The Tax Gatherer (Part Three)

They left the forest, heading towards the dimmest glow and faintest roar signalling their quarry.
Copsig feasted.
The warriors crept up on the unsuspecting hall, the guards were too lazy or ill-disciplined to do their duty in the savage weather. Osulf cursed his luck, and God as well for sending him such lousy conditions. The raindrops were tough as nails, tearing into exposed skin like burning razors, and the wind whipped through his hair, blowing the soaking mass before his eyes like a wiry hand. He had hoped to burn the hall, but the rain had begun as soon as they had embarked.

The feast had died, and listening carefully they heard only the snores of drunks, and the muttering of dreamers. Copsig’s hall was impressive; it towered above the shadow-men below, and its great oak doors would hold firm against all but the most determined attacker. It was a shame the heavens prevented him from burning it, Osulf mused as he scanned the area. There were no sentries, no door guards, no watchmen; it was deserted. If his men were ever as slovenly as this he would have them mutilated! If the door were locked however, it would not matter whether there were sentries or not, for those stout oak walls would bar his way until an axe could chop through the locking beam. The noise would be great, surprise would be lost, and the odds of success even slimmer than they were now. He glided towards the door, merging with the gloom and praying that the lock was not in place. His warriors would be outnumbered as it was, and though they were highly skilled, he had sacrificed their defence for their speed, thus giving the defenders another advantage. His heart was pounding in his chest so fiercely he worried it would wake his quarry, but one would not know his worries to look at his face. Osulf was the picture of calm; he had seen his fare share of battle, and need not fear Copsig. His fluttering heart came more from the thought of what he would do; years of hatred, of bloodshed, of tears and wounds would end. He had been forced from his own home by this cur, former deputy of the southern fool, now tax-gatherer for the bastard.
He tenderly placed his hands on the door, and pushed.

The great oak beams yielded to his touch and his heart soared. He beckoned to his warriors stepped inside, slowly drawing Ceolwærc. He looked around, seeing the banners of his foe flutter in the stormy wind, shadows from torches dancing on their woven skins, bringing the scenes to life. Rain pattered into the hall and the cold wind ran through freely, yet still no one stirred. He searched for Copsig; he had grown fat from his usurpation, but there were so many pigs in this vile den that it was hard to find the right one. Naked bodies lay strewn across the floor, men and women entwined in their sin. Whores and drunks, sprawled together, living off his land, off of his people, their presence here an insult, a monstrous dishonour, to their, and to his, proud heritage.
He chose his victim, unsure in the dark if it was his man, but Ceolwærc lay on his throat without remorse. With a quick tug Osulf wrenched his blade across the sleeping man’s jugular, slicing through the flesh and tendons, grating against bone whilst warm blood flowed across his fingers.
The rain stopped.
He grinned, a mirthless grin, and moved on.

In the slaughter that followed, it could not be said that many of Copsig’s men died well. They were no match for Osulf’s seasoned champions, caught like babes without a mother, lost in the woods and at the mercy of the wolves. There was one man Osulf would remember though. A bear of a man, he felled two of his best with a wooden stool, and, roaring like a caged beast, like a hero of old, he managed to slay a third before Osulf reached him. Ducking past the stout hearted thegn Osulf rammed Wulfrun into his chest and forced Ceolwærc through his chin, up into the roof of his mouth. The pair locked eyes for a moment, closer than lovers, and in that brief moment the Bear nodded his respect for the true Lord of Bamburgh.

It soon became apparent that Copsig had escaped. Osulf’s fury knew no bounds; his wrath was such that it stained the walls so thickly with blood that the stains would never be washed from his hands. Everyone inside was butchered, and finally, when the fury had passed and his eyes unclouded he threw his head back and bellowed as a boar in his dying, rage filled moments. It resounded among the tapestries and forced itself out into the night, towards the dim glint of heaven’s jewels. The hunt began, but it was not much of a hunt. The townspeople, hearing the commotion in the feasting hall and fearing for their lives, informed Osulf’s warriors that Copsig had hidden in their church not far from the hall.
‘Burn it down!’ roared Osulf, ‘Burn the whoreson out of his house of prayer! Rats like him will find no safe haven in my realm!’ There was no negotiation, no reasoning to be done with Osulf. His eyes bulged and he emitted an aura so fearsome that even his own warriors shrank from him. He towered over them, soaked in the blood of his enemies and with eyes blazing. Tar was fetched and thrown at the wooden hut and torches were brought while God watched with glee as his creations fought. Such ingenious creatures he had made, so adept at slaying one another, and poisoning their paradises.

The tar soon lit, and the wooden hut flared. The flames roared, thatch and timber shrank and crackled, and Copsig shrieked. Terror gripped his heart like a cold fist and suffocated him in the thick smoke. The Walls groaned and the blaze leapt across pews towards the altar which he cowered behind. His skin shrivelled, his hair burnt, and he retched as he smelt his own hair and flesh burning beneath his nostrils. Between his gags and sobs, he screamed his prayers to God Almighty, the commander of judgement, the deliverer of evil, but he heard no answer. He was alone, surrounded by demons and soon to be consumed. Outside, he heard Osulf’s killers chanting and howling, baying for his end like Garm from the old tales. Crackling filled his ears, smoke his lungs and pain soared across his skin. Rafters fell, and he clutched desperately to the hilt of the sword he had managed to grab during his escape. Tears streaked his face as he thought of his fate, what awaited him, but he steeled himself, and stood; tall and proud, defiant at last in the face of death.

He walked slowly down the aisle, past the smouldering remains of seats, sword in hand, determined, as if in a dream. Yes! Perhaps this wall all just a dream? A nightmare sent to him by his subconscious, worried because of the reports of rebellion? Osulf could not have gathered an army so quickly; it had only been a month! Yes! It had to be a dream!
Behind him the altar exploded into flame, the inferno all around him, his flesh burned, and as he stepped out onto the threshold his exit was barred, Osulf, Ceolwærc  in one hand, Wulfrun in the other, shrouded in flame the lord of war blocked his path.

There was a madness in his eyes, and with one blow Osulf broke Copsig’s blade; the shattered remains fell from his hand as the power shook violently through his arm and sent him shooting to his knees. Copsig raised his head to look his enemy in the eye, but before he had done so, Wulfrun sliced through his neck. Copsig was no more, and his blood spattered head rolled back slowly into the flames.
Osulf caught it by the hair and thrust it up towards the burning skies; and flinging the joy in his heart, all the rage and pain and ecstasy, with all his might he roared.