Elven Winter

by Bernhard Hennen

  The heavy hull of the Wraithwind swung around as only the port oars churned the water. On the starboard side, a net interwoven with thick bundles of rags was lowered. It would cushion the impact with the fortified harbor walls.

  The defenders’ arrows descended like hail onto the Wraithwind. The elves had realized that the large galleass was the most dangerous ship in the attacking formation.

  Shield men protected Orgrim from the bombardment. The pack leader peered along the long harbor wall, which extended into the turquoise bay like two embracing arms, protecting the harbor and its ships from the surging sea. And now the surging waves of trolls were also being smashed to pieces against it. Three times they had tried to storm the city, and three times they had been beaten back. No one had known how heavily fortified Reilimee was when Branbeard ordered the attack against the elven city.

  By land, Reilimee was protected by a double wall. And to seaward, they had this accursed harbor wall. It rose almost ten paces above the water, with watchtowers a good deal higher spaced along it every two ship’s lengths. The entrance to the harbor itself was secured by two small fortresses, between which stretched a chain with links as thick as a troll’s arm. None of the galleasses had been able to break through that impenetrable barrier.

  A shield beside Orgrim suddenly burst apart. Splinters of wood and bone, blood and brain sprayed across the pack leader’s chest and face. The shot had blown off the head of one of his shield bearers, and the warrior’s two-inch-thick oak shield now had a large, ragged hole in it.

  “You should get off the quarterdeck now,” Boltan advised, pulling a finger-long shard of wood out of his own chest. “They’ve spotted you because of the shield bearers.” The artillery chief pointed to the closest watchtower on the harbor wall. Behind the battlements, Orgrim saw elven helmets glint in the sunlight.

  “I’m curious to know what those damned elven catapults look like,” Boltan grumbled. “We overran Vahan Calyd too quickly. There must have been some of the blasted things there, too. We made a mistake there, smashing everything to matchwood.”

  “We’ll be the first on the wall, and I promise you you’ll get a few of those catapults as spoils of war. They’re—”

  His voice was drowned out by an almighty crash. Splintered wood flew across the quarterdeck, and trolls screamed and bawled. Several warriors writhed in a pool of blood on the deck. A second shot had torn a gaping hole in the bulwark. Those damned elven catapults were able to shoot stones horizontally and were many times more accurate than the catapults that Orgrim had seen in the past. The trolls’ slingshots, by comparison, bombarded the enemy with rocks fired high in the air, and even an artillery chief as experienced as Boltan could only estimate roughly where a shot would fall and what damage it would do.

  Fist-sized stones rained onto the harbor wall, and Orgrim listened with satisfaction to the screams of wounded elves. King Branbeard had ordered his men to bombard the defenders on the walls with stones—not one of the troll ships was still equipped with fireballs.

  “Raise the ramps!” Orgrim ordered. The Wraithwind was no more than five paces from the harbor wall. “Pull port oars! All hands on deck.”

  The pack leader watched with keen interest as the heavy boarding ramps were hauled up the masts by block and tackle. The crow’s nests above the first yards had been reinforced. Thick bull-leather loops had been attached to the side of the crow’s nests, into which one end of each boarding ramp was to be hooked. But that was only possible when the Wraithwind lay directly beside the harbor wall, because the tremendous weight they were heaving into the rigging on one side would otherwise cause the ship to founder.

  Dozens of trolls, unruffled by the arrows and catapults of the elves, swarmed into the shrouds and yards to carry out the various maneuvers needed to make the assault work. Now was the moment that Skanga’s decision only to have the best of the best on board truly counted. Orgrim would not have been able to carry out this attack with any other crew, not without weeks of advance practice.

  Flaming arrows now flew at the Wraithwind. The previous night, Orgrim had had all sails removed to make his ship less vulnerable to those treacherous missiles. Driven only by oars, the large galleass was miserably sluggish, but reducing the danger of fire far outweighed that disadvantage. Buckets of water stood at the ready all over the decks, and Orgrim had assembled a special squad whose only task in this battle was to smother flames.

