by T L Greylock
For his part, Raef would stay with the Hammerling and continue on to Fengar’s stronghold, drawing the would-be king home and into the waiting shield wall. When word of Fengar’s impending return trickled down from the north, the scattered warriors would cease their raiding and rejoin the Hammerling.
“With luck, Fengar will race home, stringing his host out as he hurries,” the Hammerling said to Raef as they crossed the valley. “The first wave will be the strongest, but the stragglers will come too late and be easy prey. Thor will grant us a mighty victory.”
There were flaws in the plan but Raef knew better than to mention them. The Hammerling was a survivor of many battles. There was little doubt that he, too, saw the weaknesses. But to dwell on them would likely do more harm than good.
Solheim was rich, lush, and as yet untouched by the war. Their progress was slow as they trekked south, for the farms and villages were many and poorly protected. By day, Raef rode at the rear, his gaze directed behind in hopes of spotting the Vannheim warriors. He refrained from joining in any raids, letting the other men reap all the rewards. By night, he kept near his friends instead of sharing meat and mead with the other lords.
Hauk of Ruderk dropped back to ride with him late one morning. His breath clouded in front of him but no words followed.
Raef grew impatient. “Is there something you would say?”
“I could ask the same of you.” Hauk glanced over at Raef. “You shun the company of the lords and your sword has been clean since entering Fengar’s lands. Some might wonder why.”
Raef shrugged. “I wait for my men. Of all the lords here, I am the only one who has no warriors to lead.”
“I did not say I wondered why. Your actions speak clearly in my mind.”
“Then why ask?”
“So that you might be aware of what is said about you around the fire at night when the mead is passed from man to man.”
“You are going to tell me whether I want to hear it or not.”
Hauk’s mouth curled up in a small grin. “There are some who voice concerns about your loyalty to the Hammerling. Your forays among first Fengar’s men and then the Palesword’s make them wonder. You were absent for a long time.”
“Do they forget I was a prisoner of both lords? They should laugh at that and scorn me for it, not weave some illusion of treachery.”
“They have only your word for what transpired. You linger at the rear, your eyes on the horizon. Who can say that you wait for the Vannheim men? Perhaps it is the Palesword you expect to see. Or perhaps you mean for your warriors to approach as friends and then turn on us. All these things, they say.”
Raef thought for a moment. “And the Hammerling?”
“He does not join in, but neither does he call for silence.”
“Return to me when the Hammerling is fool enough to believe them. Until then, I care not.”
Hauk shook his head. “Do not be so rash, Skallagrim. Or do you forget what rash action has brought upon you?”
Raef pulled up his horse and looked hard at Hauk. “What do you mean?”
Hauk, too, came to a halt and spread his hands as though to ward off Raef’s anger. “Peace, Skallagrim. It was not hard to determine why the Hammerling calls you ally. Perhaps the exact words that passed between you are known only by you and him, but I would not believe you for a moment if you told me that you sought forgiveness from the Hammerling and he embraced you in an instant.”
Raef stayed silent, neither confirming nor denying Hauk’s words.
“But for your rashness, you might be following your father’s murderer, rather than following the Hammerling into Solheim.”
Raef refused to take the bait. “This war is more important and my father would have seen that.
“You are right, but that does not mean it does not eat at you.” The lord of Ruderk’s words were incendiary, but his face all open honesty. “But enough of this. I do not wish to anger you. I only want you to be watchful of yourself.”
“Why? Why not let me go to my own destruction?”
“Because you were going to solve my disputed border. I feel I owe you something for that.”
“Those were mere words and spoken when my father was still alive and might have been king. You owe me nothing.”
“And yet, here I am.”
“Then go, before you become tainted in their eyes.”
Hauk of Ruderk gave Raef one last, long look, then urged his horse forward just as the walls of Fengar’s stronghold came into view and the Hammerling called for a halt.
