A Song Of Steel (The Light of the North saga Book 1)

by James Duncan

  Either side of them, groups of armoured men ran back and forth, carrying their loads of wood and straw. Each man held his bundle in one hand, his shield in the other, above and in front.

  The defenders on the wall noticed the new threat and some shifted their aim, but with shields and bundles held in front, the attacking men were well protected. Nevertheless, arrows found gaps. Men started to fall.

  ‘Go!’ shouted their siege engineer from behind the group of men Ordulf was part of. They started sprinting down the field towards the engine. Ordulf was caught off guard by the sudden command but ran along with them, his feet pounding the earth down that gentle slope. His ears were buzzing; everything seemed muffled and quiet. He looked up at the backs of the men in front. His foot hit a rock and he nearly tripped, but he steadied himself with flailing arms and kept going. His toes hurt like hell, but he ignored them. Other men were running alongside, breaths loud and ragged. The need to piss had become all consuming. Why was it so far to the engine? He kept going.

  One hundred feet to go until they reached the engine. The world was still silent. He looked ahead. Soldiers were throwing their bundles into the ditch in front of the wall. In their vulnerable moment, they were being hammered with arrows and stones from above. Men twisted and fell. Ordulf saw one man hit with a stone on the back of his helmet so hard that the helmet flew off and his head shattered like an egg. Then his body crumpled and rolled into the ditch. His mates simply threw a pile of sticks in on top of him and ran back, shields held over their shoulders, covering their backs.

  All this time, the crusader archers worked their bows. As Ordulf ran, keeping his head down and eyes up, they loosed arrows and crossbow bolts up at the defenders on the wall, ducking into cover between shots.

  Ordulf was slowing, lungs burning despite the short run. The engine was right in front of them. Just as they were about to reach it, the back of the neck of the man in front of him, the one who had called the defenders amateurs, suddenly sprouted an arrowhead in a shower of dark red blood. The man gasped, stumbled and fell, twisting to the side and rolling as he hit the ground.

  Wide, shocked eyes met with Ordulf’s for a fleeting moment and then he was past, leaping over the gasping, prone man to avoid tangling with him and then stumbling to a halt as he reached the engine. The first twenty or so men were already pushing it across the field. As the logs appeared behind it, other men were grabbing them and hauling them around the front to lay them down. About thirty feet of logs were already laid in front. The engine was moving as fast as a man might walk to market on a nice day, impossibly slow for the situation despite the feverish speed of the men driving it onwards. Ordulf joined the queue of men waiting for a log, looking nervously around him. Arrows still flitted past. Several were sticking into the uprights of the engine. He stumbled on something and fell. The thing squished and moaned. Oh God. He realised it was an injured man. He suppressed the sudden desire to vomit, pure fear flowing through him and turning his insides to water.

  The man cursed and tried to throw the huge smith off him. He had an arrow through his thigh. Ordulf mumbled some profuse apologies, the absurdity of the situation snapping him back into the moment.

  He stood and ran forward; the end of a log appeared in front of him, and he grabbed it with six other men. They ran around the side of the engine and towards the front. An arrow hit the log beside Ordulf at a shallow angle, scoring a gouge and skipping off in a shower of splinters. It took the man on the other side of the log in the open mouth. The man went down with a horrifying gurgle and was gone. They reached the front of the roller path and dumped their log before scrambling back. Arrows thunked into the soft dirt around them.

  Ordulf suddenly lost his fight to contain his bladder. He ran to one side and pissed; it was all he could do not to let it go in his trousers. As he finished, rough hands shoved him back towards the line while he was fumbling at his belt.

  ‘Not now, moron! Move yourself, lads. We get to the front or we die here. Move!’ Ordulf was propelled back towards the line of men, trying to both put himself away and secure his trousers with hands that shook and flapped almost as wildly as his still-exposed parts while he half jogged and half stumbled back into the line. As he wrestled with what suddenly seemed an impossible task, all he could worry about was a stray arrow hitting him before he could get his trousers tied up again. The irrational thought would not leave his head. Please don’t let me die with my prick out.

