Alright, *now* I gotta sneak all these fucking kids outta this shithole without getting brutally murdered by these pre-French fucks, I thought, heart jackhammering in my teenage chest. *Fuck, why do I never think shit through? No wonder I went to prison —impulse control's for pussies.* But hey, saving a pack of traumatized whelps? That's gotta earn me some cosmic brownie points. Good guy Jamie, reporting for saint duty.
The tent reeked of fear-sweat and damp wool, our ragged circle of boys—pale faces smudged with dirt, tunics torn at the hems from days of marching, eyes darting like cornered rabbits—huddled tight under the flickering glow of a dying lantern. Edward, dark hair matted, looked twitchy as a caffeinated squirrel; Kent, the catatonic one with hollow cheeks and dead-fish stare from his "big tent" trauma, clutched a stolen flint like it was Excalibur; the ginger twins Kendal and Morgan loomed like lanky teenage oxen in patched leather breeches, freckles stark against their grime.
"Alright, listen up, you little shits," I whispered, iron dagger from Curly's corpse tucked in my belt, bow slung over my shoulder with a quiver of goose-fletched arrows. "Ed, you're with me—scout monkey duties. Kent, rally these punks: pack light, stay low, no whimpering. Me and Ed'll be back in fifteen. If not? Haul ass north to the village. Moon's high; use the stars, not your feelings."
Kent's voice cracked like a pre-teen dropping his first curse. "B-but Aethel... I don't *know* how to get back to the village..." Desperation dripped off him, eyes wide as saucers, skinny arms trembling under his threadbare tunic.
I shrugged, flashing that pursed-lip prison smirk—the one that says *life's a bitch, deal*. "Honest truth, Kent? Got brain damage from the Franks' love taps. Can't remember shit myself. So man the fuck up, grow a pair, and figure it. *Hopefully* we'll beat the clock." He opened his mouth for round two of whine-fest, but I clapped Edward on the shoulder—kid flinched like I'd goosed him—and we slunk out low, bellies to the cold mud.
The camp sprawled under a star-pocked sky, a chaotic ring of sagging leather tents around sputtering cook-fires, oxen snoring by creaking carts piled with our raided grain and iron ingots. Frankish guards—bearded brutes in knee-length tunics, leather-reinforced vests scarred from brawls, breeches cross-gartered tight, spears glinting—patrolled lazy, one snoring against a post, another pissing into the embers with a guttural *pffft*. Two riders on swaybacked nags looped the perimeter, their silhouettes hulking against the treeline. *Five awake, thirty total. Stealth it is, ninja-boy.*
We ghosted to Curly's big tent—still stinking of blood and spilled mead inside, his corpse a slumped heap on gore-soaked furs, curly locks matted black, scars like a butcher's roadmap across his pale chest. "Guess you're used to seeing dead guys, huh, Ed?" I muttered, rummaging satchels.
He shrugged, shoulders hunched in his filthy wool tunic. "We've seen countless dead, Aethel. Raiders, battles... Father's head on a pike." *Damn, these kids are hardcore. Prison yard had nothing on Saxon summer camp.*
"Aethel," he pressed, voice a squeak, "why do you talk like... like you're not one of us? Since the head-smack?"
"Ed, buddy," I grunted, yanking on baggy Frankish breeches—too loose on my model-teen frame, reeking of sweat and horse—*slash-slash* with the flint to shorten 'em, tying knots at the knees so they didn't flap like a drunk's bedsheets. "Quit asking stupid questions and help me rob this French fuck." Snagged the bow—crude yew, string taut—and quiver.
He blinked. "*French*?"
"Whatever, kid—po-tay-to, po-tah-to. Gimme a hand." Edward pocketed a leather pouch *clinking* with silver denarii, stuffed bread crusts and dried venison into a fur bundle. I claimed a wool cloak, heavy with that sheep-dip funk. "This is all we can hump without looking like pack mules. Let's boogie."
Ed shook his head like a confused puppy, but we slipped back—shadows in the moon-glow, skirting a guard who belched *frankisk* curses at his dice, oblivious.
Back at the tent, the boys were geared: tiny bundles clutched, faces grim under dirt-streaked blond and brown mops. "Damn, Kent, your ass should've ghosted already," I grinned.
His hopeless puppy-eyes hit like a gut punch. I clapped his bony shoulder—felt ribs like a xylophone. "Kidding, man. Good job herding these cats."
We crept out as one—twenty-odd whelps in a silent snake, aiming for the north treeline, hearts pounding. Oxen lowed soft; a rider's horse whinnied far off. *Almost clear—*
---
All of a sudden, the Frankish camp exploded into chaos, like someone dropped a match in a mead-soaked barn. Tents blazed, orange flames clawing the starry sky, spitting sparks that danced like drunk fireflies. Guttural *Frankisk* curses mixed with the *crack* of splintering shields and screams of men gutted like fish. A war horn blared—three sharp blasts, a pause, two more—deep enough to rattle my bones. My head split with pain, and I doubled over, clutching my skull. *Fuck you, brain damage.*
Edward—fourteen, lanky as a starved weasel, black hair matted over twitchy hazel eyes, his wool tunic torn at the shoulder exposing a collarbone sharp enough to stab someone—grabbed my arm. "Aethel! That's *our* horn! Warband's call to arms!"
Aethel's memories slammed me like a prison shiv: Father's voice, gravelly, drilling that horn's rhythm—our clan's signal to bring the pain. *Holy shit, that's us.*
I straightened, wincing. "Alright, Ed, glue these whelps to the North Star and haul ass to the village. I gotta back our boys before the Franks turn this into a Saxon slaughter-fest."
