The Raven Banner

by Tim Hodkinson

‘On my signal,’ he shouted, ‘slaughter them!’

  Oengus gripped the shaft of his spear, his knuckles white, a fierce grin balling the muscles at the top of his jaws. The prow of the lead ship was forging into the harbour mouth, forcing a big wave from either side of its bow. The sail was full and there was no sign of it slowing down. There was no question now that this was an attack.

  But something was not quite right.

  Oengus narrowed his eyes. There was a man at the prow, his head and face enclosed in a visored helmet. He waved a tall battle standard and Oengus saw it depicted some sort of bird, embroidered out in black against a red background. He also saw there was a man at the stern, steering the ship on its course into the harbour using the steering oar. He was some sort of cripple though, and leant on a crutch.

  There was no one else on the ship. The oar benches which should have been jammed with armed men were empty.

  Oengus looked at the other ships. They were further out beyond the light but in the same way he saw their decks looked just as deserted.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ Oengus said.

  Then he remembered Drest disappearing from the harbour wall. He turned to look behind him and realised just how wrong things were.

  Forty-Two

  Standing at the prow of the ship, Einar saw the throng of Scots warriors waiting on the quay above. Perhaps thirty archers were aiming right at him. Spearmen were hoisting their weapons. Firelight glittered on helmets and swords all along the harbour. He could see triumphant grins on their faces. They knew they would massacre everyone on the ships before they even docked.

  Then what looked like a black wave broke over the harbour wall behind the Scots. Warriors, blades blackened, swathed in cloaks, came piling over the wall. Einar saw the pointed ears of the Wolf Coats and the dark bulk of the berserkers’ bearskins. They came screaming and shouting, pouring onto the quay and into the backs of the Scottish warriors.

  It had been Ulrich’s plan. The ships had beached earlier, a little way further up the coast, close enough to be within reach of Cathair Aile but far enough around the headland to be out of sight of those in the harbour. The crews of three of the ships waded ashore, the last ones pausing to shove their ships back off the shelving pebbles with two or three men remaining on each. The warriors then set off to make their way along the coast, silent and hidden by the darkness, towards the settlement.

  The ships had sailed up and down the coast for a time. Then when he judged enough time had passed, Ulrich, who manned the steering oar of the lead ship, had made the final turn and aimed the ship for the headland and the harbour beyond. As Einar stood at the prow of the same ship, waving the Raven Banner and looking at the ranks of hostile Scottish warriors arrayed on the quay above, he had yelled prayers to Odin that the rest of their force had had enough time to get to Cathair Aile on foot.

  When he saw the men coming over the harbour wall, he knew Ulrich’s judgement was perfect. The Wolf Coats were followed by Sweyn’s men and Einar could see even more warriors up where the harbour wall met the headland, running down to follow those who had already poured down onto the quay. As they came they were casting off the cloaks they had worn to conceal the glitter of their mail in the moonlight.

  Chaos erupted in the harbour. The berserkers waded into the backs of their enemies, merciless in their assault. Swords and axes ploughed through mail, leather, flesh and bones. Some of the Scots turned to fight back but most drove forwards in a panicked attempt to get away from the sudden onslaught. The resulting movement shoved their front ranks, still unaware of what was going on behind them, forwards. Einar watched as the archers and spearmen who had been about to attack his ship began tumbling off the quay and into the water of the harbour.

  Ulrich jammed the steering oar hard to the left and the ship turned right and away from the quay. They were rapidly running out of water. The shore shelved up to a beach in the far corner of the harbour and Einar felt the ship slow and start to shudder as it ran aground. Struggling to stay upright on the jolting deck, he unslung his shield, held it to his left then crouched behind it. At the stern Ulrich did the same.

  The archers and spearmen who had not fallen into the harbour loosed their weapons. They fell in a deadly hail, studding the deck of the ship from prow to stern in a forest of shafts. Einar remained crouching as his shield juddered and bucked under many impacts.

