by Tony Roberts
Casca kept as much distance from the two as he could, but his household had others, too. Guards were necessary, as was a steward who carried out the everyday administrative duties, acting as a go-between. He sifted out the petty complaints or petitions and dealt with them himself, only deferring to Casca with matters he thought were important enough for the Jarl.
Spring was fully upon them when a runner came to the Hold. The steward, Sigurd, showed the man in. Casca had just washed and still had his shirt off, displaying his scarred torso. It didn’t hurt to do that; it impressed the hell out of the warriors, and raised interest in the women. Casca draped his drying cloth over one shoulder and slumped into his stout oaken chair he used to receive visitors with.
“What brings you hotfoot to Husborg?” he began.
“Jarl Casca, Prince Gudfred requires you to attend upon him at Hedeby. You are to present yourself and as many men as you can within three days at the mustering field.”
Casca leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “What? Is this a campaign?”
The messenger bowed, handing over a scroll. Casca took it and unsealed it. Gudfred’s ring seal was upon it. He read it quickly. The runic characters were familiar, if a little different from his time in the northlands previously. No matter, he could work out what it said. Gudfred was gathering a Viking army outside Hedeby for a raid into the lands of the Obotrites.
It seemed a war had broken out.
Casca handed Sigurd the scroll. “Go send a copy to Magnus. I’ll need ten men from him. We’ll be able to raise, what, thirty?”
Sigurd nodded. “Forty men in total. Shall I pass the word to the warriors to prepare to leave on the morrow, Jarl?”
Casca nodded. He turned to the messenger. “You can eat, drink, and then return to your master, telling him we will present ourselves in three days with forty axes.”
After the man had gone Casca approached Gertrude who was busy making dinner. Hilde was cleaning the floor beyond her. “I’m going to be gone tomorrow. A summons to join a war band. Gudfred is invading the Obotrites. Not sure of the details yet. I’ll leave Sigurd and a couple of guards here in my absence.”
Gertrude looked at him in concern for a moment, then nodded. “We shall keep this place clean. You will be feasting when you return?”
“If we are victorious, in whatever it is. I suspect Gudfred is going to raid to teach them a lesson. They’ve been getting quite aggressive recently. Won’t hurt to slap them down for a while. Will also serve as a reminder to the Saxons to behave, too.”
Hilde looked up from her kneeling position. “Will you be gone a long time?”
He gave her a surprised look; she hadn’t spoken much since her return from Sundsvalk. “Perhaps a few weeks. If I know how the raid will go, we’ll sail out onto the sea and down the coast, land and then raid far and wide, before returning with plunder. Doubt Gudfred will want to confront their main army.”
Hilde looked into the distance then nodded, and continued as if no conversation had taken place.
Casca caught Gertrude looking at her in concern. He tapped her on the arm and jerked his head for her to follow him. Out of Hilde’s earshot, he spoke softly to the older sister. “How is she? She hasn’t said much and won’t let anyone other than you near her.”
Gertrude sighed. “She’s scared of men, that’s certain. What that animal did to us was degrading. I’m staying strong for my sister, but I, too, have bad dreams sometimes.”
“You can always come to me when that happens.”
Gertrude looked at him, her face like stone for a moment, then it softened and a ghost of a smile played fleetingly with the corners of her mouth. “Thank you. Perhaps. Just – be careful on that raid.”
“You know I cannot die.”
“I know, but you could be captured, or something like that. Please come back.”
Casca smiled and lightly touched her cheek. “I will. Look after yourself and Hilde.”
The following day Casca led a force of thirty men out of Husborg and they made their way east along the ‘road’ to Hedeby. Part of the way along they were met by the ten men that Magnus had sent with a message from the Thane. Casca chuckled. Freya was with child.
They walked in a loose group, talking and making idle gossip. Casca made sure scouts were out to left, right and ahead. He didn’t want to get caught even in supposedly friendly territory. The weather was cool; a chill wind came from the east and although the sun shone on occasions, it wasn’t that warm.
