His world went dark.
STENVIK
Ulfar sprinted past Valgard’s hastily erected healing station, past the groups of reinforcements waiting at the foot of each step, past Audun wrestling a cart into a slot next to the western gateway. He vaulted up the steps two at a time, to find Sven above the southern gateway.
‘Welcome back, son. I trust you’ve spent your time well?’
Ulfar hid his blushes by shadowing his eyes from the setting sun and leaning as far as he could over the south wall. ‘Yes. Yes I have.’
Coming towards them up the southern road was an imposing line of metal, shields, spears and swords.
‘They’ll be going for the gateway,’ Sven offered as an explanation.
‘Then why aren’t all our men down there?’ Ulfar said as he turned to look at Sven, who just grinned back.
Movement caught his eye as Harald emerged along with five other Westerdrake raiders. They all carried thick spears, half a man’s length. ‘Time to go fishing,’ the captain growled, nodding to Sven. His men sought out the big wooden shields set into the planks, lifted them and disappeared from sight.
Ulfar blinked. Then he blinked again. ‘Where did they go?’
‘We have a little surprise prepared for our guests,’ the old fighter said offhandedly. ‘You might want to take cover now, though.’ He dropped down to a crouch with surprising ease. Ulfar looked out to the south just in time to see swift, black-clad figures dart between the houses of Old Stenvik.
The first hail of arrows was off the mark but did enough to unsettle the defenders on the wall.
‘HOLD FIRM!’ Thorvald’s voice rang out. ‘HOLD FIRM!’
A piercing scream cut through the din and Ulfar peered above the parapet. A black-clad raider stopped between huts in mid-run, an arrow buried deep in his thigh. When the next arrow pierced his armour at the armpit, he stopped screaming and sank to the ground. From the south-western corner, Runar saluted to Thorvald, already nocking another arrow. ‘Th-th-they s-sound real nice, d-d-don’t they?!’ he shouted across the wall with a smile.
‘Are you going to let our guests have all the fun?’ Thorvald roared at his men. As the scout master’s archers returned fire, Ulfar looked over at Sven, crouched behind the parapet. ‘So. Skargrim’s gatebreakers are approaching and we’re trading arrows with archers we can’t see. If this were Tafl I would say that we’re short on initiative.’
Sven frowned. ‘You have a point there, son. Any suggestions?’
Ulfar was cut short by a single voice.
‘MOOOOVE!!’
As the word floated on the eastern wind the forest came alive.
THE NJORDUR’S MERCY
Skuld’s lips moved continuously, forming words that had not been heard in the world for a long time. Occasionally her hands would pass in intricate patterns over Oraekja’s sleeping form as the ship rocked gently on the sea, waves lapping at the side.
On the battlefield an almost invisible, silvery grey tendril of mist snaked and weaved away from every man in death’s embrace, towards the Njordur’s Mercy.
STENVIK
It looked like the forest itself was closing in on Stenvik. Sprinting ahead, outlaw spear-throwers launched their thick heavy missiles at the walls. A handful of defenders were struck down, falling to their deaths on the ground below as a group of outlaws approached the foot of the wall.
‘FIRE!!’ Thorvald’s voice boomed on the walls. Chosen archers dipped down at once below the parapet, picked arrows specially stuck into the wall by their post and waved them once, twice, over small torches. Touching them to the flame until the bundles of kindling tied to the shaft flared up, they fired the burning arrows straight into the bundles of hay placed strategically in front of the wall. The ground seemed to burst into flame at the feet of onrushing outlaws. The ragged men screamed in rage, danced around the fires and cursed the defenders to death and beyond. The unlucky ones got trapped in the rush and burned badly, writhing in agony at the foot of the wall.
But the charge did not falter. Soon Stenvik’s walls were crawling with outlaws, scaling the nearly sheer grass-clad surface from the southern gate eastward to just beyond the northern gate.
‘Well,’ Sven said stoically. ‘If there was at any point a choice, there isn’t any more. Get up, son. No more thinking or talking. It’s killing time.’ Within moments he was gone, a short broadsword in his right, a wicked-looking curved knife in his left.
