The Last Berserker

by Angus Donald

  ‘Did you ever love my mother?’ asked Tor. She found her eyes were leaking again. ‘Or was she just a person who was not Mist-in-the-Morning?’

  ‘We loved each other, a little, for a while. Does she still breathe?’

  ‘She died two years ago. A summer fever took her.’

  ‘I grieve for her. You have her look; her hair held fire as yours does.’

  Tor found she was suddenly raging at the huge man on the other side of the table. ‘You grieve? You say you grieve now? The nights I have dreamt of you; imagined you coming to me, to save me, to save my poor mother, to make everything right again; and all you can say is the Wolf was in me. The Wolf made me do it. Oh, the Wolf made me batter your mother to bloody pulp. I grieve. I’m so full of grief. You are pathetic, a cowardly nithing—’

  ‘Tor,’ Valtyr said, ‘you cannot understand what is inside him.’

  ‘I don’t want to understand.’ Tor was shrieking now.

  Hildar got to his feet; he seemed to have grown even more massive. His face was flushed red and twisted ugly with rage. He looked ready to explode.

  Bjarki stood up as well. He was of a height with Hildar. He leaned one large fist on the table, pushed his face forward and said, quietly and calmly: ‘I think you’d better take your leave of us now, Father. Thank you for sharing your tale with my sister and me – but it is time for you to go now.’

  Hildar grinned at him. It was a horrible smile: all yellow wolfish teeth and bloody-red gums. They locked eyes, faces close together, and for a tiny moment a cataclysm of raw violence shimmered in the space between them.

  ‘Do you know what you are looking at, boy?’ Hildar growled.

  ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘You are looking at your fate, my son.’

  Abruptly, Hildar turned on his heel and stalked out of the hall.

  * * *

  On the third day, the hammering stopped. Tor, who was stacking bundles of javelins at regular intervals on the perimeter walkway of the Fortress of Hellingar, immediately stood upright, listened and rubbed her sore back.

  No more hammers. The Franks had completed their work. That was bad. She went in search of Bjarki and found him in the command post at the summit of the east rampart. He was standing with Valtyr, Theodoric and Siegfried and looking out of the open shutters at the battlefield. There was an odd air of levity over them. Duke Theodoric appeared to be chuckling.

  Right across the spread of the field there was movement: large blocks of men in red cloaks, red shields and steel helmets, advancing, and out in front of them six dark objects like huge land-boats were spearheading their attack. They were still half a mile away but Tor could clearly see what they were. Around each of the objects was a little fringe of blue – the blue-cloaked men of the scara of engineers, urging these freshly built wooden drawbridges along on their massive wooden wheels towards the channel.

  She caught Bjarki’s eye and he beckoned her close to him and said: ‘Want to hear some good news, sister?’

  She raised one eyebrow.

  ‘Look beyond the Red Cloaks, Tor; look beyond those ten or so scarae in the vanguard, the ones that are formed and coming towards us.’

  She did so, squinting at the horizon, at the larger, indistinct mass of soldiers behind the moving blocks of troops in front of the Dane-Work, a thin wall of red, which stretched many miles across the landscape.

  ‘Looks like they brought about half of Francia’s entire military strength to crush us here, doesn’t it?’ Bjarki said.

  Tor shrugged.

  ‘It’s a trick. It’s a ruse. Karolus is trying to fool us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said.

  ‘The Saxon scouts have come back at long last to report the truth. That force in the extreme distance is not an army, it is just thousands of sticks and planks, with some red cloaks tied to them, and a few battered old helmets and shields. I wondered why they didn’t move at all, day after day; or change their battle formations. And how even mighty Karolus could feed such a multitude of men. It’s a straw army. Scarecrows. But the king of the Franks thought they’d be too far away for us to see he was hoodwinking us.’

  ‘You are sure about this?’

