The War Duck

Saxon England, the Dark Ages, just around dinner time.

Bill stood quietly in his tent, mustering his thoughts. Most prominent amongst those aforesaid thoughts was how to get out of the ridiculous quest laid on him by Hernia the Hunted One.

It was one thing to boldly slaughter untrained peasants and inept Ork warriors. Quite another indeed to actually have to fight someone who knew the pointy end of a sword from the blunt end. Even Egil hadn’t mastered that distinction yet.

Tackling over five thousand bloodthirsty Viking raiders bordered on the edge of sheer insanity. But then, he could always do what honourable Saxon adventurers had done before when faced with such odds. Bill gathered his belongings and ran like the wind.

Unfortunately for him, Hernia was faster than the wind. As a point of interest, he was also taller than the trees, stronger than a bear, quicker than a fox and as wet as a mountain stream. Deities are built that way you know.

Leaping the sentries around his camp like a deer on performance enhancing drugs, Bill sped into the forest. Mad Dog Mike and Rusty Troll Paw were on duty at the time and gasped in awe as his mighty thews carried them over their heads. Mighty thews are not something to be taken lightly, if at all.

“I say, must have heard Gaynor’s off washing in the stream again” muttered Rusty through his tangled mat of red facial hair.

It was a well known fact that Gaynor regularly bathed in the mountain streams in her traditional hunting garb - a pair of leather bracers and a sharp knife. It was also a well known fact that Bill was mildly jealous of any who spied on her lithe boyish form. This mild jealousy usually manifested as tortures and disembowellings so legendary that one day they would form the basis for Jack the Ripper’s own modus operandi.

Swiftly behind Bill came Hernia leaping the two bemused guards with another pair of finely tanned thews. Thews are a common component of heroes and gods alike you know. Girded loins, steely hearts, icy blue eyes and so on. All standard extras on every hero. The deluxe models also come with rippling biceps and quite tight buns. Damsels in Distress like ’em that way.

Later, after much crashing through the undergrowth, splintering of trees, wild animal like fights and a fair bit of name calling, Hernia dragged the reluctant hero back to the camp.

“I would just like to say that I fully support your noble quest and plan on doing my utmost to ensure its complete fulfilment” said Bill from Hernia’s shoulder. “I would also like to take this opportunity for thanking you from the bottom of my heart for your generosity in giving me, from over one thousand Saxon adventurers, the chance to die gloriously in your esteemed service “.

“My pleasure” answered Hernia and dropped the battered Bill in his tent.

Later that same evening

The night was cool and the air lay sweet around them. Bill stood resplendent in his many layers of armour and weaponry, the mighty Dwarvish Runeblade “Mortschlain” resting in his mailed fists. Before him were assembled the cream of his warband. Saxon fyrd warriors, Norse mercenaries, itinerant adventurers and all the rest of the assorted low life that ended up as Grey Companions.

“My loyal and devoted warriors... ” he began, but the hoots of derision and scorning laughs threw him right off. “I have been given a quest from the mighty Hernia to rid our land of those foul, stinking, raping, murdering Viking raiders” announced Bill.

“I beg your pardon” said Halfdan at the back quite indignantly “But I have never smelled in my life. It’s you bloody Saxons who only wash once a year and only then cos you thought it was a baptism. Pooh wiff, icky - icky - icky ....”

“QUIET !” roared Hernia and strode into the ensuing melee. He pulled Bill and Halfdan apart, though not before Halfdan had delivered a fair kick to those parts Bill rarely armours.

“I think it will be only fair that in the spirit of cooperation that life in Thetford has shown us that both Saxon and Viking warriors accompany Bill on his quest” pronounced Hernia.

“Sod off ” scowled Halfdan, and rubbed his shin were Bill had gotten in a lucky bite. “I’m not helping you Saxons drive off my own kinsmen. ”

“I’ll pay you” said Hernia.

“We can leave at dawn. How many men do you need?” replied Halfdan.

For those of you who are history buffs, this is of course the very first incident from which the Norse Housecarls were introduced to the Saxon army.