At Hedeby they met other bands in the mustering fields beyond the town, and Casca was pleased to see the short Drakenskald with his men and the two shared tales and brought each other up to date with what was going on. “Gudfred is taking advantage of the Obotrites war with the Saxons to raid one of their coastal settlements. He wants to impress on them they don’t mess about with us. It’s down the coast a bit, at a place they call Fehmarn. Some island off the coast they’ve occupied. They’ve been using it as a base to launch coastal raids and they go further north each year.”
“Good idea – nip them hard just to show we won’t be taken lightly. Any idea of what we’ll be facing?”
“Nah,” Drakenskald shrugged. “We’ve got about two hundred gathered all told, and eight ships. Plenty of space for plunder and captives.”
Gudfred appeared not long after, surrounded by his guard, a squad of tough-looking humorless men who looked as if they would rip off anyone’s arms for fun. He stood on an improvised stand, the sawn-off trunk of a tree that had probably gone to make one of the ships waiting in the harbor on the other side of the town. Casca had caught sight of the masts when he’d arrived.
“Men of Denmark,” he began, a name still odd to the ear for many. “Today we set out on a raid to the east, to a port the Wagrians possess and are using to conduct raids on our settlements. The Wagrians are an ally of the Obotrites and need to be punished. We need not fear reprisals from the king, Thrasco, for he is leading his main army and his Frankish allies against the Saxons who are in revolt. Therefore we will send out a message to Thrasco, and his master, Charlemagne, that we are not to be taken lightly! We are Vikings!”
The men roared, raising their axes, swords and shields high into the air. Gudfred carried on with his war-speech for a few more moments, then ordered his huscarls to direct the various bands to their designated ships. The Husborg-Sundsvalk element were directed to the furthest point on the left with a group of Gudfred’s men to make up the complement of fifty. Casca also thought they were there to make completely sure that Casca and his men did as they were told and would not betray Gudfred.
Casca’s second in command was a tall, red-haired man called Hafnar. He was one of the younger men who had come to the fore over the winter, using his fists to settle any dispute; he was worthy of being Casca’s right-hand man. Hafnar was dour, but knew his stuff and could wield an axe with ease. He’d grown up with two brothers, one of whom had been killed fighting Mittenmark.
Hafnar had allied himself with Casca the moment he realized Casca was looking for a replacement for Magnus. Now he stood by Casca’s side glaring at the men, especially those of the Hedeby contingent, daring anyone to question Casca’s orders. Casca though knew what was required on board. Hell, he’d sailed Viking ships many times before, even to the other side of the great ocean, so he had more experience than anyone aboard.
A few quick commands to the helmsman, one of Gudfred’s men, an assignment of men to the oars, and orders to some others to stand by the mast and to lower the sail once they were out of the Slies. He cast an eye to the skies. Light wispy clouds were passing overhead, but nothing threatening. It promised to be a reasonable day. He hadn’t sailed the Baltic before so this trip promised to be an adventure to him, something that stirred his blood. Living for eight hundred years or so had meant he had traveled far and wide, and new places were getting rarer.
Gudfred’s ship was the largest and led the others out of the harbor into the wide inlet, and they sail
ed east, then north-east in single line, the oars gently caressing the waters. The sleek shallow draught long ships, seven skeids and one drekar, moved with ease, propelled by their hefty crews. There were sixteen benches on Casca’s ship, so thirty-two men rowed at any one time. Each rowing place, a sessa, easily accommodated their rower, and there was plenty of space to move. The warriors placed their round shields in specially designed places on the outside of the hull, held in place by pegs, so that their outside shoulders were given greater protection.
Casca took up his position alongside the helmsman, so that he could keep an eye on everything. A lot of his men were young and inexperienced so a careful watch would have to be kept on them. He also knew Gudfred would be watching carefully, not only Casca, but Drakenskald and the other Jarl who was present. Impressing the future king would be a good thing to do.
