[The British Isles, Northumbria, Dunbar, April of 793]
Drest looked at the boy, his brow furrowed, The stench of burnt thatch was still thick in the air, a scent that had become the perfume of their success. For weeks, they had feasted on this place, on this soft Saxon town, and the taste of easy victory had gone to his head, had settled deep into the bellies of his men. The village they had renamed Carn Dubh.
He had walked its muddy lanes, heard the Pictish war cries echo against the timber walls, and had watched as his men, thirty strong, feasted on Saxon ale and plundered goods. The women, the old men, and the handful of fighters who had made a stand were gone now, their ghosts nothing but ash and bone.
"Only ten of them?" Drest repeated, his voice a low rumble. "Are you sure of this, boy?"
The scout, a youth named Euan with a fresh woad tattoo on his cheek, nodded, his eyes wide and nervous. "Aye, Chieftain. From the woods. Ten horsemen, well-armed, moving fast. They don't know we have this place. They think it's still theirs."
A slow smile, sharp as a whetted blade, spread across Drest's face. Ten Saxons against thirty of his best warriors. It was a gift from the old gods, a final, easy morsel before they headed back north, laden with riches.
"Get the men," he ordered, the easy pleasure of the moment returning, sharper and more exhilarating than before. "Tell them to put away the cups and pick up their spears. We will be welcoming our visitors." He grabbed his war axe, its edge glinting in the pale afternoon sun, the symbol of his authority. "And tell them we will be taking no prisoners."
William's POV:
William rode at the vanguard of the nine-man and one-woman party; they kept the main force back to restore order while he was ordered to lead the attack with Jonathan and Amy and seven huscarls from Wulfgu as reinforcements.
Riding, however, was proving far more miserable than expected for the armored trio. The local horses beneath them felt flimsy, unsuited to the weight of the full plate they wore. Every step sent the heavy steel digging into William's hips and thighs.
Soon the outline of the settlement, or what was left of it, appeared in their vision. William stopped his horse and dismounted; his fighting prowess would be severely limited if he tried to fight from the saddle on such a weak mount.
The others stopped in their tracks. Jonathan pulled his horse up alongside William's. "Hey, Will, what are you doing? We're almost there."
"We walk from here," William said, already swinging a leg over the saddle. "I can't fight properly on this horse."
The others dismounted, and with William, Jonathan, and Amy at the vanguard, they advanced towards the village on foot.
William led the way toward the burning remnants of the village with Jonathan and Amy at his side. The seven huscarls fanned out behind the trio of players.
Inside the ruins, Drest watched them approach, a predator's calm settling over him. He could see their faces clearly now. They were ten, just as the boy Euan had said. His thirty warriors were hidden among the shadows of the burnt stables and the ruined chapel, spears leveled and javelins ready.
He raised a single hand, a signal for absolute silence, his heart pounding a triumphant rhythm against his ribs. The leader, that giant in the strange armor, was walking right into the center of the killing ground.
The Saxon force passed the threshold of the outer wall. William stopped, sensing the sudden change in the atmosphere; the air had gone from quiet to held-breath still. He tightened his grip on the hammer just as the world erupted.
"Now!" Drest roared, dropping his hand and leaping from concealment, axe raised high.
The village erupted into sudden, violent noise. Shrill war cries echoed from every direction as the thirty Picts swarmed from their hiding spots. A cloud of javelins and arrows immediately filled the air, launched from behind cover at the walking Saxons.
The projectiles rained down on William with the sound of hail on a metal roof, ping, clatter, scrape, none penetrating the heavy steel. He felt the dull thuds against his chest and arms, the impacts barely registering through the thick plating. The arrows simply shattered against the plate like dry twigs.
The huscarls behind him were not so lucky. Three of the Saxons screamed as javelins found the gaps in their chainmail or struck their shield arms, staggering them.
The remaining four formed a desperate, tight shield wall, their faces pale as they braced for impact, their practical chainmail offering little comfort against the onslaught that simply glanced off William's armor.
Drest, fueled by adrenaline and the promise of a swift victory, led the charge. The surprise attack had gone perfectly; the enemy was trapped in the narrow space between the burned-out longhouses. The Picts didn't hesitate, closing the distance in seconds, a wave of shouting, axe-wielding men eager for the close-quarters bloodletting they specialized in.
Drest moved towards the players, drawn into their strange armor like a moth to a flame, especially Williams's and Amy's armor. "A woman?" he asked instinctively once he was close enough to see Amy's armor difference clearly.
