Casca 47: The Viking

by Tony Roberts

  Casca wondered if there were any lengthy campaigns in the offing.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The years rolled by, one after the other. There wasn’t any invasion from the south, but from what Casca could tell, it was likely something was going to give pretty soon. Gudfred was throwing his weight around and allowing his wild-spirited Jarls to launch attacks on the coasts of all their neighbors. It helped calm things down at home but hardly ingratiated themselves with anyone else. The Vikings didn’t care.

  Casca was repeatedly pressed to get involved. If it wasn’t the moaning from Adalind about not being allowed to return to her homeland – as Casca had expected – then it was Hafnar and the other men who pleaded to be allowed to raid. Finally, with the threat of losing his men to a Hold that went on these things, Casca made a request to the king.

  Gudfred was pleased. He had been wondering why a man with the reputation Casca had hadn’t been at the forefront of petitions to be allowed to attack someone. He didn’t understand Casca’s war weariness and his need to make sure the Hold was secure and safe.

  It was the Obotrites again. They had a port called Reric, beyond Fehmarn, ruled by a noble called Drozko. Drozko was one of Charlemagne’s main supporters and it was thought the port was too far from the Vikings’ homeland to be threatened. Gudfred wanted a large raid to take care of this once and for all.

  To Casca’s delight the old buzzard Drakenskald was involved, and Casca’s men turned up at Jaegland along with men from other Holds, Sundsvalk included, and they held a pre-raid feast in the Hold. Plenty of men got blind staggering drunk and had to be hauled into the ships the following morning, helped good-naturedly by the townsfolk. More than a few of the young women had been busy during the night and wondered if they were now carrying the seed of these men’s loins in their bellies…

  There were thirty ships. The sea seemed full of them. Casca sat with his head in his hands groaning. Why didn’t the Curse take care of hangovers, for Hades’ sake? Hafnar grinned and stood nearby, ostentatiously eating a hearty breakfast.

  “Hafnar, either take that away somewhere else or I’m going to throw up over you.”

  The big man chuckled, bowed ironically, farted, then ambled along the ship towards the prow, singing some song about deflowering maidens, from what Casca could discern. “Damned ugly bastard,” Casca muttered and concentrated on keeping his stomach obedient.

  It took some days to get to Reric. A renegade Slav from a nearby village who had gotten into trouble with Drozko had agreed to guide them. He wanted revenge for his banishment. All because he’d fancied this cute daughter of a Reric merchant and she had been promised to some warthog of a supporter of Drozko. Bah!

  They sailed to the north of Fehmarn, out into the Baltic, and then cut south-east. The shoreline curved south-east at this point into a wide bay, then swung north. It was there along that coastline that Reric stood. There was a short inlet and the town was stockaded nearly completely. The only gap was where the inlet cut through and their ships could moor along the lengthy jetties lining the inlet and harbor. The gap was protected by four watchtowers manned with archers and fire. No ship would be stupid enough to run that gauntlet.

  So a landward attack then. The night before they beached along the southern side of the bay and sent out scouts to make sure nobody saw them. Anyone who did was to be caught and interrogated, then killed. Reric was not to be forewarned.

  Drakenskald and Casca took the council of war. Both spelled out the plans to the other warlords and leaders. Land on the coast opposite Reric, surround the town, make ladders and rams, and then storm the stockade. Sheer numbers once more would tell. Fire was to be used, to be shot over the stockade onto the buildings. Reric was to be burned and destroyed, and prisoners taken. Gudfred was particularly interested in the merchants who had been allowed to trade there. He wanted them sent to Hedeby.

  As for Drozko… it was said he was a bull of a man, fierce and un-rivalled in battle. Drakenskald eyed Casca. “One for you, then, my friend?”

  Casca grinned. He needed a good old duel against a famous leader to blow off the cobwebs. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

  The men cheered and chanted ‘Walker!’ ‘Walker!’

