by Jason Born
My back was pressed against the jagged rocks of the cliff’s base. We inched our way north. I swear that I heard Leif screaming out my name for help. I wanted to jump over those walls and cut down every last one of Maredubb’s men to save my friend. Patience, I told myself. Leif would certainly die if we failed.
We stopped. I put my belly against the rocks and crawled. I didn’t wait. I didn’t give orders. I climbed.
The going was easier than I originally thought. The face of the cliff was not entirely sheer. It went straight up for a fadmr or two, then had a thin ledge where scrub grasses held on for dear life. Soon, I did the same. Up we climbed, I at the top followed by a few Manx and then a host of newcomers of indecipherable origins.
We were close. I could hear distinct words from the Dal Riatans. I was to help Godfrey secure a kingdom and final revenge for the humiliating hangings his Ring-Followers had endured.
I paused on the last thin outcrop before we would climb the last face and the wall. I let our men catch up and breathe. When the last one had rested his hands on his knees for several heartbeats, I nodded sternly. My hands dug into the tight crevices they could find. I climbed.
Now I tried not to grunt. I was so close. Any sound might warn the enemy. When the fingernail on the middle finger of my left hand tore off, I shuddered. I gasped, but didn’t yelp. Up I went.
The men behind me began making a loud ruckus. Some yelled. Some cried. I fought to hold my awkward position at the base of the stone wall and crane my head to see what was the matter. I heard a thump. I saw a man fall, bounce off the narrow shelf and clang his way down the cliff. I saw swords drawn. They were covered in crimson. They flashed in the night.
Below me, the newcomers, the piratical mercenaries, had shown their colors. They were hacking down anyone truly loyal to Godfrey. The traitors had let the Manx climb ahead on the last leg. The traitorous bastards then cut the exposed men from behind. Legs were slashed. Groins were stabbed. It wasn’t even a fight. It was over before it began.
And I was the only one left who was loyal to Godfrey.
. . .
I clung to the side of that hill just out of reach of their swords. One of the bastards threw a spear up at me. He missed. Not by much. The weapon’s head made sparks as its steel grated against the rocks next to my face.
I couldn’t scrabble my way down to them. They’d do to me what they did to the Manx. I couldn’t hurl myself down on them. The outcrop was not wide enough. I might take a few with me, but to jump was to commit painful suicide by scraping my flesh off and bludgeoning my head against boulders all the way down. Up was my only choice.
The enemy at my back had the same idea. They didn’t try to chase me, for a sword battle on the face of a wall was no way to earn glory. It might make for a great yarn if told by the right skald. Men would long to be us as they heard the tales. Women would murmur amongst themselves about how they would want such a man as the one who could cling to a cliff with one hand and kill men with the other. How much more could a man do if given the use of both hands, especially in bed, those young lasses would wonder. But neither the newcomers nor I wanted to risk it that dark morning.
The bastards began shouting to the men behind the wall. The defenders reacted instantly. I heard their heavy boots thunder toward us. I was glad I still had my cloak then. I pulled its dark hood up over my blonde hair and drew myself into the wall. My chest muscles screamed. I clutched the wall and made myself a part of her.
Whoosh! Pffft! Missiles ran past my ears. The breezes they created ruffled my coat along my back. The javelins were close, but they missed me. They did not miss the sheep dung spread out on the ledge, though. Those men screamed. The traitors bled. They said over and again how they were on the side of Maredubb. They shouted about how the conniving Welsh king and his drunken stooge, Horse Ketil, had sent them. The sentries on the wall were not in a position to decide what was true and what was not. They only knew that just a few ells below were men who should not be there. The defenders sent a hail storm of oak and steel down. In moments, except for the labored, gurgling breath of one traitor, it was again quiet.
On my side of the hill, that is.
To the east, I could hear Godfrey’s battle yet raging.
The fact that it still ran on told me that he hadn’t surmounted the walls. My king had tumbled against them and collapsed. He would need me on the inside to open the gates.
But I was alone. The newcomers I led betrayed me and the king.
