The Age Of Blood: Ðéodloga
Chapter 3
Ting-Ting.
Ting-Ting. A blacksmith carefully modeled his hand-made Saxon nasal helmet. He watched as the sun was high in the sky, signalling midday. It was a hot summers day, not one you are used to in Middle Earth. A sound came from across the river. Some strange looking soldiers bearing kite-shields and carrying crossbows had been seen into view. The blacksmith, when they got closer, recognise who they were; Normanz! Willelme had come here; clearly he must have beaten back Eadric and his forces so much as to make the Eorl order a retreat back to Essertford. The blacksmith carried his equipment and stored it in his smithy before locking the door and hiding in his smith. The Engle had decided to split their counter-attack. Half the Engle under command from Eadric in person would cross the northern wooden bridge while the rest would cross at the southern wooden bridge, hoping to take control of the marketplace. Eadric marched forward at the head of his column towards the Normanz. Eadric had the advantage, he had reached there first and formed in a shieldwall. The Norman crossbowmen fired a couple of bolts at the wall before Eadric, looking over his kite-shield noticed the man he wanted to kill; Willelme, the
Ðéodloga himself! He had with him his two faithful bodyguards and the rest of his company the day before, where Willelme had tricked Eadric into a trap. Eadric, desiring for revenge, advanced with his wall against the Normanz. Eadric aimed for the man in the middle with the blonde hair. He ducked under a slash from a short sword before thrusting at his blonde target but the man blocked it with his shield, forcing bits of shield to come off as splinters, falling close to Eadric's shoes. Eadric attacked once more but was once again blocked before his blonde target swivelled 180 degrees before bringing a slash at Eadric who, with all his skill blocked it with his kite-shield before forcing his sword to cut at his testicles and shoving it deep down. The blonde screamed in pain, but was silenced when Eadric slit his throat, not forcing the head to roll off, but enough to make him fall to the ground, dead. Moving forward he came under attack from a blot from the crossbow; the bolt burrying itself deep in Eadric thigh, which forced him to grunt slightly in pain but he turned around and faced his opponet. Smiley loosed off another bolt but it just penetrated Eadric's shield forcing more splinters to rise but not enough to trouble the fearless Eadric. The Eorl's sword was cut into Smiley's shoulder and he screamed in pain and staggered back, but then, Hrotha threw a javelin at Smiley and he was thrown true into Smiley's chest who fell to his knees, clutching the javelin before falling face first into the mud. However, the Engle were eyeing for their target, the
Ðéodloga but Eadric watched as he rushed over to the another battle at the stone bridge. We have him on the back foot, thought Eadric, now we must press our advantage; capture the flag near him and he will be forced to drag men from that fight to fight us, Eadric minded in his head a plan to bring down the Norman
Ðéodloga. Crying out to his brothers and comrades to follow him as he rushed to the flag, turning off the main road, he guided his men left and headed down a small alleyway before turning right to see the flag pole and a big shock. Willelme had gathered his men to defend the flag, but as Eadric tried to recover from the shock, volleys of javelins came in and killed half of Eadric's men. Bloody bastard, thought Eadric, clever bloody bastard. Eadric had fallen for yet another of the
Ðéodloga's masterful traps. Willelme cried out the famous warcry "FOR NORMANDY!" and charged unto Eadric's rabble of men. Eadric focused on Willelme but as he aimed for a strike, he was cut at the leg, the same leg where the bolt from Smiley had struck. Eadric staggered back and ran back across the wooden bridge away from Willelme. Eadric had gained a small advantage but Willelme had made his hopes of a quick victory be cast into ruin by the trap that was so well planned. Eadric imagined that all Normanz were this crafty but if that was so, what was the real Dux Willelme like? He knew he eyed the English Throne but was it possible that he could destroy the world Eadric knew; his brothers; his family; his country? Only time will tell, thought Eadric.
Bringing his sword up from the dirt, Willelme grapsed his fine Norman sword and marched with his band towards the battle at the stone bridge, where the Runevilles and the Regis Bannum were holding out against wave after wave of English attacks. When they saw their Duke coming, they cried out and shouts such as "Willelme! Willelme" or "The Duke! The Duke!" which put fear into the Engle, except for one. His shield, showing the Fyrninga standard, Guthmund kept his arms tight in his grasp. His men may be afraid of the Duke but Guthmund showed by his courage on standing on that bridge alone facing the Duke, he showed he was not scared. Willelme, himself, stepped forward, shield and sword ready.
