by Paul Freeman
“It will take time to bring down that gate,” a man clad in mail and holding a double-bladed axe in one hand said to Crawulf as they watched a group of warriors assault the reinforced wooden door with a crudely made battering ram, while others did their best to protect them with upraised shields from a selection of missiles raining down on them from the walls. Crawulf’s own archers sent wave after wave of arrows at the defenders to deter them and make them duck for cover. Meanwhile more warriors used wooden ladders and ropes with grapple hooks to attack the wall in various locations, an effort to spread thin the defences inside. He watched as one man was bludgeoned by a heavy piece of masonry thrown two-handed from the top of the wall. The assailant, in turn, toppled from his lofty perch, pierced in the chest by three arrows. A warrior rushed from the waiting ranks to take up the place of the downed man.
“There!” another man shouted, pointing to a section of the wall where several Nortmen had made it to the top and were now fighting hand to hand on the rampart.
“Send more men to help them,” Crawulf growled, as he watched his warriors clamber like ants up rickety ladders. At the same time a loud crack came from the direction of the wooden door. A flicker of a smile touched the corner of Crawulf’s mouth before he pulled his iron helmet on and drew his sword from its leather scabbard. A satisfying crash and a cloud of dust signalled the destruction of the main door into the town. All the while more and more snarling Nortmen made the top of the wall.
As Crawulf advanced on the town, with the vast majority of his war-band formed into ranks, with their round wooden shields held before them, they were met by a much smaller shield-wall. This is where the men of Nortland excelled, in the butchery of hand-to-hand combat. They were not comfortable at laying siege to towns or assaulting castles, but with a sword or axe in hand and an enemy before them their hearts sang. And why wouldn’t it when waiting for them, after they fell in battle, was the eternal reward of The All Wise. The jarl of Wind Isle was no different to the rest of his men. He had a formidable reputation as a fighter and relished the rush each new battle gave him. Was there a better way to feel alive but in the midst of the savagery of battle?
Locking shields with the men either side of him, he signalled for the line to move forward, the gates to the town now hung from broken hinges, leaving a yawning gap for the Nortmen to go through. Waiting beyond the thick cloud of dust was treasure, and women. Once the defence had been beaten into submission the real pain would begin. Arrows and stones fired from slingshots bounced off his shield and mail armour, not all were as lucky, the screams hanging in the air were testament to the skill of the archers on the wall. Each gap was quickly filled by another though, and the line moved steadily toward the town.
The defenders, made up of townsfolk, farmers from the surrounding countryside and a poorly trained militia, emerged slowly from the town. The Nortmen banged their wooden shields with their swords and axes while they hurled insults at the wavering line before them. As valiant and defiant the townsfolk were, they were not trained warriors; even if they were, the sight of so many snarling, fearsome Nortmen baying for their blood, would likely as not ended in the same result. Barely had the attack begun when the enemy line broke and ran. Crawulf led the advance, cutting down with a single stroke, a boy barely old enough to shave. His sightless eyes stared blankly at the sky as his body was trampled into the mud by the heavy boots of the men following their jarl. Crawulf slashed at another as the frightened defender turned from the advancing Nortmen. He screamed as he too fell forward into the dirt, his killer barely registering his existence.
Once they passed through the gate and into the town all was chaos. The raiders who had already made it over the wall had begun setting fire to the thatched roofs and dwellings made from wood. Thick, choking smoke hung heavy over the town while the stench of blood and worse filled the air. The heat from the burning buildings made breathing unbearable as people screamed and ran this way and that seeking an escape. There would be none for most of the folk of Seafort, who had wrongly thought themselves safe behind their stout walls of stone. The cries of women rang out, hauled to the ground and violated where they lay, while their men were butchered wherever they were found. Small children stood amidst the carnage, blank expressions on their faces as their young minds grappled with the destruction around them. Once the fight was gone from the townsfolk the real suffering began. For them their town had become The Hag’s fiery Pit, where The All Father had abandoned them. The raider’s blood was afire with lust for women and violence, having fought their way into the town, watched many of their brethren fall beneath the walls, now was the time of retribution on the defenders.
