The Blood-Tainted Winter (19 page)

The old captain sneered and tightened his grip on his axe, one of the largest Raef had ever seen. “And get swept away in the current? A sure way to lose men, lord,” he said to the Hammerling.

Raef stayed calm. “Perhaps, but even if all drowned, it would be a smaller number lost than during an attempt to breach the walls from the front.”

Brandulf Hammerling was quiet for a moment, his eyes on the rivers. “We will do as Skallagrim says.” He turned to the old captain. “Hawthor, learn what you can about their defenses and numbers while we still have daylight.” The Hammerling looked at Raef next. “Pick your men. We will strike in the darkest hour of the night.”

Twenty-One

T
he day passed
slowly. Raef and his chosen warriors watched and waited. Hawthor the captain led a mounted party closer to the walls and taunted the defenders into loosing some arrows. The shafts fell harmlessly to the earth save one that found a shield. On his second pass, the archers knew better than to waste their ammunition. The Hammerling made a show of chopping down a sturdy tree to fashion a crude ram for the gates. Others worked to cut and prepare torches.

Of the lay of the land at the river edge, Raef could learn little. Hawthor rode close enough to report that the walls were made only of wood on that side and that they rose up out of a very steep, short bank. As for the number of men inside the walls, Hawthor counted thirty archers for certain.

“There will be more, you can be sure of that,” he said to Raef after one of his forays to the walls. Hawthor took a swig of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And not just archers.”

Darkness fell and the Hammerling’s men shared meat and mead. The men were quiet and Raef sensed tension. For his part, Raef was glad of the coming night’s fight. The pleasures of raiding had long since waned for him. The Hammerling had asked his men to give him a war. Now, at last, was a chance to start one in earnest.

A bank of dark clouds had rolled in as the sun set. “A moonless night,” Raef said as he passed a skin to Vakre.

“A wet night,” Vakre said, grinning. “And a cold one.”

“Win those walls and slaughter those men and you might just earn a place by the fire.”

“We made a wager once, Raef, son of Einarr. You never followed through on what you promised.” Vakre was still grinning. “I am willing to forgive such a slight if you make another wager now.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I will scale those walls before you.”

“You will try.”

“And if I do? What will you give me?”

“We are but poor marauders in unfamiliar lands. I have little to give. But if your insatiable greed might be appeased by this,” Raef, laughing, drew one of his arm rings down and off his arm and held it up in the firelight, “I would be willing to part with it.”

Vakre pointed at another, higher up on Raef’s arm. “Offer me that gold one and I will accept.”

“And in return?”

Vakre thought for a moment. “An arm ring for an arm ring is a lackluster wager.” Vakre fingered his cloak, a fine skin softened by use but strong and durable. “This is the finest skin I will ever wear, and the finest even a king could ask for,” he said softly. “My mother told me it is the one thing left for me by my father. I do not know if she spoke true or meant to indulge a young boy. But it has served me well. Would you accept it?”

“I will not. Not that. I will not take your father’s cloak.”

“It is mine to give. I would only part with it to a worthy man.”

“Than you admit you will lose it to me.” Raef grinned.

Vakre saw where he had stumbled and burst out laughing, a sound as bright and spirited as a fire in the night. “I will drink to that.” He raised the skin in Raef’s direction and took a long drink. Their wager settled, Raef began to see to their final preparations. To scale the wall and pull themselves from the river, they tied their iron cooking rings to ropes to be thrown over the wall. It might take a try or two, but the rings would catch over the sharpened logs that formed the rear of Fengar’s wall. Large hooks, the kind used for fishing in the ocean would be better, but none were at hand and so the rings would have to do.

Raef finished his own rope and coiled it up before watching the others secure their rings by the light of the fire. When all was ready, Raef made sure Cilla promised to stay away from the battle, and then he and his men slipped away from the firelight and headed toward the river nearest them. There they waited as the Hammerling readied his assault. Eira had asked to lead the charge. The Hammerling had given her the position on his right, a prime one that also bore great responsibility. Should the attackers fall into a shield wall, as they would almost surely have to do, Eira’s position at the Hammerling’s right elbow would make her a target but, more importantly, made her largely responsible for the Hammerling’s survival.

The battering ram was ready and would follow the initial charge. Twenty strong men would wield it, protected by the shields of their comrades until the last moment when they would burst forth and pound on the door. Others would stand by, ready to take their places when they fell to arrows.

