‘SKARGRIM!’ he shouted.
Nothing happened. The axes didn’t even slow down.
‘SKARGRIM! THIS IS SIGURD AEGISSON! I HAVE SOMETHING THAT BELONGS TO YOU!’
The sounds gradually diminished as one by one, the axes stopped. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a thick bearskin cloak walked out onto the south road and stood silently facing Stenvik.
Sigurd reached into the sack and pulled out Ragnar’s bloodied head, holding the hair by the roots. Two swings and it sailed in a silent, majestic arc through the air, spinning slowly as it travelled. It landed roughly six feet in front of Skargrim and rolled towards him until it stopped by his feet.
The big man looked at the severed head of his brother for a few moments. Then he looked back up at the walls.
‘FOR THAT YOU DIE, SIGURD,’ he shouted back.
‘EVENTUALLY,’ Sigurd bellowed. ‘BUT I KNOCKED YOU ON YOUR HAIRY ARSE ONCE AND I CAN AND WILL DO IT AGAIN. SO COME ON, YOU BASTARD! I’M BORED!’ Skargrim retreated silently in between the houses of the old town. Sigurd turned to Sven, Ulfar and Thorvald, who looked back at him with varying expressions of astonishment. ‘If we get to him he might think he should go in before he’s ready.’
Sven shook his head. ‘Couldn’t you have got him to think we’ve got five thousand men instead? That way he might consider not going in at all.’
‘We’re better at fighting than waiting, Sven. Look around you.’
Sven did. The planks on the wall were stained with the blood of outlaws and far too many defenders. They’d gone some way towards replenishing stones and refitting spikes, but the night had taken its toll. Death lay heavy on the air and the men of Stenvik felt it.
The old fighter frowned. ‘I still think we should have played for time rather than force his hand. But maybe he’s not done with whatever they’re building in there. Maybe he’ll hold off until tomorrow. Maybe—’
‘We have movement. They’re coming.’ The certainty in Thorvald’s voice chilled Ulfar to the core. ‘Bows!’ the scoutmaster shouted. ‘BOWS! NOW!’ Within moments Sven was off to gather the reserves on the ground. Sigurd set off to fire up the defenders on the wall.
Ulfar was left standing alone with only his new sword and shield for company.
‘Hello again, foreigner,’ said Orn. ‘Are you going to hold the south wall on your own?’
‘Might as well,’ Ulfar shrugged. ‘There’s no mead to be had and the women are all looking after the children so I have little else to do. But I wouldn’t mind some conversation.’ All around them weary but determined men lined the walls, bows in hand. It looked like they’d scrounged every single ranged weapon in the town; some men stood by bundles of javelins; others had even pulled spears out of dead outlaws.
‘Good,’ the youth replied. ‘There’s this one thing I’ve seen though. Can I tell you?’
‘… Yes?’ Ulfar replied, puzzled.
‘It’s kind of … strange. And I’m not sure if it’s … I don’t know.’ The young man suddenly seemed embarrassed. ‘I don’t think my eyes are deceiving me. They never have before. It’s just that I’ve been—’
A furious roar went up from the old town.
‘— I’ve been seeing … erm … I’ll tell you later.’
‘You’d better, boy. You’ve got me all curious,’ Ulfar added. ‘Maybe you’ll tell me her name as well?’
Bowstring already drawn, Orn grinned as he sighted the area in front of the outermost houses. ‘Maybe I will. She’s – what is that? Are those …’
Long, flat wooden structures were emerging from the old town, bouncing unsteadily.
‘The bastard …’ Ulfar’s voice trailed off in awe. ‘He’s … he’s cut them up! They’re going to run up the bloody wall!’
The walkways of old Stenvik had been made of slim logs tightly barred with planks. Now the same logs and planks were being carried upside down towards the walls by men hiding under the wood, shields at their sides. Arrows from the wall were already harmlessly thudding into the cover.
‘Aim for the feet!’
‘I am! Where are you going?’ Orn shot back, firing and drawing at speed.
‘I have to go get something!’
With that Ulfar broke away and ran down the steps.
