Sidroc the Dane

by Octavia Randolph

  There would be no want of food in such a place. This alone would seal his decision, but it seemed Four Stones had much more to offer him as well: a ready-made hall and garrison, even a woman for him to wed, assuring the village folk’s allegiance to their new Danish lord.

  “A two days’ ride,” Yrling repeated. He looked again at Gudmund and his companions, fit, hardened, and risk-taking enough to present themselves to him. “As reward you will flank my chief men, be the first to storm the place.”

  This declaration of coming action was met by all listeners with acclaim, voices and arms raised in assent.

  Later, as they spooned their supper into their mouths, Yrling thought to ask the well-travelled Gudmund another question.

  “Do you know of Gorm of Aros?”

  Gudmund shook his head. “Who is he?”

  “A thief who will soon die, by my hand, or Odin’s will,” came the answer.

  Yrling knew Gorm was likely long back in Dane-mark, with his stolen ships. But at least this knowledge was some satisfaction. His own fame had reached Gudmund’s ears, and nothing of Gorm.

  Two days on horseback brought them to the threshold of the hall known as Four Stones. They did not push their animals, for each was heavy laden, most with both man and goods. But being as many as they were allowed them to ride openly on the pounded clay roads Gudmund led them to. For any of those who had stood with Yrling on the deserted beach, swearing over the loss of their ships, this was no small moment, to now be of a moving force large enough to fear none.

  They had reached deep in the heart of Lindisse, a land of tree-covered hills unspooling into the distance, of broad plains showing themselves verdant even as the chill of Winter lay there. Signs of the approaching keep were clear. The road grew broader through use, but no deeper the ruts, showing Merewala’s care. The red clay under their feet began to rise, and this was sign to Gudmund that they leave it, take to the wood skirting the pastures that would soon lie before them.

  They did so. The Sun had passed its highest point in a day both clouded and chilly. They entered the trees on foot, pulling their mounts deep enough within the bare growth to be hidden from the village they now glimpsed through the screening branches. They could at times see folk about, digging up late turnips or skirrets, or working in their wattle-rimmed crofts. The houses within each were small, but sturdy-looking enough, and the number of sheep and cattle in the common pastures was beyond ready counting. On the far side of the road, and close to the fortress itself, a small pond lay, its grey surface shifting in the breeze that ruffled it. At times a dog barked, but none betrayed them by racing across the fields in discovery of those who made their slow progress through the trees.

  The palisade surrounding the hall and its buildings did indeed impress. It was twice the height of that of the fort of the coast-guard, a massive and blank face on the village. A doubled gate for entry sat at the end of the clay road they had abandoned. Those gates were closed.

  No warriors were about, either outside the gates or upon the parapet, but the fact the gates were shut in mid-day was proof of the wariness of those within. Still, the village folk went on at their daily tasks, unconcerned, so no warning of danger had been issued.

  They moved on, needing to draw their horses deeper into the trees to keep themselves hidden as they neared the side walls of the enclosing palisade. The ground dropped away, as if the back of the keep were set on a ledge of some kind. But before they retreated fully into the wood, Gudmund was able to point out the rising of ground just past this, where the door opening into the kitchen yard lay.

  Finding water was easy; a spring of some sort ran from the ledge Four Stones sat upon, and they followed it until it opened into a clearing large enough to admit them all. Much daylight was still in the sky, put to good use by four of them sent to fell and fetch a tree suited for use as the battering ram they would need upon the morrow. It was a young ash they chose. Lopping off the branches they left several carefully spaced and sturdy bough-ends as hand-holds to help in propelling the shaft forward and against the door.

  They lit no fire that night, as near as they were the risk of discovery was too great. They had boiled up barley that morning just for this reason, and now ate it, in cold and congealed lumps, as they made what all hoped was their final camp under the stars. Such a meal, eaten by men who know that some of their number would not live to see another dusk, is best enlivened by ale. This night the chill water of the spring was their only drink.

