The moment I speak those words, something in the air changes, and the broken men and women become warriors once more.
“Skarth the Godless?” a young woman whispers, her eyes wide.
“My name does not matter. What does is making every single one of these Saxons bleed.”
“But how?” a man asks, peering between the guards and me.
I tsk him with a cluck of my tongue. “Even shackled, we outnumber them, and do you forget, you are a Viking. Odin, our father, watches on with fury that you do not fight! Do not dishonor the gods by surrendering to the Saxons.”
“How do we fight them?”
They are young, so I do not judge them. “We work as one, for we are Vikings! We do not surrender. We do not grovel on our bellies to any man. We fight and put our fate in the hands of the gods!”
They all nod, a spark of life flashing back to their eyes.
“You follow me,” I order them. “Do not fall out of formation.”
When the guard with the iron poker approaches, I brace for him to strike. He is heavy-footed. His breathing is hoarse.
I lower my chin, peering at my kin.
Their hands are tied, but mine are no longer. And when the guard steps forward, about to brand me, I yell in Norse, “Now!”
They move with me as I spring to my feet and spin, punching the guard straight in the jaw. He is taken off guard, and the poker falls from his hand. I quickly retrieve it and drive the crucifix brand straight down onto his face.
When I yank it out, it is covered with blood and flesh because his head is no more. I reach for his sword and cut through the rope that binds the wrists of the men by my side. I toss the sword to the next man in line, who cuts through the ropes until we’re all unbound.
Our hands may be free, but we are still bound by the chain looped around our necks. “Don’t fall out of formation!” I remind them again as we charge at the Saxon men who are frantically searching for their weapons.
They are arrogant; therefore, they underestimated our strength in numbers. The sword is passed down to me, and when a guard swings, I stab him straight through the abdomen, prying his own sword from his hand. With my sword still embedded in his guts, I use him as a shield as his men come to attack.
He is impaled on the sword, still very much alive as his men attack, uncaring that they are stabbing their once fellowman in the back.
The men and women punch and headbutt the guards, easily disarming them of their weapons. They stab them over and over, and when the man whose cock was raping one of our own attacks another woman, she thrusts downward and straight through the front of his pants.
She withdraws the sword, only to slice off his head.
The camp is soon a bloody battlefield filled with war cries, and the strong metallic smell of blood soaks the earth. When one coward runs for the hills, I close my eye and line him up in my sight, and when he believes he’s free, I throw my sword in the air, impaling him to the ground.
There is one man alive who cowers in fear with his hands raised in surrender. I toss his limp friend at him as he served his purpose on the end of my sword. “Where is the key?”
He quickly fumbles with a key in his pocket, passing it to me with trembling hands.
I unlock the clasp around my neck and offer the key to the man next to me, who fought like he was possessed by Odin himself.
The Wessex guard interlaces his hands. “Please do not kill me. I am sorry.”
I have no other response than to spit in his face. “You make me sick. All you Christians are the same. You believe us to be the heathens, but look at what you do!”
“We’ve been given orders to.”
“By whom?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Who!” I roar, pressing my sword to his throat because I am sick of his sniveling.
“You will kill me anyway. Why would I tell you?”
