dollar fine and two demerits.
The warriors from Thetford buckled on their armour and carefully took the burrs from their weapon edges.
Helen the Timid adjusted her tight black leather armour (studded of course) and honed a newly acquired two handed war blade. Its blade was already notched from many apologies.
Egil Angry Ant gently taped up his War Ferrets, preparing them for a full day’s hard work. Pfafnir got an extra layer of silver duct tape - last time he’d almost burst.
Renette of the North stood nearby, the early morning light glinting off her mighty mailed form. She measured the chains for her boys with a knowing glance. One had to keep them on a tight leash you know.
Sandy the Gnarly whipped her two blades, Gnarly Bits and son of Gnarly Bits, in wicked slashes through the air. She planned on plenty of trophies this day, and she didn’t mean ears.
Axeman Dan and Scott “Big Boy” Ragnar checked each other’s gear, making sure it was fully buckled up and comfortable in just the right places. Axe wielders tend to be strange like that.
Trev the Traveller sipped a hot cuppa. His mysterious Lady, on crutches and with an I.V. Drip, prepared hot toast and honey for the Warriors. Her amazing dedication to her master was truly astounding. Her three children dashed about, sharpening Trev’s weapons and polishing his helm.
Gaynor of the Forests finished applying her war paint of bright blue and red. She wore traditional Ranger battle garb - a short leather loin cloth and wristbands for protection. Bill often tried to armour her a little more heavily, but her Ranger instincts rebelled against such constraining things.
Mad Dog Mike slotted weapons and spare shields into his belt, backpack and anywhere else he could. It always paid to be well equipped.
Leather Legs Greg squeaked by, preparing his soul and mind in true Ninja fashion for the coming battle. “Ninja, Suzuki, Yamaha” he intoned and performed complicated leg splits and finger gestures to boost his Kai.
Colon the Eager and Darryl the New picked over each other’s mailed bodies, looking for missing rings and fleas. They found lots of each.
The rest of Bill’s band were the sort of rabble you might expect in any fighting contingent. Eager, newly trained, full of confidence in their skills. Sword fodder.
As dawn’s light filled the valley, the Thetford Warriors surged into battle. The Viking forces were initially caught unawares and much blood was spilled. However, the hardened battle trained troops of Sven Splattergutsen locked shields into a wall, and slowly pushed the milling Thetford warriors back.
Seeing his force driven back, Bill went into a furious battle-lust. Doomshovel swung in bloody arcs, sundering shields and splitting helms. Yet it wasn’t enough. His men streamed from the battle, well and truly routed.
“Rally to me!” Bill exhorted his band.
“Cobblers to you!” they replied, still running. And then the unthinkable happened. Bill tried to desperately dig through the solid shield wall, and met his blade against a crashing steel axe.
Ivar Biggunson, Rus champion, strode from between the Vikings. His enormous War Axe, Arsekicker the Unholy, throbbed with arcane power.
“Ferk-off-or-die!” grunted Ivar with a thick accent.
“I shall fight until I drop!” claimed Bill proudly and hurled himself against the Champion.
Arsekicker swung down in an earth shattering blow, caught Doomshovel across the blade, and sundered it totally in half.
“You're-next-buddy-boy!” snarled Ivar, but at that point Bill dropped to the ground and wriggled frantically away.
The Vikings had won!
