The Raven Banner

by Tim Hodkinson

  Two of the berserkers, Ori and Bjarki, fell in beside Skar at the point of the formation.

  ‘One man leads the Svinfylking,’ Skar said.

  ‘Today it will be three,’ Ori growled from behind gritted teeth. His eyes were rolling in his head and spittle flew from his mouth. ‘I’ve had enough of these worms. Now we slaughter them.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Skar said. He nodded to Sweyn who raised his horn and blew it.

  They stormed up the hill. Einar was running behind Skar, doing his best to hold the banner aloft. He was panting, his mail clinking with every step and his nose filled with the smell of oiled leather, stale sweat and the tang of iron from his helmet. When they were mere steps from the Scots, each man in the arrow-head formation linked shields so they overlapped along each side. At the same time each shoved the man in front with their leading shoulder, transferring momentum to the men at the point.

  Einar saw the Scots crouching behind their shields, placing their feet wide to brace themselves for the impact. The Svinfylking smashed into them. The unlucky men Skar, Ori and Bjarki thundered into went reeling backwards, propelled by the force of impact out of their own formation. They stumbled back and fell to be trampled under the merciless boots of the Norsemen charging forwards.

  Ori was roaring so loud he could be heard above the ringing of steel on steel and the cries of the injured. Now in the grip of his full berserker rage, he sliced left and right, cutting down men, kicking, biting, punching, ripping the hole they had punched in the Scots shield wall even wider.

  The Vikings following on the sides of the Svinfylking tore into this widening breach. In moments the Scots shield wall disintegrated like a shield split in two by a spear point.

  The Scots realised the position was lost. Those who could, ran. Those who could not, stood their ground and died under a hail of swords, axes and spears. Einar felt his right foot skid and realised he had slipped on the blood that was now running freely down the path to the harbour.

  ‘The gates,’ Skar shouted.

  Einar looked up and saw men were closing the heavy gates of the fortress. If they managed that then they could perhaps hold the Norsemen off until relief came.

  Sweyn saw this too and blew his horn again. With a deafening, jumbled mix of war cries all the men in the harbour began charging up the hill towards the fortress. Einar ran with them, his axe slung over his shoulder, the standard pole in both hands, the Raven Banner flying in the wind.

  They were thirty paces away and the gates were half closed. Einar saw horses running around inside the fort. A new fear crept into his heart. Did the Scots have mounted warriors? They were now twenty paces away. Ori and Bjarki were in the lead and almost at the gate.

  Then a line of figures appeared across the gateway. Einar saw bows in their hands. He shouted a warning as he stopped running and crouched down into a ball, turning his left side towards the gates and hoping that the shield slung over his shoulder covered as much of him as possible. Others around him dropped behind their shields too but many did not have time to react.

  The Scots archers let fly. A volley of arrows streaked out from the gate and down the slope. It tore into the charging Vikings. Einar’s ears were filled with loud bangs as he felt the impacts as two or three hit his shield. One clanged off the iron ridge of his helmet.

  When the deadly rain subsided, he looked up. There were dead and wounded men all around him, riddled with arrows. The rest were all crouched like him, hiding behind shields that now looked like hedgehogs. Ori and Bjarki were still in the lead, mere steps from the gate, but they stood, stopped dead by the storm of missiles. Their bare chests and bellies were pierced by countless shafts. Blood gushed free from their myriad wounds and dribbled onto the ground.

  To Einar’s amazement, Ori let out a battle roar. He raised his sword. Bjarki shouted too, but the arrows that transfixed his chest turned his cries to bloody coughs. Both men staggered forwards, still intent on killing. They seemed unaware that they were nearly dead.

  In one swift movement the Scots archers withdrew into the fort. The two berserkers stumbled after them. Then Bjarki fell on his face and the last thing Einar saw of them was a horde of Scots warriors rushing forwards to finish the berserkers off.

  The gate closed and the sound of a huge wooden beam being pushed into position grated from behind it.

  Forty-Four

  Skar spat on the ground.

  ‘We’ll have to fight our way in now,’ he said.

