Chaos Lord [Short Story]

[Desperado †]

Very cheesy title for the win (speaking of which, if anybody could find the Norse/Anglo Saxon translation for it (or a variation on it), I would be very happy).

I wrote this about two months ago for school. It's the first draft, so there's a few miss-spellings and I think there's a messed up sentence in there somewhere (I can't find the second draft my teacher marked, I'll probablly have to ask her to mark it again). I quite like it, apart from the title. My teacher loved it, but she loves me (She told me I had A* after handing the first draft back to me). Hope you like it!

Constructive criticism welcome.

Chaos Lord

My name is Coenred. I known neither by where I am from, or by my fathers first name. I have no home, and I knew not my father. Thus I am simply Coenred. Neither Coenred son of, nor Coenred of. Though I am sometimes known as Coenred the fearless. Coenred the bloodspiller. Coenred the terrible. Though most know me as simply Coenred, as the name in itself brings grown men to touch their sword hilts in fear.
I am an Earldoman, a Thegn. Men have different names for what I am. Though I own no land, I am still called these names. I am a known Lord. A Lord of Swords and Spears, a Lord of Shield walls and Battles, a Lord of War. The drums of death beat in my heart, bringing me to battle and calling me to fight. I follow no Seasons, no King, no order upon this earth. I follow war, and the man who pays me best, and Chaos, and death and destruction do I leave behind. I am a Mercenary. A Lord of Chaos
I am not proud of my profession. Though all must do their business in this world, and in the sort space from their birth to their death they must live, and live as well as they may by the skills they have in them. My hands where never for the plough or the sickle. Nor were they for the quill and parchment, or the soft strings of the bow. They are sword hands. Strong, and large, and coarse from years of holding the rough leather of the hilt. Fighting is my art. I would never be able to do anything else. If I was to settle, I would have to realise the true world, and its Order and patterns and how all things must follow these ways. Yet I do not. I live each day as it comes, and fight, and move on. If I was to stop, the beating of the drums would finish, and my wild days would be over. I would have to realise my future, and plan, and make oaths. I would have to obey law, and order, and pattern, and God.
That is also what makes men fear me. I have no God. I believe in neither the old Gods of the Saxons, nor the Pagan Gods of the Danes, nor the Crucified God of the Christians. I wear neither Hammer Amulet nor Cross around my neck. For the Gods made Order. They made Order upon the earth, they brought it from its Chaos and made Humans greater than beasts, to place order upon the earth. They made some men Kings, and others peasants, and have each and every person working beneath their rules and Divine Order. Yet I do not. I follow no Order. I fight, and I kill, and I pillage, and I move on. Men fear me, because I do not fear any God. Men fear me as no God has yet to kill me, to bind me to my fate and break my Soul Strings and send me to the next realm. If I follow no God, yet still I live, and every moon my life is placed upon the tip of a knife yet still I stand at the battles end, then what chance do mortal men have against me?
And so I make my way in this world. Bringing Chaos, and ending Order. Like vultures, my men and I follow the scent of war, we find the fields of battle where the blood is yet to be spilt, and offer our steel to the highest payer. And then we fight. We march, and upon hearing that Coenred the blood spiller, Coenred the fearless, Coenred the terrible is against them our enemies flee. Some stand and tremble and hold their shields feebly, only to fall, their shields obliterated by the wrath of my axe, their swords bent by the swing of mine, their throats slit by the steel of my blade and their bodies burnt with neither weapon in hand or a place of burial. Never shall their foolish souls find a resting place, be it in The Hall of Warriors or the Heaven of the Christians. And before they die, I let them know that their lands shall be pillaged, their fields sowed with salt, their wives taken and their children sold as slaves.
After the battle, when the field is soaked with the blood of my enemies, those foolish enough to oppose me, and the vultures are circling in the sky above, feasting upon what flesh they can find from the bodies I’ve had burnt, I find the victor, my patron. I blow my horn, and more men I had kept hidden come, fresh and ready for battle, their blades not yet dirtied by blood yet their hearts lusting for battle. I hold my blade at my patrons neck, his men tired and overwhelmed by mine, and I demand he give me thrice what I asked for, and if he denies then I slice his throat, and if he accepts I might slice his throat anyway, as it is never good to let an enemy live to fight you again.
Then we pillage. And move on. And this is my life. This is my world. With no Order, no God, no King and no Liege, no Oaths and no home and no family. With but the steel of my Sword, and the will of my heart, I bring Chaos and death to the world. When I die my legacy shall be remembered, as Coenred, the Lord with no Order who made wives widows and children orphans and waste lands from fair fields. And should I go to the underworld, I shall slit the devils own throat and make it clear that I am Coenred.
Coenred the fearless. Coenred the blood spiller. Coenred the Chaos Lord.

[Yaga Shu Ra]

We march, and upon hearing that Coenred the blood spiller, Coenred the fearless, Coenred the terrible is against them our enemies flee, or stand and tremble and hold their shields feebly, only to fall where they stand, their shields obliterated by the wrath of my axe, they swords bent by the swing of mine, their throats slit by the steel of my blade, their bodies burnt with neither weapon in their hand or a place of burial so that never shall their souls find a resting place in The Hall of Warriors or the Heaven of the Christians.

Some of your sentences string out too long, reaching incredible lengths. Despite the short pause a comma provides, a barrage of words keeps coming at you. As a result, the reader is put under a lot of strain not to loose track of what is being said.

Part of the problem is the repetitive nature of this text. It tends to derive to a sum. "Their" their" "their", "and" "and" "and", "I" "I" "I". Even though this is most likely a conscious style choice, you're over-extending it.
I propose you figure out a way to streamline that wich you try to bring across.

My critique ends here, I can no longer contain the fear of Coenred growing inside me.

[Desperado †]

Some of your sentences string out too long, reaching incredible lengths. Despite the short pause a comma provides, a barrage of words keeps coming at you. As a result, the reader is put under a lot of strain not to loose track of what is being said.

Part of the problem is the repetitive nature of this text. It tends to derive to a sum. "Their" their" "their", "and" "and" "and", "I" "I" "I". Even though this is most likely a conscious style choice, you're over-extending it.
I propose you figure out a way to streamline that wich you try to bring across.

My critique ends here, I can no longer contain the fear of Coenred growing inside me.

:hmmm:

We march, and upon hearing that Coenred the blood spiller, Coenred the fearless, Coenred the terrible is against them our enemies flee. Some stand and tremble and hold their shields feebly, only to fall, their shields obliterated by the wrath of my axe, their swords bent by the swing of mine, their throats slit by the steel of my blade and their bodies burnt with neither weapon in hand or a place of burial. Never shall their foolish souls find a resting place, be it in The Hall of Warriors or the Heaven of the Christians.

Edited it slightly. The repititions still in, but It's in three sentences, and I think is easier to read now. Yes, I think this version is better, I'll edit it into the O.P.

[Perkele]

As said, quite repetitive.