'Mercy Cries' A change of Leadership

The bows of the longships cut through the volatile waves that approached green pastures. Salt permeated the cold air, whipping at the hardened faces of the men aboard. They gripped the wooden oars, fighting against the wind and current to make their way closer to the land beyond the horizon. The sun had barely begun to peak beyond the skyline, the waters below still dark and cold to the touch.   

Atop the longest boat, at the back of the ship, stood a man taller than the rest. From his broad shoulders hung leather and steel armour, a sword and battleaxe adorning each hip. A scar ran down the length of his face, one that earned Chief Uhtred a variety of nicknames over the years.  “Chief,” an older man said, stepping up to Uhtred, “We’re almost there.”  “Thank you, Hafr.”  

The boats met land and the Vikings aboard jumped into the water, dragging the boats onto the shore. In the distance, a small army stood between them and the city beyond the coastline. A short, stout man stood near the shore. He reached into his coat pocket as Uhtred approached, fishing out a long scroll that he unrolls. He cocked his head to the right and began reading aloud.   

“King Edward of Wessex has nobly decided to pardon you all under the condition that you leave now. If you do so, he will not slaughter you where you stand.”  The Vikings let out a collective chuckle. “Is that so?” Uhtred asked, stepping towards the pompous man. He sniffed with indignation, looking up as Uhtred. In a single movement, Uhtred unsheathed his axe and removed the man’s head from his shoulders. He glanced up, eyeing the King. He pointed his axe at him from across the battlefield and took a deep breath. Uhtred let out a cry, charging forward, his axe held in the air above his head. The rest of the Vikings followed suit, rushing forward towards the enemy. The forces collided. Uhtred began hacking down everyone in sight.   

Across the shore, the Vikings fought the army ruthlessly. Slashing, bashing—nothing was off the table. A young, pale Viking let out a cry, stepping towards his opponent and swinging his sword haphazardly. The blade, splattered with the same blood that coated the fur of its wielder, sliced through the man’s abdomen, dislodging itself from his ribcage as he crumpled to the ground. The Viking let out a triumphant cry and continued his rampage. Across the shoreline, men fought, slicing and stabbing, bashing on another with their round shields. The Vikings ensured there would be no survivors.   

Uhtred strode through the battle, his gaze affixed to the man in the back. Though his silver armour glistened, his eyes were cold and full of fear. Uhtred could sense the weakness in the man—the fear of someone who knew they had woken on their final day.  

“Is it not cowardly to stand behind while you let your men fight for you?” Uhtred cried out, slashing at one of the men to his right. “Have you no honour?”  Something changed in King Edward. His eyebrows furrowed; his gaze locked upon Uhtred.   

“Have I no honour?” Edward replied. He descended from his horse, unsheathing the blade that hung at his hip. “Where is the honour in what you have done? You’ve slain women, children, clergymen, priests! You left entire villages burnt and, yet you try to speak of honour?”  Uhtred smiled, his sword beginning to bounce up and down. What would have been a simple slaughter was now a duel and his sword longed to taste victory. 

Uhtred charged forward, slicing through the air at Edward. Experience taking over, Edward rebutted, thrusting several times towards the Viking. Unfazed, Uhtred swung his axe overhead, carving through King’s shoulder. He let out a grunt but quickly thrust forward, the tip of his sword piercing Uhtred’s flesh and embedding itself in his stomach. Uhtred looked down, surprised a bit. He quickly grabbed hold of the King’s wrist, still wrapped around the offending sword, and with his free hand, sliced through the man’s neck. Uhtred smiled as Edward’s eyes grew pale, his grip on the sword slowly weakening until he laid on the ground in a pool of his own blood.  

“Stop!” Uhtred cried out. The Vikings retreated slightly, the sounds of metal clashing slowly dissipating, leaving only the moans of those wounded. 

“If you want to live, put down your weapons.”  Uhtred leaned down, grabbed a fistful of hair from the lifeless man, and lifted his head. He grasped hold of the metal crown, releasing the hair and letting the body collapse back to the ground. He tossed his helm to the ground and placed the crown atop his head.  

“I’m the King now.”  One by one, each man on the battlefield fell to their knees, bowing their heads. Uhtred smiled—victory was his. He walked through the crowd, stopping near the back as he spotted an old friend. 

Uhtred turned to his left, glancing at Hafr and giving one final order. “Kill them all.”  Hafr nodded and retreated towards the group. Uhtred turned and set his sights upon the large, brass bell that hung from the distant church. He began his march, the sounds of the execution behind growing fainter and fainter. 

I’m the King now.