  A dull blow shook the Wraithwind. The galleass had run broadside against the harbor wall. From the topmost crow’s nests, trolls tried to wipe out the archers atop the wall.

  More and more missiles rained down on the Wraithwind. All the elven archers and catapults in range now seemed to have chosen that one ship as their target.

  Orgrim was happy to see that all three boarding ramps were ready. They bore long spikes on their undersides like the teeth of predators—jaws of wood, ready to bite into the wall.

  “Hoist the leather guards!” Orgrim yelled. Then he took his own shield and descended from the quarterdeck. He would lead the attack over the mainmast, and he was determined to be the first troll to set foot on the walls of Reilimee.

  Columns of door-sized wooden frames spanned with wet animal hides were hauled up until they hung suspended from the yards like a leather curtain. They would stop some of the flaming arrows but were mainly intended to make it difficult to shoot at the trolls climbing the masts.

  The pack leader slung his shield onto his back and checked that his war hammer sat securely in his belt. “Onto the walls! Smash in their miserable little heads!” Orgrim pulled himself up into the shrouds, and dozens of warriors followed him. The decks and masts resounded with battle cries. Orgrim watched with satisfaction as the suspended leather guards took the brunt of the elves’ arrows. His plan was working! At the top of the shrouds, he clambered into the crow’s nest. Powerful hands helped him across. At almost the same moment, Gran had reached the foremast crow’s nest. The bastard wasn’t thinking that he would be the first to stand atop the fortress wall?

  “Lower the boarding ramps!” Orgrim cried.

  The heavy ramps crashed onto the battlements along the wall. The pack leader pushed his arm through the leather loops of his sturdy shield. Then he lifted the heavy oak boards protectively in front of his chest so that he could just see over the top edge. He sensed the restlessness of the men behind him. A stone ball from one of the lethal elven catapults flew past, just missing his head, and tore splinters from the mainmast.

  Orgrim pulled the war hammer from his belt. He was determined to take the section of wall in front of him—he would earn his duchy in the end, even if it meant being duke of an accursed elven town like Reilimee.

  The boarding ramp vibrated beneath his feet. A few paces and he was at the wall. Spears rose to meet him, and he pushed them aside effortlessly, as if they were no more than bulrushes. With a leap, he found himself on the parapet. The defenders were too close together and could not avoid his hammer. Roaring, he swung it over his head.

  An elven commander screamed to his men to retreat. Arrows buried themselves in Orgrim’s shield. The defenders there on the wall were far less skillful than the elven fighters who had fought aboard the false queen’s ship. They were no less brave, but they could not hold him at bay.

  His heavy war hammer shattered shields, helmets, skulls, everything that got in its way. He swung his shield, sending defenders tumbling from the wall. His own men behind him were enraged, cursing and swearing. They could not get by him. The parapet atop the wall was so narrow that no more than two trolls could fight side by side without hindering each other overmuch.

  His progress along the wall gained momentum. Some elves leaped over the parapet rather than fall beneath his war hammer. The pale slabs of stone that topped the wall were slippery with blood. Seagulls circled over the watchtower in front of him. They screeched as if to spur the fighters on.

  Orgrim saw the door to the tower close. The elves that had not mad
e it in to safety screamed in panic. Some threw down their weapons and dropped to their knees. Cowards! Pathetic! Orgrim grabbed hold of them and threw them out of his way. Then he was at the door. Broad iron bands ran across the gray wood. Rust traced across it like tracks of spilled blood. It stank of shit and vomit, the smell of the battlefield.

  Orgrim beat at the door with all his strength. The gray wood shivered, every blow leaving deep gouges. But the door stood.

  “Watch out, Pack Leader!”

  Orgrim reflexively jerked his shield over his head. Something like water dripped from above, then a torrent of the stuff came down on his shield. A few droplets spattered his face, finding their way through fine cracks in the oak boards of the shield. They burned on his skin. A heavy, oily odor and the smell of boiling meat hung in the air.

