The Raven Banner

by Tim Hodkinson

  Then he stopped. His expression changed to confusion as Skar drove the point of the standard shaft through him from below. Skar wrenched the standard back and the Scotsman fell, spitting what Einar had no doubt were curses at him as he died.

  Another Scotsman charged. The narrow width of the fighting platform behind the walls meant that the defenders had to attack Einar one at a time. With a thrill, Einar realised their onslaught also stopped the Scots bowmen firing on him as they would hit their own men in the process. The Scotsman coming at him swiped his sword. Einar dropped on his haunches. He heard the blade swipe over his heard. There was a metallic clack as it hit the stones of the wall. Einar rose, twisting his right shoulder forwards to drive the axe blade into his opponent’s throat. The blade cut deep, parting the man’s beard, slicing deep into the white flesh beneath, unleashing a crimson waterfall. He shouted, throwing a hand to the wound but it was obvious there was nothing he could do but die. His knees sagged and he dropped to the floor.

  There were more Scots waiting to attack, but the threat of the archers and Skar now deterred them for a moment. Einar looked down and saw there were already warriors clambering up the rope he had carried.

  Now desperate to stop any further breach of their defences, more Scots came pounding down the wooden fighting platform at Einar. Einar cut down the first to arrive with his axe.

  Then there was another Norse warrior at the top of the rope, scrambling over the wall. Einar saw the grey fur that clad his armour and with some relief recognised Bodvar. He grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him over the top of the wall onto the fighting platform bedside him. Bodvar rose to his feet.

  ‘Right you bastards,’ he screamed at the Scots on either side. ‘Want a bit of bother, do you? Come on!’

  Another man was right behind him on the rope. Einar grasped his arm and saw it was Sweyn. He hauled him up over the top of the wall. Sweyn fell in behind Bodvar. Einar looked and saw a stream of warriors now coming up the rope after Sweyn. With a surge of triumph in his breast he realised they had taken the gate.

  Now they had to hold it.

  ‘Take the banner, lad.’

  He heard Skar shouting from below. Understanding what the big man meant, Einar slung the axe over his shoulder by its strap and held his hands out. Skar guided the bloodied spike on the end of the standard into Einar’s grip. He caught it and hauled the Raven Banner up.

  Einar raised the standard pole as more warriors swarmed over the wall and onto the fighting platform. He held the flag aloft and began to wave it back and forth. The black raven fluttered in the morning wind. He looked out over the harbour and saw with his own eyes the magic of the banner do its work. Men below looked up to see the raven flying on the ramparts of their enemies. He saw the expressions on their faces change to hope, triumph and ambition as they surged as one towards the gates of the fortress.

  Most of them, anyway. From his vantage point on the rampart Einar spotted three figures who were running in exactly the opposite direction to everyone else. He saw the bear skins around the shoulders of two of them and realised the trio was Narfi, Bjorn and Gizur. What were they up to?

  His thoughts were interrupted by the thump of a Scot’s arrow driving into the fighting platform a hand’s breadth from his foot.

  ‘We need to get down from here,’ he shouted to the others. ‘We have to get the gate open.’

  More Vikings were pouring onto the ramparts and fanning out right and left, pushing the Scots further and further away from the gate. Sweyn jumped onto the ladder that led down from the fighting platform. He slid to the ground, hands and feet on the sides, not bothering with the rungs. Bodvar went after him. Einar dropped the banner down then followed.

  The interior of the fort was a jumble of buildings of different sizes. Most of them were round and they had conical thatched roofs. There were alleys and walkways between the buildings and there seemed to be Scots running everywhere. They were mustering not far off though and it was obvious a counter-attack was being pulled together. There were more of them than the Norse had so far got onto the rampart and Einar could see that if they did not get the gate open fast, this Viking raid would end in a quick, bloody slaughter.

  The gate was closed with a heavy timber bar slid through iron rungs behind it to keep it shut. He and Bodvar grabbed the bar to slide it out.

  Then they heard the dogs.

  Forty-Six

  Dogs were barking, deep and loud. They sounded like they were approaching fast. The guttural noises suggested these were made by beasts who were far from royal lap dogs.

