The Last Fight

The early hours of darkness weren't approaching peacefully. It rallied together wind and rain. Smashing against faces of men that wielded sharp blades and brawny shields. These men were a group of battle-born Danes. Twelve in total count.  And the only ones that were left of their ravaged village.

It was an army of rebellious, Gaelic-Saxons who had pillaged and sacked the Danes home; wanting nothing more but to taste the blood of paganist Danes and to destroy what a decade of treaties the Danes had acquired.

But these twelve Danish warriors all had the natural instincts to fight ruthlessly. They had lived their entire lives wielding a garden rake in the left hand and a battle axe in the right. 

And tonight, both hands would grasp weapons made for conquering an enemy. Alongside them would stand the force of revenge for their slaughtered wives, sons, and daughters.

It was here, between the dark forest and rocky shoreline where they would intercept the rabid army, finalizing a last fight.

They wore their traditional runes and markings that were of honor, fortune, and their own beliefs. With mud and dirt, they had disguised themselves with the very land that they were going to die for. Their bodies embraced the nights suspense. Adrenaline coursed through their veins as Thors lightning bolts struck the sky and sea; captivating madness and power all into one.

The whinny from a horse brought their attention to an army of endless figures that toiled through the muck of the night.

Armor rattled to the beat of thunder.

This was it. The final fight for the Danish twelve and the fourscore of Gaelic-Saxons…