Foreworld Saga 01 SideQuest Adventures No. 1 The lion in chains, the beast of Calarrava, the shield maiden

by HISTORY Stephenson, Neal

  Kjallak’s expression grew thoughtful, and Halldor laid a hand on the other man’s shoulder and shook his head slightly. “Danes?” he asked Grimhildr, keeping everyone’s attention on the present concern.

  “Danes,” Grimhildr said. She turned to Sigrid, who had fallen mute after her first question. “Gather the Sworn Men,” she said. “Get them in their gear.” She looked at Kjallak. “If we wait too long, they’ll fire the town before they march on the hold. We can probably drive them off, but losing the fishing village at this time is dangerous. If I’m wrong, the men will get some exercise and training.” She grinned wolfishly. “They don’t get enough exercise, in my opinion.”

  The door to the Jarl’s quarters creaked open, and Pettir slipped into the hall. He appeared to have aged in the last hour: his hair hung around his face, lank and colorless; his skin was pale, covered with a sheen of sweat. “Three ships,” he said, speaking to Grimhildr. “She talks in her sleep. Three ships. Wolves on the beach. And fire; everything is on fire.”

  “Go,” Grimhildr hissed at Sigrid, who had not torn herself away. The tall skjölmdo shrugged, as if stirring herself from a bad dream, and hurried off to assemble the Sworn Men.

  After making sure the runners knew the message she wanted them to carry, Sigrid hurried to her own sleeping closet to dress for battle. She quickly changed into a pair of heavy woolen trews and short, knotted wool socks, then bound the trousers tight around her lower legs with winengas, long strips of woolen fabric that protected her lower legs against thorns and brush.

  Slipping out of her tunic, she shrugged into her heavy, quilted armor-cote and maille. The maille, fifteen pounds of flat riveted iron rings, each the size of her fingernail, was tricky to slip into but well worth the effort; it could stop arrows and turn any but the heaviest cuts. It covered her from shoulder to mid-thigh and protected her upper arms with demi-sleeves. She raised her arms, and Cem, who had appeared out of nowhere while she had been struggling to get her maille on, pulled tight the lacings that held the armor snug to Sigrid’s body.

  That done, she allowed the girl to sling her belt with the sheathed saex knife around her hips and buckle it. Slinging the baldric that carried her langsaex about her, she settled the weapon in place below her left arm, took up her hewing spear, and strode quickly out of the longhouse.

  The half dozen Sworn Men not manning the palisade or gates were assembled in the yard. Their equipment was by no means uniform, but each wore a helmet or spangenhelm and carried a round shield and a spear. Some also bore hand axes or langsaexes, and two—Äke and Thorbjorn—wore long, double-edged swords at their sides.

  Grimhildr stood with the Sworn Men, resplendent in her war harness. Her maille shirt had full sleeves and hung to her knees. Her knees and lower legs were protected by iron greaves, and her spangenhelm had a full aventail of maille protecting her neck and throat. Like Sigrid, she had a hewing spear in one hand and a round shield slung across her back.

  Pettir emerged from the longhouse, and as he reached the yard, he was joined by the Holmgard, a militia of able-bodied men who had been in attendance at the blöt. They were armed with whatever they had brought with them—langsaex or spear—though each did have a round shield and an iron helmet with a nasal guard from Pettir’s stores. While they were individually responsible for the defense of their own land-holds, it was the Jarl’s responsibility to see them adequately armored when they fought on his behalf.

  The smell of dust, oiled steel, leather, and humanity filled the yard, and Sigrid frowned as she made a quick count of their forces. Not counting the Shield-Brethren and the men they must leave to defend the hold, their number was less than forty. Her breath hitched in her chest as she considered how many Danes three longships could carry.

  They could be outnumbered several times over.

  Her father spent little time galvanizing the men. They still had to march to the village, and there might not be any Danish invaders. There was no reason to get the men more excited or nervous than they already were. There would be time enough for all that if it came to fighting. With a shout, he signaled for the gates in the palisade to be opened, and the company set out with the Sworn Men and the Shield-Brethren leading the way. The Shield-Brethren marched in two ranks of six behind Kjallak and Halldor, while the Jarl’s men moved in loose order, strung out along the road. They moved quietly enough, with little talking among themselves. The loudest sounds came from the tramp of their feet on the hard-packed road and the rustle and scrape of their gear.