  ‘Four of our spies – all experienced scouts, good solid men, apparently, and unknown to each other – have confirmed it. The king only brought two dozen scarae with him, and some odds and ends. Some Swabians and his bodyguard of Scholares. He sent the rest of his force south only a few days ago, there is something important happening in Lombardy, their Pope – some sort of grand Mikelgothi – begged him to come with his army over the high Alps and rescue some of Karolus’s kin, who have been imprisoned by the king of the Lombards. I don’t understand it but he’s gone there, immediately, with much of his army and all his cabellarii.’

  ‘Karolus is gone? But we saw him just three days ago.’

  ‘He is tricking us – or trying to. That’s why he came forward and made that ridiculous proposal in person. Offering Theodoric and Siegfried what they already had. He wanted to be seen – now he’s gone south to Lombardy. He’s left the young Duke of Swabia in command to complete the task here.’

  ‘That doesn’t change the fact that there are thousands of Red Cloaks down there about to cross the channel.’

  ‘No, that’s true. But they have fewer than five thousand shields in all.’

  ‘And we have fewer than three thousand,’ said Tor. ‘Even including the new contingent of Svearlanders. It’s still poor odds – two against one.’

  King Siegfried looked over at her and smiled. ‘But we have the Dane-Work, young lady. This is the rock on which Frankish pride will shatter.’

  Tor looked unconvinced. The six wooden drawbridges were slowly lumbering closer to the channel, only a few hundred yards away now, and when they were in place, and their bridges clunked down, thousands of Red Cloaks would flood across the water and surge up against the Dane-Work.

  And they would easily outnumber the defenders. Two against one.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The battle to end all battles

  Bjarki took up his position on the perimeter wall a little to the left of the main gate. He turned and surveyed the faces of the men and women under his command. The front half of the Hellingar walkway, a semi-circle from the east rampart to the west, was crammed with hundreds of warriors: grey-bearded axemen from the woods of Eastphalia, in the far east of Saxony; blond, whey-faced Westphalians clutching javelins and maces; proud Danish hersirs from villages not unlike Bago; spearmen from the smaller islands in leather armour and steel caps; dour Svearlanders in full-length mail, gilded helms, with long swords at their waists; even a sprinkling of outlanders from Frisia and two grim, cold-eyed Angelcynn, battle-hardened adventurers who had sworn an oath to serve Duke Theodoric many, many years ago…

  The warriors were arranged in two lines, front rank and second, the plan being to take turns in the assault to repel the enemy and clear the walls.

  The rear of the fortress, the part facing north into Jutland, was only lightly manned by the very old and the very young, plus the walking wounded. Bjarki did not expect to be attacked from this direction. But he also had four Storm Companies, one in each quadrant, who could be called upon to defend the vulnerable rear, if necessary. Their main role, however, was to reinforce any sections that came under too much pressure.

  I should speak, Bjarki thought. I should say something stirring. I should at least try to act like a leader – like Theodoric or Siegfried, or even Valtyr.

  ‘Warriors of the North,’ he bellowed, looking around to see that everyone on the walls could hear him. ‘The time has come. Can you feel it? Can you smell it? Can you taste it? This is the hour of our greatest glory!’

  His words were answered with a cheer from hundreds of throats.

  ‘Those Franks are coming. See them! They are coming to kill you, to kill all your children, to seize your goods and lands. These proud Christians believe they have already won.
They believe they will triumph this red day. They think they can roll over us, grind us down and trample our bones.’

  He paused for a beat.

  ‘They are wrong!’ Another gigantic cheer split the air.

  ‘Stand fast. Obey your orders. Summon your strength – and we will show these foreigners the meaning of courage. May the Bear guard you all!’

  * * *

  The attack, when it came, happened very fast indeed. One moment the mass of Red Cloaks was safely on the other side of the channel, and the bowmen of the North were lobbing a light but lethal rain of shafts on to them from the east and west ramparts; the next, the enemy were surging up against the walls of Hellingar, a sea of red-faced shouting men with swords and spears. The enemy hurled javelins up at the walls; their arrows flew thickly as the defenders’. They had many ladders – Bjarki had somehow not expected that – and swarmed up the defences of the fortress like monkeys.

