31- Bjorn The Villain ? Part II

The silver-haired youth raised his hand and spoke in a low voice toward the tree line. His words carried just far enough for his men to hear.

Five Norsemen stepped out from the main group. Aelfric noticed they carried no shields, only axes. The tallest had a thick-bladed woodcutter's axe strapped across his back, the leather binding worn smooth from use.

Another man had a hatchet hanging from each hip, the metal heads catching what little light filtered through the clouds. Their steps were unhurried, but Aelfric felt his mouth go dry watching them move with such casual confidence.

"They're not charging," Aelfric said, his voice catching slightly. He stood on top of the wall beside Beornred, his knuckles white where they gripped his walking staff. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air.

"No, they are not." Beornred's jaw tightened as he watched the five men walk toward the woods.

The men reached the edge of the forest where the ground sloped downward and thick underbrush created shadows. They walked in a loose circle around several trees, examining each one. The tallest man tapped the trunk of a straight pine with the flat of his axe blade. The sound rang out sharp and clear. The others nodded, their faces serious but calm.

Then the first blow landed.

Crack.

The sound cut through the quiet air around the monastery. Aelfric flinched at the noise.

Then another swing.

Crack—thud—crack.

The other four men joined in, each taking position around the tree. Their axes bit into the bark from different angles. Each swing was measured and deliberate.

Aelfric could see the concentration on their faces as they worked. These men had felled trees before, many times. The steady rhythm of their axes echoed off the monastery walls and seemed to grow louder with each strike.

Back near the river, the rest of the Norsemen stood in neat rows, twice as many men as defended the monastery. Their round shields rested against their legs or hung from their shoulders. Some men adjusted their leather armor or checked their weapon straps. None of them spoke loudly, but Aelfric could see their lips moving as they talked quietly among themselves. Every few moments, one would glance toward the monastery walls.

Behind the gate, several of Beornred's men shifted their weight from foot to foot. One man wiped his palms on his tunic. Another kept adjusting his grip on his spear.

"Why are they cutting wood?" a young monk asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes were wide and his hands trembled slightly.

"To knock down what we're standing behind," Beornred said grimly, not taking his eyes off the tree cutters.

From his position on the wall, Aelfric watched as bark peeled away in long strips and wood chips scattered on the ground. With each axe blow, the tree shuddered. The five men worked with steady rhythm, never rushing, never missing their mark.

Minutes crawled by. The monks who had been carrying stones and timber for the barricade now stood motionless, their tools forgotten at their feet. One monk made the sign of the cross over his chest, his lips moving in silent prayer. Another tried to speak a psalm aloud, but his voice cracked and failed him.

Then came a deep, creaking groan.

The tree began to lean, its trunk splitting and splintering where the axes had bitten deepest. It fell slowly at first, then faster, crashing down with a thunderous impact that shook the ground. Pine needles and dirt flew in all directions.

The five Norsemen immediately set to work stripping the branches. Their axes moved quickly now, hacking away every limb and twig. One man worked at the tree's crown, cutting until the top was flat and even. Another pulled coils of rope from a leather pouch and began wrapping it tightly around one end of the trunk, creating handles.

The tree had become a battering ram.

The stripped trunk was thick as a man's waist, its bark rough and scarred. Rope bound the front end where two men could grip the makeshift handles. The other three positioned themselves along its length, pressing their shoulders against the wood, their boots finding purchase in the soft grass.

Without any shout or signal, they began to move forward.

The Norse battle line opened for them, each warrior stepping aside just enough to let the ram team pass. The movement was smooth and practiced. Shields shifted quietly. Men stepped left or right with silent coordination.

The five men carrying the ram walked at a steady pace, their breathing controlled and even. They held the log level between them, their steps matching perfectly.

Behind them, the rest of the Norse army began to advance. Shields rose. Axes slid from belt loops.

They moved as one unit.

Boot heels sank deep into the muddy ground with each step. No war cries rang out. No berserker screams. Just the steady thud of feet and the quiet rustle of leather.

