All Rights Reserved © 2012 Emmy Alexander
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval) without permission in writing from the writer.
***AUTHOR'S NOTE*** This story is in dire need of editing. If you can overlook the errors (until editing) then happy reading.:)
England, 1066, Senlac Hill
The massive black beast beneath him snickered uneasily, shaking its sleek head as the stallion paced sideways, its large hooves treading the muggy earth.
Fallon Macaulay tightened his hold around the reins to steady Thor, cursing the animal for his uncanny sensibilities to impending danger.
Beneath his steel helmet, he cast a fleeting glance to the lingering gray sky, noting a thickness of clouds brimming with what appeared to soon be a downfall of heavy rain accompanied with brisk winds.
He smirked inwardly for the shaded weather was as disagreeable as the current King sitting on the English throne.
Allegedly the crown had been promised to William by his cousin and former King, Edward the Confessor, but upon his deathbed, believed in a form of desperation after having produced no children during his lifetime, Edward had announced Harold Godwinson, brother to Queen Edith, as heir to the throne.
When informed of Harold's coronation, William became furious for an oath between the two had been violated. Harold had once pledged his allegiance to William after being rescued by the Duke when shipwrecked but the day after Edward's death, the crown was claimed by Godwinson and their treaty was broken. William was not to become successor to the English crown.
Fallon slid a glance sideways, studying the man intently to his left. He and a thousand others, equipped in battle armor waited atop a steep slope for one purpose alone; to ensure that William the Duke of Normandy, rightful heir to the English throne, seized his legitimate crown from Godwinson.
William's fierce expression revealed naught but instead implanted a deep crease across his forehead, his brooding countenance as stoic as granite, and a sharp gleam flared with intensity as his dark eyes swept along his army.
The time was nearly at hand. Fallon felt that familiar rush of adrenaline; anticipating a drawn out battle that would undoubtedly leave a monumental spread of fallen men and a certain effect on the English throne.
Harold and his army traveled from York as William had stationed his men in East Sussex, waiting patiently for the enemy.
The chain of warriors arranged on either side of him suddenly tensed in readiness and an abrupt hushed silence fell among them as the hum of a thousand men broadened the rolling hills. As if on queue, Harold appeared, marching his soldiers forward and positioning them atop the hill. Harold Godwinson, a burly man of size with long shaggy hair and an equally thick beard, aligned his men of household troops on either side of him, placing supporting troops at the rear.
William had chosen a different tactic by taking the rear himself with his armored cavalry on each side of him, the infantry placed within the center and a number of archers planted directly front line.
Fallon's eyes swept the crowd of men around him, all painstakingly familiar, much alike kin but there was one face in particular he sought and failed to find.
Where the hell was Curran?
The man at his side shifted and Fallon jarred alert, shifting his attention to William, his liege.
"The time is now, Fallon "The Fury". Do you swear fealty to me and serve me now?" surprisingly William's voice was tranquil, but there was always a moment of quiet before the storm.
Fallon nodded, meeting William's dark, calculating stare. "Aye milord, until I am claimed by death, I shall serve you at best."
And forthwith, the battle commenced as Saxons hurled an unexpected flare of stones across the distance separating them, delivering painful and fatal blows to unsuspecting Normans.
Fallon gritted his teeth at a number of war cries and raised his shield to deflect the heavy pellets.
Along the front line, archers released a flurry of arrows in hopes of weakening the Saxon lines; this same strategy was repeated several times but barely made a mark, therefore pushing men on foot into battle, creating a remarkable shudder in the ground as the unmistakable sound of steel clashing against steel resonated through the air.
The shrieks and cries of warriors as they wielded and branded their weapons were frighteningly discernible, coating the soggy turf in red as belligerent blows rendered men hapless at the feet of others.
Fallon felt the fury that which he were befittingly entitled, rise to such a minatory degree as men he called kindred fell so quickly, their lives taken abruptly by spears tossed efficiently.
He glanced at William, watching the massacre with little to no emotion displayed, and felt his temper rising ever more.
"The enemy lines have not faltered." He shouted, watching as more Norman soldiers fell to the ground.
Men were slain mercilessly, taken down easily by relentless Saxon attacks. William's army began to diminish as the Saxon line remained firm without as much as a mark.
Fallon grew restless, forced to remain at William's side, having pledged his loyalty to protect his leader at all costs, but the carnage that continued left him feeling maddeningly useless.
Somewhere within that bloodbath, his brother along with several close allies, fought for the same purpose but as his eyes swept repeatedly over the combined armies, Curran and the others were no where to be found.
He gave one last intensifying look to William and extracted his sword, gripping the hilt with iron force as he spewed forth into the madness.