  Yrling had already detailed the plan to all. One third of them would set off, back through the trees in the morning, gain the road, and come at a gallop down it. The main body of his men would stay with him, at the keep’s rear, waiting to burst through the small kitchen yard door.

  The scheme had its hazards, particularly for those breaking in. No more than two could enter through the doorway at one time, making it far easier for his men to be picked off by warriors within. The breadth of the main gates would allow for as many as a rank of ten to enter, but Yrling did not feel Fate would favour them with the chance to cross over that broad threshold.

  Now Yrling would pick those men to lead the group riding through the village.

  “Toki. You and Bjarne will lead the men at the front gates. Stay well back, in the village, as if you seek only food stores. See if you can draw them out.”

  Leading this group was an honour objected to by Toki. “I want to be with you at the back, and gain entry first.”

  Yrling was not to be swayed. This nephew was rash, dangerously so.

  “Then we both run the risk of Odin speaking to you, and you disobeying my orders. And perhaps you will die this time because of it, by the hand of All-Father. Or my own.”

  This silenced Toki, though his eyes darted left and right along the circle of men he sat with. His gaze came to rest on Sidroc, who he knew would be part of the assault at the rear door. Sidroc’s eyes, a dark flint blue, met his cousin’s much brighter ones for an instant before turning back to their uncle. Sidroc had learnt much over the years from Yrling, and this single small decision was in his eyes a good one.

  Toki did not ken his own value as part of the decoy; his uncle saw this, as did Sidroc. Toki could be counted on to make great show of his sham attack, tearing down the road of pounded clay, waving his spear above his head, war-whoops ringing from his throat. It was the way he preferred to meet any enemy, calling as much attention to himself and the attack as possible. His uncle had found the perfect role for him.

  Yrling continued his directive to Toki and Bjarne. “If you can draw them out, get them to open the gates, then begin to run, so they give chase. The fewer within the keep when we enter, the quicker our work.”

  Yrling now addressed all.

  “This fortress will be well defended,” he noted.

  All Gudmund had told them seemed true, and after seeing the height of the palisade he had no reason to doubt any of what their lately joining brethren had said.

  “Once inside, secure the place.”

  The assurance with which he gave this simple order lay rooted in the confidence he held in the men gathered about him. The task would be difficult; they would achieve it.

  His thoughts moved on, beyond conquest to reward.

  “The princess of the hall, the daughter of Merewala – do not touch her. She will be my wife.”

  Some of the men’s eyes flicked through the gloaming towards the walls, unseen through the trees that sheltered them. Their war-chief’s pronouncement sealed it. This then would be the end of their many months’ wandering.

  “No fire,” Yrling went on. “Four Stones is mine. It is our home; Odin will make it so. And I will be Jarl.” He had been standing as he spoke, slowly pacing before his men as he thought.

  He stopped now, swept his eyes along the men he fronted. Then he lifted both arms into the air of the dimming day, and made his vow. “Odin will have an ox in Offering for his help.”

 
The pale streaks of a chilly dawn began to lighten the sky as the two parties set out.

  Toki, Bjarne, and the score with them moved off through the trees, to work their way back to the road from whence they would make their run at the village. Gizur too would be one of their number. He had proven he could aim from a cantering horse with a trueness almost matching that from a standstill.

  The others, more than sixty men strong, formed up by pairs. Six were chosen by Yrling to carry and wield the ash trunk which would batter down the door. As soon as it was breached Yrling and Sidroc would step through, followed by Asberg and Jari. Gudmund and his men would come on their heels. All others would follow, two by two, a doubled column which once inside must be ready for any obstacle, in a place entirely unknown to them.

  They crept out of the trees, working their way down the dropping grade behind the palisade, until they reached level ground and the small door Gudmund had told them of. It was stoutly built, strapped over with iron banding, with hinges safely on the inside to prevent tampering by any without. They gathered by it, those who would hoist the battering ram ready to lift it against its strength.