The silence made Aelfric's skin crawl. It felt wrong somehow, unnatural. Men charging into battle should shout and roar, shouldn't they?

From the monastery wall, Aelfric gripped the stone edge so hard his knuckles went white. "They're coming," he called down.

Beornred stood perfectly still, watching the advancing line. His shield hung at his side, his sword remained sheathed. Only when the Norsemen had covered half the distance did he speak. "We should get ready."

Beornred dropped from the wall into the courtyard. It was a short fall, but he landed hard, the impact echoing louder than it should have in the tense quiet.

Aelfric scrambled down after him, his robes catching on the rough stone.

"Get your shields ready!" Beornred shouted.

His men formed up behind the gate, crouching low behind their shields. Spear points bristled between the gaps like iron thorns. The monks who hadn't fled to the cellars joined the defense, dragging whatever they could find. Wooden benches scraped across stone. Cart wheels squealed as they were overturned. Barrels rolled and thumped as they built a second barrier behind the gate.

No one spoke. The only sounds were grunts of effort as men lifted heavy objects, the scraping of wood against stone, and the quick, shallow breathing of someone on the edge of panic.

Aelfric pressed his hand against the thick wooden beam they'd dropped across the gate. It shifted slightly under his touch. The iron hinges creaked when a gust of wind pushed against the wooden planks.

The Norsemen kept coming.

Fifty paces away. Aelfric could see individual faces now, weathered and grim.

Thirty paces. He could make out the patterns on their shields, the nicks in their axe blades.

Twenty paces. Close enough to see their eyes.

The ram team stopped ten paces from the gate. The five men adjusted their grips, lifting the log slightly to test its weight. Their muscles strained against the wood.

The young silver-haired leader stepped forward alone, apart from his men. He raised one hand, fingers spread wide.

A heartbeat later, the ram surged forward.

Thoom.

The log struck the gate with tremendous force. The wooden planks shuddered and dust rained down from the frame above. Inside the courtyard, several defenders stumbled backward from the impact.

The ram team pulled back, their boots sliding in the mud as they repositioned for another strike.

Then again—

Thoom.

The gate's wooden beams groaned under the assault. Cracks appeared in the planks.

Outside, the shield wall moved closer, axes ready.

There was no screaming from the attackers. No battle cries or taunts.

Just the methodical pounding of the ram and the quiet, steady breathing of men preparing for violence.

Cries went up among the defenders. One monk dropped the stone he was carrying and scrambled away, his sandals slipping on the cobblestones. Cynric caught him by the arm and shoved him back toward the barricade. "Hold your place!" he snarled.

Below in the cellar, novice monks huddled together in the darkness. Older brothers murmured psalms in low, steady voices that barely carried above the sounds of battle. Ceolwulf knelt beside a small wooden box containing holy relics. He did not pray aloud. He simply listened to the crashes and impacts above, to the sound of enemy feet on sacred ground.

Beornred drew his sword, the steel ringing as it cleared the scabbard. He looked at Aelfric, his face grave. "They'll pour through when it falls. Stay behind my men."

"But I can fight—"

"Stay behind the men." Beornred's voice brooked no argument.

The seventh blow split the upper beam. Defenders braced their feet against the packed earth. A spear trembled in the hands of a young warrior beside Cynric, the point wavering with each beat of his heart.

Then came the eighth strike.

The gate exploded inward with a thunderous crack. The heavy wooden beam split down the middle like kindling. Both gate leaves burst open, their iron hinges shrieking in protest. Splinters and dust filled the air.

Then... nothing.

No rush of feet. No war cries. No immediate charge through the breach.

The Norsemen stood just beyond the threshold, silhouetted in the grey evening light. Their shield wall remained perfectly formed. Spear points were angled forward like fangs and Axes were hung ready at their sides.

Their eyes swept the courtyard with cold calculation, taking in every detail. They looked at the barricades, measuring distances. They studied each defender, noting who looked afraid, who looked ready to fight, who might break and run.

