by A. E. Rayne
He was a Saalan. Aleksander didn’t know his name. He had an arrow in his shoulder, another in his thigh, one in his neck. His eyes could barely focus. ‘Here,’ he gurgled, trying to breathe through the blood that was gushing from his mouth. ‘Rear... flank... here.’
Aleksander looked up at Gant, who blinked quickly and strode to the right wall of their column, searching the ridge, listening. His eyes went up. Lothar was coming.
‘My lord!’ he yelled, surprised to see him. ‘Shield wall! They are coming from the rear. On our right flank! Get Osbert’s men into a shield wall! Four sides!’
Lothar looked startled as he tried to dismount, his boot catching in a stirrup as his horse skittered in terror. He fell to the ground, dangling there, ensnared. His bodyguards rushed to his side and unhooked him, hurrying their king behind the hastily formed walls of Osbert’s first column.
They waited in the ravine, behind shields, hearts pounding, ears open. Three long rectangles. One thousand men in each.
Trapped.
The rumble grew louder. Men were coming. Dust filled the sky over their heads.
The Brekkans shuffled their feet, looking for purchase in the dirt. Elbows braced against shields, hands rolling spears, desperately searching the ridges above them; some wishing they had been able to afford helmets, others regretting that they hadn’t taken the time to tighten the strap on theirs. But it was too late, all hands were now full.
And then the beating of swords on shields.
‘Here they come!’ Rexon yelled from the rear column, watching as the Hestians poured over the ridge towards them. He clenched his jaw, screaming at his men. ‘Keep your shields together! Brace yourselves! Spears!’
Rexon’s first rank of shields was locked together across the front of their column. The second rank angled shields over their heads, and the third rank was all spears. They surged forward, jabbing their sharpened iron spearheads through the gaps in the wall.
Waiting.
Gant saw a flash from the corner of his eye. ‘To the right!’ he yelled, his head spinning as a frothing mass of screaming Hestians rushed over the rocky outcrop nearest their right flank. ‘Spears to the right!’
‘Brace yourselves!’ Aleksander cried, tightening his grip on his spear as the Hestians threw themselves off the rocks and onto their shields, hacking and chopping with axes and swords. He crunched his boot back into the gravel, balancing himself, jabbing between the shields with his spear. ‘Hold!’
They had to stay together if they were to stand a chance.
‘Now we see if the lords will play my flag game,’ Jael muttered. ‘For if they don’t, we’re going to find ourselves in a dark place very quickly.’
That wasn’t what Fyn wanted to hear as he stood alongside her, holding the sack of flags, his guts twisting with every rhythmic slap of oars into the sea.
‘They will!’ Beorn growled, gripping the tiller harder, his eyes skimming the sea, searching for any rocks that would threaten his hull. ‘Otherwise, they’ll be swallowed up by Ran, and that goddess can be a real bitch!’ The sun had thankfully been masked by clouds now, and he could see better than he had all day. With the help of two men who were crouching near the catapult, checking for shadows in the water, they had navigated Sea Bear through the Widow’s Peak without a scratch; sail furled, under oar.
Jael smiled, exhaling in relief as they finally emerged from the stones into the vast expanse of the Adrano. It lay before them, dark and threatening under an increasingly moody sky. She glanced around, relieved to see the rest of their ships appear from behind the stones. Thorgils waved to her from the bow of Fire Serpent, on her right, his face as cheerful as ever.
‘Light the braziers,’ she nodded to Fyn. ‘Let’s get ready.’
Fyn dropped the sack of flags, fumbling with his tinderbox as he headed inside the wooden house. His fingers were numb from the cold, shaking with nerves. He hoped Jael wouldn’t notice.
‘Check our distance, Arlo!’ she called to her head archer, who stood expectantly along the gunwale with his men. There were eight of them in all; eight men who knew a bow better than a sword; whose eyes were sharper and arms stronger than most on board.
Arlo drew an arrow from his quiver, held his face up to the quickening wind as it flapped his shoulder-length braids, nocked it, and drew back his bow. All heads turned towards the sky, watching as he released the arrow, following its arc as it soared through the clouds and dropped, with a silent plop, into the sea, some distance from the enemy’s fleet.