  ‘Get those Welsh bowmen up here.’ Sweyn shouted orders back down the slope.

  The Scots archers were already running onto the fighting platform above the gate. The Norse outside drew back to a safe distance before they could shoot any more arrows.

  The Wolf Coats and Sweyn gathered a council at the top of the slope down to the harbour. The rest of the Norsemen crouched down, taking the chance to grab some rest, get their breath back and tend to the wounded.

  Einar leaned on the standard pole, noticing for the first time how his shoulders ached and how heavy his breathing was. The air was cold but he could feel sweat streaming down his face and into his beard.

  He looked around. The sun had crept over the horizon above the sea during the fighting and the world was lit by the grey light of dawn. He saw the harbour full of smashed ships and the quay that was awash with blood and bodies. The hill that ran up to the fort was a shambles, littered with corpses, discarded weapons, smashed helmets and dying men. Picking his way through the mess was a small figure hobbling along on a crutch. It was Ulrich.

  When he reached the others, Ulrich joined the council.

  ‘We were so close,’ Sweyn said with a shake of his head. ‘A few moments earlier and we would’ve got in.’

  ‘I can’t believe Ori and Bjarki.’ Einar blinked as if he still could not quite grasp what he saw. ‘They must both have had twenty arrows in them but they were still going, still trying to kill their enemies. Wasn’t it amazing?’

  ‘That’s the berserkergang for you, lad,’ Skar said. ‘When they go into that rage they feel no pain, no fear. They just need to kill. And not just their enemies. Anyone will do. Their wits are gone. The rage completely takes them over. That’s the power of the berserker but also their weakness. We Wolf Coats have this gift too, but we can control it, focus it. But you know all this. I’ve seen the rage take you.’

  Einar felt an involuntary shudder go down his spine as he remembered the violent trance that had taken over his mind on the quayside in Dublin several months before, and the sickly, weak state he had been left in when the rage wore off.

  ‘We’re not lost yet,’ Ulrich said. ‘The Scots king’s still in there right? We can be sure he’s not going anywhere soon at least.’

  ‘If the rest of his army arrives, we’re fucked though,’ Sweyn said.

  ‘And if the rest of your fleet arrives first, they’ll be equally fucked,’ Ulrich said.

  Sweyn shook his head and looked as if he was about to say something, then he closed his mouth.

  ‘They are coming, aren’t they?’ Ulrich said, looking sideways at Sweyn through narrowed eyes.

  ‘Of course,’ Sweyn said. ‘Some of them anyway. But I don’t want to risk losing this place while we wait for them. We need to take that gate.’

  ‘Why don’t we just charge it?’ Narfi said as he and Gizur joined the group. ‘It will only take moments to cross that distance. We’ll lose a few men on the way to the archers but what can you do?’

  Skar arched an eyebrow.

  ‘There you go. That’s a berserker talking,’ he said from the corner of his mouth to Einar.

  ‘And what will you do when you get to the gate?’ Ulrich asked, his voice sour with sarcasm. ‘Knock politely and wait for them to let you in while the archers pick you off one by one from above?’

  ‘I want revenge for Ori and Bjarki,’ Narfi said. ‘The Scots have to die.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Ulrich said. ‘But I’d rather as few of us as possible die t
rying to make that happen.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ Sweyn said.

  ‘Form a group of warriors whose job it is just to protect others with their shields,’ Ulrich said. ‘Have them advance with the archers. When they can get close enough to shoot, their arrows will make sure the Scots above the gate keep their heads down.’

  ‘And then what?’ Narfi said with a fierce sneer. ‘The gate is still barred.’

  ‘We send someone up onto the rampart to open the gate for us,’ Ulrich said.

  The others looked at the gate and the palisade that towered three times the height of a man.

  ‘We’d need someone who can climb like a spider to get up that,’ Sweyn said.

  ‘Lucky we have such a man,’ Skar said. He laid a large hand on the shoulder of Einar.

  ‘What?’ Einar said.

  ‘Come on, lad,’ Skar said. ‘We saw you climb up that tower the Gaels put us in. That wall will be easy, compared to that.’