As they emerged from the Slies out into the wide expanse of the sea, the sails were unfurled and the wind now caught the red and white striped canvas. Casca made a careful note of anything that seemed to work well, and what might be improved. He would mention it to Hafnar and when they returned to Husborg they would see if their ships could be adjusted for the better.
The first evening they beached their ships on the coast in a sandy bay. The sand was pale, almost silver, and the bay was virtually a half crescent, open to the north. The sea lapped onto the shore gently in a series of small ripples. Off to the right there was a green-topped headland, with a slight hill in the center, but the rest of the land all along was flatter, covered in long grass, and with an occasional tree or shrub to break up the monotony of the horizon.
Seagulls wheeled above, shrilly calling out in fury at their peace being rudely interrupted, and the high-pitched piping of the young, in their speckled brown plumage, carried to the men as they prepared a temporary camp at the back of the beach just where the dunes began.
The wind was soft, idly caressing their faces, and Casca stood for a brief moment, savoring the peacefulness of the place. Then he turned, shook off the feeling, and directed his men to gather firewood along the shore, of which there was plenty, and stack it for the camp fires. Supper wouldn’t be long.
Gudfred got the men to erect a palisade of rough wood, and there were trees a little way inland that were attacked with axes. Casca sent ten men to help. Guards were left on each ship, along the palisade and patrolling in between. Nobody was taking any chances, for they were within the lands of their foe.
He spoke to the other Jarls and to Gudfred, finalizing the plan of attack on Fehmarn. The island was low-lying, and they would sail into a bay on the west side of the island. The Vikings had scouted the place over the past few months and gathered knowledge of what lay there, plus they had taken a few captives who had provided information. The Wagrians had one big settlement, Fehmarn itself, on the southern coast at the head of a narrow bay, plus a couple of fishing villages elsewhere.
Gudfred’s plan was to land in the western bay, disembark and march the mile and a half to Fehmarn and put it to the sword. The other settlements would get attention once that had been done just to make sure of a decent job. Then they were to embark once more and sail for Hedeby. A quick in-out raid before the Obotrites knew what had hit them.
The Eternal Mercenary relayed the plan to his men after dark. Hafnar grunted, scratched an itch, then threw a leg-bone of a pig he’d been eating into the fire. “We have a set place, or do we all charge in?”
“We are on the right. Fehmarn has three main buildings and we go after the shrine to their god or gods, plus the houses on that side of town. Drakenskald’s lot has the left, Gudfred the center and the other lot the western half. We don’t plunder out of our set zone, or we’ll get Gudfred on our backs and we don’t want that.”
He outlined the area they were to see to – a huddle of houses and huts on the south-western side of the settlement separated from the rest by a drainage ditch. It couldn’t be missed.
So they planned and got ready for the attack.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The sky was grey, with clouds scudding rapidly across it in varying hues from off-white to almost black. A wind had sprung up from the west and drove the ships on rapidly to the shore of the island. Beaching was no problem; getting off might be something else. Whatever, the Vikings weren’t leaving without plunder and booty, and Gudfred had them ashore in no time, urging them on in a wide ragged formation. As the settlement was only a mile and a bit away, it wasn’t long before they caught sight of it through the trees.
They felled a few and lopped off the long branches, leaving stubs of the thickest ones, so they had ready-to-hand ladders. Casca’s men had five such ladders and they moved off from the rest at a slight angle, aiming for a stretch of the palisade ahead of them on the right near where it curved back towards the sea.
Gudfred’s men had a battering log, too. They were going to attack the gates. Casca wasn’t concerned with them; their only value would be to tie down a lot of defenders. Hitting Fehmarn in four places would stretch the Wagrians thinly. He was confident that, man-on-man, his men were better.
The land was even, with just a few dips here and there to trip the unwary, and one of his men did stumble and fall, much to his shame and the amusement of those around him. After getting catcalls and jeers, he got up, his face red, and pounded on, teeth gritted with determination.
