Callen Crombail had served in Scotland's fyrd for twenty years of his life, and at forty two, he had outlived many men who had fought alongside him, for the past two years he had been in service of Geile Gòrdan, a lesser known Scottish earl who lived in a small isolated fortress on the Northumbrian side of the border, but because of it's lack of value, neither English nor Scottish royalty seemed to care much of the territorial invasion, least of all not when the Danes had had landed. As the harshest of Winter's cold began to set, and the old haggard man had sought shelter in the small fort, most men had more to worry about than suspecting any play afoul from an old beggar, but Callen had spent enough time in the company of lords in wartime to know the markings of a spy, so in the dead of the night he strode into the stable where the old man was sleeping and interrogated him in ways that had been taught to him by people who were masters of the art. It was confirmed easily enough that the many was indeed a spy, and that a small force of Danes were readying to attack, so in the ten weeks it took for the brutality of Winter to subside, Callen had Earl Gòrdan's men ready for the Danes, a task that in itself was like trying to keep men from being drunk before they face a shield-wall. In all his years in service of the Fyrd, Callen had face the Danes but two times, both of which were isolated incidents, and both those fights had nearly killed him, he knew the fury of the Northmen like few men of Scotland did.

 Though the training of the men was indeed an exerting task, Callen enjoyed the small bits of extra freedom it gave him, for as a mere retainer to his lord, he rarely was given authority over other warriors, but lord Gòrdan was frightfully inexperienced in war, and his few advisers were mostly old priests who spent the day encouraging in his idiotic piety, and so they knew little of war ave for what they read of the old Romans, and so, because Callen was one of the few men in the fort who had survived so many years in the fyrd, lord Gòrdan granted him authority that almost put him as an equal with Raibert, lord Gòrdan's so and the leader of the household troops, though at seventeen, the child was like his father, while admirably more free spirited and a good drinking companion, he was sadly without experience, and so, to Callen's joy, yielded even the men of the household guard to his instruction, and so after ten weeks of hard training, and after forcing the haggard old spy to swear on a Bible that he would not betray them, they sent him back to the Danes to relay the information that the fort was ill-prepared and half starved, and thus an ample target for the hungry Danes.

 And the next day the Danes came rushing, hungry for the target.

 Callen, though he had not wanted to, was placed to the rearguard of the force sent to meet the Danes, in the rear because he was to watch Raibert, who at seventeen, had yet to do batle with men such as the Danes, against his father's advice, for considering he was untested, Raibert was a moderate fighter, he had insisted on watching the battle, and had only been allowed to do so if Callen had agreed to stay behind and keep him safe and away from the worst of the fighting, and Callen, though he had not wanted to, agreed, for he thought that doing so would not only disillusion the boy and show him what war truly is like, but it would insinuate a small boon in his favor, and that was a good worth coveting.

 Yet it had been to a fault, for they were no more than a hundred feet from the fort early in that early morning before the sun had dawned, that a shout came from the ramparts. "They're attacking from behind, the bastards flanked us!"

 The anxiety that Callen had known all these weeks trying to train the men of the fort was nothing now, nothing to the sudden terror that lurched in his gut, he felt his bowels turn and panic rose up in him fast, his throat was dry and he felt like shaking, but was careful not to betray to this to Raibert,  for is anything now the boy would need courage. Callen was never a good Christian, as the priests in the village he grew up in were all elderly bastards, one of which had tried to take the young Callen to his bed, he had never before thought that God would favor him, but as he heard that the Danes were behind them and attacking the fort, he grabbed the old wooden cross that hung about his neck and kissed it. "May God almighty deliver us." he whispered the simple prayer as he reared his steed around and grabbed his sword. Knowing that the rest of the men were turning to follow him, he rode forth with his shield at his side.

 It was a massacre.

 By the time noon passed on that day, an entire are and a half was stained with Scottish and Danish blood, the greater bunch of each side had slaughtered each other, and now scattered groups were dragging on to the last man in single combat, and Callen was among the fray, his shield had been shattered so he discarded it, only his leather jerkin and sword with him, he clashed swords with a fierce man who's face was hidden by a helmet, with a wild red beard, the man was dressed in fine mail, both his helmet and sword belt, Callen noticed, were inlaid with silver, surely this man was rush indeed, his mail coat alone would be enough to buy a well made ship from good West Saxon builders, perhaps even enough enough to hire Frisian or Frankish shipwrights for the job, his armor altogether would almost be enough to contract at least five decent men for three months.

 Callen and the Dane clashed blades only twice before they realized they were almost equals, and all around in the chaos of battle an equal means little other than a good death, the Danes valued a good death, they hungered for a glorious demise, and deep inside, Callen though, so did he, though he had no great desire to die that day, so he fought hard to kill his enemy.

 When surrounded by Chaos, it does well to be able to notice small things that one does not notice in battle, not movements from your front, you already must be tuned to them in detail, but things from behind, and so as the Dane rushed Callen with his sword, which was a shield-breaking blade weighted towards the tip, it was by instinct that Callen, upon sensing somebody behind him, reversed his sword and without looking, thrust it behind him, praying to God that it struck true and pierced the man's body, and as he felt the end of his blade ram into bone and heard the brief cry of agony, he knew it had done him true, though at a cost, for the second it had taken him to attack to his rear had let the Dane slash him across the midsection, he felt the heavy sword hack open his leather jerkin, and he knew that flesh had been parted, for as he gasped in pain, he felt his blood begin to flow, and he knew that in another second he would die.

 He acted in a frenzy, dancing two steps back and leaving his sword in the body of a man either dead or soon to die, and as the Dane readied for another strike, Callen, who's leather jerkin was much lighter than his enemy's full mail coat, kicked high at the man's wrist, and felt it connect as the weight that was the man's sword fall, and as quick as he could, he rushed the Dane, with a tackle he brought him down to the ground, he heard the clanging sound of metal banging against rock, but felt nothing more than the blood he was loosing, frantically searching the few feet around him, he saw a large bearded axe had been dropped, like a cat would pounce upon a rat, he seized the axe and turned on the Dane, who seemed dazed, but recovering quick, and he never got the chance to look up, for the second he had his hand on his short sword, Callen raised the axe high and brought it down hard into the man's head, he felt the impact as the axe hit the helmet, but he hadn't took the weapon in a proper steady hold, so as the Dane went down the axe shot off the the right as the impact shook the weapon in his hands, but for dear life he held onto it, and before looking, he half swung, half dragged the axe across the Dane's throat, before falling on top of the man and kneeing him down in the side, he raised the axe and brought it down again, this time into the man's face, he felt the helmet give way to this second hack, and he felt it shatter through skin and bone as blood sprayed all around and painted his face with scarlet.