  Einar had once seen a pair of huge dogs on the ship of a merchant who had brought them to Iceland to try to sell. He remembered the creatures lying on the deck stretched out, soaking up the meagre Icelandic summer sunshine. Even prone, Einar could tell they were very big, very formidable creatures. His mother had been less impressed.

  ‘Filthy beasts,’ Unn had said. ‘In Ireland we called them archu, slaughter hounds. Kings kept them to make themselves look more manly. That long hair stinks. They eat you out of house and home and leave great mounds of shit worse than a horse.’

  She had gone on to tell him an old tale from her homeland about a young Irish boy called Setanta, who was late for a feast, arriving at the fort it was held in after the gates had been closed and everyone was inside. The guard dog, a vicious archu, had attacked him. Even though only a boy, Setanta had killed it but the result was he had to take on the dog’s duties. He grew up to be a great hero, though his life was a short one.

  The creatures that came tearing around the corner of one of the buildings now were a far cry from those lazy hounds on the ship. They were tall at the shoulder, almost as tall as an average man’s waist, with long, shaggy hair and massive paws that scrabbled in the dirt as they loped along. There were four of them, their huge teeth bared in snarls while long ropes of drool dribbled from their jaws. Behind them ran six men carrying the chains the creatures had been loosed from. They were shouting at the dogs and pointing at Einar and the others at the gate. They spoke in the Scots tongue but the meaning was clear: Attack.

  ‘You get the gate open,’ Sweyn shouted to Einar. ‘We’ll deal with the dogs.’

  Einar propped the Raven Banner up against the gate then went to work shoving the timber bar from its brackets. It was heavy work. The three of them would have found it easy but on his own it would take all his strength. Einar gritted his teeth, planted his feet and heaved with all his might. Behind him he heard Sweyn cursing and the frenzied barking of the dogs. His feet slid in the dirt but the big timber beam would not budge. Resetting his stance, he shoved again, this time it shifted a little. He was panting now, his feet slipping and skidding beneath him, but even using all his might he knew it would take too long. He needed Sweyn and Bodvar to help him. So first he had to help them. Einar gave up trying to push the beam and turned back.

  Things were not going well. Bodvar had managed to kill one of the dogs but he had lost his sword in the process. It was lodged in the creature’s ribs while Bodvar wrestled with another of the beasts. The creature was on its hind legs, making it nearly the same height as the Wolf Coat. It pushed its maw towards Bodvar’s head. Bodvar was holding the beast away from his face with both hands. At least he was still on his feet though. Sweyn was in a worse predicament. He had been knocked flat on his back. One of the dogs were going for his throat. Sweyn was holding his sword over his throat, the razor-sharp blade blocking the gnashing teeth. The last dog had his thigh in its massive jaws. It had torn his leather breeches open and Einar could see its teeth ripping into Sweyn’s flesh beneath.

  He swung the axe off his shoulder and grabbed the shaft in both hands. In two strides he was beside Sweyn. With a cry Einar brought the axe down on the back of the dog savaging Sweyn’s leg. The blade severed its spine and almost split the beast in two. The creature let go of Sweyn’s thigh and twisted around. To Einar’s astonishment it tried to attack him even as its steaming guts unwoun
d and spilled out across the ground. He did not have to worry though. The dog was dead but just not realise it yet.

  As he looked down at the dying creature the memory of his mother’s tale of Setanta came back to Einar’s mind. He blinked. Why was this coming to him now of all times?

  As if sensing its companion’s agony, the dog attacking Sweyn’s throat turned around and pounced at Einar. As its snarling jaws reached for his throat, all Einar had time to do was hold up his axe shaft to protect himself. The dog smashed into him, knocking him backwards with its huge weight. Einar fell back, landing flat on his back with the dog above him. The brute’s fangs crunched down on the wood of his axe shaft. It shook its massive head. Its strength was such that Einar’s fingers loosened, he lost his grip and the dog wrenched the weapon out of Einar’s grasp. The dog let go and the axe flew away out of reach.

