Forged by Iron

by Eric Schumacher

  “Can we trust him?” Egil asked.

  “No,” answered Olaf, “but we have some insurance against his lies. His family sits in the other ship.”

  “We rest here today and plan,” Lord Sigurd concluded firmly. “Tomorrow, we hunt.”

  Chapter 28

  It was late morning by the time we angled into the bay. The weather had turned during the night and the clouds hung low and heavy over the rolling sea, partially shrouding the hill that climbed from the water on the far side of the deep inlet — a hill our captor, Juhan, identified as Viltina. Our destination.

  I could see torches flickering on the crest of that place and felt my stomach tighten. According to Juhan, Viltina was a sacred meeting place and a burial ground, where for generations the Estlanders in this region had buried their chieftains. On the far side of the hill, beyond our sight, was a small harbor, and beyond that, inland, was a place known as Linnamae pold, which in the Est tongue meant hill-fort field. It was there, in a circle fort on a hill, that Klerkon housed his warriors and their families. Our mission was to draw Klerkon from his lair, if he was there at all.

  The plan was simple. We were to approach Viltina in the knarr, disguised as traders, and take the sacred hill. On our signal, Sigurd's longships would then come behind us and find anchorages on the bay side of Viltina, out of sight of the fort. If we managed to draw Klerkon out, it would then be a race to our ships with the hope that Klerkon would follow.

  “Why do we not just take and hold the hill and let Klerkon come to us?” I asked.

  Sigurd frowned at me. “And give Klerkon time to plan and gather support from his neighbors? We have not the men to last in a battle of that sort, even if we stand on a hill. We need to provoke him so that he comes quickly. And we need to make him believe he can capture us.”

  Olaf stood near the prow of the knarr, Lord Sigurd at the steer board. At the oars rowed twelve of Sigurd's trusted Rus, six to a side. They were dressed as simple traders, though they carried swords and axes and seaxes on their belts. Raban, Sigdag, Turid, Egil, and I sat in the middle of the ship dressed as thralls, though each of us kept a weapon close to hand. It was not hard for us to look the part. We were the bait — the items to be traded. From my spot at the mast, I looked at Olaf, who must have felt my gaze upon his back because he turned and smiled his mischievous smile at me. It was meant to reassure me, but it twisted my stomach even more. I had seen that grin too many times to believe something good might come of it.

  As our knarr drew closer to Viltina, warriors gathered on the hilltop, their spears and cloaks silhouetted by the flames. Below them, the sea rumbled and exploded as it crashed on a line of jagged rocks. Sigurd adjusted our approach, angling around the hill toward the place where we knew the harbor to lay.

  The warriors trailed us as we rowed along their shore. One ran off, and I knew he headed to Klerkon's fort to alert the bastard of our presence. Several others marched down a narrow trail in the direction of a jetty that, like the hilltop, danced eerily in the glow of firelight. As we passed the jetty, a small dock with room enough for two ships came into view.

  “Portside oars!” Olaf called, and the men on that side of the ship dug their oar blades into the sea as Sigurd pulled on the steer board. The ship pitched to port and glided toward the old dock, where four warriors now waited. Each carried a sword as well as a spear, but wore no armor or helm. They would regret that, I thought. Behind them, farther up the hill, stood two more warriors.

  Olaf raised his hand, and the oarsmen back-rowed the knarr to a halt ten paces from the end of the dock.

  “Greetings!” called Olaf in the Est tongue.

  “Who are you?” called a dark-haired man from the head of the small group. “What is your business here?”

  “We have heard that there is a renowned slaver in this area and we have wares for sale,” Olaf called back, motioning toward us “thralls” as he did so.

  “You are familiar. Have we met before?”

  “It is possible,” replied Olaf casually. “We are Estlanders, like you, and come from the mainland. We do not often trade in the islands but do so from time to time when we have goods to sell.” Olaf shrugged. “May we dock? It has been a long journey, and I, for one, yearn for the feel of land beneath my feet.”

  The Estland leader studied Olaf, mayhap detecting a small accent in his speech, then raked his gaze over us until his eyes found Sigurd. Finally, he turned his attention back to Olaf. “I find it strange for a man so young to command a ship and crew.”