  ‘There were hand and footholds on that,’ Einar said. ‘And there was no one at the top trying to kill me.’

  ‘Have some faith, lad,’ Skar said. ‘Now we have Odin’s banner!’

  ‘The banner might bring victory,’ Einar said. ‘But I haven’t heard it can help climb walls.’

  ‘You’re just using it wrong,’ Skar said and winked. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll go with you and show you how to use it properly.’

  He ordered a rope to be brought up from one of the ships. When it arrived, he tied a slip knot on one end to make a noose, which he slipped over Einar’s shoulder. The other end was left to trail behind him.

  ‘Take those heavy gloves off,’ Skar said. ‘You won’t be able to climb in them.’

  Einar took off the leather gauntlets he wore and stuffed them into his belt.

  ‘Now let’s go,’ Skar said.

  The group of warriors and archers advanced. The Scots began raining arrows and spears down from the fighting platform above the gates. Einar, the pole of the Raven Banner on his shoulder, moved forward among the others. Skar held a shield high over them both. The hammering of the arrows on it was deafening. They moved forwards with steady, measured strides, everyone taking great care where they placed each step. A slip would result in falling over, probable exposure from the cover of a shield, then swift death from the Scots arrows.

  As they got closer to the gates the arrows began striking the shield above Einar with such force they broke right through the linden wood of Skar’s shield, their iron heads left sticking out of the back.

  Then the Welsh archers began returning shots. One by one they leaned out from under the shields held by the Norse warriors, loosing an arrow then ducking back under cover. With a cry, one of the Scots archers above the gate went down but one of the Welsh was hit too.

  When they were almost at the gate the whole company stopped. The warriors crouched down and the archers stood up, as one, and loosed a volley of arrows. The Scots had no choice but to duck behind the rampart to avoid the wave of missiles streaking up at them.

  Skar handed the shield to Einar and stood up. He had a long-handled axe like Einar’s in both hands. He swung and the head of the axe thumped into the wood of the gate. Skar grimaced, then wrenched the axe back out of the gate. He adjusted his grip and set his feet wider apart, preparing for another swing. Einar wondered if he meant to try to chop through the gate. Such a plan was folly, even for a man as mighty as Skar. The wood was thick as his own chest, strengthened with iron bands and cross-timbers. Cutting through it would take many men half a day.

  The was a loud clang and Skar staggered. A Scottish archer had leaned over the wall above and shot an arrow, straight down, at Skar. At such short range it should have gone straight through the big man’s skull but by luck it struck the boar-crested iron band that ran from front to back across his helmet. The arrow shattered and ricocheted back up towards the man who fired it.

  Affreca stood up from behind one of the shields nearby. She drew her bow, aimed and let fly in one movement. Her arrow hit the Scotsman who had fired on Skar through the throat. With a strangled gurgle he toppled backwards off the fighting platform.

  Skar ground his teeth and made a growling sound. Then he roared and swung the axe again, two handed, driving the head deep into the gate. The head buried half its width into the wood and stuck there, rigid.

  ‘Right lad,’ Skar shouted to Einar, ‘I’ve made you a foothold. Now give me that banner and get up there.’

  Forty-Five

  Einar hesitated for a moment, then dropped the shield and passed the standard pole to Skar. The big man shoved the pointed end of the pole into the earth and balanced the shaft on his shoulder while he bent his knees and made a step with both his hands.

  Einar placed his right foot into Skar’s hands. Skar straightened his legs and heaved his arms, powering Einar upwards like he was hurling big stones in the summer games. Einar felt as though he was being catapulted towards the sky. Then he placed his other foot sideways and onto the back of the head of the axe embedded in the gate. His finger scrabbled for holds on the stones of the wall above the gate. He found purchase and steadied himself. He was not going to fall, but at the same time was not exactly steady. His left foot was on the head of the axe. His right was just about on the shaft but it was at such an angle it kept slipping down. His fingers were clenched like claws over the top of lintel stones that lined the top of the entrance of the gate.

