by A. J. Smith
The trolls had faltered. Some appeared lost, others sat on the ground, grabbing any men that came close, but not advancing. More ballistae bolts hit them. The huge arrows weren’t designed to kill the beasts, just to slow them down and cause confusion. Some had bells attached, others trailed wire nets. The men of Ursa were skilled at dealing with the Ice Men. Unrahgahr, more aware than his family, was crouched behind a wall. He surveyed the scene and bellowed.
Halla ignored the pain in her arm and redoubled her efforts, joining Oleff and flinging herself at the shield wall in front of them. She rammed her shoulder into a braced shield and swung her axe under it, severing the man’s foot and creating an opening. Spears cut her in the shoulder, neck and across her legs, but she grunted and kept going.
‘With me!’ she shouted.
Oleff dived through the opening behind her, hacking at the shield-bearers and entering a dense melee of defenders. He pulled Halla away from a dozen spear thrusts and kept them at bay with wide swings of his battleaxe. He cut at wood and flesh, and was cut badly in turn.
Heinrich joined them as more of their company pushed into the gap. Halla stood, blood flowing over her body, sticking to her hands and dripping into her eye. But she didn’t stop.
‘Fight for Fjorlan! For Teardrop and Summer Wolf!’ Her words were primal.
Men died, body parts flew and blood flowed. She was at the front of a wedge of men, splintering the shield wall and driving towards the fort. Her axe felt light and she swung it easily with one hand, making circles in the air. There were too many men to engage individuals and her company could only hack at passing targets and hope their advance would continue. To stop amidst so many enemies would mean certain death.
She couldn’t see beyond the men in front of her. Bearded faces came and went in a blur of shouting and dying. She felt blood and pain, but they didn’t slow her.
Then her boots struck wood and they had reached the fort, penetrating the dense mass of defenders. Over her shoulder she saw the broken shield wall fleeing west down the gully. They had routed several hundred men of Ursa with the sheer suicidal aggression of their attack.
With no one in front of her, she allowed Oleff to drag her behind a splintered wooden wall. She caught her breath.
‘Look at this,’ panted Oleff, pointing over the barricades at the fleeing men.
Halla saw axes fly from cover, killing the men of Ursa as they retreated. She couldn’t see who threw them, but they came from dozens of places at once. Behind rocks, within caves, filling the air with whirling blades.
‘For Hammerfall!’ The voice was guttural and carried down the gully.
From the direction of the Wolf Wood, cloud-men appeared, hundreds of them.
‘Reinforce the walls,’ commanded Grammah Black Eyes, as the men of Hammerfall charged the wooden stockade.
The artillery was pointed the other way and few men remained on the defensive wall, allowing the cloud-men to swarm the defences. Like Falling Cloud, they wielded small axes and relied on speed as much as on strength, severing arteries and limbs.
‘You’re outflanked,’ shouted Wulfrick from the second level. ‘Surrender!’
Grammah and his men were now isolated inside the fort. Either side of them, Halla’s battle-brothers held the lower platforms. To the east, trolls slumped in the snow, pulling arrows from their bodies and annihilating anyone who approached. To the west, over their defences, cloud-men pushed them back. It was a hopeless fight now and Grammah knew it.
‘Enough,’ shouted the thain of Hammerfall. ‘Enough, we surrender.’
Halla slumped to the ground and let her head rock back against the wooden wall. She heard shouting, fighting, axes thrown to the ground and the pained keening of wounded trolls. Even with the surrender, the combat ended slowly. Men filled with bloodlust did not back down easily.
‘I think we won,’ said Oleff, slumped next to Halla. ‘And I think I need a rest.’
She smiled and rocked her head to the side, looking at her friend. She stopped smiling when she saw his wounds. His chest was a canvas of red, with blood seeping from every gap in his chain mail.
‘Don’t rest here,’ she said, turning to cradle his head as he lolled forward. ‘You can’t rest here. We need to stay awake.’
‘I don’t think I can,’ he replied, a peaceful smile coming over his grizzled face.
‘Heinrich!’ she shouted, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘I need help.’
She held Oleff’s hand. It was clammy and stained a muddy red. She tried to unbuckle his chain mail but the blood made everything stick together.
Heinrich appeared. He stood over them, breathing rapidly. ‘I... I don’t think I can help,’ whispered the young novice.
‘What? No, you must be able to. Help me get his chain mail off.’
‘Halla,’ said Oleff, grasping her hand firmly. ‘Let me go. I could do with a drink and they say the ice halls have the best ale...’
With a serene expression on his face, Oleff Hard Head, chain-master of Fredericksand, left to join the Ice Giants in their halls beyond the world.
* * *
She had lost a hundred and twenty-three men. Her company was battered and exhausted, but they couldn’t rest. They had four hundred prisoners to secure and Halla had a deposed thain to deal with. Dozens of wounded men on both sides needed attention, and Lullaby and Heinrich were busy with their healing salves, bandages and their strange craft.
