“He is my friend!” Wulf cried.
“You said no one must know your part in this,” Hastein snapped. He put his foot against Otto’s back and pushed his body off the sword’s blade.
The Franks up on the wall were shouting now, asking what was happening. The rest of our men ran forward into the tunnel and began pulling their weapons from the wreckage of the litter. Hastein moved past them and stood just inside the open gateway.
“Torvald!” he shouted. “To me! Quickly!”
From up on the wall above us, a horn sounded, braying out an alarm to the sleeping town. “To arms, to arms!” a voice cried. “The Northmen are attacking. They are at the river gate!”
I found my bow and Tore’s lying side by side. I threw his to him, then slung the strap of my quiver over my shoulder. Tore reached past me and pulled his own quiver from the pile. The fire arrow was in it. “I must signal Ivar,” he said, and picked up the torch Otto had dropped, guttering now on the ground beside his body.
As Tore ran back to the open gate, a Frank appeared at the far end of the tunnel. He drew back his arm to hurl a spear at Hastein, who was kneeling to pull his shield from the jumble of weapons.
“Look out!” I shouted. Hastein glanced up then threw himself forward. The spear skimmed over his back and struck the warrior behind Hastein in the belly. The man screamed and toppled forward across Hastein’s back.
The Frank at the tunnel’s mouth drew his sword and crouched behind his shield. Another guard appeared beside him, carrying a spear at ready.
“Odd, Halfdan, drive them out!” Hastein shouted as he pushed the body of the wounded man aside and staggered to his feet. “If they keep us trapped here in the tunnel, we are doomed.”
Odd and I moved down the tunnel side by side, drawing arrows from our quivers and nocking them on our strings. Hastein pressed close behind us, followed by the rest of our men. Only Tore remained behind, kneeling just inside the gate. The burning torch lay on the ground at his feet, and the fire arrow, its tip now blazing, was nocked and ready on his bow.
Odd and I pulled our bows to full draw. The two Franks, only a spear’s length away, dropped into a crouch and jerked their shields up in front of their faces. I shot the man with the spear in his foot. He screamed and fell backward, clutching at the shaft, and Odd put a second arrow through his throat. The other Frank scuttled backwards from his dying comrade. Howling like a wolf, Hastein ran past me, followed by two other warriors, and the Frank turned and fled.
I glanced back down the tunnel at Tore. Looking up, he stepped cautiously out of the gate, then darted back into the safety of the tunnel. A spear stuck, quivering, in the ground where he’d stood a moment before. Beyond, I could see Torvald and the rest of our warriors from the Swallow approaching at a run.
“Odd, Halfdan,” Tore shouted. “Clear the wall!”
Odd and I ran out of the tunnel’s mouth and into the town, our bows at the ready. To our right, a stone staircase climbed the inside of the wall to the rampart above. Hastein was halfway up it, standing over the body of the Frank who’d fled from the tunnel. Above, on the rampart, a single Frankish guard remained. He was looking down at Hastein, and as I watched he raised a spear to throw. Odd and I shot together, and the guard staggered backward and collapsed, two arrows piercing his chest.
Odd ran back into the tunnel’s mouth and waved to Tore. A moment later, the fire arrow streaked up into the night sky.
For now there were no more Franks to fight, though more were bound to come soon. We stripped off the Frankish tunics that had concealed our armor and adjusted our weapons. I’d stuffed my dagger and small-axe in my quiver, and used the brief respite to transfer them to my belt.
Torvald came trotting out of the tunnel, carrying a bundle of spears over one shoulder, followed by the rest of the Gull’s warriors who’d been hiding on board the Swallow.
“You lost only one man?” Torvald asked Hastein.
“Aye,” Hastein answered. “Olaf. Is he dead?
“Close to it,” Torvald said. “The spear bit deep. He will not see the morning come.”
“He may not be alone in that,” Hastein replied. “So far fortune has smiled on us, but the real fight is yet to come. I hope Ivar does not tarry. Did you bring our helms?”
One of the men who’d come from the ship stepped forward with the sack of helms and handed Hastein’s to him, then emptied the rest on the ground. While I was strapping mine on, Tore shouted, “Look, up on the wall!”
