Baldulf steadied his shield. Behind him, his small band of ten Gesithas stood silently, backed up by thirty Deoguth. The rain pattered down against their helmets. He felt water spilling down his fur cloak. Though it was worn inwards, the fur against him, it brought no warmth and the icy cold weather seemed to freeze him in place. Each breath he took sent mist into the air.
“Sir,” said the bannerman to his right. “It was an honour to serve you, whatever the outcome.”
“You’re a good man, Payne.”
The double horse-head standard was proudly raised by every Saxon warband. They were objects of beauty. Intricately carved in wooden oak, inlaid with garnet and polished. It inspired Baldulf as if his ancestors were really there with them.
Some hundred metres away, Colgren’s own unit was getting ready for the battle, clanging their shields. They had discarded their Draco windsock, as the rain kept it from flowing freely. Behind them, in the distance, you could just make out some warriors approaching. Celdric had come.
He saw Colgren raise his sword, turn his head and adress his men. He decided to do the same.
“Men. Today is a day that will be remembered in history. The British outnumber us. It does not matter. Celdric is on his way bringing dozens more men. When my grandfathers Hengest and Horsa landed on this island, they saw first-hand the corruption and deceit of these wealas. Today, we will make sure they are wiped out. Their blood will water these fields!”
His men yelled triumphantly.
They charged. Each footstep sent Baldulf’s chainmail and helmet clanging, the ear-flaps banging and making his ears ring. Finally, they smashed into a troop of British Pedyts. They seemed less like men and more like elves, as they fought relentlessly. The Saxons ash-spears were unable to break the Pedyt’s formation, so they retreated back a few paces and threw their spears. Baldulf drew his sword, and they renewed their charge. This time the Pedyts were smashed. Shields broke as the Saxons spun their swords wildly. The Pedyts who survived, now too close in quarters to fight with their spears, drew their axes.
Several of the Deoguth, unarmoured, had been cut down. The Pedyts wore only tunics, and were quickly defeated. As the last of them fell, a volley of arrows came and hit the Saxons in the side. One ridged itself in Baldulf’s thigh, and he staggered backwards. A Gesith caught him and propped him up.
“I can manage, it hit my chainmail. SHIELD WALL!”
His regiment formed a shield wall. The enemy’s arrows collided against their shields, and no one was injured. He chanced a look behind him, and saw Colgren and two other warbands directly engaged with King Arthur’s horsemen, who were mowing the Saxons down. Finally, his brother blew his horn and they retreated.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Baldulf “Quick!”
They broke into a sprint, joining Colgren’s fleeing men. The enemy did not give chase, regrouping back in front of the town’s walls. Then, the British cavalry ran up and attacked their rear.
Baldulf came up to Colgren.
“What do we do!? Abandon the men and flee, or turn heel?”
“I will not let fellow Saxons die. I will never abandon them,” he paused, panting heavily. “They swore an oath to fight for me, and for my protection. I will not be Colgren Oathbreaker!”
Once they had reached the river, they saw Celdric had arrived. They had no time to waste, and he joined his men to theirs. He saw Colgren and Celdric speaking hurriedly.
“Baldulf. We will make a shieldwall around this bend of the river. They will not be able to flank us, and their cavalry cannot penetrate our shields.”
“Sound plan.”
Celdric looked impressive. Baldulf had heard he was rich, but not to this extent. He wore chainmail polished to such a finish as to put a mirror to shame. Around his shoulders he’d draped a black silk military-cloak, fastened by a round golden brooch bearing the likeness of a boar. His red tunic had a darker silk edge, chased with triskelion patterns. His helmet had gilded edges, and covered almost his entire face barring the eyes and nose. It was composed of different metal plates, each bearing scenes of war. His weapons were a danish axe made of pattern welded steel, and an iron sword with a steel edge. The hilt was gilded and the scabbard lined with ermine fur on the inside and red coloured leather on the outside. As he drew the sword, readying the shield wall, Baldulf saw that his name was engraved in gold runes on the blade itself.
He found himself next to Colgren in the wall. His brother had not been injured too badly, and had only a trickle of blood running down his arm and forehead. He saw Celdric’s banner further down the line, a golden boar on a black background, it’s heart pierced by a red spear.
The men now formed a shield-wall
The British were advancing towards them. Baldulf felt his shield weigh down on his arm. He could barely see anything, relying on the opening between two interlocked shields. The British had stopped and now faced the Saxons, who had formed a semi-circle around the river’s bend.