  When the drumming subsided Einar peeked out from behind his shield. It was covered with arrow shafts but no more would be coming his way. The quay was now a maelstrom of fighting. The archers were too busy dealing with the new threat from close behind them to worry about the ships any more. As more of Sweyn’s men poured down onto the quay the pressure on the men in front of them increased and more of the Scots were shoved off into the water. One of the braziers was knocked over, unleashing a torrent of blazing wood and coal into the crush of men. Two Scotsmen, their clothes ablaze, ran screaming from the throng and leapt into the harbour.

  Einar slashed the arrow shafts off his shield with his axe. Ulrich, his own shield a similar hedgehog of arrow shafts, was hobbling down the deck towards him.

  ‘We have to get off,’ he shouted, his voice just audible over the clash of weapons, bellowed war cries and screams of wounded and dying men.

  Einar saw why. The second ship was entering the harbour. There was a crash as it collided with the quay. The sound of splitting wood mingled with the screams of Scotsmen in the water who had fallen from the quay and were now ground between the ship and the stones. Then the ship veered away and shot across the harbour towards the ship Einar was on. The man steering it battled with the steering oar and managed to pull it up alongside instead of smashing straight into them. The second ship ground to a halt on the sand of the short beach at the top of the harbour.

  Einar knew the third and the fourth ships were on their way too. The stone enclosure of the harbour was not big and there was now very little space left. At least one of the other coming ships would crash into the ships already there.

  He gathered the anchor stone and heaved it over the side. The ship was aground so the stone itself was useless but the rope tied to it would be their way off. Einar slung his shield and axe over his shoulder by their straps, then clambered over the prow and slid down the rope. He landed thigh-deep in water, his boots sinking into the soft sand beneath. He looked up. Ulrich launched the Raven Banner, hurling it like a gigantic spear. The standard flew through the air. Its sharp bottom end embedded itself in the sand. Then Ulrich tossed his crutch after it and climbed over the side. With one damaged foot it was hard going for him and he had only got halfway when he lost his grip and fell.

  Einar dived forward and caught the smaller man in his arms. For a moment he staggered in the water, trying to regain his balance, then he steadied himself. Einar found himself standing, Ulrich cradled across his arms like a husband carrying his new bride into their house for the first time.

  ‘Put me down before someone sees us, you idiot!’ Ulrich shouted from behind his helmet visor.

  Einar dropped him into the waves. Ulrich staggered and limped through the shallow water. He grabbed the banner, hauled its point out of the sand and handed it to Einar.

  Einar started wading up the beach. Behind him the third ship careered into the harbour mouth. Like the second ship it bounced off the quay, smashing more men in the water to bloody ruin. Then it veered away and crashed into the ship Einar and Ulrich had just got off. The ship shunted forwards, just missing Einar and Ulrich. The keel driving further out of the water, its stern shattered as the prow of the third ship drove through it.

  Then the fourth ship crashed into the harbour. Unlike the other three the last ship still had its full contingent of crew on board. The harbour was completely full with the other ships and there was nothing it could do but crash into them.

  With the horrendous tearing and shrieking of splitting wood the last ship drove through the hulls of the others, smashing into them until it, too, ground
to a halt as it ran out of water. The warriors on board began swarming off the deck, jumping down into the shallow water in the harbour and striding towards the top of the harbour. Any Scotsmen floundering in the water were quickly put to the sword.

  ‘Well we won’t be leaving the way we came, that’s for sure,’ Ulrich said, looking at the shattered and smashed ships in the harbour. ‘We’d better pray to Odin that the rest of the fleet make it here. Now get going. With this foot I’m no use in this fight. Leave me and go.’

  Holding the shaft of the Raven Banner in both hands, Einar stomped his way up the beach, trying not to let the long pole send him off balance. If the outcome of the struggle on the quayside had ever been in doubt, the arrival of the last ship and the warriors onboard it removed that.

  The Scots were in full disarray while the Norse had formed a shield wall that was making a remorseless advance up the quay like scythe men reaping a field of barley at harvest time, hacking down anyone in the way. Sweyn and his men now had almost complete control of the harbour. Einar saw a Scotsman in good armour and what looked like a gold or more likely brass helmet on his head, hack his way out of the throng. He slashed down two of his own men who were in the way, then took to his heels. It was clear he was some sort of leader as others started following him.