  They resumed their voyage the next morning, heading north. Two wandering villagers had been unlucky enough to be caught by the Viking scouts and questioned before having their lives cut short. One had been a woodcutter out late to get more material for a new log house for his village nearby, the other a wandering pilgrim. Neither were left anywhere easily found.

  They crunched onto the flat, marshy shores of the bay. Smoke betrayed the whereabouts of Reric, which wasn’t too far. Casca and Drakenskald weren’t too worried about being seen now, for they would quickly surround the town and storm it. Reric wasn’t a center of power and had only the classic wooden stockade, with sharp points at the top of each sawn log. It wouldn’t deter the Vikings, especially as they were going to use ladders and a battering ram or two.

  They lined up on the shore, eyes full of excitement. This was what they lived for! To prove themselves as men, as warriors. There wasn’t much formality in counting. To the depths of Valhalla with that! With a curt flick of his wrist, Casca led his men through the stands of slender ash and sycamore towards the mist-shrouded stockade. Like prehistoric beasts, wearing their fur cloaks, the Vikings materialized out of the morning fog. The alarm went up and townsfolk rushed to their posts, hearts thudding. What was this?

  Drozko snarled in fury. How dare these eaters of filth come to his domain! Revenge would be swift. For now, he had to organize the defense. He carried his two-handed sword, one that had been specially forged for him in Veligrad, the nearby capital. He’d cut down these sons of bastards by the score!

  Casca scowled in disgust at the thin trees surrounding the township. These were too small and fragile for ladders. “Let’s do this the hard way,” he shouted to Hafnar as they got close to the walls. Archers were spreading out atop the walkways. Slavic archers were much better than the Vikings, but once the Northmen got at the Slavs hand-to-hand, then it was a different matter.

  “Start showering them with fire,” the Eternal Mercenary ordered. Immediately, the few archers they had prepared their bows, stringing them, opening their leather quivers and selecting arrows.

  Fires were prepared. The wood lying about was too damp but dry kindling and chopped twigs and branches were brought from the ships. In no time fires were flickering all around, and Casca could see the lengthy lines of Vikings as they got ready for the assault.

  Now the archers had their fire-arrows ready, wrapped cloth around the shaft just behind the heads soaked in oil. They ignited at once, and then the archers advanced and loosed at the town without having to aim. The defending archers shot at the Vikings hitting a few, but the Vikings retreated into the woods and reloaded.

  All the time Casca studied the walls. “Shoot at the walls with fire. Set the damned thing alight.”

  He wondered how the attack was going elsewhere. No time to worry about that. A few trees had been chopped down and trimmed. They were ready as makeshift ladders, as good as they could find and make. “Shields!” Casca snapped.

  A wall of Vikings advanced, not running, but not walking. Shields held high, they were armed with axes. Their task was to hack at the stockade and smash their way through. A couple had huge double-handed battleaxes and they would inflict the most damage. All the while the archers kept up a steady barrage, serving to keep the Obotrites occupied and ducking for cover.

  Casca came with the advancing men; he would lead the way in. Men fell, yelling in pain. Some would crawl away to safety, others would not. A couple of defenders lay dangling over the top, having been cut down by the arrows of the bowmen. Now the Vikings had reached the stockade, and they immediately began to hack at the wood. Splinters flew off, and a man on top of the wall shouted to his men to throw everything they had down on the attackers.

  “Hafnar, get your axemen
to take them out!” Casca roared, pointing at the Obotrites picking up stones, rocks and other heavy objects.

  Without further hesitation, about thirty Vikings raised their throwing axes and hurled them en masse as the defenders. Some missed, some buried themselves into the stockade. Others though, struck their targets. Men screamed and fell back out of sight, swept away by the barrage.

  “Now!” Casca yelled at the three big men carrying the double axes. The three went at the walls snarling in hatred. Two solid blows cracked the wall opposite Casca and the log split in two. More men hacked at the hole and it widened even as Casca watched.