The stronghold was nestled in the junction between two rivers flowing down from the north. Though not as large as some, its position meant a strong assault could only come from one direction and a small number of defenders could repel a large number of attackers for a considerable time. They were too far away to judge how many men Fengar might have left behind, but Raef was sure Fengar had calculated that number well.
Downstream from the stronghold, within arrow shot, the river diverged again, forming a large island, and then melded back together. On the island lay a village, the richest and largest Solheim had to offer. Even from his distant vantage point, Raef could see the waters flowed swiftly around the village and that the river was deep and dangerous. The currents had no doubt swept away many a foe or even friend. Even without the presence of the stronghold and its archers, if the ferries were destroyed, only the most desperate and determined warriors would take the village, for the river was its best and most tireless defense.
Paused on a grassy knoll, the Hammerling called up the lords and battle-captains that remained with him to determine how they should proceed.
“If we threaten the village,” began one captain, a grizzled, scarred veteran, “the warriors behind the walls will have to come out.”
“Not if they can pick us off one by one with arrows,” Raef said. “We are not so many that it could not be done by a few skilled archers.”
“A full, frontal assault on the walls is no better,” said Hauk of Ruderk. “They will be well-practiced at defending that. To secure victory, we would need many more men.”
“I do not care to secure victory over the stronghold and the village is far from my concern,” the Hammerling said. “All that matters is that Fengar feels threatened and retreats to defend his home. He should have long heard of our march south. I expect he is already on his way. Here,” the Hammerling indicated the grassy plain before them, “is where we will meet in battle.” The Hammerling closed his eyes for a moment. “I can already hear the clash of steel on shield and smell death on the air. We need only wait.”
Raef broke into Brandulf’s thoughts. “If we only wait, Fengar could pin us between the full weight of his force and his walls. A glorious death in battle, to be sure, but not how you want this to end.”
“Our other men will return. We will not be outnumbered.”
“And if they do not?” Raef pressed the issue, his voice rising. “If Fengar wipes them out as he comes south? If they are too far afield and Fengar marches too quickly? It would be foolish to assume all our men will return in time to face Fengar’s wrath. We cannot leave the stronghold unmolested. We must either draw them out, or incapacitate them in some way so we do not have an enemy at our backs while Fengar bears down on us from the front.”
Raef’s outburst was met with silence until Hauk expressed agreement. “Skallagrim is right. The stronghold must be weakened.”
After a moment, the Hammerling gave a grunt and nodded. “Then let Skallagrim propose how it should be done.”
Raef was ready for this. “I had first thought to fight them with fire. We could burn them out. But it could prove a waste of arrows unless we knew where to place them. The alternative is riskier but, if successful, would be a more complete victory.” Raef gestured to the walls in the distance. “They will expect a frontal assault. Make ready to do just that but wait until darkness comes. While their eyes are fixed on you and the torches you bear, a few m
en can attempt to penetrate the walls from the river.”
The old captain sneered and tightened his grip on his axe, one of the largest Raef had ever seen. “And get swept away in the current? A sure way to lose men, lord,” he said to the Hammerling.
Raef stayed calm. “Perhaps, but even if all drowned, it would be a smaller number lost than during an attempt to breach the walls from the front.”
Brandulf Hammerling was quiet for a moment, his eyes on the rivers. “We will do as Skallagrim says.” He turned to the old captain. “Hawthor, learn what you can about their defenses and numbers while we still have daylight.” The Hammerling looked at Raef next. “Pick your men. We will strike in the darkest hour of the night.”
Twenty-One
The day passed slowly. Raef and his chosen warriors watched and waited. Hawthor the captain led a mounted party closer to the walls and taunted the defenders into loosing some arrows. The shafts fell harmlessly to the earth save one that found a shield. On his second pass, the archers knew better than to waste their ammunition. The Hammerling made a show of chopping down a sturdy tree to fashion a crude ram for the gates. Others worked to cut and prepare torches.