"Come and get me, you Norman Bastard," Guthmund taunted which made Willelme growl in anger. "I am not afraid of you, you son of a whor...." Willelme thrusted the sword deep into Guthmund's chest, unallowing him to finish his sentence.
"**** you, you worthless piece of shit!" Willelme replied at the corpse of Guthmund. The Norman troops shouted at the Engle and charged off down at the Engle wall which buckeled under the strain and gave way before a massacre of blood and steel happened. The Engle ran across the southern wall, casting their weapons down to make sure the Normanz did not catch them and disemballow them or mutilate them, as most Normanz were famous for doing. Willelme pulled out his blade from Guthmund's chest before a great pain was felt in his right shoulder. He gasped as a javelin was lodged into his shoulder. The armour might have saved his life, but the pain was unbearable. He grabbed the javelin and pulled out the throwing spear, screaming as a hell as he was dislodging it. He continued to advance and as he ordered some of his men to capture the marketplace, he casted his eye at the southern wooden bridge and could not believe his eyes. "Oh shit!" he exclaimed as he saw a whole warband of Saxons come rushing over the wooden bridge and charged a semi-formed wall by the Regis Bannum. Willelme rushed in, his two loyal bodyguards, Serle and Osbern following right behind. He raised his sword in an attack position and ran at a pony-tailed Saxon who was caught off his guard as Willelme grabbed hold of the man's neck and sliced his sword at his neck the blood forcing to dribble down his shirt. He let the dying man go from the Duke's strangle and the pony-tailed man slowly and painfully died, choking on his own blood. It may have been a barbaric act but it was general business for a Norman like Dux Willelme. Willelme rushed forward, but as he did, he fell to the ground, clutching his head. A javelin and lodged itself in his veiled helmet, at the top and the impact and been so great that the iron-tipped javelin and wedged itself through the helmet and caused a small trickle of blood from the Duke's head. For the second time of the day, Willelme dislodged the javelin but found it was too dangerous to do so, as it was risking his own life to do so. Malgerius, the pious archbishop of Rouen, came to help his wounded Duke. With great care, the javelin was dislodged and Willelme was able to continue as normal, despite having a small dent in his veiled helmet. He faced an opponet he recognised in the battle the day before; the day where Willelme had fooled Eadric into a trap.
"Turn hell-hound, turn and face my wrath, you son of a whore!" Thorkell shouted and crused at Willelme, who narrowed his eyes at the enemy. It came to Willelme's mind; he was the one he had struck down with his sword when riding with Engle-Killer at the battle near the river. A glorious site! Clearly though, Willelme had not injured this man enough to kill him. He would make sure this time, he did.
"Yesterday, it seems I did not injure you enough. I will make sure you are nothing but food for the crows this time!" Willelme shouted back at Thorkell, challenging the man; come on then, you bitch, show me what you got! Thorkell attacked first, aiming his sword for Willelme's chest, covered with the mail hauberk that rich Normanz were accostumed to wearing. The thrust by Thorkell was poor, and Willelme beated it away with his sword and shoved the boss of shield into Thorkell's round shield, forcing the bearer to stagger back. Watching their enemies' footwork, they circled each other; watching and waiting. Thorkell suddenly attacked at Willelme's thigh, hitting the underneath of it and Thorkell, waiting for this all his life, brought his sword up and the Duke was lifted off the ground by a few centimeters before he crashed down to Earth, with small groans and a lot of dust. Thorkell may have finished off the Duke but a Norman was preparing to bash Thorkell with a mace and his attention was deverted away from his wounded prey. Willelme, seeing this chance, gathered himself up, sheathed his sword and trudged back to where his army had begun, near the church. The battle had been a bloody ordeal and in the end, thanks mainly to numbers, the Engle had won the Battle of Essertford. Willelme meet up with a few band of Norman survivors, among them Malgerius, Balduin, Conte de Runeville and few of the Runevilles and Regis Bannum. They formed a circle around the Duke, waiting for the unholy Saxons to come. At long last, the Engle came; the gleaming armour of their theigns were a sight to behold. The Engle closed in on their prey; the man who had come here to take the crown by force; Willelme, the
Ðéodloga himself.
