Where are they? His eyes searched desperately through the shrouded, broken landscape.
There. He sagged with relief.
From between hulking shadows of sharp-edged boulders and dead trees, a distant light began to glitter. Torchlight, its sombre red glow twinkling merrily. Arnulf sighed with relief. He waved his torch over his head, left, right, and watched as the one out in the field responded in the same manner before it winked out. From beyond the fortress walls there came the faint howling of a pack of dogs.
Arnulf smiled faintly, and turned back toward the inner wall, heart sinking again. Specks of torch light were closing in on all sides on the other gatehouse. There was no way Hroga could keep holding off so many, but they needed to take the outer gatehouse if they were to succeed. He grit his teeth, decided.
‘Balarin,’ said Arnulf.
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘I must assist Hroga, Rebacht’s men pressure him too greatly and from all sides. Take five men and capture this gatehouse for our forces outside, it will be lightly defended now they are distracted by Hroga and will fall easily. You must hold this gatehouse at all costs, Balarin, or we will be caught between hammer and anvil should we fail.’
‘It will be done, Lord Arnulf.’
Arnulf nodded, and shot away into the dark with the five men left to him, the sounds of fighting breaking out behind them. They raced along the inner walkway, felling more reinforcements rushing to flank the men holding the inner gatehouse, the whole fortress beginning to come alive now. In the courtyard below, shadows pelted to and fro, screams and shouts came from the dark.
Arnulf thundered down the stairwell from the walkway with his men behind him, driving his blade through the back of a guardsman attacking a bulky figure sheltering beneath a broad, round shield.
‘Lord Arnulf!’ said Jorric, bloodstained face peering over the rim of his battered shield as his enemy rolled past him limply down the stairs.
‘Where is Hroga?’ said Arnulf, striding past.
‘Fighting for the gatehouse, my lord,’ Jorric answered. ‘It is ours for the time being, but more and more of them come from the keep and other places, it is like fighting against an anthill.’ Beyond him, sheltering on the stairwell, three Shield Brothers sat nursing wounds, their blood leaking steadily onto the stairs.
‘Worry not, brothers,’ Arnulf said as he passed, touching each upon their shoulder. ‘We are with you, and help comes soon.’ The injured men muttered their thanks. New recruits, each of them, their names he did not know yet, though he hoped his show of favour, and his bloodied gear, would inspire them to stay strong and fight on through their injuries.
‘Jorric, do what you can for them, we must hold this gatehouse until our men arrive – our survival, this entire assault, depends on it.’
Rising up from the further down, he could hear shouts, banging, clashing, ringing, thudding, screaming and crying. Leaving a man behind to hold the stairs, and sending another onward to secure the next flight, Arnulf and his last three men stormed down the passage, emerging into the gatehouse.
The stones of the floor within were slippery with blood. Dead guardsmen lay strewn about, hacked up and pierced through, a fallen Shield Brother amongst them slumped against the lowered portcullis and open gate. A small shield wall was formed of some fourteen men, Hroga in the centre, barring the outer passage of the gatehouse, as a throng of guardsmen pushed and shoved and stabbed at them desperately with spear and sword.
‘Hold the bastards! Hold!’ Hroga was shouting, shoulder braced against his shield, sword bloodied in his fist. Between their legs Arnulf saw a small pile of corpses bearing the guardsmen’s ochre surcoats. From the opposite stairwell came more sounds of combat.
Surrounded, Arnulf thought, the notion tasting bitter despite him having expected it at this point in the attack.
He ordered another man up the opposite stairwell to help with the defence there, and he, Balarin and the rest of their men threw themselves into the back of the shield wall. Hroga grunted grimly.
‘Persistent fuckers, my lord,’ he called back crudely to Arnulf. ‘It’s as though they don’t want us here.’
‘It would seem so!’ Arnulf shouted, stabbing over a Shield Brother at an exposed shoulder, a satisfying cry of pain resulting from someone beyond the shield wall. ‘Courage now, brothers! It is almost time! Hold them! Hold them!’