STENVIK, THE OLD TOWN
Egill Jotunn’s plan was simple. It was the same as their first one, only faster and harder. He’d shown Skargrim what he wanted to do, how he’d wanted to rip up the walkways, how they should be carried. Then when the walkways had been dug up – they only needed about four strips, forty feet each – he’d grabbed an axe and cut grooves into the planks with ease. The men had followed his lead. Ingi had volunteered his men for shield-wall duty again – improbably, the stout chieftain had counted his losses on one hand after the disasters of yesterday. Ingi’s men would block missiles, then team up with Egill when the time came.
In Skargrim’s head, Skuld’s voice repeated the same word again and again. Attack. Attack. Attack. The image of his brother’s severed head flying through the air filled him with white-hot murderous rage. Only the tenuous thread of the battle plan unfolding in front of him kept Skargrim from charging Stenvik by himself.
Hrafn and Thrainn’s men were doing a good job carrying the four ramps; two towards the east, two towards the west. The arrows hardly slowed them down. They were twenty yards from the wall and moving steadily … fifteen yards … ten …
‘NOW!’ Egill’s voice bellowed. As one, his black-armoured warriors sprinted forward, drew and fired. A hail of arrows rained on the Stenvik wall, and Skargrim grinned to see a handful of defenders fall. Another flight of arrows was already on its way, and then the black warriors were safe behind the cover of old Stenvik’s huts. As the archers on the wall ducked out of sight the ramp carriers burst into action. The men closest to the wall dropped their end. At the back, the strongest of the raiders started pushing.
Slowly the wooden structures rose into the air.
Stenvik’s archers emerged and saw what was happening. Immediately arrows and javelins thudded into undefended raiders, felling a brace of them – but the ones pushing up the ramps were covered by their burden.
‘MOVE!’ Again, the giant roared. This time a small group broke free of the houses, hit the south road and ran at speed towards the southern gateway.
Egill ran in front, carrying a battering ram. With him ran a group of twenty men in animal skins.
STENVIK
‘Harald! Man the holes! They’re coming through the south gateway again!’ Sigurd barked.
Harald gestured to his helmsman. ‘Leifur! Take three and go!’ A big raider nodded his acknowledgement. Soon the shields were up and four warriors disappeared down into the tunnels leading to the murder holes. ‘ARROWS TO THE SOUTH!’
Runar rose from behind the parapet, an arrow nocked to the string of his bow. It flew true, pierced a thick piece of bear hide and thwacked into the shoulder of one of Egill’s runners with a thud.
The man screamed but did not stop.
Around him arrows and spears were finding their targets, but nothing seemed to even slow the runners, whose screams rose louder with every hit. Coming up on the broken south gate, Egill spotted the barrier of dead warriors. He lowered his shoulder and charged.
The impact scattered the bodies of Skargrim’s men. The runners followed him and disappeared under the archers, into the tunnel.
*
Spears flew towards the defenders on the wall, followed by Hrafn’s men sprinting towards the base of the walkway. Some even started climbing before the top of the wooden structure slammed into the outer wall. Within moments, hardened fighters were launching themselves at the raiders of the Westerdrake.
Some were picked off by bowmen, others by thrown javelins. Yet others were hewn down before they’d managed to find their feet on the wall.
But one got through and held off the defenders long enough for two of his men to carve out some space on the western side. Soon the
fighting raged along the wall, and despite their efforts the defenders were running out of room.
In the south-east corner Sven slipped between bodies, a knife in each hand. Like a viper he would appear, find a gap, stab, twist and slink away. By the other ramp, eastwards, Sigurd and Harald held their side. Sigurd’s axe drew deadly arcs in the air before him, splitting armour and crushing heads. Beside him Harald fought with cold precision, filling all spaces that Sigurd didn’t, blocking blows and meting out punishment to those who hesitated for a moment. All around them warriors were locked in deadly combat. By the foot of the stairs large groups of men waited to fill the gaps on the wall or face the attackers when they came down.
One of Thrainn’s fighters was a fraction late with his shield. The blade of Sigurd’s axe passed neatly through his throat, severing his jugular and spraying shimmering red life over the wall. As the man went down Sigurd turned and shouted down to the ground: ‘Jorn! The gate! Bring men!’