  The fighter immediately behind him had been less lucky. He lay on his back. His arms twitched helplessly. His face was swollen and gray red, covered in blisters, his eyes wide open. They gleamed as white as boiled eggs surrounded by the scalded flesh.

  “Get the battering rams here!” Orgrim ordered. “The doors are too strong to break down with our weapons.”

  A flaming torch landed at his feet. He bent down quickly and picked it up. The flames were already licking greedily at the hot oil. Orgrim flung the torch into the sea in a rage, then he slid his shield off his arm and smothered the flames.

  “Stone throwers! Target those bastards on the towers.” He wished his men had some of those powerful, horizontal-firing catapults. Then they could lay siege to watchtowers like this until no one dared show their nose from behind the battlements.

  “What’s holding up the ram? Do you want to get cooked here?”

  Piercing screams made Orgrim look up. At the other end of that section of wall, where the next watchtower rose, the parapet stood in bright flames. Warriors transformed into living torches stumbled back into the mass of their comrades. Their arms wheeling helplessly, they grasped at anyone in reach, carrying death deeper into the ranks of those who had initially escaped the boiling oil and flames.

  Now it was Orgrim’s warriors who leaped in horror from the walls. A troll tumbled in flames onto the main deck of the Wraithwind. Boltan plunged a harpoon into his neck before he could get to his feet again, and another smothered the fire with sand.

  “The ram!” bawled Orgrim furiously. They were so close to victory.

  Finally, the men began to move. A solid tree trunk was hefted up onto the wall. Its branches had not been completely removed, leaving plenty of places to hold on to it. One end was sharpened.

  Orgrim abandoned his cover beneath the lintel. He stuffed his war hammer back in his belt and raised his shield protectively over his head. “Heave! We avenge our dead comrades!”

  He saw the murderous looks in the eyes of his men. Many were marked by burns. One with a shaved head had two broken arrows protruding from his left shoulder, but still he reached for the stump of a branch and roared, “Revenge!”

  Brud, Skanga’s scout, was among those who formed up for the new assault. Screaming war cries, they charged the door. The crash of the battering ram rolled like thunder over the walls. Orgrim felt as if every sinew in his arm must tear apart as the heavy tree trunk rebounded from the door.

  “Again!” The trunk flew forward, and this time they were rewarded with the sound of splintering. One of the planks of the door had split.

  Arrows whizzed among them. Up above, on the tower, the defenders were mounting a final, desperate attempt to drive them back from the door.

  “Revenge!” the troll warriors shouted. “Revenge!” In time to their furious cries, the battering ram pounded against the door. If one man went down, another immediately took his place.

  Another plank splintered. And then one of the hinges gave way and the door half tipped inward. Orgrim let go of the tree trunk. He threw himself into the gap in the door.

  A sword blade came at him, and he dropped. Splinters of wood grazed his chest. Beneath his weight, the second hinge broke free of its anchor. The door collapsed into the tower.

  The pack leader rolled to one side to avoid a slashing spear. The narrow chamber of the tower was filled with bodies. Heavy feet trampled over him. “Revenge!” The battle cry resounded from the walls.

  Somehow, Orgrim managed to get back on his feet. In the crowded space, it was impossible to swing his war hammer. Beside him, the shaven-headed troll dropped to his knees, his belly slit open from top to bottom; the dying troll tried with both hands to hold in the guts spilling from the wound.

  Orgrim saw the elven blade slice forward again, this time at his own belly. He turned to one side, but this time he was too slow. A long, shallow cut slashed across his stomach.

  Enraged, he grabbed hold of the head of the sword fighter and slammed it into the wall with all his strength. Again and again and again.

  Around him, the battle ebbed. Someone tore open the door that led out to the next section of the wall and, in the same moment, was hurled back into the tower chamber. Like a child’s fist smashing into a mouse nest, an unseen force tore shields and bodies to shreds. In the blink of an eye, the triumphant trolls were transformed into torn corpses.

  Orgrim peered out cautiously through the door. The elves had set up one of their mysterious artillery pieces on the wall. In haste, the elves manning it were attempting to reload. Two soldiers heaved a stone the size of a troll’s head onto twin guide rails, while two more soldiers turned the spokes of a double winch. The weapon was less than fifty paces away.

