by C. R. May
Erik nodded. ‘And they have prepared the krage?’
‘Five of them, lord.’ Ulfar replied. ‘They have been left above the high tide line in a sheltered bay a few miles along the coast.’ He smiled to put their minds at rest as he recognised the concern there. ‘They have made a good job, the bark has been removed from the trunks and the branches lopped off to make ideal handholds. I have seen them myself.’
Helgrim Smiter’s hand went to the hilt of his sword as he added his own thoughts before Ulfar could reply, drawing nods of agreement from the others in the circle as their lips pulled back into cruel smiles. ‘They had better be good,’ he said with a snarl. ‘This Conalach might well find that I become disorientated when I take a tumble from a ladder. Before I could recover he may even find that I have attacked westwards, intending to lop off a high king’s head.’
It was late in the day when their goal came into view and the sun sat like a beacon on the hills to starboard. Erik looked back at the ships of the fleet for the umpteenth time since they had cleared the final headland and turned into the bay. Despite the tension aboard he let out a sigh, muttering under his breath as he thrilled to the sight. ‘Now I know what it means to be a sea king.’
Kolbein followed his gaze as Erik’s heart swelled with pride. He had thought to know every strake, treenail and rope of the ships as well as he knew the lines on the back of his own hands, but he realised now that he had barely known them at all. It was only now, as the crew of the Draki struggled into mail brynja and stroked sharpening stones along blades long since honed to a razor’s edge, that Erik recognised the effect that the power and magnificence of his own fleet must have upon an enemy even before battle was joined.
As the rocky outline of the Howth peninsula shrank astern to become a dun line against the rapidly darkening skyline, Erik ran his eyes around the ships of the fleet as Thorstein came up with his own mail shirt. The skei led the chase, every detail of their construction a tribute to the skill of the master shipwright and his crew of artisans who had crafted the hull from rude green oak. Yapping at their heels came the snekkjur, the design of the smaller warships honed a little more with each passing generation of ship builders until they became the perfect craft for striking deep into the river systems of the rich lands of the south and beyond. Just in sight beyond them the three knarr were coming on at a more leisurely pace. They would play no part in the attack, only coming in to dock once the landing area had been taken and secured by the warriors.
With sails puffed out like a braggart’s chest and the sheets and braces straining in the blow, the langskip were bounding the waves as the beast heads which graced their prows snarled their warlike intent. Ice Bears: Wolf heads; his own Dragon skull with eyes of amber glaring above ivory fangs; the ships of the fleet looked for all the world like the relentless spectres of childhood nightmares, the monsters who chased you down through the channels of your dreams no matter how hard you ran to escape them.
Looking for’ard, Erik could see the arms of land which enclosed Dublin Bay shepherding them down towards the place where the sediment from the River Liffey stained the sea. Wave flecked shallows showed where the skerries and sandbanks lay in wait for unwary seafarers, but many of the men in the fleet knew the bay well and the high tide and shallow draught of the longships would carry them through.
To the south-west the town itself began to come into view beneath a brume of smoke as the defenders prepared the evening meal safe in the knowledge that the high king could huff and puff all he liked, he would never take the town with such a paltry army. Erik knew that a few men among them would be wiser; sleeping in their mail shirt, their weapons to hand with one eye half open and ears cocked for the slightest sign of trouble and he gave a snort; he would soon indulge them.
They were more than halfway across the bay and still no sign came from the walls of Dublin, just discernible now amid the gloom as the sky horses hauled their charge down beyond the western hills, that they had been spotted by the men on guard there. Despite the fact that the flags of the jarls of Man flew above them, Erik knew that the closer they could come to the town the better the chances that their assault would meet with success. He hoped that the gathering gloom would help to confuse the men ashore as to the identity of the ships, but even if the defenders fell for the ruse it was likely that spearmen would turn out to cheer the arrival of the hoped-for reinforcements; the twilight would help them, but followers of the cousins or not most Norsemen were not known for their gullibility, and Erik knew that the cries of welcome would likely soon become growls of defiance as the identity of those making landfall became known.