  Sigrid was assailed by a mix of contradictory emotions. On the one hand she was filled with a fierce elation: she was finally to put her long training to the test—marching and fighting with the Sworn Men as an equal! On the other hand, her stomach churned, twisting and biting as if she had a beast in her belly. Am I afraid to die? she wondered at first, but she dismissed that thought readily enough. If she fell in battle, she would dine in the halls of the All-Father. What, then, was it? As she looked at the other faces around her, seeing similar lines of apprehension and concern etched in sweat-slicked skin, she realized these were her kin. Not all of them were blood, but they were family. She had grown up with most of them, and if there was to be battle, some of them would not return home. Fighting bravely in battle was one thing, but she did not want to disappoint any of her comrades. Or her father. Could she strike a blow that would end a man’s life?

  Fighting in the yard with the others was dangerous—accidents could, and did, happen—but it was not the same thing as earnest battle. Her aunt had assured her time and again that, in the heat of battle, her training would take hold and she would strike without conscious thought.

  So be it, she thought. That was the purpose of training. She would either act or not. The rest was up to the gods.

  Sigrid exhaled, letting go of the breath she had been holding, and her stomach unknotted. She was skjölmdo. She was ready.

  As they neared the village, they began to pass women and older men laden with household goods herding their young children before them. A rider had been sent ahead to warn the villagers, for while the Danes would usually spare the women and children, they did not always, and regardless, they took slaves as often as not.

  The moon was still in the sky, and its pale light allowed the Jarl’s party of warriors to look upon the village as they approached. The village was not walled, though there was a berm of rammed earth surrounding the landward sides. Halldor counted a dozen cottages strung out along the shore, several wall-less sheds, and a long and low shape festooned with fishing nets hanging from the eaves. He surmised it was a smokehouse, shared by all the villagers. Bobbing offshore were tiny shapes that seemed to be floating erratically, and he realized they were the town’s fishing boats, put to sea so as to keep them safe should the Danes set fire to the cottages. In the distance, he could see the slender shape of one boat that remained on the beach—their karvi, still needing work done.

  Houses could be rebuilt, as could boats. But the villagers would need means to catch food more than they would need roofs over their heads. Halldor recognized the brutal simplicity of their thinking; his own family had done the same once upon a time.

  A small group of men approached, several of them holding torches. They were not enough of a war party to concern the Shield-Brethren or the Jarl’s Sworn Men, and as they got closer, Halldor could make out details of their gear. They wore helmets of leather or iron and carried axes and spears. It was a meager force, but Halldor knew their hearts would be strong. This was their home.

  “What news, Byrghir?” the Jarl called out as the villagers reached the berm. He spoke to the man most likely to be the leader of the small community.

  “Jarl Pettir,” Byrghir replied, after making an effort to bow. “I sent sharp-eyed and fleet-footed boys to see what could be seen. They have spotted four boats, no more than two miles up the coast from this cove.”

  “Four,” Kjallak muttered, shaking his head.

  “Grim odds, Kja
llak,” Grimhildr said, voicing what was on their minds. Her teeth flashed in the moonlight. “That many could march on the hold if they so desired.”

  Pettir motioned to Kjallak and Grimhildr, and the pair joined him on the other side of the berm to talk with the villagers. Their conference was hushed, though the Jarl tended to gesticulate with his hands as he spoke while Kjallak and Grimhildr were less expressive but no less intense in their discourse.

  “Four?” Sigrid asked, wandering up next to Halldor.

  “Maybe as many as one hundred men,” he said.

  Sigrid made a tiny noise in her throat, and Halldor could not blame her. He felt confident that he, Kjallak, and the other Shield-Brethren could account well for themselves, but at what cost?

  “Are they discussing abandoning the village?” Sigrid asked, swallowing heavily and jerking her chin toward the huddled conference.