Moving quickly, Jorn gathered Birkir and Havar with him. Together they rounded up a fifty-strong group of fighters. Jorn picked one spearman for every three blades and then rushed them towards the south gate.
*
Leifur had barely had time to get in position. They’d dropped down under the shields and squeezed through the tunnel that led to the murder holes in record time. It was horribly cramped for a big man like him and sometimes he wondered whether Harald sent him down on purpose, just to torture him. Put him in his place. He’d had to hold his breath while he squeezed through and dropped down into the tiny chamber above the gateway. Inside the wall, away from the clamour of battle, the silence was deafening. Leifur had to work hard to still the thumping of his heart.
Now he had his feet braced in the foot stands, spear in hand, eyes trained on the log that slid aside to open the hole. He reached for the handhold on the pole and moved it.
The moment the murder hole opened a metal-tipped boat hook shot through from below, twisted and descended, burying itself into the timbers in the ceiling. An involuntary shout escaped Leifur’s lips and he slammed the log back into place, heart thundering.
Too late.
The hook had bitten into the timber and now someone was pulling, straining, working to wrest the floor from underneath him. Leifur watched as the woodwork started to shift. With each straining pull, the timber groaned.
A single thought pushed all others out of his head.
He needed to get out.
Now.
As he was clambering up, his handhold slipped. Heart thundering, he cursed his sweaty palms and tried again.
Below him, the wood cracked and snapped.
There.
He could just about lever himself up into the tunnel that would take him back up to the wall. The spear was in the way. He fumbled with it, threw it down. Groping for a handhold, he started his ascent.
As his feet left the footholds he felt more than heard the timbers groan, split and give way.
Pushing himself back into the tunnel, Leifur scrambled away on his hands and knees, eager to get as far away from the hole as possible.
Ahead he could see the chamber where he’d be able to stand up, get onto the wall and fight these bastards properly. Pain lanced through his knees but he didn’t care. He just needed to keep moving. Keep moving. Keep—
A cold, bony hand latched onto his ankle and pulled him down.
*
Ulfar moved like liquid, like smoke before a strong wind. Running up the steps, he danced along the inner wall. He had to jump, skip and swerve to avoid being gutted by swords and axes swung by friend and foe.
Seeing his first target fighting on the south-east wall, he shouted as loud as he could: ‘SVEN!!’
The grizzled old warrior’s head snapped round at the familiar voice.
‘WHAT?’
‘CATCH!’
Two fist-sized leather pouches flew towards the old warrior, who switched both knives into his left hand and plucked the bags out of the air with ease. A puzzled expression crossed his face.
‘FROM EINAR!’ Ulfar mimed a gesture and nodded towards the walkways, holding two more bags. Comprehension dawned, and with it an impish grin. The old man barked a laugh, turned and dived back into the fray.
Ulfar spun and headed towards the walkways on the southwest side.
*
No gate, armour or shield was thick enough.
The screams from the gateway cut through everything.
Howls of rage and hunger were soon mixed with genuine terror and pain. Blood leaked from under the gate in a mesmerizing, slowly growing pool. Someone cheered half-heartedly. ‘That’s it! Get the bastards!’
No one joined him.
Standing behind Jorn, Runar hissed into his ear: ‘Y-you ha-ha-have to say something!’
‘Any suggestions?’ Jorn snapped back.
Runar’s eyes blazed with frustration. ‘No! Just say anyth-th—’ He squeezed his eyes shut and forced a deep breath. ‘Just … say … anything but say it like – l-l-like you bloody mean it! Go!’ With that he pushed the Prince of the Dales in front of the men waiting by the gate.
Jorn looked at the soldiers. The faces before him were exhausted, frightened, and well on the way to losing their nerve altogether. He opened his mouth to speak and a spine-curdling wail from the gateway drowned his words, his actions and his thoughts. Completely unbidden, a bubble of mirth burst out of him and Jorn laughed. He shook with laughter. The men by the gateway stared at him like he was mad, but Jorn ignored them.