Crawulf stood by a well at the centre of the town square. Cupping his hands, he dipped them into the cool water and brought them to his lips. Fighting in a shield-wall was thirsty business, even without the raging fires all around him. Even to trained fighting men, carrying a heavy wooden shield on one arm and swinging or stabbing with axe or blade in the other, was tiring work. After a few mere heartbeats the muscles of arm and back would begin to burn, as the mail-clad warrior hacked his way through battle. His legs would ache, his head throb from the rush of blood and the fear of dying. Men had their own way of coping with the pain and fear, Crawulf knew. Some drank before a battle to dull the senses and give them courage, others prayed to their gods. Some, though they were rare, became consumed with battle-rage, often seeming to grow physically, would attack with devastating savagery, and with no thought to their own defence. These men both instilled fear in the enemy and inspired their own brothers. Rare is it to see a man succumb to the rage of a berserker.
“Jarl Crawulf.” A Nortman approached Crawulf, his face darkened by dirt and dried blood, splashes of crimson covered his mail shirt and drawn sword. “Here are what’s left of the town elders. They attempted to escape through a hidden door in the wall as we broke through the main gate. They would have made good their escape had they not been so laden down with boxes of treasure.” The warrior dumped several wooden boxes onto the earth, to emphasise his point. Crawulf saw silver coins and trinkets of gold spill onto the ground.
He regarded a sorry collection of townsfolk with narrowed eyes. “Nail them to the walls so that all who pass this town will bear witness to their cowardice,” he said coldly, ignoring the pleas for mercy, and when none came, the sobbing.
Crawulf gave his men full rein to make the citizens of Seafort suffer through the night, before calling a halt once the sun began to rise over the still burning town. Any who were still left alive, mainly young women and children, were chained together in a long line and marched slowly back towards the fleet of ships waiting beyond the beach.
“How long before they arrive do you think?” a chosen man called Olf asked Crawulf as they stood watching the weeping line of new slaves, linked by chain around their necks.
“If he comes with just his knights and men-at-arms, tomorrow or the day after.”
“But he will not come with just his warriors,” Olf replied.
“No. He will not. He will gather an army to face us, it will take time to call in the peasants from the fields.” Crawulf looked inland towards the rolling hills and patchwork fields of tended crops stretching into the distance.
“They will be too many for us when they do come.”
“Yes,” Crawulf agreed.
“Perhaps we could mend the gates…”
“You would fight behind those walls, Olf?” Crawulf asked, a hint of amusement in his eyes.
“No, of course not!” The Nortman was aghast. Crawulf laughed.
“Once the treasure and thralls are loaded, give the order for the ships to pull back from the coast, out of harm’s way. In the meantime we’ll see if we can’t force Duke Elsward’s hand.” Crawulf grinned.
Duke Normand: Mountains of Eor
Duke Normand absent-mindedly soothed his horse by cooing in its ear and patting the beast’s muscular neck. He was rewarded with a snort and the stompi
ng of hooves on the cobbled street as a caravan of traders, compiled of ox-drawn carts filed past. It gave him enormous pleasure to see the wagons, piled high with goods from the south, pass through the gates of Eorotia. Now that the mountain passes had been made safe and cleared of brigands, just as Djangra Roe had predicted, the traffic travelling between the Duchies and the lands to the south had begun to trickle through. In time it would increase and generate substantial wealth for the small duchy of Lenstir – assuming Normand could hold onto it.
“This is the third caravan in a week,” Djangra Roe said.
“The taxes they bring in barely cover the upkeep of guarding the road,” Normand grumbled, unwilling to concede acknowledgment to Djangra’s foresight. The mage simply shrugged and made no further comment.