His agility kept him keenly aware of all his angles; he remained close to ensure that William's back was protected as he swept his sword in a full loop, severing a man in two, pausing only a fraction to readjust his grip and bring the blade about to pierce the heart of another.
As he swiveled around, his sword connected sharply with a Saxon blade. He brought his foot upward and shoved at the man's midriff, forcing the warrior backward onto his backside. From his peripheral, Fallon caught a large, familiar stature. He turned just to see Ranulf, ally from youth, stagger on his feet as two Saxon soldiers of similar size advance towards the large warrior.
Fallon released a nasty growl as he gathered his strength and rushed at his enemy. One of the men caught his livid frame charging toward him and turned half-way to intercept his attack. The other Saxon was momentarily distracted by his comrade that it gave Ranulf the opportunity to bring his axe down up the man, the devastating blow severing his head completely from his shoulders.
Fallon ducked just as the edge of the sword whisked above his head, he rolled beneath the Saxon's raised arm and came lithely to his feet turning to plunge his blade deeply into the man's chest.
Ranulf exchanged a brief look of gratitude before turning away and disappearing into the multitude of men.
As the war waged on and time was of no importance, the number of lives given way to Godwinson rapidly grew.
It was then realized that men were fleeing from the left flank, causing a great break in William's line. Fallon straightened and in that moment caught his brother disappearing among those running.
There was a shrill of chaos as the opposing army separated, breaking into fragments to chase after those who had fled.
Fallon hesitated, torn between whether he should stay at William's side or chase after his brother. His instincts warned him to do the latter, knowing full well of Curran's hankering for battle which could very well be his downfall.
Mumbling a stream of curses beneath his breath, and suddenly feeling the weight of his armor, he broke into a run and started towards Thor as the stallion paced fearfully in the midst of the fright, its beady dark eyes recognizing its master as Fallon came forward. Thor obediently stilled as Fallon mounted and whirled the stallion down over the hill.
The cries of men faded into the background as Fallon fastened his fingers tightly around the reins as Thor's hooves pounded into the earth. He felt beads of perspiration gliding smoothly down his back beneath his chain mail and felt the stickiness of blood along his face beneath his helmet. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to bathe the ugliness of war from his body and forget this day, but as hard as he could try, their was no denying his lineage, his purpose in life, he was bred to kill.
Thor carried him further and further away from William and the battle. He was suddenly aware that there was no one, not even the enemy, around him. An outlandish and slightly serene quiet settled around him, enveloping him in a calm that struck him unaware, allowing him a brief moment to savor the solace and dream on a life that was not of bloodshed and war.
The notion was shattered instantaneously at the abrupt cries of men. He realized then how far he had gone from the hill; he now stood in the thick of trees, shadowing around him, concealing any imposing threats that lay in waiting.
With the trees towering above him, dimness immersed, forcing his senses alert as his eyes strained against the foliage. His brows furrowed as a deep inkling warned him that something was amiss.
Suddenly, their was a disturbance in the silence, a slight crack and snap as something leapt out from behind him. Atop Thor, he was at a disadvantage as he attempted to turn in the saddle, only to be struck forcefully upon the head.
Even with the protection of his helmet, it did not prevent the intense crack that unsaddled him. He hit the ground with such force that the air whooshed from his lungs.
He moaned as he attempted to lift his head, his eyes blinking rapidly with the pain as he rolled to his side, his hands fumbling over the loose dirt.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood tall as several pairs of booted feet suddenly appeared, one set in particular kicking his sword from his reach.
He cursed mindlessly as he attempted to get up only to receive a steadfast kick to the ribs. He gasped in pain and choked as he fought to gather a breath in his lungs just as a pair of hands whipped out and jerked the helmet from his head.
Fallon raised his head to look upon his enemy but instantly a boot connected painfully with his face. The jolt jerked him sideways and a shot of blood projected from his mouth.
Another boot merged with his ribs and he felt a blinding pain as this was done continuously. Through the heedless haze of pain, Fallon heard the distinct sound of laughter but the voice to him was vague, the source of the chuckle a mere blur to the side of him.
He felt himself slipping into unconsciousness but not before something sharp was plunged deep into his chest. Fallon buckled against the pain as the dagger was forced deeper into his flesh, emitting a guttural sound from deep within his throat to surface.
Pain washed over him as he struggled to grab hold of the dagger protruding from his chest. Each labored breath brought on a flood of spasms that sent blood gushing forth from its wound. He moaned as his fingers wrapped languidly around the hilt sticking upward from his chest, and with what little strength he could muster, jerked the dagger free. A swift and unexpected faintness seized him, pulling him downward and spiraling into darkness.
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