I closed my eyes and pushed my forehead against the cool stone. There were two hundred newcomers with Godfrey, Gudruna, and Leif.
The roar I heard, the clanging of axes, and cries for mothers came not from an exchange of force between Maredubb and Godfrey. No, I now understood that it came from within Godfrey’s own army.
The ranks were eating themselves.
All the while Maredubb sat inside the safety of Dunadd watching the spectacle, watching one more kingly rival in the Irish Sea disappear.
. . .
For too many moments I clung to the wall. I wasn’t afraid as much as I was uncertain of just what I should do. The watchmen above had again turned their attention to the main attack. I heard their giggles. Many of them likely wagered on some aspect of the destruction taking place at their gates. Many a Norseman would have done the same. A man’s humor turns morose when carnage reigns.
With no more missiles whizzing past, I knew the sentinels’ attention was clearly elsewhere. I was able to move freely – but which way? Back down the way I had come? That would take time and do nothing for the cause. Up and over the wall? I would be stuck within moments, for I was but one man against an entire garrison. Instead, I chose to sidle along the wall until a better idea came to me. I went south for no good reason other than I saw a decent finger hold in the wall in that direction.
If the sentries above were showing an interest in their duties, they would have seen my struggle or heard my grunting. They weren’t. I thanked Providence. Grasp after painful grasp I made it around the top curtain wall of the open keep. With every move, the finger on my left hand blossomed with a fresh pulse of blood. At last, I rounded the curved fortification. I could now see down into the next section of the wall, set lower on the hill in stair-step fashion. I was also able to look beyond, into the lower levels of walls. What I saw made my throat swell in my neck. I felt like I would choke on a growing bite of apple.
In the lowest bailey was the fancy Maredubb. He was in full regalia sitting on his smart black destrier with the enormous hooves. His linen trousers were light green this time, though like his red ones, they were tucked into tall black leather boots. I wanted those boots. Maredubb’s long padded coat that showed under his scale armor was again blue, but royal, not sky.
Next to Maredubb sat Horse Ketil on a borrowed horse. He’d recovered from the beating I’d given him on Anglesey. He was tottering on his loaned horse. He was drunk or feigning drunkenness. Horse Ketil’s skin was green and his countenance fearful of what their forces would encounter once Maredubb gave the order to open the gates. It looked like his hope of taking over Man without a fight was lost. Chaos was knocking outside the fort’s door.
A watchman, perched on a walkway behind the lowest curtain wall, was shouting details of the battle down to the mounted king. I couldn’t hear anything Maredubb said in return, but I saw him gesturing with his hands. His infantry stood proud in tight lines behind the Welsh king. They were unsullied, rested, and from their faces, I could tell they were ready for avenging the humiliation Godfrey had given their king just months before.
Beyond the gate I saw the fight going on and on. It ranged from partially up the hillside to partially along the narrow flatland next to the River Add. I realized then that it was first light. To the east, the tip of the sun was just cresting the horizon. Had I been in the arms of my bride, I would have said it was a beautiful sunrise. I would have rutted with the fictitious woman while the youngest of my brood of children pr
epared my morning meal. In the real world, the air was cool like those of all late summer days. The sun was red. It splashed its faint light on a dense set of clouds that had blown in before dawn. The clouds showed violet at their broad, single base and darkened to grey then black toward their multiple, wispy peaks. The red, yellow, and orange leaves of the trees that lined the river looked especially sharp that morning. I felt like I could see all the way home to Rogaland. The scene was, in fact, beautiful. But Sunna was dressed in red, blood red. It was morning and with the color of the sun the norns were hinting that beneath the roots of Yggdrasil they were weaving a day of death. Odin would have many fine men enter his hall by the time of the gloaming.
A spear sliced the air past my nose. Its point stuck between two rocks. The shaft vibrated loudly from the shock of impact. A watchman from the next lower wall had noticed me and took a chance with his weapon. Without thinking, I sprang to hang from the shaft and used it as a swing to propel me the last few ells. Thump! My feet landed on the top of the second wall. I ran along its arcing length, kicking the man in his face who’d thrown the spear. He crumpled.