  The pack leader broke into a run. “Revenge!” he roared in his fear and fury. Behind him, he heard the sound of heavy feet. The battle cry was taken up by other warriors.

  The arms of the catapult jolted back another notch, then locked in lethal tension. A sharp click sounded. Orgrim threw himself forward. He felt the blast of wind as the stone flew past, inches over his back. He heard the sounds of tearing flesh and many voices bellowing in pain. Instantly, he was on his feet again.

  Accursed elves! They were already reloading. A new stone was lifted onto the rails. Orgrim ran as fast as his legs could carry him. Close beside him was Brud, the scout. The pack leader pulled his war hammer from his belt.

  The arm of the catapult moved back in small jerks. Ten more steps. Arrows flew around them. Something slammed into Orgrim’s thigh. He ran on. He felt a burning in his chest. The catapult jerked a final time, then froze. Five steps.

  The war machine waited like a viper ready to strike. An elf wearing a feathered helmet leaned forward. Orgrim hurled his war hammer. The helmet turned into a bloodied piece of metal.

  Two steps more. The artillery crew jumped back. The elves tried to escape through the open door into the next tower.

  “Grab that misbegotten thing. We’ll jam the door with it!” he shouted to Brud. In the momentum of their charge, they dragged the catapult with them, and Orgrim snatched up his hammer again.

  The tower door began to close. The siege machine slammed into the wood, the long guide rails slipping between the door and the framing wall. Something clicked. The arms of the catapult jolted, and the heavy projectile shot forward, carving a bloody corridor through the warriors behind them.

  “No!”

  In blind rage, Orgrim kicked the door open and threw himself at the elves. In a frenzy, he swung his war hammer left and right. Something slit his cheek open. A sharp blow struck him in the knee. The chamber filled with bodies and the humid heat of freshly spilled blood. And then, suddenly, it was over. Only the groans of the wounded and dying broke the silence.

  Orgrim staggered up a narrow wooden staircase. The second tower was theirs! They had conquered an entire section of the wall. Looking down from the top of the tower, he saw the warriors from other ships swarming onto the walls from the boarding ramps on the Wraithwind.

  The pack leader supported himself wearily on a battlement. The harbor city was huge. From the sea, he discovered—as from the land—it was protected by a
double ring wall. The elves were far from beaten, but they had suffered their first defeat. “You will never drive us from this wall again,” he swore, exhausted. “And we will never leave Albenmark again.”

  THE WRONG BATTLE

  Orgrim brought his report to an end. He supported himself heavily on the stump of a shattered column, feeling as weak as a newborn child—he had lost a lot of blood in the battle.

  The dukes that Branbeard had gathered around him in the ruins of an elven palace looked gravely at Orgrim. Dumgar of Mordrock nodded to him respectfully. Gray-haired Mandrag chewed at his bottom lip, deep in thought.

  Branbeard sniffed and spat, adding to the puddle of slime at his feet. “Once again you’ve used one of our ships without due care,” the king said grimly. “The masts and rigging of the Wraithwind are wrecked.”

  Orgrim could not believe it!

  “The Wraithwind drew the fire of an entire section of that wall. When the elves realized that we presented the greatest danger, they stopped shooting at the other ships completely. Are you reproaching me for succeeding where other pack leaders failed? Would you have preferred our attack to fail again?”

  “Don’t bite off what you can’t chew, whelp!” Branbeard had jumped to his feet and pointed the thigh bone he’d been gnawing on at Orgrim. “You think too highly of yourself. Other pack leaders have been complaining because you took away their best seamen and warriors. You won because you commanded the best of all the packs, not because you’re the hero you obviously think you are.”

  “Don’t be unfair, Branbeard,” old Mandrag said. “We all know that it was not Orgrim who poached the best men from the other leaders. And he is a courageous fighter. He and the giant Gran were the first on the wall. Rather than criticize him, you should offer him the place of honor at your table, like the kings of our people have done with brave pack leaders since time began.”