  They were assaulted all along the curving front wall simultaneously. Bjarki quickly exhausted the stock of javelins to hand, skewering five, six, seven enemies with the hurled missiles, whose places were all immediately taken by other men. He found he was frantically clearing the wall in front of him with his axe, hewing at screaming Red Cloaks, slicing down at mailed shoulders, steel helms, battering faces away with hard jabs from the butt end.

  He hacked into the side of a man’s head, bursting the skull open, and no sooner had the fellow flopped away than another Red Cloak lunged forward, stabbing with his short sword. Bjarki felt sure he had killed this same fellow not twenty heartbeats ago; but here he was again.

  He deflected the sword strike with his shield, then punched the shield’s iron boss into the man’s roaring face, knocking him off his ladder. For an instant, nobody replaced him and Bjarki gripped the top rungs of the ladder and with a great heave he hurled it away from the pine wall, tumbling Red Cloaks to the ground like apples dropping from a shaken branch.

  The noise was incredible, the screams and yells, the clash and screech of metal on metal; the air stank of blood and foulness. Bjarki could hear trumpets calling, and officers shouting orders, but his whole world was contained in the yard of sharpened pine logs in front of his body; and the folk who popped up and needed to be battered away. Another ladder top appeared, a little to his left, and a steel helmet with a red plume. Bjarki stepped to it, swung and slipped in a patch of blood, mistimed his blow, and the Red Cloak ducked, then hacked at him and sliced right through the shaft of his axe, the severed weapon falling from Bjarki’s fingers.

  His shield was way down and the man’s sword blade was now lancing towards his face; Bjarki could see it coming but was powerless to evade it.

  Tor’s spear suddenly ripped into the man’s neck below his helmet strap, tearing out his windpipe and knocking him sideways; the Red Cloak’s sword swiped harmlessly over his head. But hot blood sprayed over Bjarki’s face.

  ‘Front rank, switch. Second rank, forward,’ yelled Bjarki through a greasy mouthful of the dead fellow’s gore. The cry was taken up all round the perimeter. He stepped one pace back and allowed Tor to slide forward into his place. She immediately began punching her spear blade down, one-handed, again, again, into the crush of Red Cloaks below the lip of the wall.

  Bjarki was panting like a dog; covered in blood – other men’s so far, thank the gods. He felt as battered and bruised as if he had been rolled down a mountain in a barrel full of sharp stones. As he caught his breath, he saw that the strip of muddy once-green land between the channel and the walls of Hellingar was now completely filled with Red Cloaks. There was no way on earth they could kill this many foes. They’d need a week to finish the job.

  He looked left and saw that the slopes of the east rampart, too, were carpeted with red bodies and glinting helms; the battle was raging savagely all along the fence at the top. Frankish archers below were shooting volleys at the command post and javelins were showering back down the slope in response. To his right, on the west rampart, the situation was little different; but a section of the heavy fence had been torn down, and the summit was one vast melee of struggling Red Cloaks and grim warriors of the North – all madly stabbing, hacking, killing, dying.

  His own wall was only just holding, there were scores of broken bodies below on the inside of the fortress, men and women who had been wounded and fallen backwards inside the walls, probably hastening their deaths. The battle lines on the walkway were thinner, too. Where the warriors had once been crammed together, now there was ample room to swing a long axe.

  ‘It’s time,’ whispered his gandr. ‘You know it is time.’

  He set his face against the voice and looked out beyond the channel. The Duke of Swabia, the Franks’ overall commander, was over there on the little hillock, just three hundred paces away, the same spot that Karolus had occupied. Duke Gerold, surrounded by an escort of mounted Scholares, was calmly watching the battle. Bjarki wished the unpleasant young nobleman were within the reach of his sword. He remembered the foul conversation in Queen Hildegard’s chamber with fresh distaste. If only he were closer…

  Wait. Just three hundred paces away? The channel was no obstacle now, there were six new wooden drawbridges spanning it.

  He could see his people were tiring. There seemed to be no end to the surging Red Cloaks.

  ‘Second rank, switch. Front rank, forward,’ he yelled, drawing his sword and stepping in front of Tor.