Below, inside the wall, I saw a flat rock that had an old carving of a charging boar. Thinking of Leif’s ship, I thought that perhaps the Dal Riatans weren’t all bad. Perhaps we weren’t that different. But there was no time for being introspective. In another twenty steps a second guard noticed me. I thrust a boot in his face, too. He toppled into a third watchman and like water cascading down rocks splashes further and further afield, more and more of the enemy was alerted.
I leapt into the air and fell down on the third curtain wall, stair-stepping lower. Arrows whiffed past. If I could survive the run of such a gauntlet, jumping from one wall, running, and bounding for the next wall down, my path would take me directly to the main gate and Godfrey. I write this sitting here today an aged man, a little bitter, a little tired, and sometimes forgetful. What I hoped to do there for King Godfrey, I do not know.
One more jump. I ran along the top of the lowest wall out of view from the men standing down in the previous bailey. Their spears stopped. But I was a newfound target for the eager soldiers lined up directly behind Maredubb. They certainly had pent up energy and a plethora of unused missiles. Anticipating an onslaught, I intentionally changed my pace by temporarily slowing. A hedge of spears raced in front of my chest. I pushed my speed. A spear tripped me. Another set of spears tore at my flapping cloak. Their momentum caused the coat to jerk at my neck and sent me over the curtain wall into the clash outside. Within the bailey I could hear the raucous cries of Maredubb’s army, led by a chanting Horse Ketil, celebrating their first kill in the battle at Dunadd. The noise they made quickly faded. I rolled in the air and landed on my side on a tuft of grass, bounced over a weather-worn rock, and skidded across another pile of stones.
I came to rest against the legs of a newcomer who fought one of Kvaran’s men. The traitorous newcomer was surprised to see me. He craned his face up toward Dunadd’s wall, wondering from where I came. His shock was the only thing that saved me. After struggling for a single heartbeat to gather any of my weapons or my shield, I gave up. They were wrapped in my coat. I reached up under the dangling tails of the traitor’s chainmail and latched on with an iron grip to his manhood. I used it like a handle to pull myself up. He screamed in agony, bending at the waist. Kvaran’s man used a great sword to cleave the newcomer’s head from his body, spreading a great blooming red mist into the morning.
“Thanks,” the man said as he stepped away to engage another newcomer.
I stood and gathered my bearings. I faced east toward the Add River. Behind me and to the left was the tightly shut gate of Dunadd, the one that Maredubb would order opened when the timing was proper for his intentions. Spread everywhere were pockets of fighters. The largest of these pockets was midway up the hillside. Godfrey and Gudruna had called together a host of Greenlanders, Manx, Welsh, and even a few of the warriors from Dyflin. They’d formed a shield wall in the midst of the mayhem. The full length of King Godfrey’s once-bright, new blade was caked in blood and entrails of the men he’d hewn. The mass of warriors’ oak was alive. It efficiently stabbed and cleared a path, inching up the hill toward the gate. A few of the men in the middle of the round shield wall had partially unfurled their grappling hooks. By Thor, my king still thought he could take the fort!
For a fleeting moment I was caught up by the king’s confidence, the luck and fate and fortune he felt were on his side. I looked up at the walls behind me and began thinking of the best way to surmount them. I pictured all I had seen throughout the night and morning. Where should I lead the king so that he could claim victory? I studied the gate and my senses returned. Maredubb’s army was still nestled behind it as safe and comfortable as a newborn next to his mother’s milk-swollen breasts.
I ran toward Godfrey. I cut three newcomers from behind with my old sword. More mists of crimson colored the air before splattering against other men and the rocks at our feet. I walked on a bridge of bodies that got deeper with every new step of the shield wall. Godfrey and the others fought like maniacal demons. They were draugr, sucking life’s air from their victims. It was horrifying.
One of Kvaran’s men slipped in a pool of slick blood. He fell forward onto his shield, exposing his back and creating a gap in the line. The traitors did not allow the chance to pass by unanswered. The fallen man was immediately killed. So too were the men of Dyflin on either side of him. Leif screamed and sidled. The gap closed. The moving slaughterhouse resumed its climb.