Beornred's eyes narrowed. He held his sword low, shield raised and ready. He took one step forward, then raised his arm sharply, a signal to halt. His dozen men tightened their formation behind the makeshift barricades of barrels, overturned carts, and hastily stacked firewood.

No one moved. No one spoke.

Breath came in short, shallow gasps. Dust still hung in the air from the shattered gate. One of the younger militiamen coughed into his sleeve, then bit his lip to stay quiet.

The Norse warriors remained motionless.

Then their front line opened, just enough space for one man to pass through. The movement was smooth and silent except for the scrape of boots on stone.

The silver-haired young man stepped forward.

Up close, Aelfric could see he was different from the others. Younger, but with an authority that made seasoned warriors defer to him. His leather armor was not much different from the rest.

His pale eyes went straight to Beornred.

Not hostile exactly, but focused and measuring.

The two men stared at each other across the broken gate. The moment stretched until Aelfric felt his nerves might snap.

Beornred tried to speak with this young leader. "In the name of God, who are you? What is your purpose in coming here?"

But no answer came.

The silver-haired man stared at him for several long seconds. Then his gaze shifted past Beornred to scan the defenders behind him. He studied them the way a carpenter might examine roof beams before entering a building. His eyes flicked upward to the cloister walls, the church tower, then back to the ground in front of him.

He was looking for traps. Looking for weaknesses. Most importantly, studying the ground where they would soon fight.

His hand moved to his hip.

Slowly, deliberately, he drew his sword.

The blade came out clean and bright, longer than any sword Aelfric had ever seen. As it cleared the scabbard, Aelfric could swear he heard the cracking of lightning.

Silver-blue patterns ran along the fuller and down toward the guard and strange markings that seemed to shift and pulse in the dim light.

Beornred felt the hair on his neck stand up as he stared at those patterns. They looked almost... alive.

The men behind the silver-haired leader began to shift and murmur. Several exchanged grins and small nods of approval or recognition.

One of the warriors raised his axe high and brought it down hard against his shield rim.

The sound boomed across the courtyard.

Another man followed suit.

Then another.

One by one, axes struck shield rims in a steady rhythm.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The sound built slowly, pulsing and echoing off every stone wall. Wood cracked against iron. Metal rang against metal. It wasn't fast, but it was relentless and hypnotic.

The courtyard caught the noise and threw it back from every surface until the air itself seemed to throb.

One of the monks flinched and ducked behind a stone pillar. Another dropped his wooden bucket and backed toward the cloister with wide, frightened eyes. The younger defenders whispered prayers through clenched teeth. Several fell to their knees where they stood.

Beornred didn't flinch.

"Hold," he said, his voice low but carrying clearly.

Cynric, pressed close beside him, leaned over without taking his eyes off the enemy. "They're waiting for us to panic and break."

"No," Beornred replied grimly. "Those bastards are enjoying this moment."

Cynric made the sign of the cross over his chest.

The rhythmic pounding grew louder and faster. Some of Beornred's men began to shift their feet unconsciously, pressing closer together. One man tightened the leather strap on his helmet with trembling fingers. Another wiped his sweaty palm on his woolen tunic.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the noise stopped.

Complete silence.

The silver-haired leader raised his hand and barked out sharp words in his guttural language. Aelfric watched in growing alarm as a dozen Vikings stepped out from the back ranks of the shield wall.

They moved quietly on the damp grass, torches flickering in their hands, and headed east toward the scriptorium with its wooden shutters and thatched roof.

"What are they doing?" Wulfstan whispered, clutching his wooden cross so tightly his knuckles were white.

Beornred's eyes narrowed as he tracked the group. "They're not coming through the gate."

Suddenly, orange light bloomed near the scriptorium. Flames licked hungrily at the wooden shutters. Thick, acrid smoke began to curl upward as the dry thatch caught fire. The crackle and pop of burning wood cut through the evening air.

Aelfric's chest tightened as he watched. The scriptorium contained Bede's precious Historia, the hours he'd spent copying manuscripts by candlelight, the vellum pages stained with his own ink, and now everything was burning.