Three Franks armed with spears were running along the rampart, approaching from the left. Tore drew an arrow and loosed it, striking the leading Frank in the thigh. As he staggered sideways and fell, the man behind him hurled his spear wildly at us, then bent down and grabbed his wounded fellow under the arms. Odd shot at him and missed, but my arrow hit him high in the side of his chest. He bounced back against the wall, then toppled off the rampart, dragging his wounded comrade with him. The third Frank turned and ran. Tore caught him low in the back with a long shot.
“It’s like knocking squirrels off a branch,” he boasted, then jogged over to where the bodies of the first two Franks lay at the foot of the wall. The man I’d shot was still, but the other was groaning and thrashing on the ground. Tore drew his seax and cut the wounded man’s throat, then pulled his arrow and mine from the bodies. “We’ll need these before this night is over, I’ll wager,” he said, as he trotted back and handed me my arrow.
A clatter of horses’ hooves echoed in the street leading to the gate, signaling the arrival of a counterattack. A group of Franks on horseback rode into view. When they saw us, the rider in the lead raised his hand and called out a command. The horsemen stopped and began forming into orderly rows, one behind the other, each composed of five men and stretching across the entire width of the street.
I had never seen warriors like these. Each man wore a helm, shield, and a brynie of ring-mail or scale armor, and many also had iron plates strapped over their lower legs to protect them. All were armed with swords and long spears.
“Form a shield-wall, quickly!” Hastein shouted, and our little band of warriors moved into a close-knit line in front of the opening to the tunnel.
“Aim your spear points at the horses’ faces,” Torvald cried to the men as they formed the line. “Make them turn aside. Do not allow them to run over us.” In a quieter voice, he murmured to Hastein, who stood beside him, studying the Franks as they moved into formation opposite us. “There are too many of them,” he said. “They will attack us in waves, and we have only enough men to form a single line. It will break too easily. Shall we take shelter in the tunnel?”
“We dare not,” Hastein replied, shaking his head. “If we retreat into the tunnel, they can block and hold its entrance with only a few warriors, then send more of their men up to the rampart above the gate to keep us trapped inside the wall, and drive off any reinforcements. We must hold here until Ivar and his men arrive. Somehow we must keep them from charging.”
Hastein turned and spoke to Tore. “Take Odd and Halfdan. You three are the only ones with bows. Bring down their front row and disrupt their ranks.”
We moved forward and took positions out in front of the shield-wall. The Franks had finished forming into ranks by now, and the warriors in the front were positioning their shields and spears, readying for a charge. I looked for a target as I drew an arrow from my quiver and nocked it on my string. A Frank in the center of the front row had a banner on his spear, and was shouting commands to the other riders. I aimed my shot for his face, but he was too quick and caught my arrow with his shield. Tore chose him as a target, too, but sank his arrow deep into his horse’s chest. Odd’s arrow found the neck of another rider’s horse.
“Their horses are easier targets,” Tore called to me, “and dropping their mounts stops their charge as surely as a hit on the rider.”
The two wounded horses reared, screaming in pain, as their riders jerked at their reins, trying to control them. The other warriors
in the front row and in the ranks behind began backing their mounts away from the thrashing of the two wounded steeds.
“Shoot together on my mark,” Tore said, “at the rest of the front rank. I’ll take the horse on the right, Halfdan the one beside him, Odd the far left.”
We nocked arrows and drew, three men challenging an entire troop of cavalry.
“Loose!” Tore shouted, and our arrows sped to their marks. At such close range, it was butchery. My arrow sank halfway to its feathers in my target’s chest. The horse stood motionless for a moment, then its front legs collapsed and it keeled forward onto its knees. Its rider swung his right leg over the beast’s drooping head and leaped clear as it collapsed onto its side.
Tore’s target staggered sideways and fell heavily against the wall of a house abutting the edge of the street. Its rider screamed as his leg was crushed by the weight of his dying mount’s body. On the opposite side of the street, the horse Odd had hit was standing stock-still, its head hanging down with long strings of blood draining from its mouth. In front of it, the horse Odd had wounded with his first arrow was still bucking wildly.