As the Hammerling began a slow march toward the walls, ablaze in the light of so many torches and singing loudly of death, Raef and his men crept along the water’s edge. They were fifteen in number and they traveled light, leaving behind their shields so as to prevent reflections from torches on the walls. In a true battle, they would be hopelessly underarmed, but with surprise on their side, they might be able to overwhelm the defenders.

Raef, nearing the walls, could no longer see the Hammerling but for the glow in the night sky. As the wall came within reach, all solid ground disappeared. Raef stepped into the river. The water rose above his knees and he felt the strong current tug at his legs. His pace slowed now as he waded carefully around the wall to the very rear of the stronghold. When the rest of his group caught up to him, they spread out in a line and waited for his signal. Raef chose a spot next to Vakre and caught his eye.

Without speaking, they tossed their rings at the same instant. Raef heard a soft thud and the rope tightened in his grip. He gave an experimental pull, found it would take weight, and then he was climbing. It was a cumbersome process, hampered by his muddy boots that slipped on the weathered logs of the wall. But the rope held firm and Raef made himself trust it as he hauled his body up with his arms. He did not look to see where Vakre was, but he did hear the sounds of more rings slipping over the sharpened logs and knew the others were climbing as well.

His arms aching, Raef reached the top of the wall but did not vault over it. Instead he took a moment to survey what lay before him. Only then did he look to his left and see that Vakre was two steps behind. Raef allowed himself a triumphant grin.

The rear of the stronghold was unmanned, as Raef had hoped it might be. The Hammerling’s attack on the gates had drawn all eyes. Raef slid over the wall to land on an archer’s raised platform and then squatted down to stay hidden in the wall’s silhouette as he waited for the others to catch up. When all fifteen had made the summit, Raef and ten others dropped to the earthen floor. Four, including Siv, would remain among the higher vantage points, using roofs and archer’s platforms to traverse the compound. From on high, they could deal death from a distance and provide support to their companions in need.

Staying low to the ground and keeping to the shadows, Raef made steady progress toward the front gate. The others spread out and did the same and soon Raef was alone but for Siv leaping from one roof to another above him. Twice she sent silent arrows into the throats of warriors in Raef’s path. Raef checked each to make sure they were dead and then continued on, rounding a corner and nearly colliding with a burly warrior. For an instant, the other man was so startled that he did nothing but regain his balance and peer at Raef with both curiosity and alarm. In that moment, Raef grabbed behind the other man’s neck and pulled down hard, crushing the warrior’s nose into his knee. The man bounced off and lay still in the dirt. Raef hurried on.

At the gate, the air hummed with the sounds of battle. The enemy warriors taunted the Hammerling, hurling insults as sharp as any blade into the night air. The gate shuddered with each thrust of the ram, though the wood had yet to splinter. Archers at the wall sent arrows down, their targets easy to pick out even in the darting torchlight. For a moment, Raef thought he heard Eira’s battle cry, but the thundering ram and the shouts of the men inside the walls drowned out all else. Raef took a quick count of the enemy warriors as Vakre slid into position near him. They exchanged nods and Raef hoped enough time had passed that all his men were ready to attack. There was no clear way to proceed, no path Raef could sweep down, his men at his sides, bringing death to all in their way. The enemy warriors were too scattered, to wide spread. They could not afford to wait any longer, not with the archers wreaking havoc on the Hammerling’s small numbers outside the gate. Their only choice was to attack as individuals. Raef drew his sword, looked at Vakre one last time, and then, with a wordless scream, sprinted from his hiding place at the nearest warrior.

In that moment of surprise, Raef plunged his sword into the warrior and yanked it out again. The man crumpled to the ground, boneless, and then all was chaos, the only certainty Raef’s own movement as battle erupted around him. Raef took each opponent as they came, choosing some, others choosing him. Not once did he stop to calculate his progress or see how many more foes stood between him and the gate. Not once did he look around to see if his friends lived or died. All that existed was his sword, the arm that wielded it, and his feet.

Many of Fengar’s men took refuge in their shields, but Raef rendered them useless with quickness in his feet and accuracy in his strikes. Once, an arrow ripped open Raef’s right forearm as the archers turned their aim inward. Ignoring the wound, Raef knocked the shield from an opponent’s grasp and, using two hands, brought his sword down on the man’s shoulder with such force that the blade cleaved into flesh and bone and would not come out. Abandoning the sword, Raef pulled a battle axe from a dead man’s hands and surged onward, the haft of the weapon slick with blood in his fingers.