The leading ships were already putting their prows into the Liffey when the first fire arrow arced towards them from the town walls. Sails were shortened and oars slid proud of the hulls, and within a few moments others had joined the first, the flaming shafts seeming to hang in the air for long moments before quickly plunging down to disappear into the dark waters of the river with a hiss. Olvir, the Vestfolder whose scouting abilities had proven of such worth to his king outside Tunsberg a decade before was at his side, and Erik patted the man on the shoulder as the next part of the plan began to unfold. ‘Get yourself up the mast,’ he said, ‘and hold the flag out so that they can see.’
As Olvir negotiated the krage, now lashed down along the centreline of the ship, Erik quickly threw a look astern. The fleet was funnelling into the river mouth as the last of the sails were furled and hundreds of oar strokes silvered the surface. The day’s dying light glinted from steel as the nervous men lining the walls of Dublin began to swap fire arrows for deadlier barbs, but Olvir had now made the mast top and the volleys fell away again as he held the battle flag of a jarl of Man out for all to see. Even if the flag was unfamiliar to the northerners it was obvious to Erik and the men in the fleet that the Dubliners were aware of to whom the sigil belonged, and a ragged cheer carried across the waters as the men lining the walls hailed their friends and beckoned them on.
Erik donned his battle helm, tying off the fastening as Kolbein came abreast of the town and turned in towards the dockyard. Erik’s closest companions were already at his side, their eyes little more than slits as they probed the murk and scanned the air for missiles. The Draki was coasting towards a rickety berthing place, and Erik risked a glance to starboard as word came over his shoulder that the snekkjur too had made the river and were turning in their wake. Arinbjorn’s Sea Stallion was there, the hersir already set in the bows flanked by Gisli and Helgi. Beyond the graceful curve of her prow Erik thrilled to the sight of Gamli surrounded by the men of his guard, his own first born making ready to lead his men ashore from the bows of the Isbjorn where any Eriksson should be.
The keening call of a war horn carried to them even as the oars were shipped and the rowers leapt for their weapons, and everyman aboard knew that the signal meant that their ruse had been discovered. A patter of arrows soon became a deluge as the larboard bow kissed the jetty, and Erik threw his shoulder into the great circle of his shield as he placed a booted foot upon the sweep of the bow and launched himself ashore. An arrow thudded into his board, quickly followed by another as he risked a peek above the rim and zigzagged towards dry land. A barrel stood to one side, the ladle hanging by a rusty chain from its rim telling the tale of its day to day usefulness, and Erik pushed down the urge to shelter from the arrow storm with difficulty as he pounded past. If he stopped now men would bunch in his wake and the attack would stall. Men would see that other leaders: Arinbjorn; Erland Torf-Einarsson; even Gamli or Harald Eriksson would be first ashore and his authority would begin to slide, slowly at first, bit by bit as men talked and word spread. Soon men too would slip away, to braver leaders of more successful war bands, and he would end his days as a bloated tyrant ruling and island or three and bending the ear of any who would listen with the tale of when he was a king of the Norse.
The sound of his footsteps took on a deeper note, and Erik knew that he had left t
he boarded walkway and reached the narrow strip which ran beneath the northern wall of the town itself. Another arrow whispered past as he came to a halt and hunkered down into his shield, but before he could take a breath mailed shoulders were thudding against his own, and the view ahead shrank as wide boards swept around to overlap with a clatter.
