The Sword of Wayland by Gavin Chappell

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  With an unearthly howl, the mysterious horseman galloped towards the gallows. He looked outlandish in his foreign clothes, and his beard and long hair streamed around him in the wind of his passing. Aloft he held a great two-handed axe.

  ‘Bork!’ yelled Edwin in greeting. ‘About time!’

  The priest and the two guards still gaped in amazement at the barbaric apparition. Shifting himself awkwardly in the saddle, Edwin aimed a kick at the priest’s tonsured pate.

  It connected with a bony thud, and the priest collapsed to the ground. The two guards whirled around, dragging their attention away from the rapidly approaching rider to see Edwin grinning down at them like a predatory cat.

  It was their last sight in this world. The thundering of the wild man’s approach grew deafening; a lightning bolt of steel flashed in a figure of eight; the two guards slumped headless to the soil. Their severed heads flew through the air.

  The rider reined his horse a few yards past Edwin, and came trotting back, bloody axe raised and a wide grin splitting his bearded face like a sword gash.

  ‘Here at last, Bork?’ asked the little man from the shadow of the gallows tree.

  ‘Aye, that I am,’ grunted the man in a harsh Nordic accent. He swung his axe in Edwin’s direction. The outlaw flinched briefly, but relaxed as the axe blade sliced through the gallows rope above his head, sending a shudder through the noose. Edwin sighed with relief. He was free, except for the noose and a short length of rope hanging from his neck.

  ‘Time to go,’ said Bork laconically.