Ulfar peered over the parapet just in time to see Skargrim’s gatebreakers disappear from view underneath a densely packed shield wall firmly placed at the outer gate of the southern wall.
The leading outlaw lunged at the top of the wall on the east side to plant his hand on what he thought was solid earth. Punching straight through the turf, the spike underneath went through his shoulder. Screaming like a stuck pig, the first vagabond over Stenvik’s walls was brained with an axe and left hanging as a bar to the others.
The fighting was fierce on the wall, but the warriors of Stenvik matched the onslaught of the undisciplined robbers. In between volleys to keep Skargrim’s men in check, archers would pick off climbers, arrows ripping through cloth and flesh. The young and the old on the wall pelted the outlaws with stones, breaking skulls and faces.
Ulfar had his hands full. Equipped with an old, makeshift shield from Sven and a throwaway sword, he found himself dancing along the groove in the top wall, leaping in where openings appeared. As he ran to cover the eastern wall a raider from the Westerdrake standing beside him caught an arrow in the neck just as an outlaw vaulted over the corpse of one of his brothers, impaled on the wall spikes. The wiry and bloodied fighter rounded on a young boy with blonde hair. The boy dropped his bow for a knife at his belt.
With few qualms about honour, Ulfar clobbered the outlaw in the back of the head with his shield and watched him collapse like a sack of potatoes.
‘Give me a hand,’ he said to the boy as he grabbed the enemy. Together they hoisted him up to the top of the wall.
‘Wait.’ Ulfar stopped in mid-push as the boy drew his knife and slit the outlaw’s throat before pushing him over. Ulfar’s eyebrows shot up and the boy smiled. ‘Makes it slick and harder to climb. Get down,’ and the boy dived under the parapet, pulling Ulfar with him. In half a breath, three arrows whistled past at chest height.
Standing up, Ulfar nodded at the boy. ‘I owe you my life.’
‘We’re even. Name’s Orn.’
‘Well, Orn – you’ve got good eyes. Thank you for sharing them.’ Orn nodded once, smiled and grabbed his bow. Out of the corner of his eye Ulfar could see Thorvald directing reinforcements to where the raider had fallen, while Sven gestured and sent a group of men with bows, long spears and what looked like scythes away from the eastern steps towards the market square.
‘THEY’RE THROUGH THE OUTER GATE!’
The men on the wall stole looks towards the inner gate on the south wall. Knowing that Skargrim’s raiders were in their gateway showed it for what it was – just a thin layer of timber between their families and death.
‘HOLD, YOU BASTARDS! IF THEY COME OVER THE WALL IT’S OVER! HOLD THE WALL FOR STENVIK!’ Sigurd roared at the top of his voice, leading by example. The blade of his axe, the front of his tunic and his forearms were spattered with blood and gore.
Ulfar saw Sven look down on the south gate, eyes gleaming.
*
It had been hard work, shifting the chopped timber out from under the shield wall by hand. They’d felt every arrow thudding into the wooden barriers between them and certain death, felt the heat of bodies pushed, crushed together under the shields.
But the gate had given way, they’d hacked through and now they were crowding into the gateway. Outside the smell of war and death had mixed with the screams of dying outlaws to boil their blood. In comparison, the stone corridor seemed hushed. The cold stones were a blessing.
‘Fucking tomb,’ Thora muttered next to Skargrim, pulling him to the s
ide to let the gatebreakers through.
The gateway was filling up fast. Warriors eager to get out of the hail of stones and arrows pushed in at the back. Soon there was very little room to move.
‘GET BACK!’ Skargrim roared. ‘GIVE SPACE, YOU FOOLS!’
About three feet ahead of him Skargrim saw a little dirt bounce off a raider’s helmet. Somewhere in the back of his head Oraekja’s words echoed. Ragnar told him he should have looked up …
‘What the—’
The first heavy spear came down like lightning, smashed a clavicle, punctured a lung and disappeared back up into the hole in the roof as the raider ahead of Skargrim sank to the floor, blood pumping out of his neck. The second struck almost simultaneously on the other side of the corridor, skimming a helmet, carving open a raider’s face and punching through his chest beside his sternum. ‘SHIELDS! UP! SHIELDS, YOU BASTARDS!’ Thora screamed at the top of her voice, but it was too late. The spears struck again and there was no space to move, only the screams of dying men.