Spears and swords flashed and clanked and jarred against shield rims and over heads and clipped against helms and armoured shoulders, and the Dogs’ blades flashed out in answer, as their shields stayed locked against one another. The guardsmen were not trained for this kind of fighting and they threw themselves against the Dogs’ shields fruitlessly, receiving only wounds or death in return. There were many of them though, too many, Arnulf counting a quick forty or more from the heads he could see, and when they pressed forward as one their weight was considerable, making their wall move back slowly. The ground was slick with blood from the fallen, and more than one Shield Brother in the back found himself stumbling or slipping as they were inched backwards, bringing reproachful growls and encouragement from Arnulf, and Hroga.
Where are you, brothers? They should have been here by now, surely. From behind the front line of the shield wall Arnulf had a limited view of where the walls merged together. He had expected the men to be atop them now. Where were they? The sounds of fighting from the two stairwells behind them were fiercer now, the shrieks of death and mortal injury on every side. If the men on the stairs fell, or broke… it did not bare thinking about. They had to hold.
‘Somebody get the archers up on that fucking wall!’
The cry came from somewhere in the courtyard past the fighting men, authoritative sounding, a captain or knight left behind perhaps. More barked commands sounded instantly, and Arnulf felt dismay rear its head as men moved atop the walls, bows in hand. The guardsmen pulled back, forming up before them, shields raised.
Where are they? Have they deserted us? Has some evil befallen them? Where are they!
For a moment then he cursed himself sourly and thought he had finally led them astray, led them into their final folly, that this would be their farewell to the world – an utter, humiliating failure – as bow strings snapped and arrows whistled and clattered from the stones around them. A shout of pain came from a stairwell, and a Shield Brother came tumbling down to lay prone behind them, a broken shaft buried in his back. Another volley came, the men in the shield wall ducking heads behind shields, arrows thudding into them, some men shouting out in surprise as arrow heads managed to pierce the boards of their shields.
But then there came something else as they waited for the next volley to hit them. Shouts from atop the walls, the clash of weapons and screams. Bowstrings snapped again, but their shafts were aimed elsewhere.
‘The walls!’ that commanding voice rang out again. ‘To the walls, men! To the walls!’ The howling of dogs followed moments after.
Arnulf found himself smiling behind his shield. His spirit began to soar, despair uncoiling itself, slipping away silently.
‘Raise the portcullis!’ he roared, finding his voice. Two men broke away to work the winches. The chains of the portcullis rattled and clanked through their housings, the metal grille screeching as it withdrew upwards into the groove of its archway.
Dozens of men came streaming through the courtyard down from the walls, like thundering, mail-clad shades, their blades falling, shearing and cleaving as they crashed into the flank of the guardsmen still lurking before the shield wall. Red Harry was at their head, keeping true to his epithet, covered in blood from the feet up, roaring and screaming as he charged men down and hacked them to pieces, his sword gristly with clinging flesh.
‘Take the lead, Hroga,’ said Arnulf, eyes following the mayhem being unleashed upon Lord Rebacht’s men. Hroga nodded without turning.
‘Come on, lads,’ he roared, ‘Harry’s spread these whores’ legs for us, let’s give them a proper fucki
ng!’
They charged, smashing into the guardsmen’s side as they turned about to face Red Harry’s onslaught, shattering their formation and driving them back through the courtyard towards the keep. Arnulf leapt and cleared ochre-coloured shapes crumpled and strewn over the stones of the courtyard, sword plunging into retreating backs or cutting down those who tried to stand and fight.
The thrill of the fight ran thickly in him, heightened his senses, sharpened every movement, made him feel unstoppable. The turning of the tide brought him forward, coursing on waves of sheer fury, delight and rabid bloodletting, his whole body aflame with the exuberance of the moment, the sight of his enemy breaking before him. This was his moment, his vengeance, his due long denied. Deorwin Marreburg had escaped him this year, Thegnmere overrun before his plans came to fruition. That fact had burned in him virulently, galled him endlessly, a sour feeling so deep and sharp at the edges it felt as though it scraped against his very bones at times. But now – now, this was his time – their time, for the day would be won by the hands and hearts of his men. King Aenwald would learn what it was to suffer a true injustice when news reached him of his cousin’s unseating as Lord of the Valley of Dead Kings.