  “Perhaps,” Halldor said, thinking that such a plan was very likely under consideration. On the other hand, a strong show of force at the village might send the Danes scurrying back to their boats. They were avikinga—seeking profit, pure and simple; if the cost looked to be too dear, they would seek easier plunder elsewhere. They would find the village was already alerted to their presence, which meant the choicest slaves might have already been taken inland. Though, if the Danes were desperate for supplies, they might fight, regardless.

  “If we stand and fight—and they break us—they’ll make for the hold,” Sigrid said, echoing the same thoughts that were running through his head. It was prebattle chatter, idle talk that served to keep other—grimmer—thoughts at bay. “A much riper prize than the village.”

  “The only prize,” Halldor said.

  “Aye,” she agreed. “Even if my father gave up the village, what would it offer to the Danes? The boats are gone; the fishermen are safe. There is nothing here but scraps and timber.” She looked at Halldor, her face suddenly pinched. “Your boat,” she said, nodding at the long, slender silhouette.

  Halldor shrugged. “Hopefully it will be spared, but it is of little use to us now in any event.”

  He squinted in the torchlight, trying to discern Kjallak’s mood in the dim light. The Jarl had told Kjallak that this fight was not theirs, and he would understand if the Shield-Brethren decided to not take part in it. But until their boat was fixed or they found mounts for all his brothers, they were bound to this land. If the Danes overran it, their chances of reaching Visby would be greatly diminished.

  And besides—it was the right thing to do.

  FIVE

  A decision was soon reached, and the trio returned to the host. Kjallak nodded to Halldor, a subtle signal that Sigrid did not follow, and with a few gestures, Halldor informed the other Shield-Brethren of the plan. They melted off the road, vanishing quickly into the shadows cast by the trees. He and Kjallak went last, and Halldor hesitated a moment longer to glance at her. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but he tapped the hand holding his spear against his chest instead. She replied in kind—two warriors wishing strength of heart and hand to the other.

  “We stand here,” Pettir yelled, expressing his intention to the Sworn Men and the Holmgard. The gathered men answered with upthrust weapons and a mighty bellow. Hearing the sound, the Danes would know the hold was aware of their landing and that there was a force waiting for them. They would know they faced a fight; that they could not venture toward the hold until they had faced the Jarl’s men at the fishing village. Such was her father’s intent, of course.

  “The Sworn Men will hold the center,” he shouted, “and the Holmgard will stand on either side.” The men sorted themselves quickly by family groups to either side of the Sworn Men; he did not need to tell them to bring the shields to the front, the spears behind. “Byrghir,” he called to the village leader. “Do not let them flank us. Throw whatever you can lay your hands on: spears, rocks, torches. Fish, even, if they are spoiled and rotten enough.” The villagers shouted their approval of his plan, and the men roared again, their voices rising with laughter. “When these Danish dogs beg for scraps at the feet of their betters in Valhalla,” Pettir continued when the cheering subsided, “let them tremble as they tell their fellows of the fierceness of our folk. As to the rest, let us send them back to their leaky boats like whipped curs!”

  With that Pettir moved off, talking to a warrior here and there. Sigrid watched him with admiration even as she checked her own weapons. He appeared supremely confident, cheerful even, as he moved among the men. He seemed to have an instinct for which man needed steadying, who would respond to a jest or good-natured insult, when to share an anecdote about a past battle. He shaped them with words like a master potter at his wheel, turning them from a mob of armed men into a fighting force. He seemed completely relaxed, unconcerned that within the hour they would be facing several times their number of professional fighters.

  A group of women and teenage boys well behind the shield wall that closed the gap in the berm caught her attention. The women were bringing up apron-loads of fist-sized rocks to leave in piles. The boys and some of the women were limbering up and sorting the rocks. One of the boys suddenly whirled something around his head and let fly. Moving almost too fast to see, the rock flickered over the heads of the fighters and vanished into the darkness.

