Village of Athelsmire, East Anglia, 871 AD

Thick curls of frost blew from beneath the faceplate of the beast’s helmet and smaller streams issued from two ragged holes where his iron mask terminated in a snouted boar’s tip. A thick, bear hide cloak fell nearly six feet from his shoulder. The iron-faced demon was at least a head taller than any of the men standing, shivering at my side. In fact, it seemed every northman in the pig-snout’s line was a giant in comparison to the farmers and townsfolk of the Athelsmire’s fyrd. 

Since just after sunrise, we had stood in Agwalder’s field, each man and boy collectively hoping that they would not come. Hoping that the terrified salt collector, who had given us warning of a warship’s arrival, was merely mad or had perhaps eaten the wrong mushroom. Our hopes were in vain. A few moments past sunrise, fifty or so Northmen had emerged from the south woods. They stretched and bantered, as though on a lark, which perhaps they were in some barbaric fashion. Only the boar-mask stood still, stone-still, ten paces closer to us than his fellows. Not even his cloak seemed to move and that somehow unsettled me more than the thought of my almost certain, and imminent, death.

I wore my father’s chain shirt, still much too long and wide but the weight and bulk of it felt comforting. As an added benefit, it mostly concealed the quivering of my legs and might yet hide the piss, if it came. I was lord here but I did not count myself among the brave. I cursed my late father, a sin I know, but the man had been a drunk and a fool. Now I was to die here, in his place, too early for he had already gone to meet god or perhaps the devil, I know not which.

Suddenly, I started and felt my eyes snap across the field. Then, I realized why. Boar-Snout had raised a sword above his head and in an instant, the Northmen ceased their banter and, in unison, they hefted shields across their chests. Slowly, terribly and in precise time, they began to beat a rhythm of sword and spear hilt upon wood. I felt the piss come at that terrible sound and hope left me. 

“They’re going to rip you limb from limb, Galen!”, Edricc’s deep voice spoke from my left. His tone was irritatingly not bent toward either despair nor humor, “cut off your manhood and then dance and dance their pagan rites round and round it. They’ll pray to the devil, as if the devil could care about such a tiny c-”. Edricc’s voice was replaced by the dull thump of a fist. 

“Shut your gibb Edr!” Galen replied, in a voice which was high and ill-fitting but seemed to cut above the thrum of death the Northmen continued to make. Galen’s voice was a consequence of the massive scar which wrapped about the front of his neck. “These are proper Northmen and you know well the sea pagan’s would respect a cock as fine as mine, I expect they’d pray to it stead’ of the devil!” Edricc laughed in reply, a rich and rough sound like silver coins in a burlap sack. Edricc and Galen had never before spoken so in my father’s hall, at least not around me, but perhaps this was warrior’s talk. Piss stain or not I was, now, a warrior albeit a shaking one.

 Galen leaned into me, “This may not be as bad as we think my lord, these men came for easy takings and we have met them with…”, he looked at the long but ragged line of farmers. He paused, “...The best we have.” Galen raised his blade from behind my right shoulder and pointed at the center of the Northmen’s line. Pig-snout seemed to be speaking to a ferocious looking, darkly painted man. Even across the distance I could see the crimson and black swirling paint streaks that covered his mostly naked body, different but no less savage than the blue the Welsh warriors used. Galen continued, “It seems likely they may not want to fight, we might be able to bribe them to leave and… at worst my lord’, we have a chance. If the fyrd stands for even a short while.” Galen’s eyes looked far confident, but it restored some iota of hope to me. 

“Well, let us try then” I replied, my voice wavering.