Serjeants were barking orders at their retreating men, trying to keep some semblance of order as they fell back towards the keep, the rushing Dogs over taking their stragglers and killing them where they stood. Arnulf could see men swarming atop the walls, black-clad, mail glinting, hauling themselves over the battlements where grappling hooks were nestled securely.
Blades flashed in the moonlight, and archers tumbled from the walls to land with wet crunches on the stones of the courtyard, arrows whistling overhead and arcing uselessly into darkness. Farther away, near the keep, a knight in plate armour stood beckoning and urging his men through the arching doorway that led to a grand hall. His ochre surcoat was ripped and slashed in places from sword blows, the black tower of House Rebacht half-hidden beneath a torn fold of cloth.
‘Inside! Inside, you fuckwits!’ he was roaring, shoving men violently through the doors as they passed, gleaming longsword clutched in gauntleted fist. ‘Fall back to the keep!’ Arnulf recognised the authoritative voice from before.
‘Kill the knight!’ Arnulf’s order made the tide of black-clad men ebb and twist towards the warrior gleaming silver and red in moon and torchlight. Two Shield Brothers stomped ahead of the main charge, and he strode forward, trading blows with both, parrying and sidestepping their attacks artfully despite his heavy armour, his practiced movements speaking of deadly skill. A thrust beneath the arm and into the heart felled the first Shield Brother in an instant, a slash to the neck taking the next on a counter-stroke. The two Dogs trailed red as they fell, the sight of their blood driving Arnulf’s frenzy to a burning climax.
He charged ahead of his men, murder in his throat as he roared wordlessly. The knight looked up from the fallen Shield Brothers, eyes round beneath a lifted visor as he caught sight of Arnulf’s bloodstained form bearing down on him. He turned and fled into the safety of the keep, shouting, ‘Seal the fucking entrance you worms!’ and leaving the last few straggling guardsmen outside to die.
Arnulf threw himself against the heavy oak of the right hand door as they slowly swung to close, bouncing from it with a grunt, but halting the momentum behind it enough to let his men catch up and throw their shoulders against it in turn, holding it open. A hand dragged him up from the ground, and Ceagga’s voice greeted him as he stood. ‘Apologies for the delay, my lord!’ He smiled, teeth white beneath his shadowed helm.
‘I expect you have good reason?’ Arnulf grunted, resting his sword upon his shoulder.
‘Our men proved less than expert with the grapples when we reached the walls, my lord,’ Ceagga answered, smiling vaguely, ‘and the stonefields which we hid amongst proved treacherous to navigate in the dark, not having torches to light our way lest we betray our presence. They are loose underfoot, a good twenty or more men are back in the camp with broken ankles.’
‘And no doubt mourning their lost glory,’ Arnulf chimed with a barking laugh. ‘What a victory this will be! We have them trapped like rats in their keep, Ceagga.’ He pointed with his sword to the keep’s entrance, where more of the Dogs were joining to push the doors open, a battle of strength and will raging now that swords had fallen silent. ‘Give the word, I want those doors open, and open now, Ceagga, the Shield falls tonight.’
More of their men came streaming into the courtyard from the inner gatehouse as Ceagga moved on, Balarin at their head, eliminating some minor pockets of resistance along the way as a few of Rebacht’s guardsmen emerged from hiding places. Arnulf clasped hands with Balarin briefly as he approached, the two of them exchanging a familiar nod, glad to see each other unharmed.
‘Good work, brother,’ Arnulf said, ‘make ready your men for the final push, this will soon be over.’
‘At once, Lord Arnulf.’
A sea of black bodies was soon working against the doors of the keep, shield wall strengthened legs heaving and shoulders shoving as one while Arnulf looked on, Ceagga roaring out the rhythm for the men to follow.
The gap between the doors widened after a short struggle, and Arnulf ordered men sent into it with shields raised. Like a spearhead they burst inwards, splitting the defenders down the middle, the doors lurching and then flinging open with an echoing crash that rumbled through the night.