  He finally managed to tie some sort of knot and was back in the log line, running back to the front with a log. Men fell. More men came.

  ‘That’s enough. Halt!’ the engineer roared.

  More men arrived with fascines of sticks and some of those huge shields, which they rapidly set up to the sides and in front of the engine. Ordulf and the other runners gratefully threw themselves down behind the cover and heaved air into their lungs. They lay there, shaking and gasping, while the engineers prepared the engine. Stones the size of a man’s chest were brought up on a cart and laid in the rack on the back of the engine.

  Ordulf couldn’t see in front of the barrier, but he could hear men still shouting and screaming out there, the sound of bows twanging, arrows thudding, feet pounding.

  ‘Right, boys, up and on the ropes!’ the engineer shouted. The men flinched and peered out of cover before the whole mass erupted like a kicked beehive. There were a dozen thick hemp ropes hanging from the front of the engine and trailing between the uprights. Ordulf saw the men in front of him rush forward and take up position, about six men to a rope, the first man reaching as high as he could, taking the rope as it hung seven feet above the ground, the others spreading themselves along behind him.

  ‘You! You are the tallest – front, go!’ someone said to Ordulf as they shoved him to the front. He reached up and grabbed the rope, higher than anyone else around him could reach, and spread out from the other ropes. He and the team had practiced this only a few times yesterday and he hadn’t been put on the front and there hadn’t been a stone on the arm. For about five breaths, he stood there waiting. Those five breaths felt like the longest of his life. He felt sure every Norseman in Denmark must be aiming at his exposed ribs. He expected the thump of an arrow at any moment. What would it feel like?

  ‘And… pull!’ the engineer roared.

  Seventy men pulled down on the ropes with all their strength and dug their heels into the ground to start running, pulling towards the back of the engine. The front end of the beam above them jerked down on the ropes, the back end whipping up through the air with its stone in a short sling at the end.

  The men stopped at the marked position on the bed, some crashing into each other and falling in a heap. Ordulf looked up to watch the stone – it sailed towards the wall and then over the other side.

  ‘Long!’ shouted the engineer. ‘Heavier stone, reset!’

  They shuffled back to the front of the engine, the barricade of baskets and shields providing protection until they needed to reach up to the ropes again.

  ‘Ready!’ the engineer shouted, and they jumped up into their positions on the ropes. Faster this time. ‘And… pull!’ Ordulf heaved down and started running forward, the taut rope from the men in front almost carrying him along. The sling whipped; the stone sailed.

  Crack. The stone hit the palisade wall near the top. Three logs snapped, and a six-foot section of walkway behind was cleared of men in a shower of broken limbs and flying wood.

  The engineer looked on, his mouth wide with joy. He saw a couple of other stones from other machines hit the earth bank and then another hit the palisade, low down near the base. The stone crunched into the upright logs and snapped them like toothpicks. Wood backed with earth shouldn’t break like that, Ordulf thought.

  ‘By God, it’s rotten! Ha!’ The engineer threw his cap in the air with a triumphant shout. ‘Come on boys, reset! We will bring this wall down in a single day!’

  Along two hundred feet of wall, the hail of arrows and
stones fell among the defenders. In some places, the wall was strong and resisted. In others, rotten logs burst apart and fell. Sections of walkway collapsed, forming breaches. The number of arrows coming back trickled to a halt as the defenders died, hid or ran out of arrows.

  Ordulf felt his spirit soar as a horn sounded and waves of ladder teams rushed forward. They ran over the filled-in ditch and slammed their ladders into the earth in front of the undamaged wall sections and other men started scaling the breaches.

  Some brave defenders did contest the top. Stones were dropped, axes were hacked at ladders and swords were thrust into screaming crusaders, but the defenders broke as quickly as their wall. After about as much time as it took to cross the bridge into Hamburg, the banner of the golden cross of Christ on its red field was raised triumphantly over the parapet. A crescendo wave of cheers rolled across the whole field. Ordulf pumped his fist in the air and shouted his lungs hoarse. Around him, men hugged and clasped hands or sat, head in hands, mourning a lost friend or just in shock.