  For a moment the dog paused, preparing to strike. The big, shaggy head loomed over Einar’s face. He felt and smelled the dog’s hot, stinking breath as streams of its slobber drooled down onto his face. It gave a deep guttural snarl then, jaws wide, struck for his unprotected throat.

  Then Einar understood why he had thought of his mother’s story. Setanta had killed the hound who attacked him by driving his gaming ball down its throat.

  Einar clenched his fist and punched upwards, right into the gaping maw of the dog. He felt his knuckles strike the soft, hot back of the creature’s throat. The dog’s eyes bulged and it tried to clamp its mouth shut around Einar’s arm. He winced as he felt the teeth sink into his flesh but it could not close its jaws further due to the fist shoved into its throat. It tried to wrench its head back but Einar grabbed a handful of its shaggy hair in his free hand, stopping it from pulling away.

  The dog kicked and wrenched but Einar held firm, his arm now shoved halfway down the creature’s throat. He felt hot sliminess. Some sort of liquid splashed around the back of his knuckles. He knew if his arm came back enough for the dog to be able to close its mouth, its teeth would rip his flesh to shreds, perhaps severe his lower arm completely. Merciless, he kept forcing his hand further and further in, choking off all source of breath for the dog.

  The dog became frantic, its nostrils flaring and shutting without gain. It pulled and tugged its head and scrabbled its paws but Einar would not relent. With one final convulsion, the dog’s eyes rolled up into its head then it collapsed on top of him. Einar gasped at how heavy it was.

  He waited a moment, pinned down by the weight of the dog, trying to judge if there was any movement from it. When it did not budge, he unclenched his fist and withdrew his hand form the creature’s mouth. It was slick with the drool that dribbled from his fingers and coated his hand and arm almost to the elbow.

  Then Bodvar was above him, grabbing the fur of the dog and trailing its corpse off him. Einar sat up to see that Bodvar had somehow managed to regain his sword and kill the dog he had seen attacking him.

  Sweyn still lay on his back. He was struggling to get up but his thigh was a bloody mess where the dog had savaged it.

  ‘Shit,’ Einar heard Bodvar say.

  He turned to look at what the Wolf Coat was staring at. A crowd of Scots were gathered a little way off. Among them were a contingent of men on horseback. Unlike the rag-tag kilted spearmen who made up the most of the fort’s garrison, these men wore mail and helmets and had the look of experienced warriors. They were bunched around a rider who also wore mail and was swathed in thick black fur. White hair and beard flowed from beneath the man’s helmet.

  ‘If we don’t get this gate open, we’re dead,’ Bodvar said. ‘Come on.’

  Both men put their shoulders to the timber bar that locked the gate. Now with the help of Bodvar, it was easier to move. There was a rumble of wood on wood as it slid out of the iron bands. The bar fell to the ground with a dull thud. Einar grabbed the iron band on the back of one gate door and Bodvar grasped the other. They both hauled and with a creak the gates swung open inwards.

  Outside the rest of the Vikings saw the gates open. They rushed forwards. Einar grabbed the banner and raised it. Then he looked around and saw the Scots on the horses surge forwards. They were galloping directly for the gate.

  ‘They’re going to try to break out,’ Bodvar shouted, realising what the intent of the horsemen was. ‘Get out of the way or they’ll ride you down.’

  Bodvar ran to one side as the horsemen closed the distance to the gate, gathering speed as they came, hooves thundering on the dirt. Einar realised Sweyn was still lying on the ground right in front of the gate. He was struggling to get up but not making much progress. The horsemen were pounding straight at him. He could not get out of the way and they were going ride right over him.

  Without thinking, Einar dashed over to Sweyn. He dropped the banner and grabbed the fallen Norseman by the shoulders, starting to drag him out of the way.

  ‘Leave me,’ Sweyn said, his face creased with pain. ‘You’ll get yourself killed.’

  Einar looked over his shoulder. He saw their own forces were surging forwards and were almost at the gates but the horsemen were closer. The nostrils of their steeds snorted, their hard hooves thrashing. There was no time to get out of the way.

  Einar crouched beside Sweyn and grabbed the Raven Banner. At the last possible moment, he raised the far end of the standard pole. The lead horse rode straight onto the point. Einar had the top end angled down so the impact of the animal hitting it drove it deep into the ground. The horse cried in pain and surprise as its momentum made it impale itself. The shaft of the standard bent then shattered in two, midway along it.