  Exposed like this, the feeling of his vulnerability was horrible. He would be very easy to knock off.

  As if someone had heard his thoughts, he saw a Scotsman peek over the wall above him. The man looked down at him. He shouted something in his language that Einar guessed was some sort of a warning to his fellows. Then his head snapped backwards, transfixed by an arrow through his face from Affreca’s bow.

  The Scotsman toppled backwards out of sight. Straight away another one appeared. He snarled and raised his spear, intending to drive it down at Einar. There was little Einar could do. Affreca would not have time to notch another arrow. If he did not want to get a spear in his face he would have to jump back down to the ground. Then he saw the bottom of the Raven standard pole, the end with the spike, propel upwards and into the man’s chest. It did not break the mail rings but the thrust shoved the Scotsman backwards. Einar heard his startled cry as he was pushed back off the fighting platform into thin air, followed by a dull thump as he hit the ground on the other side of the gate.

  Einar snatched a glance over his shoulder. Skar had reversed the standard and was using it like a very long fighting spear. He was jabbing and stabbing at the men above the gate.

  ‘See lad?’ Skar shouted up to him, grinning. ‘You were using it wrong.’

  Einar felt the axe he stood on wobble. It was losing its purchase in the wood of the gate. It moved and he dipped a little. In a moment it would fall out of the gate and he would go down with it. He looked up and saw a place that he could get a grip. Then another. There was no time to think. He jumped, feeling the axe fall away beneath his feet.

  Einar’s fingers grasped for purchase on the holds he had glimpsed above. He felt his fingertips scrape across stone but then he had enough to hang on to. For a moment his feet scrabbled on the stones like a dog trying to bury a bone. Then he locked them into position and he knew he was secure. He was within reach of the top of the wall.

  Affreca shot another arrow that took down another Scots warrior above. Einar, all ten fingers dug into the precious tiny purchase he had on the stone of the wall, knees bent, his toes jammed to nicks in the wall, looked up. He saw he was now nearly level with the fighting platform behind the rampart. He saw a Scotsman come running forward along the platform, sword raised above his head to strike. Once again Einar prepared to let go and leap back down to the ground and relative safety.

  Skarphedin stabbed the Scotsman with the end of the banner standard. The point went in under his ribs and came out his back beneath his shoulder. Einar saw the e
xpression on the man’s face turn from anger to surprise then pain and disappointment.

  Einar knew this was his only chance. He steeled his fingers and hauled his body upwards. His face came up to the top of the wall. On the other side was the wooden fighting platform. There were two arrow-riddled bodies lying face down on it. A ladder led up from ground. He looked left and right. The platform continued right along the back of the palisade that defended the top of the rampart that surrounded the fort. Beyond the gate were lots of buildings, mostly round with conical, thatched roofs.

  There seemed to be Scots everywhere. Not just on the ground but on either side of the platform behind the gate. The relentless shower of Welsh arrows and Skar’s jabs with the standard pole were keeping them back but there were a lot them on the fighting platform on either side of the gate, beyond the range of the arrows, were waiting for the first Norseman who clambered over the wall.

  ‘That would be me, then,’ Einar said to himself. He flexed his arms and dragged himself up to the top to the wall. Then he slid over onto the platform. He lay flat for a moment. A Scots arrow whizzed past his head and clattered harmlessly off the stone of the rampart now behind him. There was no time to waste. He jumped to his feet. Pulling the noose off his shoulder he threw it over a crenulation on the top of the wall and tossed the rest of the rope back over the wall. Then he unslung his axe from his back.

  Scotsmen charged from both sides. Einar knew he could not fight everyone so he turned to his right. Almost immediately he heard a cry of pain from behind his back and he knew that he could be confident that Affreca and the Welsh archers were concentrating their arrows on anyone coming up behind him.

  A Scotsman came howling at him, feet pounding on the wooden platform. He had a spear in both hands, intending to drive it right through Einar’s guts. He was screaming at the top of his lungs. His eyes were wide as full moons. Spittle flew from his mouth and caught in his red beard. He looked like Thor himself.