The Axe

(Short story from when the geography and setting were a little bit different…)

As the sun slipped below the horizon the sounds of carrion birds and the dying echoed from
peak to peak. Dark figures shrouded in cloaks moved from body to body, dispatching those who were
still alive, and plundering the dead. They finally came together around a spur of rock that had jutted out
from the side of the path. While the dead had mostly been peasants and merchants, here the dying light
shone on burnished iron helms and fine mail. These men had fought like lions as the bodies of the
brigands lying amongst these men showed. As the darkness grew torches were lit so that the plundering
of the dead might continue. Suddenly a shout rang out from one of the thieves as he reeled backwards a
spray of blood visible in the light of his torch. At this the brigands slunk towards the noise, crude daggers
and axes at the ready. One of the warriors still lived.

The knight stumbled across the moor, his fine plate rent and torn. In his right hand he held a
shattered sword, and in the other a dagger. Behind him torches bobbed and derisive howls and cries
reached his ears. Gritting his teeth, he pushed onwards towards a rocky outcrop that the last rays of the
sun’s light painted. The baying and yelling grew louder in his ears, and as he reached the outcrop he
turned to face his foes. They slunk forwards the light of their torches glinting off crude weapons and
armor. Filed teeth and yellow eyes leered at him, and as the knight finally got a good look at his pursuers
and the killers of his companions he spat as they advanced upon him and rushed upon them with a
curse on his lips. “Pictish scum”.

Shattered though his sword was he cleaved his first foe with his first stroke. He desperately
parried a blow from a crude bronze axe held by a hulking brute before stabbing his dagger in the chest
of his attacker before seizing the axe from the now limp hand that had wielded it. Shattered though his
armor was it proved its worth against the crude Pictish weapons, sparing the knight the worst of his
attacker’s strength though he still felt every blow and slash. As the knight fought he climbed up the
ledge until only one of his foes could attack him at the time. Sheathing his sword, he wielded the crude
bronze axe he had taken with both hands, the blunt edge powered by both the strength and
desperation of the knight shearing through the hides and bronze armor of his foes.

The picts would fall back from time to time, arguing amongst themselves over who would face
this demon of a man next. When this would happen, the knight would lean on the haft of his axe
preparing himself for the next foe. As the night wore on the path to the top of the outcrop became slick
with the blood of defeated picts. After what felt like an age, the knight saw a Pict finally climbing up the
gory path with the help of a torch. This Pict was different from his fellows though. He wore a bronze
breastplate and helm and was covered in the hides of some great beast. As the Pict drew near he called
out to the knight in a broken tongue all the northern peoples used to communicate.

“You fight me. Me great Pictish chief, killer of hundred warriors. I challenge you.” He growled.

The knight lowered his axe as he replied. “I accept your challenge Pict. I demand though that
when I cast down your broken corpse from this rock that your scum will molest me no longer”.

At this the Pict threw back his head and let out a bellowing laugh. “Your funny little man. If you
kill me, you free. Me cut your head off and drink from it before that happen.”

Still laughing the Pict chief turned and shouted down to the assembled group waiting at the
base of the outcrop. Facing the knight again the Pict dropped into a low crouch a feral smile visible on
his bearded face. “We fight now.” He growled as he rushed forwards his crude iron sword and bronze
shield at the ready.

Time seemed to slow for the knight. He saw the chieftain running forwards ready to either push
him off the outcrop or beat him to death with his sword that was little better than an iron cudgel. For his
part though, the knight was already running forwards the Pictish axe in his hands raised above his head.
With a shout of both pain and rage the knight brought the axe downwards. The blunt edge of the axe
struck the chieftain’s shield bending it out of shape but not breaking it. However, the force of the blow
was enough to mangle the hand that held the shield causing the chieftain to drop it with a below of
anger as he swiped at the knight with his sword, breaking a rib but not piercing the mail. Desperately the
two fought, the crudeness of their weapons precluding the possibility of a quick end for either one.
Finally, the strength afforded to the knight by his ability of wield his weapon with two hands began to
tell. With the last of his strength he lifted the broken body of the Pictish chieftain in one hand and
dragged him to the lip of the outcrop. The picts below seeing their chieftain defeated began to cry in
fear and wonder. With a contemptuous look at the picts below him, the knight cast the Pict from the
outcrop, and as the picts bore away the body of their chief rested against the haft of the crude Pictish
axe that had served him so well…