The incoming missiles were beginning to lessen as the men on the parapet began to run short or conserve their supplies for the assault which must soon break upon them. Erik grasped the opportunity to throw a quick look to either side as the sound of his own war horns set up an unearthly howl. Arinbjorn was up with him, more and more men rushing up to throw their shields into the defensive formation the Norse called skjald-borg, the shield fort. Beyond him he could just make out the pennants of Gamli and Harald anchoring the line nearest to the army of the high king, little more than a hundred yards to the west. To the east Arnkel and his brother Erland were having a harder time of it, urging their men to keep their shield wall tight as they were forced to go through and around a warehouse, slave pens and the platforms where the unfortunates would be paraded and sold off to the highest bidder. Erik pushed the care aside; the Orcadians were resourceful men, he was confident they would be spilling no less blood than his own fighters in a very short while.
By the time he looked back his bloodied axe sigil was snapping above him, but as he lowered his gaze to urge his banner man on his eyes widened in surprise. Before he could open his mouth to question him, Thorstein shouted above the din to lay Erik’s worst fears. ‘Anlaf has taken an arrow in the hip, lord.’ Erik was about to ask how bad the injury was but Thorstein anticipated the question, pulling his head into his shoulders as another arrow came from the darkness to punch a hole through the flag above him. ‘He will be fine, he just shoved the flag my way and told me to piss off and look after you!’
Movement caused Erik to look out past Thorstein’s shoulder, and his mind pushed any worry at the fate of his banner man aside as he saw that the crewmen detailed to carry the krage to the wall had retrieved the ladder from the ship and were moving forward beneath a roof of shields. He flicked a look down at Thorstein’s side and was relieved to see that the pair had remembered the signal horn when they had passed the banner between them. Aware now of who stood before them, Erik’s flag was drawing a steady stream of shafts from the bowmen on the walls; Anlaf Crow had already fallen, and Erik knew that it would take only one hit to stall the entire attack while word was passed to the other leaders that he had been disabled. He had to move now, and Erik nodded to Thorstein as he gripped his spear and prepared to race across the open ground between the dockside and the town walls. ‘Give Gjallarhorn its voice!’
At the sound of Heimdall’s Yelling Horn others added their own voices to the call to arms, and Erik saw the flags and banners of his army dip in acknowledgment before moving forward to signal the attack. Erik was past his own men and running, his legs pumping as he sought to cross the exposed ground before the defenders could react. Within a very few paces he came within spear shot, and the first javelin flashed past his shoulder as the grassy bank which formed the base of the town walls rose up before him. Before any of his men could reach his side he was there, throwing his shield above his head and digging the heel of his spear into the soft soil as his feet scrambled for purchase on the slippery slope. Thumps and crashes told him that the defender’s aim was good, but his shield was the finest there was, a king’s shield, and soon a wall of wooden stakes reared up before his eyes as he made the foot of the palisade. Erik threw himself against it and looked back the way he had come, thrilling to the sight as he saw a heaving mass of shields and the warriors scuttling upward beneath them. Glimpses of wood told him that the ladder was being carried forward among them, and as Thorsten hoist his banner and Helgrim and Kolbein at his sides swatted away the arrows and spears that sought out their king like angry wasps, the krage was manhandled upright into the cool night air. A moment’s hesitation as it rose to the vertical, and the ladder fell to crash against the top of the parapet even as Erik’s hands flew forward to grip the first rung.
10
A SAWYER’S ELBOW
The following handhold was a bit of a stretch, but Erik was committed now and he reached up despite the knowledge that it would leave the right side of his body exposed. The pain which quickly followed may have been half-expected but it was no less for that, and his feet began to slip and slide as he instinctively jerked his body aside. He was almost at the top, and Erik gritted his teeth against the pain as he forced himself upward. The blows which began to rain down upon the face of his upturned shield confirmed that he was only a few feet from the lip of the parapet, each thunderclap louder than the last as he fought with all his willpower to remain on the krage, but just at the moment that all seemed lost, that he would be beaten from his perch to crash down onto the sea of shields in the field below him, he began to rise again as he felt a hefty shoulder wedge itself under his rump and give a mighty shove.