Dawn came wet and dim. She’d been up all night with the Vikings, who had heard she came often. The camp was blearily astir as various warriors packed their gear, ate breakfast and generally checked just who exactly it was they had spent the night with. Some never really recovered from the discovery, although rumour had it that Egil smiled for a week. Sadly, the goat had to be put down.

Egil was once asked why he had such a love/hate relationship with goats. The cryptic answer was “Cos they’ll eat anything”. You figure it out.

Bill strode around the camp, bullying his warriors into two groups - those who would stay to defend the camp and those who would go adventuring with him on his quest. Amongst themselves, the warriors referred to these two groups as the ‘Luckies’ and the ‘Deadies’ respectively.

Around dusk, the warband was finally sorted out into the two groups. Bill proudly surveyed his questing force.

First among them was his beloved Gaynor of the Forests, artfully attired in a leather loincloth and mail shirt. It had taken a lot of Bill’s persuasion for her to even consider armour. Next he planned to introduce her to the heady world of undergarments. A long curved Sabre hung at her hip, alongside a short gladius. She smiled coyly at Bill and continued skinning her dinner with her teeth.

Next was Axeman Dan. Halfdan had said that Dan was his most expensive warrior and that Bill was welcome to him. Or was it expendable. Those multisyllabic words always confused Bill. Dan was resplendent in a tattered mail hauberk, dented helm and bright red trousers. A huge double bitted axe lay across his shoulders. He was your typical Norse mercenary - heavily armoured, heavily armed, lightly brained.

Mad Dog Mike was a more southerly Norseman. He wore brightly polished mail, a bright blue and white tunic, a polished sword, a large and brightly coloured shield and a darkly blued steel helmet. Bill had asked once why his helmet was so dark in colour. Mike advised that it was to hide his movements from the enemy.

Halfdan had promised that Mike was not likely to kill more than two or three of the band before they actually left on the quest. How many after that was in the hands of Odin. Mind you, Odin was a bad tempered old bugger.

The band dipped a bit in height at this point where the Sabre Twins were resting. They were keen to get out on this quest, because it had been a good five hours since their last kill. Laid Back Lil had teamed up with Cheryl the Red, on the mutually agreed premise that two sabres can do more physical damage than one.

They chattered excitedly together about girl type subjects - you know - sex, violence, trophy taking, who gets to do the coup de grace on crippled foes - that sort of thing.

Rusty Troll Paw, a new Saxon adventurer, lurked in his hunched armour at the group’s rear. Massive layers of leather and mail crowded his bent shoulders and swept down his arms in torrents of lamellar. A huge mis-shapen paw gripped his broad blade and a red spattered shield hugged his left arm.

The device painted thereon was variously described as a vomiting dragon or lusty gripping beast. Either description may have also been applied to Rusty himself but only by some cheap hack cowering behind the anonymity of print.

Egil Angry Ant slouched at Rusty’s side. Time had left Egil relatively untouched since he hd first adventured with Cap’n Bill. Indeed, most things preferred to leave Egil untouched. Even writers used rubber gloves to strike the keys when mentioning Egil.

To be fair, Egil did have his good points. There was a time only three years ago that he had taken a bath. People actually came within ten feet of him then. Unfortunately, this proximity startled Egil and he accidentally killed and ate four of them before being subdued (by the Saxon Greater Fyrd).

Currently, he was morosely staring at Bill from under his bushy brows and contemplating which bits were edible. If he didn’t get some killing done soon, the tablets might wear off. Then it could get really horrible.

With some happy cheerios, Bill led his adventuring band out of the encampment and off into the gathering twilight. They were almost out of earshot when the sounds of a joyous celebration back at the camp reached Bill’s ears. Over the din of laughter, singing and music Bill could just make out Halfdan’s gruff voice.

“...And then I said to Bill, ‘Of course I’ll look after your village. I’ll treat it as if it were my very own”’.

More wild laughter greeted Halfdan’s speech. Bill gritted his teeth and promised never to leave on a quest again.