  A defender appeared at the top and threw a rock down, crushing a Viking’s head. A thrown axe took the Obotrite in the chest and he fell back out of sight. Two more lusty blows and the logs to either side of the hole collapsed and suddenly there was a gap big enough for a man to squeeze through. “Come on!” the immortal warrior cried out, stepping forward, “follow me!”

  He went through, shield ahead of him, stepping over a fallen defender who had plunged off the walkway. Men came at him from left and right. Leaving his shield to block the man to his left, he faced the man to his right. The defender slashed at Casca’s head with a broad-bladed sword, intending to cut him in two, but the blow was met with a straight blade above Casca’s head.

  With his shield reverberating to the blows of the other man, Casca stepped forward and cut across the swordsman’s left shoulder down to his right hip. The man crumpled and fell into a heap. Casca swung to his left, bloodied sword already rising. The other man had a shorter sword but was striking much faster. Casca’s shield had kept him away so far.

  Push with the shield. Hack with the blade. Push again. Then hack. Casca’s strength helped him, true, but his skill was such that the Obotrite was giving ground rapidly, his face sweating and eyes wide in alarm.

  Ladders were going up all along the stockade. Arrows flew over the top and stuck in roofs, setting them ablaze. Drozko was incensed. With a roar of fury, he waded into a group of Vikings making rapid headway through a smashed hole in the stockade. Two huge blows from his sword sent two Vikings to whatever damned afterlife they believed in. Now he went at a third, bringing his sword high to begin a cut designed to split the man in two. With a shock, his downward blow was met with one of those round shields and stopped!

  He looked at his new opponent. Light blue eyes, a scar on one side of his face. Tough looking swine. Both men stepped back and warily sized one another up. Casca’s arm tingled from the shock of stopping the blow. That had hurt. His left arm would be alright in a few moments, but for now was recovering from the pain. Drozko was a meaty specimen, black-haired, brown-eyed, pretty ugly. Big black hairs covered his arms and he caught sight of more popping up from the top of his shirt he could see underneath under the iron breastplate he was wearing. Here was one brute that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Circus Maximus along with the other exotic beasts the Roman state had brought to the games for the people’s entertainment.

  Drozko bared his uneven teeth and raised his two-handed chunk of steel. Casca stepped forward quickly, bringing his tingling left arm up and ducking down. The blow from the two-handed sword split his shield in two and numbed his arm, but he thrust up hard with his own sword and got the chieftain through the left armpit. Casca twisted clear, away from Drozko, just as one of his men came for Casca, murder in his eyes.

  The blow from the Obotrite carved through thin air. Casca planted his right foot into the hard earth and slashed across the throat of the bodyguard. The man clutched his wound and sank to his knees, choking on his own blood. Another man stepped around the gasping figure of Drozko and came for Casca, screaming something unintelligible.

  The blow was met in front of Casca’s face and the man staggered, never having faced anyone this tough before. Casca cut him across the neck and then the chest for good measure. As the man crashed onto his back, eyes wide, Casca came to stand over Drozko. The chieftain was holding his bleeding wound and looked up at Casca. The cut had sliced up through the top of one lung and into the tracchia. Blood was welling up through the wounded man’s throat and he coughed, spraying blood out in front of him.

  “You’re finished,” Casca said to him, breathing heavily. His left arm was still numb. His own men were running past him now, seeking out more defenders. Screams rent the air as the townsfolk’s homes were entered. Casca decided he’d stay away from all that kind of thing.

  “End this now,” Drozko said. He knew the wound was a fatal one. He’d bleed to death or choke. He had no wish to lay there watching as his people were slaughtered and his town put to the flame.

  Casca hadn’t understood what he said but he could guess. He nodded and placed the tip of his sword against Drozko’s throat. The chieftain grimaced, closed his eyes and waited.

  Brave bastard Casca thought, then leaned hard. Pulling his sword free he stepped away from the pile of corpses by the gap. He looked in all directions. On the stockade walkway a few men still fought but it was clear the Vikings had dealt with most of what had been facing them. Other men were running past, eager to get in on the plunder. Shaking his aching arm he followed the route most of them were taking.