  Ordulf was exhausted. The beaming siege engineer let the lot of them go back to camp with warm words and pats on the back. ‘You did a fine job, lads. Be proud,’ he said as Ordulf passed, exhausted and struggling to trudge through the muddy, churned ground.

  New waves of men came forward, going past him the other way to start clearing the field. The injured were helped to the rear. Ordulf looked down as he passed and saw the man who had called the Danes amateurs lying dead on his side, arrow buried in his neck, mouth open, eyes glazed and staring into the distance.

  He stopped, feeling queasy, and then he suddenly doubled over and turned to vomit into a bush. All the fear, buzz, excitement and horror emptied itself out of him, and he fell to his knees, retching into the undergrowth until it hurt.

  He slept like the dead when he returned to camp. The army had expected to be there for a week or more to break the wall and now would be moving in just three days after the equipment was repacked, the men rested and the injured either treated, placed in the dirt or sent home on wagons. Around the cookfire, he heard some of the soldiers who had been in the assault talking about the fight. The top had been sparsely defended, and there was no army waiting behind it as expected. No more than five hundred Danes, mostly bowmen, had been on the wall, and more than half of them had run to safety when the first crusaders had hit the top, leaving their dead and a handful of brave men to slow the enemy down. Two hundred men of the crusader army had died taking the wall, and another hundred were so badly injured they would yet die or never fight again. Even more had less serious wounds and would take time to return to the ranks.

  The men seemed happy with the result. The legendary Danevirke was breached, and it had cost very little Christian blood. But that’s not how Ordulf saw it. He couldn’t shake the image of that man in front of him suddenly growing an arrowhead near his spine and collapsing. His wide eyes, his shocked expression. A life taken in front of him in the passing of a moment. If the unlucky man had been one step to either side, the arrow would have passed him and hit Ordulf. His whole life had hung on such a small fact, and it horrified him. Henry came and sat next to him, a pair of steaming pots in his hands. He proffered one to Ordulf, who took it gratefully.

  ‘I hear you went forward to work the engines, lad,’ he said, looking respectful for the first time since they had met.

  ‘I did,’ said Ordulf, spooning the hot and delicious broth into his mouth.

  ‘Good on you, lad. Mostly the men on those ropes are there as punishment or because they are good for fuck-all else. It’s not often a good man volunteers to do it. I only ever did it once, and that’s because I was caught arse up, tits down with a priest’s daughter,’ he said, grinning like a loon. ‘What made you go? Wanted to test your mettle, huh? Get out of being just a baggage bitch?’

  Ordulf giggled manically and looked at the old soldier. ‘I went because I thought I would be safe at the back pulling ropes. I wanted to see the battle from a distance. I had no fucking idea what it involved.’ He burst out laughing at the old soldier’s amazed expression, laughter that just wouldn’t stop. He spilt some of the steaming broth on his leg, swore and carried on eating, giggling uncontrollably between mouthfuls.

  The old soldier shook his head in bemusement and stood to go back and join his friends. He chuckled to himself at the ignorance of the young these days. The giggles of the mad young smith receded into the background as he went back to his fire.

  Chapter 10

  The Valley of Blood

  For nearly a week after crossing the Danevirke, the army steadily continued north in a tight column along the road, without deploying again. The rumour mill in the baggage train was running full speed. The scouts often came back to collect replacement gear or food, and the wagoners pumped them for information. They were almost as well informed as the commanders of the army.

  The picture they painted, which Ordulf gleaned about third hand, was that the army was driving the Danes before them with almost no fighting. The enemy was not strong enough to face them, and so they abandoned their settlements along the road and fled with whatever they could carry. Some bands were caught by Christian cavalry in skirmishes in the open and were obliterated, but most escaped.