  The horse raised up on its hind legs, spilling its rider backwards off it, the broken shaft of the pole embedded deep in its chest, blood already pouring from the wound and bursting from its mouth. For a moment it hung in the air, then its legs collapsed and the horse fell.

  Einar felt a brief moment of panic. It looked like the horse was going to land on him. He jumped sideways, just managing to get out of the way as the creature crashed to the earth.

  Before he had time to do anything else, he saw another Scots rider towering over him, sword raised. He flinched down as the Scotsman struck. Einar felt a huge blow slamming onto his head. Countless stars exploded before his vision and for a moment the world went dark. His sight came back and he saw the smashed fragments of his helmet falling past his face.

  When a second blow did not fall, he realised the horseman had charged on past. Einar tried to stand up but the world seemed at an odd angle to him. Dizzy, he staggered sideways, directly into the path of a third horseman. He felt another massive blow as the charging horse smacked into him, sending him reeling backwards, spinning in a fall that ended with a hard thump as he crashed to the ground.

  He tried to get up once, then gasped and fell back. As darkness rushed to overwhelm him, his last thought was that the Raven Banner’s curse had once again claimed its victim.

  Forty-Seven

  Einar opened his eyes and winced. It felt like someone was jabbing a big needle into his skull.

  Despite the discomfort, he took it as a good sign. He was on his back on a bed, wrapped in soft furs. He was not wearing shining mail armour. Instead someone had removed his clothes and replaced them with a clean linen shirt. He was in a small, gloomy room, though a shaft of sunlight was streaming in from somewhere above him. There was a door in the wattle wall and it was closed. There was clean straw on the floor and the angled roof above him was thatched with reeds, not shingled with shining shields. A roof beam above his head was a standard oak beam, not a bundle of spear shafts. He was not in a vast hall with five-hundred-and-forty doors. This was not Odin’s Valour Hall. He was clearly not dead.

  Realising he was also not alone, he turned and saw Ulrich sitting on a bed beside his own.

  ‘You look a little disappointed to see me,’ Ulrich said.

  ‘I was half expecting to meet Odin,’ Einar said. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt swollen. ‘I carried his cursed ba
nner into battle. By rights he should have claimed my soul in payment for granting victory. It seems it was just a legend after all. There is no magic.’

  ‘Don’t doubt the All Father,’ Ulrich said, waggling his forefinger at Einar. ‘It depends what you mean by victory.’

  ‘We didn’t win?’ Einar frowned, struggling up into a sitting position. A stab of hot pain shot through his head making him wince again. ‘The gates had fallen, the Scots were fleeing.’

  ‘We captured the fort and the harbour,’ Ulrich said. ‘But the King of the Scots got away.’

  Einar narrowed his eyes, memories coming back to him. ‘Those riders…’

  ‘Yes,’ Ulrich nodded. ‘Constantine was one of the horsemen. They fought their way out through the gates, through our men and got away. Despite your heroics to try to stop them.’

  There was a smile playing on Ulrich’s lips that Einar felt resentment at.

  ‘We really should talk about that if you are going to be one of my Wolf Coats,’ Ulrich said. ‘Bravery is one thing. Foolhardy stupidity another.’

  ‘I couldn’t leave Sweyn just to die,’ Einar said.

  Ulrich shrugged. ‘What’s he to us? He hasn’t done us any favours so far.’

  ‘How long was I unconscious?’ Einar asked.

  ‘It’s been a couple of days,’ Ulrich said. ‘You were out cold after that Scotsman bashed you on the head but most of the time since you’ve just been asleep. The Christian wizards have been pouring a poppy draught down your throat. They say when men have had head injuries its best to keep them asleep for a few days after.’

  ‘Christian wizards?’

  ‘The ones with the weird head shaving who wear the long brown dress,’ Ulrich said. He got up, grabbed a wooden crutch that sat on his bed and hopped over to the Winds’ Eye. ‘They’ve been coming in here to look after us. They tend all the wounded from the raid.’