The past months had been busy for Normand. The taking of Eorotia had made a lot of people around him nervous. The king fretted that it would be seen as an act of aggression by the lands south of the mountain range all the way to the Sunsai Empire, although Duke Normand thought it none of their damn business. His neighbouring nobles were anxious that he was becoming too ambitious and were wary of him encroaching on their own territory. They were right. Lenstir was one of the smallest duchies in the kingdom. Normand was intent on overseeing its growth, and the potential wealth of Eorotia becoming a trade hub between north and south would aid him greatly in this desire.
First he needed to rebuild the walls he himself had knocked down with his siege engines, fend off those who would have the Thieves Citadel returned to a so-called neutral faction and become a buffer between north and south, calm the insecurities of a nervous monarch—one lacking in ambition as far as Normand was concerned—root out whatever brigands still using the mountain as a haven, and wipe out the threat from the man-like beasts who, supposedly, inhabited the higher regions of the mountains. Normand had never seen these monsters himself and doubted their existence, but there were many sightings of them wandering down from the colder regions in search of food, including a reported attack on a caravan three days previously. A wagon driver was supposedly ripped limb from limb before the beast was chased away by the convoy’s guards. Waiting with the Duke and his men were his hunting hounds, huge shaggy creatures capable of great bursts of speed and jaws seemingly made from iron.
“What news, Mage of your witch?”
Djangra’s smile wilted. “Nothing, my lord, these past months. I am thinking that is not such a bad thing though.”
“Your thoughts could cost us everything… cost me everything!”
“They are on her trail. Had they been thwarted and killed I would have heard. Trust me, my lord, the dream-witch is no threat to you while she is being hunted halfway to the empire.”
“I hope you are right. I do not trust your witch and her rogue knight, but at least they have three of my men with them to keep their minds focused.”
“He was never a knight, my lord.”
“Whatever he was, I hope you chose well.”
“Oh yes, they are all well suited to the job.” Djangra met Normand’s stern gaze. “Happy hunting, my lord.”
“It is not too late for you to come,” Normand said.
“No, my lord, these old bones are no longer suited to such an arduous expedition.” The mage looked up, beyond the walls of Eorotia and towards the snow-capped peaks of the jagged mountains, to where the spring thaw never touched and one misplaced step could send a man tumbling to a cold, lonely death. “Besides there is work that must be done here to rid the city of any remaining charms and curses left by the witches of Eor.”
“Very well, Mage, happy hunting to you also.” Normand led a line of a dozen mounted, fighting-men, riding two abreast, their red cloaks fluttering in the breeze, followed by half a score of the great shaggy hunting hounds, barely contained by their handlers, and in turn by a small group of lightly armoured archers. Among them were men who had lived and hunted, much of their lives, in the mountains. They would lead Normand towards the high peaks, where travellers rarely ventured, and any with half an ounce of sense steered well clear of, as any man who lived in the shadow of the great mountain range knew well, there were things best left undisturbed where man rarely travelled.
Normand glanced back at the city he was now master of, with its walls gleaming in autumnal light, and the mountains rising up behind it, a ragged line shading a clear blue sky, his thoughts racing from one idea to the next on how best to build and fortify his new possession, and indeed, how to add to it. The small column was soon swallowed up by trees cloaked in orange and plum coloured leaves. Twice as many again lay in clumps on the worn track, used as a road through the forest, or swirled about their feet, blown in a chill wind.
There were few travellers passing through the forest, but there were some, which pleased Normand to see. They scurried off the road to make way for mounted warriors, but the duke could read little resentment on their faces, and some even smiled at the sight of armed men appearing to patrol the woods. It would mean a safer journey for them, making them more than happy to give way if it meant a visible deterrent to the bandits who once claimed the forest for their own.
“We should make camp up at Widow’s Keep, my lord,” one of the foresters accompanying the duke and his men suggested. “If you don’t mind havin’ her ghost for company that is.” He grinned.