Fear and blood gave Skargrim strength. He tore the shield off the back of a man in front, pushed two men to the side and jammed the murder hole. His teeth jarred with the impact as the spear punched into the shield once, twice. Skargrim counted, timed and pulled the shield away at the last moment. The wielder of the spear, expecting resistance, lost control for an instant and the spear slipped out. Skargrim reached up, grabbed the shaft just below the tip with both hands and wrenched with all his might.
The spear was his, along with a very satisfying thud and curse on the other side of the timber.
His victory didn’t last long, though.
Piercing screams came from the gate as the front row, the gatebreakers with their tools, all dropped to the floor. Skargrim could see the pools of blood spreading, the hidden holes in the gate where the spears stuck out.
The command made his mouth taste of bile, but there was nothing for it.
‘BACK! GO BACK! RETREAT! BACK TO THE HARBOUR!’
He turned around, snarled at the men in front of him and led them at a dead run out of the gateway, through the splintered gate, past Ingi’s shield wall and back to the old town. Behind him he could hear the rumble as the south gate opened. The screams of his men, the sounds of murder being done.
Tendrils of shimmering, silver-grey mist streamed with Skargrim, out to sea.
*
There was no order given that Ulfar could understand. One moment the outlaws were all over their walls, snarling and feral. The next they simply turned around and fled.
Not that anyone complained.
The men of Stenvik roared their approval but got little time to celebrate their victory.
Thorvald, Sven and Sigurd moved among them, commanding a clean-up. Planks were scrubbed, weapons checked and bodies unceremoniously dumped to the foot of the wall after being stripped of anything useful. ‘Give them something to clamber over,’ Sigurd had growled.
Down in the market square Valgard and Sven were seeing to a surprisingly short line of wounded soldiers. The southern gate was up and the occasional strangled scream from a gatebreaker being put out of his misery rang out.
No one paid them any heed.
The shields up on the wall rose. Harald and his warriors emerged, bloodied but grinning manically. ‘Shields! Up! Shields, you bastards!’ one of them shrieked, and the others roared. ‘Oi! Where’s your spear?’ Hallmar shouted at one of the fighters. ‘Shut up,’ the tall raider snapped back. ‘Got ripped out of my hands.’
‘You got one, though, didn’t you?’ Harald draped a thick arm around the young raider.
‘Yes I did,’ he replied, grinning. ‘Spitted him like a pig.’
Harald roared and the others joined in.
Moving away from the blood-crazed raiders, Ulfar picked his way down the steps. Glancing into the southern gateway, his stomach churned and his breath caught in his throat.
Corpses littered the stone corridor. There was blood everywhere. The floor was covered, the walls spattered. By the gate a pile of bodies lay, face down, brutally hamstrung. Their throats had been slit. Further down towards the ruined outer gate fighters lay sprawled in various poses, arrows and spears sticking out of their backs.
‘I guess we got this round.’ Audun stood behind him, looking at the carnage. ‘Sven says we’re to pile this up and use it as a barrier.’
Ulfar shuddered involuntarily. ‘If that’s what he says then that’s what we do, I guess.’ He followed Audun, who was already picking his way through the gateway, feet splashing in pools of blood. Somehow some of it had sprayed up on the wall and nearly to the rough timbers in the tunnel ceiling. Ulfar followed the line with his eyes.
‘Murder holes in the roof. There’s just about space enough for a couple of men to go down from the top, stand above the tunnel and stab downwards with spears. They sent—’
‘Harald and his friends,’ Ulfar replied. ‘Through the big shields up there. I saw them come out again.’
‘And then there’s little hidden holes in the inner gate for spears or arrows, and space for swiping a blade down at ankle level. These poor bastards never stood a chance.’
Ulfar cursed softly. ‘Sven wasn’t kidding when he said he had some surprises for the visitors.’ He grabbed a leg and helped drag a lifeless body to the corpse wall Audun was building.
‘No, he wasn’t. Sven and Sigurd knew what they were doing.’