When he reached the gate, Siv was already there, wounded in the thigh but on her feet. Raef finished off her opponent and together they opened the gate to the waiting warriors who, having heard so much bloodshed, were eager for their share.

With the gate open, the fight ended quickly as the Hammerling’s men swarmed in and it was only moments before the last of Fengar’s defenders fell to the ground with mortal wounds. Roaring his triumph, the Hammerling jumped from his horse and began congratulating the men. Raef retrieved his sword, the thrill of battle still pumping through his veins. Eira found him and used her foot to hold the body down while Raef wrenched the blade from the home it had made.

Raef wiped the blood on the cloak of a dead warrior. “I have grown fond of this blade, though it came to me a stranger.” He leaned forward and kissed Eira’s forehead. She was flushed but otherwise bore no mark of battle on her.

“You should wash in the river,” she said.

“Only if you join me,” Raef said with a grin that Eira returned.

The Hammerling first called for the removal of their dead for proper burning. Their losses were minimal and had happened outside the walls as men fell victim to arrows from above. After the bodies were placed in the open plain, the wounded were helped back to the camp to be tended to. Only then did an organized sack of Fengar’s stronghold begin. All warriors would share in the loot, though the Hammerling reserved the right to reward bravery and valor with choice pieces.

As the spoils piled up outside the gates, Raef began to realize that they would come away far richer than they had arrived. Hawthor, the old captain, had been pierced with four arrows while leading the battering ram, and yet still ordered men about. The Hammerling presented him with a gold torc and demanded he return to camp to see to his wounds. For Raef, the Hammerling chose a silver ceremonial belt studded with blue gems in all sizes that, when reflecting torchlight, seemed to burn like the hottest flames. The Hammerling swore he had seen Fengar wear it. The rest of Raef’s party were given their choice of golden arm rings, heirlooms won by Fengar’s ancestors and taken from his home. For Eira, the Hammerling chose a necklace of gold and green and for himself, he claimed the largest torc, a behemoth black as night and sprinkled with stars.

Borrowing wagons from inside the stronghold, the plunder was removed and transported to their campsite. By then, the shroud of night was giving way to the rosy fingers of dawn, and though weariness now crept up on Raef, there was one more task to accomplish.

A large raft lay by the river. The poles to propel and guide it were not hard to find. Filling it with warriors, the Hammerling and his men rode the current to the island village. There could be no mistaking what had happened in the night to the defenders of the stronghold and many women and children watched the raft approach, their faces tinged with fear. The warriors filed off the raft and the villagers backed away until the Hammerling spoke, his voice filling the cold air like the light of dawn.

“People of Solheim, I am Brandulf Hammerling and I take this fortress and these lands for my own. But fear not, for I offer you life, not death. I have men who need aid and we have need of food and new blankets. Give me these things and all will be spared.”

There was silence for a moment. Raef saw only women, children, and two very old men. The oldest boy was Cilla’s age. Fengar had stripped the village of its warriors, its hope of defense. One woman stepped forward at last. “I can clean wounds and bind them.”

Another called out, “I know how to stave off fever.”

And a third spoke for the rest. “We have plenty to spare. Be our guest this night, lord, and we will honor your victory.”

The Hammerling thanked them with gracious words and, rather than crowd onto the island, invited the villagers for a feast under the stars that night. He promised a bonfire to burn their dead, not just his own. The village theirs, the warriors retreated from the island, bringing with them the women who could treat the wounded.

Their camp was awash in gold and silver plunder. Rounds of ale and mead were handed out and Raef took a cup and drained it quickly, his thirst great. The dead awaited the fire, spread in a solemn row on the open plain. The wounded groaned and writhed among the campfires and the stench of blood was strong in the morning air.

To fulfill his promise to the villagers, whose fathers and husbands were among the dead in the stronghold, the Hammerling gave orders for the remaining fallen to be collected. Though weary, Raef was well enough to help. He shouldered corpse after corpse alongside the Hammerling and Vakre, treading the path between walls and campsite time and time again. Now and then he wondered if the man slung over his shoulder had fallen to his own blade but he could never tell. They all looked the same in death, and, in truth, had looked the same in battle.