He saw a man on a white horse ride forward from them, coming towards the shieldwall. He was armoured in resplendant heavy scale. Underneath it he wore a white and red coptic shirt in the style of the Romans, and had a steel helmet topped off with a red horsetail. He looked young, no more than twenty. His beard and hair matted with rainwater and sweat were a dark brown colour, and his eyes seemed like they could pierce into you, though they were not unkind. In one hand, he had a white shield, a red snake curling around the buckler, swallowing it’s own tail. In his other he held a sword the likes of which Baldulf had never seen. Despite it’s simplicity compared to Felafal or Celdric’s sword, it was truly awe-some. No one needed to tell him who this was. Arthur ap Uther, King of Gododdin.
“Colgren Octing, lay down your weapons!” he shouted in hesitant Aenglisc. Several of the Saxons muttered, taken aback. He spoke with a heavy accent.
“This battle is won. You may be reinforced, but we now outnumber you. To resist would be suicide.”
“How did the swine learn our tongue?” muttered a warrior next to Baldulf. Another said, “Better feast in Neorxna than be a slave of these Roman-Lovers.”
The shield-wall did not break.
“Very well then,” said Arthur, and rode back towards his men.
Baldulf heard a whistle, and several throwing spears collided into the wall. One of them  hit a man behind him. As he turned to see who, he saw one of his Gethisas, his throat pierced by a spear. He muttered a prayer to Woden for his comrade and faced the enemy again.
“It’s time to attack,” said Colgren. “Celdric, did you bring Danish axemen?”
“Yes. They’ve trained every day of their life for the last five years to master their art. You think we should send them forward?”
“I do.”
“Very well.”
The shield-wall separated, each column edging away from the other to allow a small gap to pass through. Several Danes rushed past through the gaps, wielding their axes in both hands, followed by some Saxon Gesithas. An unwieldy weapon, it took dedication, strength and years of experience to wield properly. The axes caused havoc. He saw one of the British horses be decapitated in a single blow, the horse’s head dangling by a thread of flesh. The man on top was armoured in chainmail but wore trousers of a strange pattern Baldulf had never seen, like several coloured lines crossing each other. The man, who had lost his spear, drew his sword. He swerved to face his opponent. Baldulf recognised him as Ceolearypar the Jute.
#
Llenlleog readied his sword as the man who had felled his horse let out a mighty roar. The man was naked, wearing only striped trousers, a skullcap helmet and nothing else. He was almost twice as tall as Lancelot, and his sinewy muscles bulged, glistening in the rain. The Saxon’s eyes were like those of a rabid dog, and a huge vein bulged out of his ox-like neck. He spun his axe around, which caught Lancelot’s shield and ripped it in half in a deafening crunch. Lancelot caught his balance and swung his sword, cutting into his opponent’s stomach. The brute retaliated with a punch from his axe, and Lancelot felt his jaw crack.  He fell to the ground. The brute raised his axe, ready for the killing blow, but Lancelot rolled on the ground and brought his sword up, plunging it into the giant’s neck, slicing his vein. As he drew it out, a torrent of blood spilled out and the man collapsed onto him. He felt his chest give in. Snap.
“Fuck.” Was all Lancelot managed to say, and blood and spit came out of his mouth. He lifted his head, wincing at the pain, and saw Arthur and Urien with their Teulus charging at the right side of the Saxons, and Safir and Accolon the other. On top of being flanked, behind the Saxon horde a wedge of cavalrymen emerged from the mist. They flew the banner of Elmet. It was Llaenawc. They threw their spears at the Saxon’s backs, killing everyone in the back lines. The shield-wall crumbled instantly as people routed and trampled their friends, everyone jumping into the river. All the British who were not fighting charged at once, and the river was soon stained crimson. He saw someone place their boot on the giant on top of him and carefully push him off. As he looked up, he recognised Caius, who had taken off his helmet.
“A battle well won, I think,” said Caius, grinning. “I feared you were dead.”
“I’m not that easy to kill,” said Lancelot, wincing. Caius extended a hand and helped him up. He put his arm around the Roman’s shoulder for support.
“Thank you.”
“That was a beast of a man,” said Caius. “How bad are you hurt?”
“My shield-arm is badly wounded. I think my ribs are broken.”
“Both will heal, with time. I’ll find a druid to bandage you up. Sit here.”