  From the other side they could just hear the sounds of the awakening kitchen yard, a muffled clatter of moving griddle pans, and a voice too, seemingly of an old woman, singing to herself, perhaps as she stood over the pot she stirred.

  They waited, it felt, a long time, though the slowness with which the sky lightened told them it was not. They must not act until Toki and Bjarne had drawn the warriors within to action.

  A horn sounded, in some mid-distance, a sharp and sudden rent in the dawn stillness. Outside and at the rear of the huge enclosure as they were, it was still unmistakable, and all snapped to attention at its summons. Yrling silently gestured that the men who had been reaching for the ash trunk leave off until he signalled. They must wait, not betraying their presence, behind the kitchen yard door. Only when they were certain the attentions of the warriors within were focussed on the threat to the village outside the front gates could they themselves act. Merewala’s warriors must be given enough time to be drawn away by the sham attack.

  The sounding of the horn alarmed all in the kitchen yard. In the silence that followed the woman who had been singing left off. Cries and gasps were heard. Yells rang out, the sudden movement of scraping metal. Doors slammed.

  They kept waiting, picturing the action within. As early as it was, all would be confusion inside; some just tumbling out of their alcoves when the horn alerted them.

  The horn again. This could be a rallying-call, a troop of men now ready to storm out the gates after those invaders in the midst of the village.

  “Now,” ordered Yrling. He and his chief men moved away from the door.

  Sidroc had time to turn to Jari and Asberg, who would be just behind him.

  “Fight well,” he told them, something they had before said as they headed into a contest. It was hope and blessing both.

  Sidroc’s sword was drawn and in his hand, that blade of blue steel from the thegn who had killed Une. He looked at Jari, spear in his left hand, blue-and-red shield on his right, the cat on it dancing in an endless circling dance. It took getting used to, seeing a man’s shield held in the right, just as the darting action of a spear point coming from the left could surprise you. Surprise always served a warrior well. Jari may have lost some fingers, but had gained this.

  Asberg too had chosen spear today. He had neither Sidroc’s height nor Jari’s size, but was blessed with a nimbleness of movement that made facing him as a spearman a daunting task. He had spent no little time sparring with Jari over the many weeks Jari had been reborn as a Tyr-hand.

  They nodded, each to each, all three; touched the rims of their shields together.

  The palisade loomed before them. The taking of this fortress would be their greatest challenge yet. Sidroc gave another look at the two. Any of them could die, or all. He felt moved to say one thing more.

  “If not this hall, then Asgard.”

  The eyes of the three again met. Those who would die would await their brothers there.

  Six pair of strong arms ran at speed with the heavy ram, colliding with the iron-strapped door. A recoil from the stoutness of the oak the door had been built with did not mask the sound of shattering wood; the door was old. It took one more attempt to pierce, great splinters bristling forth as the ram was withdrawn. Axes hewed away the boards, then reaching hands gripped and pulled what remained apart. A single board on the hinge side was left standing.

  Yrling and Sidroc leapt through, the others rushing in behind them.

  The cooking folk, alarmed by the warning from the palisade gates, had already taken up the tools of their trade as weapons. Now the invaders were in their very midst. A strong-armed cook held a butchery knife, the brawn in his arms showing he had full skill in using it. Bakers, both men and women, snatched at long and lethal oven pokers. Kitchen women used to stirring cauldrons of earthy vegetables and grain wielded long-handed ladles, toasting forks, and griddle pans. Slaves of the keep, hauling wood or scraping out cold ovens, stood open-mouthed, but reached for any stave of wood or piece of iron to defend themselves.

  The war troop ignored them, stopping only to down those who would impede their progress. Some folk ran in fear. Others showed defiant love of their hall and their lord, made clear in the way that they threw themselves in the path of the invaders, flung pots or burning brands of firewood at them. Men and women, free and slaves both, were swept down, falling in an upwelling of shrieks and oaths.