The Blackshield Dogs stormed into the keep’s great hall, spilling blood that glistened black under the ruddy glow of brazier and candle. It was butchery they unleashed, and Arnulf stumbled over cleaved heads and diced limbs and piles of meat that were once men moments before. But at the forefront of the fight, near the foot of tall stairs made of dark stone, where the battle raged most fierce, stood that knight in bloodied plate, sword swinging, jabbing, thrusting and piercing. The remnants of the fortress’s defenders stood stoic at his side, shields and spears protecting his flanks. They shoved back inexperienced new bloods, making them duck behind their own shields to avoid snapping spearheads and the knight’s deadly blade. More than one black body lay slumped about them, some twitched as they died, some crawled away.
Arnulf lost control at the sight of it.
He crashed through the room, time seeming to slow as he neared his mark. He felt himself roar, though his ears were deaf to the sound, the force of his cry vibrating through him. Through a red shroud of mist the knight ahead stayed clear, shining though drenched and crusted with gore, the spearmen at his sides blurred, dull shapes framing a bright target. The knight pulled his blade from the ribs of a Shield Brother and slowly turned to face him, visor lifted, eyes widening again. He readied himself, stance strong and telling of his preference for the hand-and-a-half sword.
The knight’s slash was a feint to the legs, sweeping wide to come back around and strike through the shoulder on the opposite side, a technique requiring nimble footwork to pivot around an opponent properly so the stroke would land clean. Such a blow had felled several Shield Brothers already.
The knight’s blade met his own in an overhand parry, the feint failing, and Arnulf saw those eyes widen for the final time, a moment before the boss of his shield struck the man square in the face through his open visor with a backhand blow.
The knight hit the floor with a rattling clang, nose flattened and front teeth shattered, eyes vacant and hands fumbling mindlessly as Arnulf stood over him, and plunged his sword down into that open, red mouth.
As the knight died choking upon tempered steel, Arnulf’s vision and hearing cleared, bloodlust receding, his chest burning from exertion as he drew ragged breaths. He looked up and saw Rebacht’s last few men backing away from him, shields and spears at the ready, edging their way up the stairs.
The fighting was over now, and the only sounds were those of footsteps and of the dying or wounded. The Blackshield Dogs closed ranks, advancing on the stairs as one towards the twenty or so men that still stood against them.
‘It is done,’ Arnulf gasped, voice echoing across the cavernous stone hall as he narrowed his eyes at the leaderless men, freezing them where they stood. ‘You have lost. The battle is over and the Shield is now ours, the Blackshield Dogs’. You fought bravely, each of you – throw down your arms and I will let you leave this place with your lives. There is no hope left for you if you choose to fight, and you will not be spared, though you will find glory and honour in such a death. Go home to your wives, men of the Shield, there is nothing more for you to fight for.’
He pulled his sword from the knight’s face with a wet, gritty sucking sound and cast his gaze back at the spearmen. They each flinched in turn as his eyes fell upon them, and Arnulf let it linger longest upon those who stood most defiantly until they too broke down before it, the sounds of spears and shields rattling as they were dropped in surrender.
The Blackshield Dogs gave a cheer that seemed to shake the keep itself. Men embraced one another, grasped hands and swore fresh oaths, and a chant began from near the furthest of their ranks that spread and grew into a raw-throated roar as every man still standing took to it as one, Black Dog.
Arnulf could not help but smile as he realised they chanted for him, mounting the steps slowly, a great weariness suddenly upon him. He stepped upon the landing where Rebacht’s men waited with their shoulders and faces sagged in defeat, some clutching at wounds. He passed through them, their centre breaking for him like water cleaved by a ship’s keel, and turned to face his men, reddened sword resting on his shoulder. He raised his arm for silence, shield still upon it.
‘I promised you victory,’ he spoke with hoarse voice, ‘and victory you have.’ Another cheer, the chant starting up again. Arnulf bowed his head to them humbly, the sound bouncing from the keep’s stone walls, the echoes seeming to add a thousand voices to the hundreds already there. He quietened them again.
The Shadow of the High King Page 40