Of the lay of the land at the river edge, Raef could learn little. Hawthor rode close enough to report that the walls were made only of wood on that side and that they rose up out of a very steep, short bank. As for the number of men inside the walls, Hawthor counted thirty archers for certain.
“There will be more, you can be sure of that,” he said to Raef after one of his forays to the walls. Hawthor took a swig of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And not just archers.”
Darkness fell and the Hammerling’s men shared meat and mead. The men were quiet and Raef sensed tension. For his part, Raef was glad of the coming night’s fight. The pleasures of raiding had long since waned for him. The Hammerling had asked his men to give him a war. Now, at last, was a chance to start one in earnest.
A bank of dark clouds had rolled in as the sun set. “A moonless night,” Raef said as he passed a skin to Vakre.
“A wet night,” Vakre said, grinning. “And a cold one.”
“Win those walls and slaughter those men and you might just earn a place by the fire.”
“We made a wager once, Raef, son of Einarr. You never followed through on what you promised.” Vakre was still grinning. “I am willing to forgive such a slight if you make another wager now.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I will scale those walls before you.”
“You will try.”
“And if I do? What will you give me?”
“We are but poor marauders in unfamiliar lands. I have little to give. But if your insatiable greed might be appeased by this,” Raef, laughing, drew one of his arm rings down and off his arm and held it up in the firelight, “I would be willing to part with it.”
Vakre pointed at another, higher up on Raef’s arm. “Offer me that gold one and I will accept.”
“And in return?”
Vakre thought for a moment. “An arm ring for an arm ring is a lackluster wager.” Vakre fingered his cloak, a fine skin softened by use but strong and durable. “This is the finest skin I will ever wear, and the finest even a king could ask for,” he said softly. “My mother told me it is the one thing left for me by my father. I do not know if she spoke true or meant to indulge a young boy. But it has served me well. Would you accept it?”
“I will not. Not that. I will not take your father’s cloak.”
“It is mine to give. I would only part with it to a worthy man.”
“Than you admit you will lose it to me.” Raef grinned.
Vakre saw where he had stumbled and burst out laughing, a sound as bright and spirited as a fire in the night. “I will drink to that.” He raised the skin in Raef’s direction and took a long drink. Their wager settled, Raef began to see to their final preparations. To scale the wall and pull themselves from the river, they tied their iron cooking rings to ropes to be thrown over the wall. It might take a try or two, but the rings would catch over the sharpened logs that formed the rear of Fengar’s wall. Large hooks, the kind used for fishing in the ocean would be better, but none were at hand and so the rings would have to do.
Raef finished his own rope and coiled it up before watching the others secure their rings by the light of the fire. When all was ready, Raef made sure Cilla promised to stay away from the battle, and then he and his men slipped away from the firelight and headed toward the river nearest them. There they waited as the Hammerling readied his assault. Eira had asked to lead the charge. The Hammerling had given her the position on his right, a prime one that also bore great responsibility. Should the attackers fall into a shield wall, as they would almost surely have to do, Eira’s position at the Hammerling’s right elbow would make her a target but, more importantly, made her largely responsible for the Hammerling’s survival.
The battering ram was ready and would follow the initial charge. Twenty strong men would wield it, protected by the shields of their comrades until the last moment when they would burst forth and pound on the door. Others would stand by, ready to take their places when they fell to arrows.
As the Hammerling began a slow march toward the walls, ablaze in the light of so many torches and singing loudly of death, Raef and his men crept along the water’s edge. They were fifteen in number and they traveled light, leaving behind their shields so as to prevent reflections from torches on the walls. In a true battle, they would be hopelessly underarmed, but with surprise on their side, they might be able to overwhelm the defenders.
Raef, nearing the walls, could no longer see the Hammerling but for the glow in the night sky. As the wall came within reach, all solid ground disappeared. Raef stepped into the river. The water rose above his knees and he felt the strong current tug at his legs. His pace slowed now as he waded carefully around the wall to the very rear of the stronghold. When the rest of his group caught up to him, they spread out in a line and waited for his signal. Raef chose a spot next to Vakre and caught his eye.