  She had taken a wound, he saw as he slipped past her, a gash to her left arm. The leather sleeve was wet with blood and her face was pale with pain. He had no more time. A Red Cloak was in the act of throwing his leg over the sharpened pine, when Bjarki punched him in the jaw with the hilt of his sword and, as he toppled, he slashed his tunic at the shoulder. But the man was not the only one: a dozen yards to his left three of the enemy had made it on to the walkway, and were coolly fighting off his warriors, back to back.

  He yelled: ‘Storm Company, here, now! Need you here, right now!’

  A helmet appeared in front of his eyes, and he swung the sword at the rising Red Cloak, the fellow blocked with his own sword. Their steel clanged like a bell, and the trooper dropped his blade. Bjarki sliced at him again. The man yelled: ‘No!’ and held up his hand and Bjarki’s sword sliced down between his spread fingers, opening his hand like a blossoming flower.

  He yelled again and Bjarki punched him with his shield, knocking him back into empty space. There were half a dozen Red Cloaks now on the walkway. But the Storm Company had heard him and they were racing up ladders and barging along the walkway to crash into the interlopers.

  The man leading the charge was Hildar Torfinnsson, in his full Wolf Lodge attire, fur cloak, heavy fur vambraces, leather greaves and boots, his tanned torso as bare as a baby’s, his brutal, scarred face contorted in a wolfish snarl, his drawn-back lips already speckled with a soapy foam.

  Hildar ploughed into the enemy on the walkway, his axe swinging. Red Cloaks were hurled into the air every which way, body parts cartwheeled over the wall, blood gouted, gore flew, the screaming reached new heights.

  Bjarki leaned on the wall, gasping for air, his section of the wall momentarily clear. The Rekkr was truly magnificent, his raw power and violence dazzling. The Storm Company following on his heels were left with little to do but finish off the wounded as Hildar cleared the walkway of enemies in one snarling charge, his axe swinging with a horrible rhythm.

  ‘See – see – the lovely blood, all the lovely man-blood!’ his gandr was chittering with glee. ‘Come on now, let us do this!’

  Bjarki peered over the wall – could it be his imagination or were the Red Cloaks actually falling back? He looked right at the west rampart, and saw that the Angrian cavalry of the North were in and among the thinning enemy on the summit, hacking and slicing, riding them down, screaming with delight. The wooden fence was down and trampled under foot as the Saxons surged forward to battle one-on-one on the summit with the Franks.

  And it seemed th
ey were actually pushing them back down the slope.

  On the left, the east rampart was still holding too. The momentum of the Frankish attack had been stalled all across the front. Now, there was fresh movement on the east rampart, and the sounding of brash trumpet blasts over the din of battle. No, it could not be! There was Theodoric, in an ancient Boar Lodge headdress, long sword in his hand and he was charging out from behind the wooden fence with a dozen of his jarls and hersirs at his back – no, more, many more – a score, several scores, hundreds of men.

  The lord of Saxony no longer seemed old and fat – he was huge and vital; he was Fire Born. Bjarki imagined he could hear the old man’s cries as he and his warriors fell on the mass of his enemies like a collapsing sea cliff.

  Three yards away, Hildar had a double grip on a huge round shield, holding it by the upper rim, he was standing at the wall, staring out over the enemy below, his gigantic arm muscles writhing like snakes, and he seemed to be gnawing at the top of the thick wood with his teeth, worrying the fitted planks of elm like a dog with a bone. He suddenly spat out a mouthful of wood pulp and roared a deafening challenge at a particular foe below him.

  Bjarki could resist the urge no more. He let himself go; and he began to hum, deep in his throat. A rhythmic four-note tune, repetitive, hypnotic…

  He felt his gandr swell; its mad laughter echoing around in his head.

  He shouted: ‘Hildar! Father! Hear me. Recall the battle of Blundfjell? Where you slew the King of Vestfold and won the day single-handed?’

  Hildar heard him and turned, eyes very large, expression as keen as a hunting dog: but his face also oddly twisted, the cheek muscles writhing.

  He grinned at Bjarki, showing bloody yellow teeth.