‘Did you take part in building this?’ Ulfar gestured at the stone-masonry.
‘No, not at all. This is from long before my time. Ten summers? Fifteen? I don’t know. Closer to ten, I should think. The story says Sigurd and Sven had raided so much and carried home so much treasure that they needed a fortress to guard it all.’
‘Is it true?’
‘Might be. I’ve never seen any treasures, though. I think it’s a story and I think they simply wanted to keep the people safe. I—’ Audun paused, then pointed at a warrior on the floor. ‘This one is alive.’
‘Not by much, from the looks of it,’ Ulfar replied.
The raider lay on his back, an arrow tip coated in shiny, brownish black liquid sticking out of his chest. His eyes fluttered.
Ulfar looked at the blacksmith, who nodded once, an odd expression on his face. He then drew his sword and stabbed the man through the heart, a killing blow.
They both shuddered when the light went out of the man’s eyes.
After a moment Ulfar spoke up. ‘Let’s finish the stacking and get out of here.’
‘Very good idea,’ Audun replied, a shade too quickly.
STENVIK, THE OLD TOWN
‘This really is not going to be as easy as we thought, is it?’ Hrafn looked at the other captains sitting around the fire. ‘Am I the only one here who expected a real fight?’
Three pairs of eyes trained on Hrafn.
‘All right, so maybe not. But we’ve tested their strength now. There’s a fair amount of it.’
‘Except in numbers,’ Thrainn interjected.
‘This is true,’ Hrafn acceded.
Ingi cleared his throat. ‘Fine. Then let’s talk possibilities. We’ll have a hard time getting at the inner gate. The outlaws were slaughtered on those walls, so climbing is out. We can hardly sneak up on them from here on in. I say we wait.’
‘What? Where’s the honour in that? Waiting for them to weaken and die?’ Hrafn hissed.
‘Think about it. Skargrim said he’d sent men to poison their water. You’ll get your fight, Hrafn. But it will be on our terms, when they’re weak, thirsty and forced to leave their little fortress. It’s safer, it’s more efficient and it will be a lot easier.’
No one could really argue with that.
Ingi nodded for emphasis. ‘Good. Are we then agreed?’
Hrafn and Thrainn nodded.
‘… Egill? Do you agree, or would you like to continue to throw men at the walls?’
‘We should wait for Skargrim,’ Egill rumbled. ‘It’s not righ
t to decide this when he’s not here.’
‘Well – where is he then?’ Ingi asked.
No one spoke. The answer was written all over the captains’ faces.
THE NJORDUR’S MERCY
The waves caressed the sleek hull. A chill breeze stroked the mast, searching for sails that weren’t there.
Skargrim knew that he had to report to Skuld, had to tell her what had happened. She would know, of course. There was no doubt about that. But he had to. So now he found himself onboard his own ship, as intimately familiar to him as his own body. Only now it felt … different. A little bit colder than the rest of the world.
A small torch mounted on the mast threw wild, dancing shadows at Skargrim as he picked his way to the stern.
‘Enter.’
He pulled back the hides and stepped inside.
The first thing he felt was a light touch on his forearm. He turned towards her, looked straight into her eyes.
‘Skargrim. Your bravery and loyalty are beyond question,’ she purred. ‘You have done well.’
‘They … they slaughtered us,’ he managed to stutter.
‘Shhh …’ her fingers seemed to walk themselves up his arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps. Her hand was on his shoulder then a finger found his lips, tracing a line before pressing gently. Her eyes never left his.
‘Do not fear, Skargrim. We do not need fear.’
Holding on to the last shreds of self-control, he managed to gently move her hand away from his face. ‘We need … we need to seal them in. Make sure they’re not going anywhere. They’ll run out of water. Maybe there’s a way to get at the gate as well.’
She smiled, a vision of life, youth and beauty. Then she shook her head, raised herself up onto her toes and gently, softly took Skargrim’s head in her hands.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No waiting. The gods do not wait. It is not our way. Attack, Skargrim. Attack. No matter what it takes.’
He blinked, his mouth opening and closing.
‘Yes,’ he finally muttered. ‘Attack.’
The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men Page 23