The leader’s horse, though mortally wounded by Tore’s first shot, was also bucking and kicking. Its rider, clinging desperately to the reins with his left hand, drew a long dagger from his belt and stabbed it into his horse’s neck. Blood spurted and the horse reared up on its hind legs, pawing at the air with its front hooves and screaming in pain. The Frank, a magnificent horseman, somehow hung on and stabbed again, this time striking the great artery in the beast’s neck. The horse’s front hooves thudded back down onto the ground and it stood still now, trembling as great spouts of blood pumped from its neck. In an instant the Frankish leader slid off and ran back into the ranks of the troops behind.
The rider mounted on Odd’s first target, who had been sawing at the reins and beating his wounded mount’s flanks with the haft of his spear, somehow brought the beast under control. Suddenly the horse launched forward, charging us at a gallop, its rider howling a war cry and waving his spear.
“Run!” Tore shouted. Behind us, Hastein called out, “Quickly, come inside!”
Tore, Odd, and I turned and ran back to the shield-wall. Our warriors opened up, let us through, then swiftly closed ranks again, their spears presenting a hedge of gleaming steel tips. Only moments after we passed through the line the rider was upon them.
Even crazed by its wound, the horse would not throw itself against the spear thicket. At the last moment, it pulled up, and the Frank on its back stabbed down with his lance at the men in our line. One warrior dropped his spear and staggered back, his hand to his face. Beside him, another crouched low, his shield held overhead to ward off the Frank’s thrusts, and lunged forward, stabbing the blade of his spear deep into the belly of the horse. The dying animal screamed in pain and staggered backward onto its haunches. Torvald and another warrior sprinted forward, dragged the rider from his horse, and flung him onto the ground. More men surged forward around him, stabbing with their spears. Others surrounded the horse and speared it again and again, finishing it to stop its thrashing.
“Reform!” Hastein shouted. “Reform the line!”
In front of us the Frankish cavalry, acknowledging the vulnerability of their horses in such tight confines, were beginning to dismount. A few ran forward, finished off the dying horses with their spears, and pulled the wounded rider back to safety. Their leader trotted out and retrieved his spear from where he’d dropped it, then waved the banner overhead and shouted a command. The rest of the Franks moved forward and formed a dense wedge-shaped formation around him, in front of the bodies of the dead horses.
“Tore, take Odd and Halfdan up on the wall,” Hastein ordered. “Try to even up the odds, and buy us time.”
I turned and ran up the stairs to the top of the wall, Tore and Odd following closely behind. When I reached the rampart, I looked out into the darkness. No riders were visible yet, but from somewhere beyond the darker line of shadow marking the woods encircling the town, I heard a horn blowing.
Below us the Frankish commander raised his spear. “For God and King Charles!” he cried. As Tore, Odd, and I drew and fired, the Franks charged, echoing their leader’s war cry.
The Franks held their shields high as they ran, and none fell to our first volley of arrows. Before we could shoot again, the front ranks of their warriors crashed into our line, pushing its center back with the sheer weight of their numbers. The wings of our line wrapped forward around the sides of the Franks’ wedge, and the Franks’ formation and ours merged into a maelstrom of stabbing, hacking warriors, making it impossible to target the Franks’ front ranks without endangering our own men. Instead Tore, Odd, and I aimed our arrows at the Frankish warriors milling in the back ranks of their wedge. I ceased to think. It was just focus, draw, and release, then choose another target, arrow after arrow, as quickly as I could find a face showing white beneath its helm, or a bared throat, or a chest or shoulder unprotected by a shield. It was short-range shooting, and our fire was deadly.
“They come upon the rampart!”
Odd had shouted the warning. I turned and looked. A party of Frankish warriors edged toward us from our right, their lead man crouched and holding his shield angled in front, his eyes barely peering over the rim. The warrior behind him carried a bow with an arrow ready on its string.
I was closest to the approaching Franks. “Tore!” I cried, as I knelt so he could fire over me. “I will shoot low at the front man’s legs. You aim high.”