"Crack!"
A sharp, whip-like sound cut through the chaos of the battle.
"Ahhhhhhh!"
The scream of agony drew the eyes of the nearby Picts. Their gazes, along with Drest's, were pulled towards the unusual, wicked weapon, a barbed steel wire, tracing its path through the air back to the woman's hand.
The inflicted raider thrashed in the mud, writhing in agony and pain beyond words. Drest stared at his man, then at the player who had felled him.
"You witch!" Drest roared, his face a mask of pure fury. "Attack! Cut her down!"
Jonathan had already drawn his bastard sword. He spun the blade in a wide arc, catching the first Pict to reach him across the chest. The man staggered back, a thick spray of crimson painting the muddy ground as he was pulled under by the advancing rush.
William marched forward like a tank; the Picts pushing each other had no regard for the warhammer until it waved in an arc, smashing into two Picts.
But they should have.
"Crunch"
The hammer's head slammed into the first man's ribs with a wet, deep crunch. The Pict folded instantly, air and blood bursting from his lungs.
The hammer, still carrying momentum, struck the second man across the shoulder. The impact shattered bone with a crack like splitting wood. The warrior spun sideways, collapsing with a strangled gasp.
the sound and the state of their companion's mangled bodies made the other Picts freeze for a moment
But the trio didn't stop. Jonathan was culling the raiders like grass, and no surviving Picts had the courage to flank them because the 'witch' didn't stop her movement at all. Each second more fell to her wicked weapon, and William was a living force of nature; he plunged deep into the wave of Picts and pulverized anyone who came into his vision.
As for the huscarls who came with them, their fate was largely unknown; the three didn't really care for anything except slaughter at this moment.
Boom
The hammer smashed into the mud inches from the Pict's ribs, the impact exploding dirt and stone upward like a geyser. The man he'd been aiming for went white as chalk, legs buckling, eyes rolling as the shock of how close death had come nearly made him faint.
The hammer felt heavier and every swing dragged against the strength of the men clawing at him from every angle. Hands seized his arms and torso; bodies slammed into his sides as they tried to slow him, pull him down, and smother him under their weight.
Currently half the raiders are dead or disabled and the other half are swarming William like bees around a bee queen. Axes and spears broke against his armor and helmet.
They were so intent on bringing William down that Jonathan and Amy were killing them off the sides with impunity.
"Fall back!"
"Fall back! To me!" Drest roared, his voice cracking with desperation and rage.
The tide had turned with brutal swiftness. His planned ambush, a simple slaughter of ten Saxons, had devolved into a nightmare. These were no ordinary men.
The giant in impenetrable armor was an unstoppable engine of destruction, a beast that simply pulverized anything in its path, while the other two, the man with the sword and the woman with that horrifying, barbed whip, cut down anyone who tried to flank their tank of a leader.
Thirty of his best warriors were now fewer than fifteen, scattered, panicked, and dying
The Picts wrestling with William immediately disengaged, scrambling backward as their chieftain's order cut through the battle frenzy. Hands released their grip; bodies pulled away, leaving William to stand alone in a churned pool of mud and blood, his warhammer dripping.
he wasted no time grippping his warhammer and marching to the picts
Drest, axe in hand, made his final stand. He met William's unyielding advance head-on, driven by a doomed chieftain's pride. He swung his axe in a wide, powerful arc, a desperate bid to end the monster.
"Clang!"
The axe blade struck William's breastplate and slid harmlessly off, the force jarring Drest's arms. Before he could recover, William's hammer came down, a blur of steel and momentum.
"Crack-splat."
The impact was definitive and final. Drest's head exploded in a spray of red mist and bone fragments. His body crumpled without a sound, his lifeless eyes staring at the grey sky.
The remaining Picts, seeing their leader's gruesome end, lost all will to fight. Their retreat turned into a rout. They dropped their weapons and scattered, vanishing into the smoke and the surrounding woods, leaving behind their dead and dying.
William, Jonathan, and Amy stopped amidst the carnage, the silence of the aftermath settling over the burning village. The immediate threat was neutralized.
The three remaining huscarls emerged from their defensive shield wall, shaken but alive, their armor dented, their faces grim as they looked upon the sheer destruction wrought by the trio.
The stench of burnt thatch was now joined by the metallic tang of fresh blood. The battle of Carn Dubh was over.