The Wolf Banner by Paula Lofting

 

1056...England lurches towards war as the rebellious Lord Alfgar plots against the indolent

King Edward. Sussex thegn, Wulfhere, must defy both his lord, Harold Godwinson, and his

bitter enemy, Helghi, to protect his beloved daughter.

As the shadow of war stretches across the land, a more personal battle rages at home, and

when it follows him into battle, he knows he must keep his wits about him more than ever,

and COURAGE AND FEAR MUST BECOME HIS ARMOUR…

The Wolf Banner is the second book in Paula Lofting's Sons of the Wolf series which will be a must read for fans of Giles Kristian, Theodore Brun and Bernard Cornwell.  As part of the Blog Tour I have an exclusive extract below...

The Wolf Banner

A Pleasant day to die

Wulfhere was tall amongst his companions, but this Harald was taller – and broader, armed

with a dangerous axe. As he warmed up, the Norþmann swung the weapon with effortless

agility, as though it were a child’s plaything. The blade’s span was at least a foot and

Wulfhere shuddered, remembering that at Hereford he’d witnessed smaller axes than

Harald’s cutting into horses’ necks with frightening ease.

Amidst the cacophony of jeering and cheering, a soft wind blew and with it, the essence of

meadowsweet and sun on damp grass. Ironic that there he was, waiting to be slaughtered by

this massive brute, nature infused the air with the beauty of nature.

Such a pleasant day to die.

Leofwin’s priest gave him the battlefield blessing, though it was little comfort in the face of

possible death, to know his sins were absolved. His sons – they would be watching – and he

wanted them to witness that if he lost today, it would be gloriously. He mouthed the words of

the paternoster, and readied himself, his spear high, shield gripped across his torso.

Then it began.

Wulfhere’s stomach muscles tensed as Harald stormed towards him, raising the terrifying

axe. The great blade danced before him, undulating the air above Harald’s head as he swung

the weapon, his muscular arms warming up. Wulfhere’s heart quickened. Bile rose in his

throat and he breathed deeply to steady his shaking limbs. Studying his opponent, he made a

mental note of the exposed parts of Harald’s body with every swing.

Harald closed in on him. The blade, glinting in the glow of the sun, descended, aimed at the

unprotected part of Wulfhere’s neck. He leapt clear of the blow and Harald stumbled, an

ungainly oaf. Wulfhere rounded on him and thrust low into his enemy’s inner thigh. The

sensation of torn linen, skin, and tissue vibrated along the spear shaft.

Harald gave a weak cry as though merely stung by a wasp. Wulfhere tugged the blade free,

wondering if the hulking Norþmann had even felt it. A bright shade of crimson dripped down

along the ash as Wulfhere retreated out of Harald’s reach. The big man drew himself up,

shaking his head like a hound out of water. Raising his mighty bearded axe, he scowled, his

ugly face even more so as it contorted with rage.

Wulfhere shrugged an apology. “Oh, have I hurt you? I am sorry.”

The Norse shouted encouragement, as Harald repeated his display, swinging the axe around

his head, showing his lithe dexterity.

Wulfhere watched, unblinking. In the glassy eyes of his enemy, a thousand Dunsinanes and

Herefords were reflected. Wulfhere’s fear settled. The anger of those battles, long hidden

within him, were brought to the surface. Starting deep in his chest, a growl rumbled and like a

weir breaking, it rushed to his throat.

“I am not going to die today!” he roared.

The axeblade gathered momentum. Wulfhere’s gaze went to his opponent’s midriff to avoid

being blinded by the blur. Focusing on the deadly movement of his opponent’s arms, he

counted: one, when the arms went up; two, they came down. The timing must be right. In

crab-like movements, he sought to creep around Harald – turning to the right and to the left.

He tried a swipe at the monster’s side and had to snatch the spear away as Harald’s axe blade

threatened to carve the shaft in two. Whichever way he went, the giant moved with him and

he could not get his spear into the devil.

Harald lunged, the air buzzing with the whooshing of his axe at Wulfhere’s head. Wulfhere,

crouched under the blade’s terrifying descent and flung up his shield, the wooden planks

taking the brunt. An excruciating jarring pulsated from shoulder to wrist. He was down,

kneeling, not badly injured, but his shield was wrecked. The crowd chanted, urging him to

rise.

Someone called out, “For Hereford! For Hereford!”

Wulfhere was immediately transported to another time, riding amongst the carnage of that

battle. Great gore-stained broad-axes flashed and cut into the beautiful necks of the war

horses. Blood rained on Wulfhere’s face and splattered into his mouth and eyes. The air was

full of tortured screams, of beasts and of men also. The maiming of such beautiful creatures

had made him angry then, and he was angry now! Men dying was one thing, but Christ on the

Cross – not the horses!

Struggling to his feet, his shield arm a dead weight, he took up his position, waiting for

Harald to start the deadly routine once more.

One, the arms went up, two – they came down – three, up – four, down – five – and Wulfhere

screamed, rushed forward and thrust his spear tip through the mail-rings, just below the

armpit. He drew back, blood streaming onto the shaft. Harald twisted and groaned, pushed a

fist into the wounded area, his face contorted. Wulfhere swore. His aim had fallen short of

the heart. Harald, recovered, brought his axe down again and Wulfhere danced out of the

way.

The cries of the Englisc threatened to drown Harald’s ringing curses. Wulfhere backed away

as far as he could and prepared himself, his spear couched in the crook of his elbow as he

caught his breath. Harald stood, nonplussed, felt under his arm and examined the red, sticky

substance. The giant’s vicious glare was terrifying. There was a dangerous fire in the man’s

eyes, and Wulfhere trembled.

Harald grabbed the axe shaft in both hands, roaring and shaking his head like some visceral

creature. A colossal swing of his arms raised the weapon, picking up impetus as he

approached. When Harald raised his arms again, exposing his torso, Wulfhere flipped the

shaft, drew it back and propelled it – like a javelin – straight at his opponent’s bulk.

The spear buried itself in Harald’s chest followed by Englisc roars of delight and dismayed

groans from the Norþmenn.

The great axe, slid from Harald’s hands as yet unbloodied, with a thump as the blade lay flat

on the grass. The big man clutched his midriff, bewildered as he looked down at the

protruding weapon then sank to his knees, mouth gaping wordlessly.

Wulfhere let out a long sigh. It was over. He tore Hildbana from her scabbard and sprinted

toward the dying man. Men swirled around him. Someone called his name. He ignored them.

Wulfhere pulled at the spear-shaft and Harald hung on to it, snarling like a dog guarding its

food. Wulfhere tugged hard at the shaft, grunting. Still Harald would not let him retrieve it. It

was the only weapon he had to get to Valhalla. Wulfhere was not going to let him. He threw

Hildbana to the blood-soaked ground and tugged at the shaft with both hands.

Blood showed black as thick tar between Harald’s teeth, and his scream filled the air as he

pushed himself on to the spear, a deathly act of defiance. Wulfhere grabbed up his sword,

stepped behind Harald and was about to take his head when the bastard slumped forward.

Wulfhere stared at the gaping hole right between the dead man’s shoulder blades as the sharp

tip forced its way through, exposing a mess of blood, sinew, and splintered bone. It was done.

****************************************************************************

More About the Author

You can read about Paula and her work on her website here https://paulaloftinghistoricalnovelist.wordpress.com/

you can follow her on Twitter here https://twitter.com/Paulalofting

and you can buy her books here Amazon UK   Amazon US