  I held my breath, but swift-minded Olaf did not hesitate. “Oh, I do not command here. My father does,” he said, indicating Sigurd. “Long ago, the Rus took his tongue. I merely do the speaking for him.”

  The man hesitated for a long moment, then, finally, nodded. “Come ashore. We have sent for our lord. He shall be here soon.”

  “That is music to my ears,” called Olaf. “We hope to make short business of this and be on our way.” He motioned to the crew. “To the dock.” He waved us forward.

  The crew tossed our lines to the Estland warriors, who moved to tie them off on the pilings. It was then that our men struck. Olaf leaped from the foredeck, his sword hacking into the back of one of the men attending the lines. As he swung around to face another of the Estland spearmen, one of the Rus warriors sliced through the leg of the leader, who had come to peer over the gunwale into our ship. The leader fell screaming to the dock, where a sword thrust finished him. Another of the Rus hacked into the stomach of a third warrior before he could drop the line in his hand and parry with his spear. The fourth man, standing nearest Olaf, reacted quickly to the threat. He jabbed his spear at Olaf's chest, but Olaf thwarted it with his sword. Before the man could strike again, another of the Rus stabbed the Estlander in the back.

  It was over before the Estlanders had time to scream their warning, but it mattered little — the two men on the hill had seen the skirmish and were now sprinting for the safety of the fort.

  “Olaf! Go!” called Sigurd.

  “Torgil! Turid! Come!” Olaf waved to us, and we scrambled up onto the gore-slickened deck and over the Estland corpses. I felt my legs wobble as we reached land but pushed through the sudden vertigo as I followed Olaf up the trail to the hilltop. I could hear Turid's footfalls and breathing behind me, but dared not look for fear of tripping on one of the many stones that dotted the path.

  Cresting the hill, I gazed quickly around me. Hissing torches encircled the entire hilltop and the myriad grave mounds that lay upon it. I put the graves from my mind and cast my gaze about the place, looking for defenders but finding none. We sprinted to the far side of the hill, where we could look out upon the bay and the sea beyond. Though the clouds still hung low, I could just see the dragon ships near the bay's entrance. I hoped that they could see us too.

  Olaf grabbed one of the torches and waved it side to side above his head. I, on the other hand, tossed one the torches down the hill toward the sea in the hopes that the men aboard the dragon ships would see the streaking flame and understand its meaning. A long blast on a battle horn carried to us from across the waves, and I hollered with delight. They had seen our signal.

  “Torgil,” Olaf commanded, “get to the other side of the hill and watch for Klerkon. Call to me when you see him coming. Take Turid with you.”

  The two of us sprinted to the inland side of the hill, dodging gravestones and leaping grave mounds as we went. Once there, we peered inland, spotting the fort in an instant. It was some three long arrow flights from our position —- closer than I expected.

  The circle fort sat on the flat crest of another hill. Within its circular palisade huddled dozens of thatched rooftops. Below it, to the west and south, the landscape was lined with fields and dotted with dwellings of various sizes. To the east, the bay on which we had sailed narrowed into a finger of water that snaked around the hill fort and disappeared inland. Two large ships lay on the beach beside the waterway, and it was there that a
throng of men had begun to gather. More men streamed from the dwellings and fort, called to service by the repeated blast of another horn. Even from this distance, I could see their weapons and shields and knew this would be no easy battle.

  “There!” Turid said between heavy breaths, pointing to a large man near the ships around which others gathered.

  I, too, was panting. “Aye,” I confirmed. “There's the bastard himself.”

  “Should we call to Olaf?” she asked.

  “Not yet. Let us see them move the ships into the water, and make sure that Klerkon is with them.”

  In the end, we need not have waited, for they did what Sigurd had expected them to do and pushed one of the large ships into the water. As the men clambered aboard behind their leader, I nudged Turid. “Time to go.” Raising my voice, I called to Olaf. “Klerkon comes! Back to the ship! Make haste!”

  He waved at me in confirmation, yet I still watched until I saw him move back down the trail. I knew him too well and did not believe he would stick to the plan. It was only when I saw him gain the dock that I raced after them. Turid had reached the dock as well and she called for me to hurry.