Jael looked to Beorn. ‘We keep going.’
Beorn nodded tightly.
‘Helmets on!’ Jael cried. ‘Check your bow and arrows are nearby! Know where your shields are! Make sure all those buckets are full of water! Listen for my signal!’
Not long now.
Blood splattered into Osbert’s eyes. The man to his right screamed, an axe cleaving open his cheek. Osbert cringed, looking away. He was in the third rank of the front column, working with his sword to stab anyone who tried to throw themselves over their walls. Of which there were many contenders.
The Hestians roared as they smashed onto the shields; their axes and swords thumping and crashing down in a furious attempt to break up the Brekkan formations as quickly as possible.
Karsten was wild, his eyes glazed, his teeth bared as he swung his twin axes in a blood-making frenzy. He was bare-chested, angry, kicking out at the wall of shields before him. ‘Go low!’ he cried impatiently, slashing into the ankle of a Brekkan who yelped in agony. ‘Cut their fucking legs!’ He chopped his axes down onto the spears that were keeping his men at bay, breaking off their deadly tips. ‘Take their spears out! More! More!’ he yelled. ‘Kill them!’
Lothar looked on with bulging eyes from the centre of the first column, sweat dripping down his back; his bodyguards on either side of him, keeping him safe. Osbert skewered a Hestian who had thrown himself up onto their shields, but his sword was now stuck and wouldn’t come free. He yanked and pulled, gritting his teeth in desperation, but the sword was stubbornly lodged into the Hestian’s shoulder. Lothar hurried towards his son, adding his substantial weight, and the sword slid out, at last, in a big rush of blood. Osbert pulled his shield away, and the dead Hestian fell down onto the pile of bodies at his feet.
Osbert and some of his men dropped to the ground now, stabbing the Hestian’s trying to cut the shield bearer’s legs. ‘We have more men!’ he shouted urgently, sensing the panic in his men’s eyes that mirrored his own. The Hestians were overpowering them with their deafening noise and surging rage. The threat of their spears was being undermined by the number of axes swinging to destroy them. It was unsettling, sapping their confidence quickly. ‘We have more men! Hold the walls!’
Osbert’s voice was lost amongst the screaming warriors whose swords and axes clanged off the Brekkans’ shields, driving their furious rage into Axl’s head. He couldn’t think, could barely breathe, as he fought, elbow to elbow with Gant and Aleksander, in the third rank of their column. Shoulders pushing against the shield holders before them, they worked the gaps relentlessly with their spears.
‘Go low!’ Gant urged, his voice hoarse and guttural as he watched the Hestians move their attention. ‘Spears to the ground!’
Half the spear holders crouched, stabbing through the narrow spaces between legs; legs that were shaking from the strain of holding the line against such an overwhelming onslaught. They were starting to slide backwards now, pushed by the Hestians driving their shields into the Brekkans with force; butting and jamming and smashing with gritted teeth. They had fewer men but had taken the advantage with their surprise attack.
They were causing chaos.
Karsten smiled as he swung his axes into a shield, shattering it in two. They would not hold on much longer. Soon their walls would break, and the Brekkans would scatter like terrified mice.
Thorgils glanced over at Jael. He was vibrating with excitement and nerves, his fingers fiddling with
the soft, white, goose feathers at the end of his arrows. There were no flags flying from her ship yet.
Soon.
‘What is she doing?’ Otto grumbled next to him. ‘We should have stopped by now. She will have us under the Tower!’
Thorgils turned to glare at the pinched face of the balding man, whose scant wisps of grey hair blew angrily across his head. And not for the first time since they’d left Saala. ‘We need to get close enough to hit them with the sea-fire. There’s no point in us sitting here! How will it help us if we’re firing into the sea?’ he grumbled back. ‘The waves aren’t going to break the jars!’
Otto frowned, rolling his eyes at Borg, Fire Serpent’s helmsman, who stood to their right, one hand on the tiller, watching as their men pulled tirelessly on the oars. He glanced up at the clouds rolling in, suddenly anxious. The sea would turn soon and then all of their plans would be sunk.
‘Light the braziers!’ Thorgils bellowed, ignoring Otto and his rolling eyes. ‘We’re getting close!’