"No!" Brother Aldwin cried out, dropping his cross and stumbling toward the flames. Huna followed, his pitchfork clattering to the stone as he ran. Three other monks joined them, their brown robes flapping as they raced to save the sacred writings.

"Hold your ground!" Beornred roared, but the monks were already gone, their sandaled feet slapping against stone as they ran through the smoke.

Aelfric's legs twitched with the urge to follow, to save the words he'd poured his grief and devotion into. But he forced himself to stay, gripping his staff with white knuckles, his eyes stinging from smoke and unshed tears.

Beornred cursed under his breath. His gaze darted from the burning scriptorium back to the gate where the main Viking force still waited with their shields locked, watching everything with cold patience. "They're splitting us up," he muttered. "The fire's meant to draw the monks away from the fight."

Aelfric's heart hammered against his ribs. The courtyard felt emptier now, half-abandoned. Cynric's militiamen shifted uneasily as the departure of the monks left gaps in their defensive line.

Aelfric glanced toward the low walls that surrounded the monastery grounds, expecting the Vikings to charge through the broken gate at any moment.

But they remained motionless.

Instead, he heard a soft rustling sound, boots moving carefully through grass, shadows shifting beyond the cloister and church walls.

Beornred's head snapped up. "They're circling around behind us," he said, his voice tight with sudden understanding.

Aelfric's stomach dropped. Through the thickening smoke, he caught glimpses of figures climbing over the low eastern and western walls. They moved with axes in hand, silent as hunting cats. They didn't attack immediately, but slipped into the monastery's flanks through the garden gate and a broken church shutter. Their presence was a weight pressing against the defenders from behind, herding the scattered monks back toward the courtyard like sheep.

A monk stumbled back from the scriptorium, his face smudged black with soot, coughing violently. "They're inside!" he gasped between coughs. "They're everywhere!" The other monks followed, some dragging water buckets, others empty-handed, their eyes wide with terror.

The silver-haired leader stepped through the broken gate now, his strange sword held ready, his round shield on his left arm.

Beside him, forty Vikings surged forward in their tight shield wall. Spear points thrust between shield rims. Axes rose and fell, smashing into the makeshift barricades with splintering crashes.

The flanking groups, six men from the garden, six more from the church emerged behind the defenders. Their boots thudded against stone as they closed the trap with their axes raised, cutting off any retreat.

"Now!" Beornred knowing he was in a forced situation as his time is running, bellowed.

He lunged forward, his sword slashing toward the silver-haired leader in a vicious overhand cut. The militia roared behind him, their voices cracking with fear and determination. Spears stabbed forward at the Viking shield wall, some finding gaps to draw small spurts of bright blood.

But the Vikings held firm. Their shields remained locked together, absorbing the desperate attacks. They moved like a single organism, each man covering his neighbor, each shield supporting the next.

Aelfric swung his walking staff with both hands, aiming for a Viking's knee. The man blocked it easily with the rim of his shield, the impact jarring Aelfric's arms to the shoulder. Brother Eadric stood beside him, jabbing wildly with a pitchfork. The iron tines caught in a Viking's cloak, but the warrior spun smoothly and brought his axe around in a horizontal arc. The blade bit deep into Eadric's chest with a wet, tearing sound. Blood sprayed across the stones as Eadric crumpled, his eyes wide with shock and pain.

Aelfric screamed and stumbled backward as another monk, Brother Cuthwin swung his staff at a Viking's head. A spear point punched through Cuthwin's throat, emerging from the back of his neck in a fountain of gore. He dropped his staff and clutched at the wooden shaft with both hands, blood pouring between his fingers.

The courtyard became a slaughterhouse.

Brother Leofric charged forward with a iron spade raised above his head. A Viking's axe split his skull from crown to jaw, spraying brains and bone fragments across the stones. Brother Oswin thrust his pitchfork at a shield, but the tines skittered off the painted wood. A spear blade punched through his belly and burst out of his back. He screamed and doubled over, his hands trying to hold his guts inside his torn robe.