  A path wound its way in between houses and huts and joined a wider route which he took to be one of the main thoroughfares. Wooden houses lined both sides, most with a wooden rail in front of them. The doors stood beyond this, forming a veranda. Some had chairs on this but most were now upended or on their sides and the doors gaped open.

  Flames were leaping higher. Hafnar came running up towards him. “There’s a group holding out by the harbor.”

  “Alright, I’m coming,” Casca said. He had no shield but his arm was sore as hades and he doubted he had the strength in that limb to hold one effectively.

  The two men went loping down the street. It gently went downhill and they came to a wide space that stood before the harbor. There was a large building to the right, two floored, and here some Obotrites were holding out.

  Some Vikings lay sprawled on the street before it. “What’s in there?” Casca demanded, arriving behind a group of his men crouched by a house across the road.

  “It’s the treasure house,” one of the men said. “According to a prisoner, anyway.”

  “Can’t burn it then, at least not until we get the treasure out.” Casca sucked on his teeth. “How many inside?”

  “Probably about ten to fifteen. Got a couple of archers with them. They took out those men there,” Hafnar nodded at the corpses.

  Casca looked thoughtfully at the scene. The building had one large open doorway; the doors had been kicked in by the first men to get there who had then been cut down. Arrows were sticking out of the frame and walls next to the dark opening. One man lay in the doorway, his legs on view. Upstairs, figures could be vaguely seen moving, but they were too cautious about stopping and making themselves a target to the Viking bowmen in the street.

  Time was getting short. The town was ablaze and pretty soon the flames would reach this spot and the building – and its contents – would go up. “Get twenty men grouped together,” Casca suddenly said to Hafnar. When all else failed, revert to the good old days. A Viking testudo, now there was a thing! Twenty men formed up into a close-knit block, five rows of four men. Casca picked up a fallen shield and put himself into the front row. He got them to interlock shields, an alien maneuver for these men but they were being commanded by The Walker and who were they to argue?

  Once he was satisfied, he issued a few more orders and then got the men to advance down the street towards the gaping doorway. He dictated the pace, keeping up a monologue of commands. For a brief moment, he imagined he was once again back in the imperial days of Rome, part of a living organism, a group of men, well-drilled, disciplined and invincible. He had to check himself from shouting out dextro, sinistram, dextro, sinistram!

  The smell of unwashed bodies, leather and furs cloaked them as they stepped towards the buil
ding. Objects struck their shields but they didn’t flinch and closed in on their target. Behind them Hafnar led the rest of the men in loose formation, his archers loosing off at anyone who was bold enough to try to stop the group of men below.

  Suddenly the Obotrites vanished from upstairs. Clearly someone inside had realized it was futile trying to stop the Vikings from getting to the door and now had called everyone down to defend the building in some desperate last stand.

  Casca got to the door. “Alright,” he called out to his men, “break formation, get inside and kill!”

  He was first over the thresh-hold and was met instantly by one of the defenders, a tall man with a simple conical iron helm. Blades met. Casca span, crouching low, then he rose, his blade rising up under the man’s guard and ripping into his guts. The luckless man gasped and toppled to the floor, face twisted in agony. Another opponent, wielding a straight-edged sword, came for him instantly.

  Shield. The enemy’s blow shook his wooden shield, and Casca’s counter was similarly blocked. Aware of men fighting and dying to both left and right, Casca concentrated on his adversary. Another attack came, aimed at his head. The immortal soldier smashed it aside with his shield and riposted, stabbing up instead of slashing. The Obotrite tried to block or deflect it but he was too late. Casca’s blade passed the edge of the man’s oblong shield and sank in between two ribs. Twist, pull. Look left. Look right.

  No danger to either side. Before him, though, the man he’d stabbed straightened, pain etched across his face, and thrust forward, aiming to impale Casca through the face.

  Casca deflected the blow up, then stepped a pace to the left. Bringing his own sword up, he slashed across the exposed upper chest of his opponent. The Obotrite screamed and staggered back two paces before crashing to the floor onto his back.