Otto huffed and stumbled towards the wooden house that ran from the stern to just before the catapult. Their sail had been furled, stored with the yard, between the sea chests and the house. Rows of shields lined the gunwales. Fifteen per side. They would help protect the oarsmen when the arrows came.
For when they came, it would rain death.
Aleksander thrust his bloody spear through the gaps in the wall, driving his shoulder against the man before him, helping him to hold his place.
Axl was next to him, low to the ground, jerking his spear back and forth, teeth gritted, sweat dripping into his eyes. Suddenly it snapped. He felt the weight of it lighten as half his spear stayed outside the wall. Pulling back the broken shaft he stared at it in shock.
‘Sword!’ Aleksander yelled at him.
Axl blinked, waking himself up. He threw the broken shaft away, trying to ignore the pain-drenched wails of the men being stabbed around him; the blood that was flying, the stink in the air. The Hestians pushed harder and harder against their shields, hooking some out of the wall with their curved axe blades, exposing gaps that were hastily filled. Axl drew his sword, thought of his father and stood up, squeezing his way in between two men, one who was grasping his bleeding neck, wavering slightly, his shield dropping. Axl bumped against him, shunting him upright.
Aleksander could feel the heat of the Hestian’s fury as they came pounding and chopping at their shields again and again. He pulled back his spear and drove it through a gap. The Brekkan in front of him screamed as a sword tip pierced his eye. Aleksander pushed him out of the way, yanking the man’s hand out of his shield grip and slipping his own through it. He dropped the spear now and unsheathed his sword, his eyes everywhere. ‘Do not break the walls!’ he screamed. ‘Shields together! Hold!’
Osbert was panting, grunting, his sword slick with blood as he fought off a continual stream of Hestians who were attacking their shields from all four sides. Their walls were moving now, moving and sliding about; boots skidding on blood-soaked dust as wounded men lost both strength and resolve.
‘Hold the walls!’ Lothar panicked, stabbing forward with his sword, sticking a warrior in the neck as he flew up onto a shield. ‘Do not break! Kill them! Kill them!’
Screaming, raging, berserking Hestians on all sides assaulted their shields with axes, hammers, swords, whipping themselves into a killing frenzy. Lothar’s men’s eyes darted about anxiously. Most were seasoned warriors, but their minds were starting to work against them now.
‘We have more men!’ Lothar cried desperately. ‘We can keep them out! Hold!’
‘Arrrhhh!’ Axl screamed as a knife slid into his hand, ripping his skin, blood coursing down his fingers, loosening his grip on his sword. Teeth clenched against the shock and pain, he forced his fingers into a fist and lunged forward, angry now, pushing his blade straight through a Hestian’s shoulder. The dying man was pulled back quickly and with him, Axl’s sword. He looked around blankly, scrambling in the dirt, crawling over the dead body of a boy he knew; his eyes lifelessly staring towards the sky, his chest drenched with blood. Axl blinked away anything but what he needed to do: Get. A. Sword. He gulped and snatched the sword out of the lifeless hand.
Haegen was too busy to notice what Karsten was doing. There were three columns, each one wrapped in four thick walls of shields, all proving hard to break down. Naturally. The Brekkans were the toughest warriors he had fought, but without Ranuf and Jael’s leadership, they were weaker, less organised. They would break, and soon, he was certain of it. He could see the doubt in their eyes; the doubt that was winding its way into their heads and their guts. Before long they would collapse. ‘Kill them all!’ Haegen roared, chopping his sword onto the shield of Rexon Boas; a good warrior, he knew, but one he needed to kill. Chaos reigned when leaders fell. ‘Jump! Jump over them! Pull down their shields! Get over their walls!’
Rexon hurried to react. ‘Spears to the centre!’ he panted loudly. ‘Stab them if they try it!’ He eyed Haegen Dragos through the gaps in the wall, narrowing his gaze until there was nothing but hatred and fury left. He dug his boots into the dirt, pushing forward with his left shoulder, thinking of his people, his wife and child. He needed to survive to ensure their safety. ‘Keep your shields together!’
Karsten had no time to get the blood out of his mouth. He spat, but the wind blew it straight back into his face. ‘Arrrhhh!’ he yelled, throwing himself up and over the shields. Lothar Furyck was in there, he could see him. The prize his father so desperately wanted. But he had no intention of giving him to Haaron alive. He screamed, cleaving his axe into the scalp of a Brekkan, whose shield he had just shattered.