Edward's eyes flared, fierce despite the grime streaking his gaunt cheeks. "I'm coming, Aethel!"
"Nope, your bony ass stays," I snapped, slinging the yew bow over my shoulder, quiver of goose-fletched arrows clinking. "You'll just slow me down."
He crossed his arms, lips tight in his threadbare gray cloak—smelling like wet sheep and broken dreams. "You *need* backup, you thick-skulled mule! What if you get mobbed?"
"Ed, Dont worry, I can take care of these frenchies plus you're the only one I trust to drag these kids outta this hellhole. Don't make me punt your ass to Valhalla." I turned to the ginger twins—Kendal and Morgan, sixteen, built like redheaded oxen, copper curls wild under scarred leather tunics, freckles popping against mud-caked skin. "Twins, you're with me. Let's Crash this party."
Edward's eyes screamed mutiny, but I cut him off. "Zip it, now Get these runts north or I'll haunt your nightmares. *Move!*"
He scowled but rallied the boys—twenty-odd scrawny Saxons, tattered tunics, eyes like spooked deer, clutching stolen bread and flint. I nodded at Kendal and Morgan, and we slunk toward the chaos, bellies kissing the cold, muddy earth.
The camp was a flaming madhouse. Leather tents curled black under greedy flames, the air thick with smoke, charred wool, and the sour stink of panic. Oxen bellowed, carts tipped, spilling grain into the muck. Frankish guards—bearded brutes in knee-length tunics, leather vests scarred from brawls, breeches cross-gartered tight, spears and axes glinting—clashed with shadows I hoped were our warband. Two riders galloped on bony nags, thrusting spears at anything that moved. *Five awake, thirty total. Time to play sniper.*
I spotted a low ridge—barely a hump, dusted with frost and gnarled roots, thirty yards from the heart of the fight. "Twins, hold here," I hissed, scrambling up, bow in hand. I crouched, the yew creaking as I nocked an arrow, pulling the string to my cheek. Aethel's muscle memory kicked in—Father's lessons, bowstring taut, aim steady—mixed with Jamie's blurry days hunting deer with Dad, half-drunk on cheap beer. *Fuck, I suck at this,* I muttered, loosing the shot.
The arrow sailed—*three fucking feet* wide of a Frank, a burly bastard swinging an axe at a shadow. It thunked into a cart, lost in the chaos. He didn't even flinch, too busy hacking. "Nice one, Robin Hood," I growled to myself, nocking another. This time, I aimed high, exhaled, and let fly. *Thwack*—the arrow slammed into a Frank's shoulder, his leather armor no match. He screamed like a stuck pig, staggering, only for a warband axe to cleave his skull, brains splattering like spilled porridge.
I fired again. And again. One arrow pinged off a helmet—*dink!*—another grazed a Frank's thigh, barely slowing him. "Come on, Jamie, you're embarrassing Aethel's ghost," I muttered. The battle shifted—our warband's shouts grew thin, the Franks' roars louder. *Shit, they're winning.* I loosed one last arrow, clipping a Frank's ear; he yelped but kept swinging. Out of arrows, out of time.
"Twins, let's hit the tents," I said, sliding down the ridge, mud smearing my stolen cloak. We ducked into a Frankish tent—stinking of sour mead, blood, and unwashed armpits, a low fire spitting embers in the corner. "Jackpot," I grinned, looting like a Black Friday pro. I stuffed a leather satchel with *clinking* silver denarii, crusty bread, dried venison, and a pile of wool clothes—tunics and breeches, reeking of horse and despair. Found three iron daggers, edges nicked but sharp enough to gut a man, and a second yew bow, string loose but fixable, plus a quiver of twenty arrows, fletched with ragged crow feathers.
Morgan—taller twin, bout 5'10 of ginger brawn, his leather vest scarred from some old scrap—caught the satchel I tossed. "Hold this, Morgan."
He scowled, freckles twitching. "I'm *Kendal*, you brain-bashed twit."
"Whatever, Red, you're all freckles to me." I smirked, but a wounded Frank staggered in—right arm dangling like a wet noodle, face pale under a matted beard, eyes wild with pain. Before I could move, Kendal tackled him like a pissed-off linebacker, fists pounding his face into the dirt, bone crunching like gravel under boots. The Frank clawed for a blade at his belt, but I pounced, slamming an iron dagger into his neck. Blood sprayed, hot and sticky, pooling under his scarred leather vest. He twitched, then stilled.
"Damn, Kendal, you're a fucking berserker," I said, stripping the corpse. We snagged his mace—spiked iron, heavy as a grudge—and Kendal claimed his clothes: blood-stained tunic and breeches, fitting his lanky frame like they were tailored.
"Oi, look at me, Frankish high fashion," Kendal grinned, twirling the mace like a kid with a sparkler.
The fighting outside dulled—eerie, like the yard before a riot. Our warband was either dead or retreating; the Franks' growls grew smug. "Time to bounce, boys," I said, wrapping cloth strips around four arrows, dipping them in the tent's fire until they blazed like tiny comets. "Let's give 'em a goodbye kiss. One arrow, one tent—spread the love."
Kendal and Morgan nodded, eyes glinting like feral cats in their mud-streaked faces. We crept out, flames licking our arrows. I nocked one, drew the bow—string singing with tension—and loosed. The arrow arced, a fiery streak, and *whoosh*—a tent erupted, leather walls roaring into flame. The twins fired, their shots true, three more tents exploding into infernos, sparks swirling like a pagan rave. *Burn, you pre-French fucks.*
"North, now!" I hissed, and we bolted for the treeline, the war horn's echo fading, my heart pounding like a drum, the camp a glowing hellscape behind us.