  A brief moment of elation came over Einar. The enemy was starting to flee already. Then he realised they were running for the fortress. Once behind the protection of its walls they would be able to sit and wait until relief came.

  They had to be stopped.

  Roaring at the top of his lungs, the Raven Banner held aloft, Einar ran up the small beach to the bottom of the steep hill that led up to the fortress gate. A sizeable contingent of Scots had pulled themselves away from the massacre on the quayside and had managed to form a line halfway up the slope. They were joined by more men from the fort who came down the hill to help them. The man in the shining gold helmet stopped too. He was shouting orders and marshalling his men.

  ‘Einar!’

  Einar turned at the sound of his name and saw Skar, Bodvar, Sigurd, Atli, Kari and Gorm running to join him. Beside them jogged the berserkers and Gizur. They were all a fearsome sight. Their faces were blackened, the hoods of their wolf skin cloaks raised over their helmets so the ears of the beasts stood up and the snouts reached down to their helmet visors. They looked like creatures from a nightmare; huge wolves who walked on their hind legs like men. Their bodies and weapons were splattered with the gore of the men they had slaughtered. The berserkers were the same, except the furs they wore were those of bears. Einar was surprised to see that under their fur cloaks, Ori, Narfi, Bjarki and Bjorn had stripped to their waists. The berserkers’ eyes were wide and staring, their nostrils flared. Einar could tell that they had not yet gone berserkergang, but their Odin-inspired rage was not far away.

  ‘Right, lad,’ Skar said, glaring at the enemy ahead, eyes ablaze with anger, ‘let’s see what sort of magic this banner can work, eh?’

  Sweyn arrived beside them. He too was splashed with blood and out of breath from fighting. For several moments they all stood facing the wall of shields the Scotsmen presented halfway up the hill above. The air was filled with the coppery tang of blood. The wounded screamed and dying moaned. Steaming clouds of breath and sweat rose into the night air.

  Then Sweyn raised a horn to his lips and blew a long blast on it.

  Both sides charged.

  Forty-Three

  The Scots came screaming down the hill. The Norse ran howling up towards them. Both sides were eager for battle and thirsty for blood. Despite the earlier havoc on the quayside, the Scots seemed undaunted and attacked like they meant to drive the Norsemen right back into the sea.

  Instead of orderly shield walls advancing at each other, both sides launched themselves at each other with wild abandon, lost in the vicious joy of battle and dark lust to kill the enemies before them. The fighting was man on man, each hacking and slicing at the other, shouting curses and spitting rage.

  In the midst of the onslaught, Einar had never felt more vulnerable. The standard took one hand to keep upright, two hands to carry, so at best he had to choose whether to hold his shield or a weapon, at worst he just had to rely on those around him for protection. He could now see how the man who carried the banner usually ended up dead. Einar was lucky that those around him were some of the best warriors on the battlefield. The five Wolf Coats and Gorm did not lose their discipline to the frenzy. Instead they kept a tight ring of steel around Einar and the standard, each man watching out for the man beside him.

  Einar saw a Scotsman run screaming at Starkad, sword raised. Starkad countered his blow with his shield and struck back with his own sword. When the Scot raised his shield to stop Starkad’s swing, Atli, standing on Starkad’s left, slid his blade into the Scotsman’s now unprotected belly. The others were fighting in the same way. Slowly they began to advance through the melee, carving a bloody path for themselves that left a trail of corpses behind.

  Through the clamour, Einar heard a horn blowing. He caught sight of the Scots leader, the warrior in the gold helmet, standing halfway up the slope. He still had some warriors around him and the horn called some more back from the fight.

  A volley of arrows came sailing through the night air at the Scots still up the hill. For the first time Einar wondered where Affreca was. Sweyn had brought some archers with him and he reasoned she must be with them. The Scots were far enough away that they had enough time to duck behind shields for protection from the missiles.

  The Scots leader pulled together a bunch of warriors from those around him and was shouting orders at them. As Einar watched, he saw him point down the hill, directly at Einar, or more likely at the standard he carried. The Scotsmen turned around, fixed their gazes on Einar and started to run down the hill.