Normand turned away from the sight of blackened teeth leering in a dirt-covered face. The wind sent a chill through him at that moment, making him pull his cloak tighter about him. He noticed the air had become colder the higher they got, and the deeper into the forest the steeper the winding road became. He had even seen flakes of snow drift down between the trees only to dissolve on impact. “This Widow’s Keep is an old ruin, is it not?”
“Aye, my lord, a castle belongin’ to those who disappeared long ago,” the scout answered.
“Very well, it will give us shelter for the night.” He motioned with a wave of his hand for the forester to lead on.
Light was already fading from the sky when they approached the ruin. Widow’s Keep was in fact a tower castle with only three remaining walls. The fourth had collapsed long before, with the stone harvested by local folk to build walls and small cottages. A stone staircase spiralled up the side of one wall, the steps uneven and different sizes, an old trick to make life difficult for any would-be invaders. All interior walls and any wooden features, such as floors or rafters were long gone. Normand looked up at the ragged line on top of the three remaining walls, a dark scar in the twilit sky.
They made campfires in the shadow of the ruin, using the walls to shield them from the cold winds blowing down from the ice-capped mountains. They sat around the fires according to class and hierarchy, the dog-handlers huddled together with the big shaggy hounds close by. The archers made sure their strings were dry and protected as they settled in for the night, humming a tune known only to themselves. The warriors sat together checking their weapons and gear, sharpening swords and axes. Normand stared into the flames of a fire he shared with the two most senior men he had brought on the expedition, their words drifting over his consciousness as he felt the glow of the flames warming his face, and the inner fire garnered from the fortified wine he swigged from a flask. Only the woodsmen seemed at ease as they laughed and shared stories, passing skins of wine between them to chase away the night chill. The duke wrapped his fur-trimmed cloak tightly around his shoulders, listening to their tales.
“She were a maid, wed and widowed all in one day,” one such story began. “It were a time long before the Duchies were called the Duchies, a time when folk were different… wilder. It is said a great king ruled these mountains and beyond, and his castle were Widow’s Keep, only it weren’t called Widow’s Keep then.
“Her beauty was beyond compare. Thick curls, dark as a raven’s wing fell down to her waist, and skin so fair it was almost translucent. Her eyes were the colour of a mountain spring in morning sunlight, her lips like ruby red wine. Some said she had e
nsnared the king with dark magic, others, that her beauty alone was enough to trap any man. The morning of her wedding, when she was presented to the king, dressed in an ivory gown and with her hair tied up in a crown of flowers, every man present at the feast felt a pang of envy, their thoughts turning to the luck of the king and the night he would look forward to, for what man would not wish to spend a night with such a beauty?
“It were the king’s ill luck to cross a powerful witch he had lain with and uttered false promises to after he’d met his lady. He were no noble lord this king, and took his pleasures where he willed; the witch cursed him, for it were her desire to be his bride, and not some foreign beauty from beyond the mountain. She put a hex on him that his line would end with him. And that it did, for as he lay on top of his new bride in their wedding bed he suddenly began to choke. The more he struggled for air the more his face bulged. He died while still inside his queen with a swollen head and a swollen cock, and not a drop of seed spilt.
“The new queen was dragged naked from her wedding bed and hanged from a tree – the king’s folk believing she were responsible for his death. Before she breathed her last breath they cut her down and burned her in a huge pyre in front of the castle. It’s said her screams can still be heard at night when her ghost drifts on the wind searching for her killers. With the death of the king, invaders were soon at their gates seeking easy plunder. Whatever curses the queen spat at her killers worked, as the memory of those folk was wiped from the mountains.”
“I heard tell it were dragons what laid waste to the keep,” a young archer interjected.
“Ain’t no such thing as dragons, boy,” the woodsman shot back, his words barbed with scorn. There were low chuckles from more than just the scouts silencing the boy archer.
“Enough,” Normand growled. “Get some rest, all of you.”