  Sidroc was aware that Jari and Asberg had moved up with him and Yrling to form a single line as they ran through the kitchen yard. With their spear points foremost his two friends were like the thrusting tusks of a boar, flanking uncle and nephew.

  Then Asberg staggered against Sidroc, almost tripping him. Yrling and Jari were slightly ahead and kept on running. Sidroc should go on too, keep pace with his uncle.

  He did not. He regained his balance, turned to see Asberg on his knees upon the ground. Just behind him Sidroc saw the cause of it. A simple stone, one that likely ringed the cooking fire, had been hurled, and with good aim. Asberg’s helmet was still on, but by the way he hung his head it was clear the missile had struck him there. Gaining on them was the cook with the long butchery knife, a blade as sure to kill a man as quarter a beast.

  Asberg was able to raise his head slightly, no more. Behind the iron openings of his helmet his eyes were dazed. “Stand, stand,” urged Sidroc, all he had time to say.

  The cook had lifted his arm above his shoulder, ready to fling the knife at the target of Asberg’s back. But before the man let fly the knife, Sidroc jumped behind the kneeling Asberg, to face the running cook. Bracing his shield arm before him the blade struck it low, its point puncturing the hardened leather cover and burying itself a little way into the alder wood of Sidroc’s shield. It hung there, vibrating, until Sidroc knocked it free with the flat of his sword.

  The cook got no further; Gudmund and his fellows were just behind. And the knife meant for Asberg’s back now lay on the pounded soil of the hall yard.

  Sidroc turned to Asberg, saw how he shook his head as if to clear it. “Come,” ordered Sidroc. Using his spear shaft as a staff Asberg rose to his feet. The butchery knife lay there, harmless, and there was a new mar in Sidroc’s shield of red-and-black. A bob of Asberg’s yellow head was all the thanks he could muster.

  They moved off together, through work yards filled with running warriors, shrieking women, and crying children. Yrling and Jari were just ahead, pausing to look left and right between buildings. They caught up to them there. The hall of Four Stones was on their left, easy to mark from its size and its rock walls. It was built part way up of blocks of creamy sandstone, capped with another floor of upright timber, upon which sat a roof thickly thatched. Just opposite it was a building of nearly equal size, all of timber, but sporting a roof of dull grey lead sheets, such had cr
owned the monk’s temple at Beardan. But the treasure of this building was its horses, for it was a stable-block, and a mass of men were clustered at its opened doors and by the adjoining paddock, saddling their mounts or swinging up upon them.

  Directly before them, past both hall and stable, stood the palisade. Its broad gates were wide open. They could see the parapet running above the gates, upon which men stood, looking out, and looking back at the disorder behind them.

  As Sidroc and Asberg gained the spot where Yrling and Jari stood the horn sounded a third time. This was a different note, doubtless calling back those men who had ridden after the village attackers.

  Yrling threw a look over his shoulder, left and right, to see his men filling in around him. They came from behind buildings great and small, skirting workshops, running, spears and swords foremost, along the inside of the great palisade, which had in places small structures built up against the planks of it. The confusion about them was great.

  The warriors of Merewala were dressed and equipped just as the thegns of the coast-guard and the defenders of the abbey had been. But they had been surprised by a doubled attack, one struck at dawn when many were still abed. The shock of the invading assault was everywhere apparent. Some of the defenders were still in the act of outfitting themselves, buckling on weapons belts, even pulling on shoes. Those first horsed had been sent after the invaders in the village, but now many more enemy warriors were amongst them, and in the fastness of the keep.

  The horn kept sounding the order of return, for through the gates a number of horsemen still in the village were seen to turn their mounts, only to be now pursued by those they had ridden out against.

  Of those clustered before the invaders one man stood out. He was at the mouth of the stable, in the act of placing his foot in the stirrup of a great chestnut-red horse. Other warriors were about him, all on good horses, but none matched the worth of the red stallion this man was mounting. The horse’s head was being held by a stable man, but it did not keep the beast from tossing its arched neck, and neighing in alarm at all about it.