  I ran as quickly as my feet could carry me. With myriad protruding stones and roots, it was not an easy path to run, made all the more difficult by Klerkon's ship, which I saw off to my left, coming toward us. On the dock, the crew had untied the knarr and were yelling for me to hurry. I pounded onto the dock, my breath heavy in my ear.

  “Come on!” cried Olaf from his post in the knarr's prow.

  I was five strides from the knar when crew pulled the ropes into the ship and pushed off. I leaped as it glided from its berth and landed hard on the packed deck, crashing into an oarsman as I landed. With a bellowed curse, he tumbled from the sea chest that served as his bench and collided with the steer board gunwale.

  “Get him up and rowing!” Sigurd bellowed from the steer board.

  Raban grabbed the oar from the man's hands and righted the sea chest while Egil yanked the man back into his place by his collar. I hauled myself over to the mast, doing my best to get out of the way as the oarsmen pulled our knarr about and pointed it in the direction of the sea.

  “Pull, you louts! Pull!” roared Sigurd.

  The oarsmen heaved on their oars, and we gained speed, albeit slowly, for the wind and tides were against us and knarrs are wider and slower than their sleek fighting sisters, the dragon ships. I stood and ventured a glance past Sigurd, back toward Klerkon's ship. To my alarm, his vessel had gained distance and was no more than two arrow flights from us. I looked in the opposite direction and saw our own dragon ships carving the sea under sail, coming fast, but still some distance off.

  And in that instant, I knew that Klerkon would reach us first.

  Chapter 29

  We did not make it much farther.

  In thirty strokes, Klerkon's ship had closed the distance, its prow beast now only a stone's throw from our small knarr. Our own dragon ships were still some distance off but coming fast. Estland warriors had gathered in the foredeck, yelling their jeers and curses so that the air reverberated with their calls. A few had bows, and they loosed their missiles at us as we rowed, though the rolling seas threw off their aim so that only a few came close to a victim.

  Lord Sigurd made up his mind quickly. He raised the horn at his neck and blew a long blast into it, then he called out to us, “Let us give these ass-lickers something to remember! Hold tight!”

  Olaf shouted the command for the benefit of those who did not speak the Northern tongue, but I was already on the move, clutching the mast with one arm and Turid with the other. Egil, Raban, and Sigdag gripped whatever stationary thing they could find.

  Sigurd did not wait to see to our safety. “On my command!” he shouted, then waited for the dragon to close on us. He was waiting for the warship to commit to a side, for it would attack broadside either on our port or steer board wale. As soon as he saw its prow move to our steer board, he roared, “Steer board, dig in! Port side, oars up!” He waited for a heartbeat. “Now!” he bellowed.

  Our knarr pitched dangerously as our oarsmen followed their leader's command and strained against the whirling momentum of the ship. Loose items skittered across the deck, some flipping over the wale and splashing into the cold sea, which lay not a hand's width from our steer board wale. The oarsmen on the port side held fast to the port wale, their oars momentarily forgotten and clattering in their oarlocks. A collective howl rolled from our lips as our knarr careened almost fully, then suddenly righted itself, landing broadside to Klerkon's approach.

  On the aft deck, Sigurd held fast to a line with one hand and to the steer board with the other. “Shields!” he thundered, and those crewmen on the steer board side pulled their shields from the shield rack.

  If there had been time, I would have muttered a prayer or scampered from the mast, but there was not. Klerkon's ship was no more than two ships' lengths distant, its prow beast towering above our craft and coming fast. Had Klerkon not veered right or left, his ship would have sliced our knarr in two, but in the slicing, the timber of his own ship would have crumbled. He must have known the danger, for he frantically waved his vessel off so that it passed not an oar's length from our stern. The Estlanders in the prow of his ship grabbed hastily for the wale or else stumbled backward with the force of the sudden change. Those oarsmen not quick enough to hold fast to something slid from their sea chests and rolled across the deck. Like Sigurd, Klerkon eventually righted his dragon, but not before it had sailed several lengths past us.