Aldwin tried to drag the wounded Huna to safety, but an axe caught him in the shoulder, cutting down to the bone. He collapsed in a spreading pool of his own blood. Huna swung his pitchfork one last time, but a Viking's shield bash crushed his face. Teeth scattered across the ground like small white stones.

Seven monks died in the first moments of real fighting, their untrained swings and desperate courage no match for iron weapons and years of battle experience.

Beornred fought with the fury of a cornered bear. His sword carved a deep gash in a Viking's forearm, sending an arc of blood through the air.

Just as he was about to finish this heathen, the silver-haired leader appeared and moved with grace.

There was no talking between them before they fight.

His runed blade flashed in the firelight, splintering Beornred's wooden shield with a sound like breaking thunder. A second strike bit deep into Beornred's thigh. Blood poured down his leg as he staggered, still roaring defiance.

Cynric managed to drive his spear into a Viking's side, the point sliding between ribs to find the lung beneath. But two more Vikings flanked him while he struggled to free his weapon. Their axes hacked into his arm and chest, dropping him into a spreading pool of crimson.

The militia line began to falter. Spear points wavered as the Viking shield wall pressed closer step by step. One militiaman's spear caught a Viking in the thigh, but another warrior's axe severed the defender's hand at the wrist. His scream pierced through the smoke and chaos.

The flanking Vikings struck now from behind. Their axes swung in brutal, efficient arcs, cutting down two more militiamen before they could turn to face this new threat. Blood soaked into the earth between the cobblestones.

Aelfric ducked behind an overturned barrel, his walking staff useless in his trembling hands. A monk beside him, Brother Godric, took a spear thrust to the chest and collapsed with a wet, gasping sound.

Aelfric's eyes burned, not just from the acrid smoke but from watching his brothers die. Aldwin, Huna, Eadric are all dead, their broken bodies scattered across the sacred ground. The courtyard had become a graveyard.

Of the 30 militiamen and the 10 young monks 8 monks that stayed after the fire started. Only he and three militiamen still stood.

Beornred fought on despite the blood streaming from his thigh and arm. But the silver-haired leader's blade struck again, slicing deep into Beornred's sword arm. The older man's weapon clattered to the stones.

Then the silver haired leader delivered a light final strike to Beornred's chest.

Beornred's last breath came out as a bloody rattle.

Aelfric fell to his knees, the world blurring through his tears. The scriptorium blazed behind him, its roof gone, fragments of precious vellum floating on the wind like black snow. His brothers, his monastery, everything he had devoted his life to are all destroyed.

The Vikings paused in their advance. Their shields remained steady as they looked to their silver-haired leader for new orders.

The young man pointed toward the church and spoke in his harsh language. His warriors stirred with renewed excitement at his words.

The courtyard fell quiet except for the crackle of flames and the moans of the dying.

Aelfric's despair suddenly ignited into white-hot rage. He crawled to where a fallen militiaman lay, prying a blood-slick sword from dead fingers. The weapon felt foreign and heavy in his hands, but it seemed to burn with his fury. He staggered to his feet, his eyes locked on the silver-haired leader who stood calm among the carnage, his runed sword still in his hand, directing his men toward the church.

"You! Heathen" Aelfric screamed, his voice breaking.

He charged through the drifting smoke, the unfamiliar sword raised high in both hands, aimed at the leader's chest. The courtyard seemed to fade around him. He could feel the spirits of his dead brothers watching, their spilled blood crying out for vengeance. He brought the blade down in a clumsy, desperate arc, pouring all his grief and rage into the strike.

The silver-haired leader turned with fluid grace, his pale eyes catching the firelight. He sidestepped Aelfric's wild swing easily, almost gently.

Then his own sword spun in a single, perfect arc.

Aelfric felt a brief, sharp impact. Then nothing. The world tilted strangely as his body fell away beneath him.

His last sight was the blood-soaked courtyard, the bodies of his brothers lying still among the stones, the silhouette of the young silver haired Norse leader against the orange flames.

The last sound he heard was a single word, spoken in accented Old English: "Pity."