Erik shot upwards as Helgrim used the strength in his leg muscles to launch his lord back into the fray, and the sea king thrilled at the look of horror and disbelief which crossed the face of the defender at the sudden appearance of the snarling face of the enemy leader only a foot from his own. Erik’s spear was already moving as the man’s jaw slackened and his mind scrambled to recover his wits, stabbing out to take the defender in the throat before he could react. As the first to fall to him that day dropped away, Erik withdrew the bloody tip to skewer the next defender to his right even as his own legs were hooking themselves across the bulwark.
A powerful blow struck his shield, knocking him sideways to land on the body of his first victim, and Erik threw the shield up in a desperate bid to deflect the following strike as his feet scrabbled for grip. The follow-up never came, and Erik risked a peep across the edge of his shield as he crabbed backwards on the walkway. To his relief Helgrim was there, his great frame lit by the lights in the town as he chopped down on Erik’s attacker with the rim of his shield. Erik watched the man’s shoulder crumple beneath the power of the blow as he scrambled back to his feet, and the cry of pain had barely left the defender’s lips before he was swept from the walkway and heading towards the roadway below.
Thorstein was across the parapet, the stand-in banner man hoisting Erik’s battle flag high as he hastened to his lord’s side. Beyond him the men of the Draki were cascading into the fortress, throwing themselves over the paling with little thought for their own safety as they sought to come to their lord’s aid. His flank secure Erik spun around to face the next threat, but the sight which met his eyes caused a flicker of pride as the remaining defenders, unable to beat a retreat to the stairways through the overwhelming crush of attackers, moved back to back and prepared to die. All along the parapet, helmed heads and spearpoints were rising into view like a spectral army of the dead ascending to Midgard from Hel’s dark hall below. The pale light from the town glimmered from helm, mail and spearpoint as they came, and Erik tore his gaze away safe in the knowledge that Dublin must fall. He had been the first to reach the base of the wall at the start of the fight, he was sure of that, but no man in his army had yet set foot inside the town itself, and he scanned the ground below as he sought to put that right.
A small workshop stood near the wall, the thatch tantalisingly close, and Erik’s eyes flew back and forth as he weighed up his chances of clearing the gap. The sound of fighting was lessening away to his right as the rainbow bridge beckoned for the last of the North Wall’s bowmen, and beyond them Erik could see Arinbjorn’s men moving aside to allow their lord to lead the charge down the staircase they had taken. At the foot of the steps a bull of a man was browbeating all those within earshot into forming a wall, throwing together a barrier using anything at hand: a bench; pails and work tools from a smithy which stood nearby. Raising his eyes Erik could see two men wheeling a barrel on its rim towards the makeshift defence, but Arinbjorn was already on the stairs, Helgi and
Horse Hair Gisli at each shoulder, and he knew that the bull-man’s heroics were in vain. With height and numbers on their side the men of the Sea Stallion would soon sweep the defenders aside, and Erik knew that he would have to move quickly if he was to be seen by the men lining the walkway to be the first inside the town itself. He slung his shield and took a backward pace, catching Helgrim and Thorstein’s looks of incredulity as he upended the spear shaft in his hand, burst forward, and launched himself into the cool night air.
The brief image of Dublin’s rooftops lasted less than a heartbeat before the thatch of the outbuilding came up with a rush, and Erik braced as he realised that he was going to fetch up short. His spear was the last hope of surviving the fall without a break or worse, and his hand slid down towards the blade until the long shafted weapon had become little more than a dagger. The instant that Erik’s grip tightened his chest slammed into the slope of the roof, and he gasped as the air was driven from his lungs with a wheeze of pain. Instantly Erik’s hand stabbed down despite the shock of the strike, and before he could fall back into the courtyard below the blade had buried itself deep within the stalks. Using the spear as an aid Erik was able to move down the slope of the roof until he reached the eves, and as he hung over the edge and prepared to drop into the courtyard below a blur and a crash told him that Helgrim had pushed good sense aside and followed on.