Lothar gaped as Karsten Dragos, mad-eyed and wet with blood, lunged over the shields, tumbling onto the dead bodies before him.
‘With me!’ Karsten shouted to his men, his voice carrying over the clattering of weapons, the howls of pain. ‘I have the king! With me!’
‘The king!’ his men roared as they charged into the collapsing shields. ‘Get the king!’
Haegen’s head went up. He frowned, stepping quickly out of Rexon’s reach, and ran, past his bleeding, stumbling, skewered men, towards the sound of his brother. ‘Karsten! Karsten!’ he screamed, jumping over the bodies that lay scattered around the walls. ‘Karsten! Wait!’
Fifteen ships. He could only count fifteen ships.
Ivaar frowned. Last time they had attempted this, the Hestians had come at them with a lot more than that. Perhaps Lothar’s plan was going to work after all?
Ivaar stood gripping the carved neck of Shadow Blade’s dragon prow, whose face looked as angry as his. He had been relegated to the second row, behind Jael’s five ships. Thorgils was to the right of her, commanding three more. Ivaar and his two ships, along with the other lords and theirs, followed torturously in their wake.
Waiting.
His father was dead. He should be king, leading the line, defeating Haaron.
And if today went as he hoped, by the time the sun went down, he would be.
Lothar’s one remaining bodyguard threw himself in front of Karsten. Osbert stumbled, rushing to protect his father. Karsten spun his bloody axes and lunged at the bodyguard, who ducked and swung his sword at the shieldless attacker. Karsten’s eyes narrowed, and he smiled, baring his teeth, kicking at the guard, knocking him down, hacking into his neck.
There were other men now, Karsten’s men, surging through the shields as they collapsed, parting under the sheer weight of the Hestian push. Axes and swords glinted under scant rays of sun, slashing through the air towards Lothar and Osbert.
Gant watched it unfold through gaps in shields, the urgent thudding of his heart pounding in his ears.
Torn.
Lothar could die. Osbert could die. Axl would be king. They would try to protect Axl, keep him safe. But could they? Could he live with himself for not even attempting to save his king? A Furyck? Probably. But if Lothar were defeated, the men’s morale woul
d surely follow and what would happen to Axl then?
Gant gritted his teeth, screamed to the gods and peeled away from his position, hurrying towards Aleksander and Axl. ‘We have to help Lothar!’ he cried, certain now, despite the bitter taste of the words on his tongue.
‘What?’ Aleksander was puzzled but didn’t look around as he thrust his sword at the mail-clad chest of a Hestian warrior. He missed and turned to Gant, stepping back quickly. ‘What?’
‘Lothar’s under attack, their walls have broken,’ Gant said quickly, glancing around at their own twisting walls. ‘We have to help him. If he falls, none of us will stand a chance!’
Aleksander hesitated for a moment, but only that; there was no time for more. He nodded, swallowing. ‘With me!’ he yelled to their men. ‘We must save the king!’
‘Break the walls!’ Gant roared. ‘Rexon, you hold! We’re going for Lothar!’ He wasn’t sure if Rexon even heard him, but he turned and ran towards the shields anyway. ‘Break! Break the walls! Follow me!’ His men didn’t hesitate to scramble to their feet, clutching their battered shields up to their aching shoulders, limping, running and panting after their leader.
To save their king.
The arrow hit the deck.
Jaeger blinked, pleased, his smile growing as he turned to his brother. ‘Here we go! Grab your shield, Berard!’
Berard gulped and stumbled down the deck, scurrying away from the arrow, its white feathers fluttering innocently in the breeze behind him.
‘Archers!’ Jaeger cried. ‘We have the range now, thanks to the Islanders!’ He nodded to his head archer. ‘Kill them!’
‘Into the houses!’ Jael yelled as Fyn fumbled with the flagpole, pushing it through a small hole in the roof of the wooden house he was already sheltering in. He’d attached the yellow flag.
Shelter.
They rushed into the houses; every man on every one of the ships in the first row. The Islanders in the second row were not within range. Not yet.