When he finally recovered, he stood up straight and faced the men. ‘… I think someone might have sat on something sharp,’ he added by means of explanation.
The effect was instant.
The idea of a fearsome raider howling in pain and holding his arse bounced between the men, leaving smirks and sometimes even smiles. ‘Now I don’t know what’s in our gateway,’ Jorn continued. ‘But I’ve not yet encountered anything living that doesn’t die when you cut it.’ Grins turned cold and knowing around him. This, they knew. ‘So I say embrace it, hold fast and take whatever comes through that gate, cut it and cut it hard, and then cut its head off and stick it on the fucking wall! STENVIK!!’
‘STENVIK!!’ The men roared in response. Behind them Runar nodded approval.
A thunderous boom shook the gate.
ONBOARD THE NJORDUR’S MERCY
Her voice was almost like touch, leading him in and out of consciousness. Words melted into each other and became sounds, devoid of language but full of meaning. Inside him the screams of the others had subsided. She had made them go away because she loved him. Oraekja was at peace now. He was full of the life of warriors. It didn’t feel different or wrong any more. He just wanted to do what she would ask of him. But she said he was not strong enough. Not yet. There was one strand missing, she said, one thread still uncut. He drifted off again, an ugly, warped smile on his blue-tinted lips.
STENVIK
Two moves. That was all he needed.
Ulfar wrong-footed an attacker on the wall and ran him through. The sealskin-clad raider tumbled over the inner wall. Dodging a javelin thrust, he slammed his one remaining pouch down at the top of the walkway.
One.
A lithe raider sprinted up the walkway and leapt over him, aiming a savage sword blow downward. In one fluid motion Ulfar sidestepped and ducked, placed both hands under the man’s foot and heaved upwards as hard as he could. The sword sliced the air in front of his face as his opponent squealed in surprise and sailed over the edge of the inner wall. A scream of pain followed by the reserves’ roar of approval told Ulfar he was free to continue. He drew his sword and brought it down hard on the bag.
Two.
White, clear liquid gushed out over the ramp, dripping down towards the ground. ‘Is that it?’ Orn shouted from his position further to the west.
‘Just wait!’ Ulfar shouted back. A big, burly mail-shirted raider armed with a shield and a vicious-looking axe moved u
p the walkway, sure-footed and well balanced. He looked almost graceful until he got to the first foothold covered by the white liquid, where suddenly his legs slipped from under him. He crashed into the planks. With both hands full and nothing to halt his fall he slammed down face-first on the wood, sending shudders through the structure and knocking him unconscious.
Then he started sliding downwards.
The men on the wall cheered, but Ulfar was not done. ‘TO ME! FOUR STRONG BASTARDS TO ME!’ he shouted at the top of his lungs. In an instant a handful of Westerdrake raiders gathered around him. The big raider continued sliding down, picking up speed as he went along. The ones after him tried to jump over, but found that the surface they left was not the surface they landed on. The walkway that had moments before been a passage for fierce and deadly warriors over the walls of Stenvik was suddenly like an icy slope in winter.
‘PUSH!’ The defenders on the wall went after the suddenly unencumbered walkway with gusto. Lifting and twisting, they seized control of the wooden structure, throwing it down to loud cheers. Suddenly the attackers on the wall found themselves without reinforcements and fighting reinvigorated men of Stenvik who looked less like fighters and more like demons in human form. Cheers from the eastern wall and loud curses from the ground told of Sven’s success on the other side.
‘My dad always said working is fun if you have the right tools,’ Ulfar said to Orn with a grin.
‘What was in the bag?’ the youth asked, open-mouthed.
‘Water and lard,’ Ulfar replied, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Einar had a pot full of it. Now make sure those bastards leave those bloody sticks lying where we’ve dropped them.’
Smiling, Orn reached for his bow and watched Ulfar head to the ramp on the west wall.
*
‘Spears!’
Ten men stepped forward, all armed with the outlaws’ broad, thick hunting spears. They set them in the ground and braced, tilting them forward.
‘Bows!’
Another five men took their places to the side, bows at the ready, arrows notched.
The Valhalla Saga Page 26