Without speaking, they tossed their rings at the same instant. Raef heard a soft thud and the rope tightened in his grip. He gave an experimental pull, found it would take weight, and then he was climbing. It was a cumbersome process, hampered by his muddy boots that slipped on the weathered logs of the wall. But the rope held firm and Raef made himself trust it as he hauled his body up with his arms. He did not look to see where Vakre was, but he did hear the sounds of more rings slipping over the sharpened logs and knew the others were climbing as well.
His arms aching, Raef reached the top of the wall but did not vault over it. Instead he took a moment to survey what lay before him. Only then did he look to his left and see that Vakre was two steps behind. Raef allowed himself a triumphant grin.
The rear of the stronghold was unmanned, as Raef had hoped it might be. The Hammerling’s attack on the gates had drawn all eyes. Raef slid over the wall to land on an archer’s raised platform and then squatted down to stay hidden in the wall’s silhouette as he waited for the others to catch up. When all fifteen had made the summit, Raef and ten others dropped to the earthen floor. Four, including Siv, would remain among the higher vantage points, using roofs and archer’s platforms to traverse the compound. From on high, they could deal death from a distance and provide support to their companions in need.
Staying low to the ground and keeping to the shadows, Raef made steady progress toward the front gate. The others spread out and did the same and soon Raef was alone but for Siv leaping from one roof to another above him. Twice she sent silent arrows into the throats of warriors in Raef’s path. Raef checked each to make sure they were dead and then continued on, rounding a corner and nearly colliding with a burly warrior. For an instant, the other man was so startled that he did nothing but regain his balance and peer at Raef with both curiosity and alarm. In that moment, Raef grabbed behind the other man’s neck and pulled down ha
rd, crushing the warrior’s nose into his knee. The man bounced off and lay still in the dirt. Raef hurried on.
At the gate, the air hummed with the sounds of battle. The enemy warriors taunted the Hammerling, hurling insults as sharp as any blade into the night air. The gate shuddered with each thrust of the ram, though the wood had yet to splinter. Archers at the wall sent arrows down, their targets easy to pick out even in the darting torchlight. For a moment, Raef thought he heard Eira’s battle cry, but the thundering ram and the shouts of the men inside the walls drowned out all else. Raef took a quick count of the enemy warriors as Vakre slid into position near him. They exchanged nods and Raef hoped enough time had passed that all his men were ready to attack. There was no clear way to proceed, no path Raef could sweep down, his men at his sides, bringing death to all in their way. The enemy warriors were too scattered, to wide spread. They could not afford to wait any longer, not with the archers wreaking havoc on the Hammerling’s small numbers outside the gate. Their only choice was to attack as individuals. Raef drew his sword, looked at Vakre one last time, and then, with a wordless scream, sprinted from his hiding place at the nearest warrior.
In that moment of surprise, Raef plunged his sword into the warrior and yanked it out again. The man crumpled to the ground, boneless, and then all was chaos, the only certainty Raef’s own movement as battle erupted around him. Raef took each opponent as they came, choosing some, others choosing him. Not once did he stop to calculate his progress or see how many more foes stood between him and the gate. Not once did he look around to see if his friends lived or died. All that existed was his sword, the arm that wielded it, and his feet.
Many of Fengar’s men took refuge in their shields, but Raef rendered them useless with quickness in his feet and accuracy in his strikes. Once, an arrow ripped open Raef’s right forearm as the archers turned their aim inward. Ignoring the wound, Raef knocked the shield from an opponent’s grasp and, using two hands, brought his sword down on the man’s shoulder with such force that the blade cleaved into flesh and bone and would not come out. Abandoning the sword, Raef pulled a battle axe from a dead man’s hands and surged onward, the haft of the weapon slick with blood in his fingers.