  “Port side —- row! Steer board —- back row! Come about. Quick now,” called Sigurd. For all of its clumsiness, a knarr is smaller than a large dragon, and this Sigurd used to our advantage. He brought the vessel around so that we now followed in Klerkon's wake.

  “Row, men! Row!” Sigurd urged. “After them!”

  Ahead of Klerkon's ship, our two dragons came quickly. I smiled at Klerkon's predicament, for our ships would press him from fore and aft, and he would be forced to fight on two fronts. But the wily bastard did not panic. He shouted a command that was lost in the breeze. His men drove their oar blades into the sea, then rowed in the opposite direction. Back toward us. My smile evaporated, for it was clear what Klerkon intended. He had seen the two dragons and knew this was a trap. His best hope was to return to his fort.

  “Port oars, pull! Steer board oars, back row,” Sigurd called.

  Slowly, our knarr turned broadside to the oncoming prow of Klerkon's ship and blocked its path. I looked at Sigurd, wondering what he intended, but his stony gaze told me all I needed to know: he would not let Klerkon escape.

  Klerkon's ship had picked up speed, and now he was left with a choice: ram our knarr, and possibly sink his own ship in the process, or try to evade once again. His portside oars lifted from the sea and his dragon ship tilted and turned in an attempt to skirt astern of us.

  “Back row!” roared Sigurd.

  The Rus crewmen dug their oars into the waves and pulled.

  “Brace yourselves!”

  With the sickening crunch of splintering wood, our knarr crashed into the hull of Klerkon's dragon as it tried to slip past our stern. The force of the collision spun our vessel broadside into the port wale of the warship, smashing oars and throwing men from their sea chests on both ships. Klerkon's ship tilted violently, then rolled back to port. Our own ship listed to port, and a wave of seawater splashed across our deck. We “thralls” clung to anything we could find, though still Sigdag and Egil slid across the deck into the port wale of our knarr, tangling with two Rus warriors there. At the stern, Sigurd hugged the steer board to keep from losing his feet.

  “To arms!” he shouted into the chaos.

  With surprising speed, the Rus hauled themselves to their feet, yanked shields from the racks, and slid blades from scabbards. Sigurd joined their ranks as they gathered amidships. I drew my own sword, hefted my shield, and formed up with my fellows behind the Rus.
I would have liked to have looked into their faces and offered a last word of encouragement, but things were happening too quickly and my thoughts were too scattered.

  Before us, Klerkon's men had recovered from the shock of the collision and were gathering themselves. Several of them hastily tossed their spears, but the weapons either sailed overhead or missed their targets. Up in the foredeck, Olaf hollered curses at them and brandished his blade. A few of Klerkon's men aimed their bows at him and loosed their arrows. Two missiles thudded into Olaf's raised shield. Two more streaked by his body. Another slammed into the prow near his head. “Your men are blind, Klerkon!” Olaf crowed. “My dead father can shoot better than that!”

  I would have liked to haul my foolish charge from the foredeck, but I knew I could not reach him and so I left him to his fate. “Stay together!” I called to my friends. “Do not let them separate us.”

  “Back to your oars!” Klerkon called to his men. “Back, you louts!” He knew he could not engage, that doing so would expose him to our oncoming warships. But his men did not listen. Their arrows pounded into our shields, followed closely by their spears and their cries for blood. Something whizzed by my ear, and I ducked involuntarily. Something else slammed into my shield. I thought it was a spear until I saw one of Sigurd's warriors fall at my feet, an arrow protruding from his forehead.

  Klerkon's men poured over his gunwale, leaping the distance between our decks and slamming into our meager group of defenders. Some of the Rus caught the attackers mid-leap on their spear points. Others, they hacked as soon as they landed. I saw Sigurd sidestep a spear thrust, then spin and slice his blade across the spearman's face.

  The sheer mass of warriors coming against us drove our men backward. Order evaporated. Over the chaos floated Klerkon's futile orders to return to the ship. Before me, a Rus warrior stumbled backward as an axe smashed his shield rim. The axe wielder was a giant of a man, but I did not hesitate. As he lifted his blade to strike again, I thrust my sword into the man's exposed armpit, then yanked it free. He turned to me — surprised, I suppose, to find me there — then died as the Rus warrior took his head.