  Einar planted the standard on the ground. He did his best to drive its spike into the hard earth of the trackway but it made little headway. Holding it upright with one hand, he slung the axe off his shoulder and grasped the handle with his other.

  ‘Gorm,’ Skar shouted over his shoulder. ‘Go and get Affreca. She’s with those archers at the back.’

  Gorm looked confused, as was Einar. A horde of Scotsmen was running to attack them. Now did not seem the right time to be sending someone away.

  ‘We’ll be all right,’ Skar said. ‘Einar will fill in for you. Go!’

  Reluctantly, Gorm turned and jogged off, back through the confusion all around them.

  The Scots, who had been jogging at a measured pace down the hill, changed to a flat out charge at the same time. Howling and screaming they launched themselves straight at the formation of Wolf Coats. The Scots swept all around, outnumbering the Norsemen. The best the Wolf Coats could do was hide behind their shields and strike back with the occasional un-aimed swipe.

  There were three men attacking Skarphedin at once. They swarmed around the big man like a pack of dogs attacking a bear. The others were also engaged so there was no hope of helping each other. Einar knew he had to do something but the enemies were just out of his reach. Perhaps it was Skar mentioning her name but something made him remember Affreca’s earlier words. He dropped his grip on the axe handle to the bottom of the shaft. The Irish way as she had called it.

  The three Scotsmen launched a simultaneous attack on Skar. Skar countered the first man with his sword, the second with his shield, leaving himself open to the blade of the third. As the Scotsman lunged with his sword Einar swung the axe over his head in a wide, windmill like blow. The Scotsman, intent on attacking Skar, did not see the blow coming. The axe made a loud swoop then struck him. The Scotsman wore no helmet and the long, curved blade scythed his head in two from just above his right ear to his lower left jaw. The top of his skull slid off and he collapsed to the ground, his attack on Skar never completed.

  Skar rammed his shield into both the other men before him. The force sent them staggering backwards. Skar stepped forwa
rd, stabbing one through the throat then pulling back the blade and swiping down to the left. It caught the other Scotsman mid-thigh, opening up a massive wound that parted the purple muscle of his bare leg to the bone. The man, his teeth gritted in a rictus fell backwards as bright crimson blood erupted from his injury.

  Skar gave a brief, fierce laugh. He glanced down at the Scotsman Einar had felled.

  ‘Now we know you’re definitely the son of the Skull Cleaver, eh Einar?’ he said.

  Einar, still quite shocked at just how effective the Irish method of wielding the axe was, just nodded.

  Affreca came loping forward, half crouched, her bow held with an arrow notched.

  ‘You wanted me?’ she shouted to Skar.

  ‘Yes,’ Skar said. ‘You see that Scotsman in the gold helmet who’s shouting all the orders?’

  ‘Yes,’ Affreca said.

  ‘Shoot that bastard, will you?’ Skar said.

  Affreca nodded. She straightened up, drawing her bowstring back to beyond her right ear. Then she loosed the arrow. It shot up the hill and struck the man in the shining helmet just where it met his neck. He rocked backwards on his feet but did not go down. Instead he grasped the arrow shaft and wrenched it out. He shouted something in a mixture of consternation and pain. A squirt of blood splashed down the front of his mail shirt.

  Affreca had another arrow notched already. She let it fly just as the Scotsman straightened up again. This one went through the right eye hole in the golden helmet. It pierced the Scots leader’s eye, went through his head and as the arrowhead burst from the back of his skull it knocked his helmet off.

  This time the Scotsman dropped to both knees, then flopped forwards onto his face.

  ‘Right. Let’s sort out the rest of them,’ Skar said. ‘They won’t know what to do now. Form the Svinfylking. Einar! In the middle.’

  Einar filed in behind Skar while the other Wolf Coats moved into position. The Svinfylking, the swine array, was a wedge-shaped battle formation shaped like the nose of a boar. Skar was at the point, then Bodvar and Atli on either side of him, slightly behind, and the others following in turn. Gorm and more of Sweyn’s men joined them to fill out the ranks.