From behind me, Tore answered, “I am ready. Odd, keep shooting at the Franks below.”
“Now!” I called out, and skimmed my arrow low toward the leading Frank’s feet. He reached down and caught it with his shield, but when he did, Tore’s arrow, launched but a moment after mine, struck his exposed face. His body jerked straight upright, then fell back into the arms of the man behind him, knocking the bow from his grasp.
Swiftly I drew another arrow and readied it on my bow. The second Frank heaved his comrade’s body off the rampart. As he did, my arrow found his chest. The third Frank reacted more quickly. No sooner had my shot struck the warrior in front of him than he shoved the dying man sideways off the wall and charged, pulling his spear back to hurl it as he ran. Shooting from behind me, Tore stuck an arrow through his thigh. He stumbled, dropped his spear and clutched desperately at the stone edge of the rampart, but rolled off the wall, screaming. Behind him, the remaining Franks on the rampart turned and fled.
As I stood, something moving out beyond the town walls caught my eye, and I turned and looked. Riders were pouring from the tree line now, racing toward the gate.
Below, Hastein and his men still held the entrance to the tunnel, though barely. Only half of our men still stood, and those had been driven back until they stood shoulder to shoulder just in front of the tunnel’s entrance, with Hastein and Torvald anchoring the center of what remained of our line.
The Franks, who had withdrawn a few paces to regroup for their final attack, had abandoned their wedge formation. They now surrounded Hastein and his men in a semicircle, their leader in their center. As I watched, they began edging forward again, their line bristling with spears and swords.
“Hastein!” I cried. “Ivar comes!” Even as I spoke, a clatter of hooves outside the wall signaled the arrival of the first of our reinforcements. I drew an arrow—the last one in my quiver—and launched it at the Frank’s commander.
My shot hit the Frank on the top of the shoulder of his shield arm, but at an angle. The arrow glanced off his mail shirt and thudded harmlessly into the shield of the warrior behind him. The impact of the blow startled him, though, and he turned and looked up at the top of the wall where I stood.
When the Frank’s leader turned to look at me, Hastein hurled his spear. It caught the Frank just below his chin and ripped out his throat. The man slumped backward, and the men around him reached out to catch him as he fell.
Ha
stein jerked his sword from his scabbard and waved it overhead. “With me!” he shouted. “Take them now!” He and Torvald threw themselves against the Franks’ center, hewing and stabbing at the hapless warriors holding their fallen leader. The rest of his men followed, roaring their rage and defiance in the face of what had seemed just a moment before to be certain death. Behind them, the first of Ivar’s warriors emerged from the tunnel and joined in the attack.
Our reinforcements’ arrival—and the death of their leader—broke the Franks’ spirit. They turned and ran back up the street, our warriors at their heels, hacking and stabbing. The battle became a slaughter, and moved rapidly away, a trail of Frankish bodies marking its progress. As the sounds of fighting grew fainter, a new sound—screams of fear—began to fill the night air.
Tore and Odd ran down the stairs leading from the rampart and joined the stream of warriors pouring from the tunnel’s mouth into the town. Tore called back to me over his shoulder as he reached the ground. “Come, Halfdan. The richest plunder is taken first!”
I followed them down the stairs, but, by the time I reached the bottom, I realized I had neither strength nor will to join in the sack of Ruda. A wave of weariness washed over me, and I slumped down onto the bottom step, staring at the dead and wounded who littered the ground before me. I had survived.
Wulf emerged from the shadows and tugged at my sleeve, an anxious expression on his face.
“We must go,” he said. I looked at him uncomprehendingly. “My family,” he explained. “Your jarl said you and the other warrior, the one with the chest like a barrel, would come with me and protect my family. The other man has gone with the battle, but you must come. The looting has already begun.”
I sighed. “I will come,” I said. “But first I must retrieve some arrows. I will do you little good if I have none."
I prowled among the dead and wounded, searching for my arrows. My bow was strong, with a heavy draw, and most that had hit their targets had sunk deep. It was grisly work. Even when they were undamaged, it took hard pulling and sometimes cutting to free the shafts from the bodies of their victims.
Dragons from the Sea Page 12