  A sling was a slow weapon and accuracy was difficult in the best of conditions, but a good slinger could hurl a fist-sized rock as far as a bow could shoot. While they would be little more than a nuisance to the Danes, even a lucky stone could stave in a helm or crack a shield. At the very least, being hit by a flung stone would be a distraction. Every little thing helped, she thought, unexpectedly moved by the dedication and bravery of these boys—not yet old enough to fight alongside the men, but still eager to defend their homes.

  As the first light of dawn brightened the sky, women moved among the fighters, passing out cups of hot fish soup. This was their last act before most of the women would depart for the hold, but a few—too old or infirm to fight or run—would stay to do what they could for the fighters. They would be poor candidates for rape or enslavement, and at very least they could give the Jarl’s men water or bind wounds when or if chance allowed. They too sought to help.

  An inarticulate roar of many voices rose in the distance, and the sound of horns echoed in the predawn twilight. The roaring grew until she could make out individual voices, mostly battle cries and invocations of the gods. Then she could make out a dark moving mass punctuated now and again by the dim flash of pale light on spearpoint or helm. At last the mass resolved into mailled men, spears or axes in hand, round shields slung at their backs, and long swords at their hips. At two hundred paces they stopped and began to form their lines. Sigrid wondered at the irony that their foes should invoke the same gods to attack and plunder that her folk did to defend.

  Pettir, Grimhildr, and Äke moved along their lines, steadying their men and making last-minute adjustments. Now they could do nothing but wait and see what their enemy would do. Sigrid wondered at it herself. The Danes could send a small force to engage the defenders and send the rest to try to flank them. They could send forces on up the hill to take the hold while the bulk of its defenders were engaged here, or even send a delegation to parlay and demand tribute. Or they could come straight into the teeth of the defenders to smash them by brute force. Sigrid thought that they had the numbers to try the latter tactic with good odds of success.

  Apparently the Danish commanders agreed.

  “From their battle order it looks like they are coming straight for us,” Thorbjorn commented. There was no emotion in his voice, as if he were speaking of a fact as simple and inconsequential as the sun rising.

  “Good,” Sigrid said. “It will save us from having to chase them down across half the country.” For all her earlier apprehension and anticipation, she found herself bored and tired, and she understood Thorbjorn’s lack of enthusiasm.

  Thorbjorn laughed at her comment, as di
d a few other men nearby. “Gods,” he sighed, “I just wish they would get on with it.”

  At length it seemed that the Danes were ready, and at the sound of a horn those in the front ranks unslung their shields. It was a signal to the Jarl’s men, and each side began to yell at the other, pitching insults back and forth across the early morning air, striking their weapons against the metal bosses of their shields. The din rose to an unintelligible roaring in her ears that seemed to go on forever. Then a horn sounded again, and the Viking force began to advance. They did not march in time with locked shields; rather they seemed to flow forward, a group or individual leading now here, now there. At a hundred paces they raised their shields, bellowed their war cries, and charged.

  At almost that exact moment, she heard stones whirring overhead. Gaps appeared momentarily in the mass of charging men, but they closed as fast as they opened. At a shouted command, the Jarl’s shield wall opened up and spearmen ran through to hurl their heavy throwing spears before retreating back behind the shieldmen. Wherever a spear struck, a gap opened and the line faltered as the ranks behind had to dodge their fallen comrade. For the most part the spears did not kill, she noted, but when they stuck in a man’s shield, it became unwieldy, and he had to stop to dislodge it or cut it off. As the Danes closed the distance between the two groups, she had but a moment to realize that this tactic would cause ripples in the shield wall of the approaching Danes. The wall would not be a solid mass.

  What followed was chaos. The men that hit the wall first were cut down immediately, as several defenders struck at each Dane. Then the main mass of the attackers flowed up against them, and the shield wall was forced to give a step—then two—while it adjusted to the weight of the attack. Sigrid stood behind the shield wall with the other spearmen, thrusting her seven-foot spear past the men of the line whenever she saw an opening. She had only a brief moment to note what it felt like when the four-inch-wide blade of her spear sliced through a man’s face. She felt the impact ripple up her arm, transforming into a shiver that raced up the back of her neck. This is what it feels like…she started to think, but then another face flickered at her through the shield wall and she thrust her spear at it as well. And another.