I hacked at the back of our enemies’ calves as I ran through. Killian saw my approach and at the right moment, tipped his shield to the side to allow my passage into the inner safety of the wall. I ran into Aoife. I’d forgotten she was even with us. She carried a skin of water that had an arrow jutting from one side. The skin was flaccid. Water trickled down the arrow shaft and flecked the red-drenched earth. On her back Aoife had slung two sheaves of arrows, although as I scanned our circle of shields, I could see that all our archers were dead.
I remember wishing at that moment that she would jerk on my beard and give me the plan that would save us. That didn’t happen. The once proud, strong, defiant girl was wide-eyed with terror. She was near frozen. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Home!” she cried. “I want home. I want my sisters and my mother!”
My knee slapped the earth and I grabbed her chin in my hand. Our eyes met. Hers were buried beneath pools of liquid. “Be strong,” was all I had time to say.
“Randulfr! Take my place,” shouted Godfrey. His favorite warrior stepped in just as Godfrey moved back to talk to me. He yanked me up by my hair.
“You’re supposed to be inside opening the gate!” The king panted. He swiped a bloody paw across his face to clean away sweat and the remains of the enemy. He removed the old and replaced it with a new streak of mess.
“The bastards,” I began, “turned on us.”
Godfrey got a sarcastic look on his face and looked around the outside of the shield wall. “Oh, you must be joking, because things over here are going well.”
“We can’t open the gate,” I said. Gudruna’s sword clanged off a man’s helmet. The riotous noise of the battle that surrounded us cleaved my ears.
“No matter!” answered Godfrey. “The traitors will be mopped up in just a few more steps. Then we assault the fort like men, none of your trickery.”
I tugged back on Killian, pulling him into the conversation. He nearly rammed his short sword into my eye. “Tell the king that we must withdraw now! We cannot take that fort. Without the newcomers on our side our numbers are too small. And we’ve lost dozens of fighters here.” I pointed a finger at the gate. “Maredubb lies in wait. Horse Ketil and an army, too.”
Killian was shaking his head in disagreement. The norns were pulling at the Christian’s adventurous thread. They must surely have been giggling. “We’ve got this! This fort will be ours. The king has Providence on his side. He
slices the enemy with his fine blade.” Killian had the bloodlust like I’d never seen. His face was not his own. He’d morphed into one of us. Killian was no longer a priest, temporarily, at least.
Godfrey ran one side of his new sword across his thigh to remove the coagulating blood. He flipped it to wipe the other side. Killian’s battle-mad eyes locked on the sword. He grabbed the king’s wrist. “I thought you said this was an +ULFBERH+T!”
The king slapped away the priest’s hand. “It is an +ULFBERHT+. It says so right there.”
Godfrey stepped to take his place back in the shield wall. Killian was suddenly the same priest I’d gotten to know. The diminutive man tugged back on the larger Godfrey. “No king. Halldorr is right. I lost my senses. We must leave now.” He pointed to the king’s sword. “That is counterfeit! There are reports all over Europe of men who’ve taken those false blades into battle and find themselves and their armies decorating the foliage.”
Godfrey again shoved Killian. “Superstitious? What kind of priest are you?” A spear fell between us all.
Aoife was screaming louder now. She had moved to the back of the hollow shield wall as it progressed upward.
“Killian is right, lord king!” I called. “I don’t care what his reason is at this moment, but his conclusion is correct. We’ll lose if we stay.”
“And if we flee, we’re admitting defeat already!” The king grabbed my beard and wrenched it hard. “One chance! A man gets one chance in his life at true greatness. These odds, against me like they are, give me the chance for fame. If I lose, I join Odin.” He turned to Killian. “Sorry, father.” The priest nodded his understanding. “But if we win, think of it. If we somehow take this hill and gain a new kingdom, the legends, the sagas, the songs will be filled with our names for eternity. Sigurd the dragon slayer will be forgotten.”