The trees receded and peeled away to either side and then they were out in the open before the small town. It sat at the head of a narrow bay, and the palisade that protected it was atop a raised bank of earth. It wasn’t high or elaborate, for nobody had envisaged a seaborne invasion when it had been erected. Now the Vikings ran hard for the barrier, shouting with their battle cries renting the air.
The defenders were brought running by the alarm. They had been caught napping. Armed with spears, conical helms, leather or padded armor and just a few of them with more expensive chainmail, they scrambled up onto the wall-walk behind the pointed-topped palisade and waited for the attack.
So sudden was it, however, that some defenders were still running to their place, shrugging on their battle gear, when the first axes came whirling through the air at them.
Men were sent crashing back, heads, chests and throats split by the sharp blades of the thrown weapons. Casca waved his ladder-men to throw them up, and the five groups of four ran down into the ditch that lay before the stockade, then up, with the newly-lopped tree-ladders rising. The rest threw axes and spears at the defenders to keep them down. One or two came back at the Vikings but the axes had done their job.
The ladders were up and the first of the Vikings were already climbing up, shields raised before them, an axe in their belts ready to be pulled forth to create more carnage.
Screams, shouts and yells filled the air, as did the clashing of blade upon blade. Casca was in the second wave, determined to show his men he was a leader worth the name. He pulled himself over, slid over the body of one of the luckless Wagrians, and planted both feet firmly on the walkway, shield ready, sword now in his right hand. Men were battling to his right so he looked left. One of his men was in trouble against two opponents so he waded in, sword cutting down from high.
The sword sliced into the Wagrian’s neck, sending the man spinning from the force of the blow. Almost decapitated, the soldier crashed to the ground, his spear bouncing off the walkway and falling down the slope of the earthworks to street level.
Another man appeared, one who stood at the top of a narrow wooden stairway that led down to the town. This one was better dressed and armed and had a sword as well as the ubiquitous round shield. His shield had more metal inset and looked stouter. No doubt he was some kind of leader for this section of the walls. He had a conical helm atop his head and came at Casca, snarling in hate.
Casca met him head-on, their blades clashing above their heads. Gritting his teeth, the scarred immortal rammed his shield into the body and sword-arm of his opponent, sending him a few paces backwards towar
ds the top of the steps. The Wagrian was surprised at the strength of this Viking. Before he could regain his balance, and the initiative, he was shaken by a heavy blow to his shield from the scarred Viking’s sword.
Casca didn’t want to give the man any opportunity to recover, so he battered away, shield, sword, shield, sword. Faced with such a violent onslaught, the Wagrian lost his balance and tumbled down the steps, losing his helm and his shield. He kept hold of his sword, mostly through instinct.
Following swiftly, Casca got to the bottom just as the man was getting to his feet, his dirty-blonde hair lank and sweaty. Casca’s first blow knocked a hasty defensive block aside, and after planting his right foot down hard, back-handed his follow-up across the man’s throat, opening it up to the warm air.
Leaving him to drown in his own blood, Casca stepped over him, and moved along a gap in between two houses onto one of the streets of the settlement. Behind him he caught sight of some of his men coming down the steps. The battle for the ramparts was effectively over, and with it the fate of Fehmarn was sealed.
He looked left. Then right. There! At the end, close to the harbor, was a long windowless building stretching across the street and more buildings to either side. One large doorway stood in the center and in front of this stood two spear-toting guards. It could be a meeting hall, a headsman’s abode or maybe even a temple. Casca didn’t know and for the moment he didn’t care. He began walking rapidly along the street, noting to either side that the doors to the houses were either shut or being slammed shut.
Close to the apex of the thatched roof there were a series of flues, and through here any smoke would escape; these also acted as skylights.
Casca now closed in, his shield gripped firmly. One of the men raised his spear, aimed, and hurled it hard. He was good. Casca’s shield took the brunt of the blow, and the stout ash missile stuck through it. His shield now useless, Casca flung it aside and came at the two men hard, running full-pelt. More confident now the charging Viking was without a shield, the second man aimed hastily, and drew back his arm.