  The abandoned settlements part was true, at least. The baggage train passed through and by many of them, burned or just empty. For a whole week, Ordulf didn’t see a Dane, dead or alive. Apparently, they were passing the town of Hedeby heading to the Danish capital Aarhus, although Ordulf didn’t know where that was or how far away. It was north along this road, and they would get there when they got there. That was what Orbert deigned to tell him anyway.

  On the seventh day, horsemen were suddenly riding up and down the column shouting orders. The wagons and pack animals were unceremoniously driven off the path and into abandoned fields. The army’s spare warhorses were led to the front in strings. The greater portion of the rearguard followed them shortly after at a jog.

  Ordulf was nervous. Even the wagoners were twitchy. There was tension in the air everywhere. ‘What do you think is happening?’ he asked Henry.

  ‘Scouts say the Norse army is formed on a ridge blocking our path ahead. There is going to be a battle, lad,’ the old man said, fiddling with his belt.

  ‘Why are you looking nervous now?’

  ‘Because the scout said their army is fucking huge.’

  Ordulf shuffled on the spot, craning his head as though he could see the three miles through low hills and woods to the army in question. Eyes wide, he turned back to Henry.

  ‘So, what if we lose?’

  ‘You’d best be ready to leave, and in a fucking hurry.’

  ‘But we won’t lose, right? Our army is vast.’

  ‘Our army is medium at best, and it’s from four states and speaks half a dozen different languages. It’s been marching for nearly a month, the men are tired and anything can happen in battle,’ Henry intoned, keeping his voice low. ‘We can lose. If it goes badly, anyone can lose. But yes, I reckon it’s likely we’ll win,’ he added, trying to look convincing.

  Count Adolf sat on his horse chewing his lip and studying the enemy position as the crusader army moved into position to attack. The Norse had cut the road with a ditch and spiked it with wooden stakes all along its length. Their army was smaller than the crusaders’ but significant and well positioned, with several thousand well-equipped men lining the ditch in the centre and a larger militia guarding the flanks. The hedges and woods on each side would help prevent a flanking assault.

  For the third time, Adolf came to the same conclusion. They would be forced to assault straight up the ridge and earn the top through sheer force. The cavalry would not be able to charge up that slope and over the prepared positions. But he had an idea – a hope more than an idea – and he knew the man for the task.

  ‘Hans.’ The knight rode over to the count’s side.

  ‘Yes, my lord?’

  ‘I need you to take a mes
sage to the duke. His orders are for the cavalry to wait here as reserve, but I doubt they will be needed or useful. I have a different idea, and I want you to go back to the command group and present it. I will remain here with the main body.’

  Hans nodded, controlling his horse with his knees as the big stallion shifted restlessly and nipped at the count’s riding mare. ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Hans cantered off up the hill with the message as Adolf watched the army deploy. The Saxons, including his men, were on the left flank with some small French contingents. Units of Italians, Bavarians, and other Germans made up the centre. The Bohemians made up the right flank with the Austrians and other small contingents, out of his view in the low ground on the right of the road.

  Adolf waited nervously as the army settled into position, sending runners to adjust the deployment and ensure he was level with the centre as it formed up. Sir Hans had not returned, so he assumed that the request had been granted, but he cast it from his mind. His business now was with the ground and the enemy in front of his own men.

  The sound of hoofbeats drew his attention behind him, a group of messengers riding hard along the back of the army, stopping to talk to the commanders of each contingent. One pulled up near him, horse’s legs splayed, nostrils flaring, damp earth spraying. An unnecessary but impressive display of horsemanship. The armoured knight dipped his head to the count as he relayed his message.

  ‘I bring the regards of the duke. He asks that you advance your men when the horn sounds thrice. It will be soon.’

  The man didn’t stay to receive a return message, and he pirouetted his horse and was gone in a spray of earth to the next contingent in line.

  Adolf dismounted, untied his helmet from the side of his saddle and jammed it onto his maille-clad head. He fumbled with the strap until it was tied securely under his chin. He left the flap of leather and maille that would tie across his lower face open; he couldn’t give clear orders with it up. He handed the reins to his page. This battle would be no place for a horse, especially his fine riding mare.