The trolls were having the huge ballistae bolts removed from their bodies, though they didn’t stop keening and appeared not to care, or even notice, that they were wounded. Rorg and his berserkers had lost men, but they were highly exhilarated by the combat, screaming battle cries and declarations of glorious victory. Tending to their wounded would have to wait until they’d finished shouting.
Wulfrick was largely unhurt, but Rexel Falling Cloud had lost an ear and Halla needed bandages and a new walking stick. Her wounds had not been too deep but she had lost a lot of blood and found it difficult to stand. Heinrich had seen to her arm but she would be unlikely fully to recover its use.
‘My Lady Summer Wolf, I thank you on behalf of Hammerfall.’
The cloud-man was called Moniac Dawn Cloud. He’d been scouting the Bear’s Mouth, waiting for the right time to attack, when Halla’s charge had given him his opportunity. With the artillery pointing the other way and the men of Ursa fully occupied, his force of three hundred had broken their lines. He was young, with delicate features, but lean and muscled. He held the rank of axe-master and had assembled a mixed company from handfuls of cloud-men who had not yet been cowed by Grammah and his men.
‘I did it for Hammerfall, and I did it for Fjorlan,’ she replied. ‘And your help is appreciated.’
They were sitting in a long wooden hall in the centre of the fort. They had found food, ale, cold-weather clothing and all manner of essential supplies. Grammah Black Eyes was restrained against the far wall and Halla and her lieutenants were now to decide his fate.
‘The bastard razed the Wolf Wood,’ said Rexel, clutching a wadded bandage to his ear. ‘For that alone he should die.’
‘His men killed Oleff, that’s enough for me,’ offered Wulfrick.
‘I claim his head for my people,’ said Moniac, snarling at Grammah.
The man of Ursa was hugely overweight. His bear-skin cloak barely covered his belly and his black eyes conveyed no emotion.
‘I served my thain,’ said Grammah. ‘I accept any justice the Ice Giant dispenses. But you have no priest.’
Halla stood up from the bench. Her arm was in a sling and her hand grasped a walking stick. Her right leg was numb and she winced each time she put weight on it.
‘You are right,’ she said, hobbling towards the thain. ‘We have no priest. But you can’t hide behind that.’
She endured the pain and discarded her walking stick. Drawing her axe, she stood close to Grammah.
‘I’m going to kill you, thain of Hammerfall. Say your
words.’
His face twisted into a defiant frown. ‘I have lived well. I am strong and I served with honour. Let it be your axe that ends me, Daughter of the Wolf.’
She raised her weapon and bought it down on Grammah’s neck. The blade sheared into his flesh and blood seeped from his mouth. His black eyes didn’t flicker as he died.
‘This isn’t a victory,’ she said to the others. ‘It’s just a step on the road. We have many leagues to travel and many battles to fight before this will be a victory.’
‘So, let’s raise a mug,’ said Wulfrick, reaching for a bottle of mead. ‘Let’s raise a mug to the journey, the battles and the victory.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Falling Cloud.
‘And to Oleff and the men we lost,’ said Halla, taking a mug of mead.
With the drip of Grammah’s blood in the background, they drank deeply.
‘There are many halls in the Wolf Wood,’ she said. ‘Many men between here and Tiergarten. We will visit every hall and give every man the chance to join us.’
CHAPTER 4
GWENDOLYN OF HUNTER’S CROSS IN THE CITY OF RO TIRIS
THE SEA WALL of Ro Tiris was a marvel of engineering. Twelve huge stone pillars rose from the water, connected by heavy wooden beams, wrapped in chains. Daganay said that the wall took twenty years to build, with the greatest artisans of Ro working only at low tide. The wood rose and fell as the tide dictated, breaking the waves before they could disrupt the capital’s shipping. The only routes in and out of the king’s dock were two narrow channels either side of the wall, covered from above by catapults. The channels were big enough for large ships, but only in single file, and a wise captain knew to sail slowly to keep clear of the wall. Now they were going to blow it up and sail straight for the king’s dock.
Their force had grown significantly since visiting Canarn, and Gwen was now part of an army of seven thousand men and Dokkalfar, spread across twenty ships. The Wave Runner, Xander’s flagship, was at the front of a close formation that spread behind them to form an arrowhead pointing towards Ro Tiris. Brom was on the nearest escort ship, marshalling his own men and trying to convey his sympathy to the seasick forest-dwellers. They were not accustomed to sea travel and found the whole idea of boats bewildering.
Xander himself stood at the prow of their ship and, in consequence, at the head of the entire army. He grasped a wooden beam and stared at the rapidly approaching city. He had said little since they had left Canarn, confiding in Daganay alone. Even when he came to bed, husband and wife communicated only through their unspoken language. Looks, gestures and physical contact were enough to let Gwen know that he was tightly wound up. To sail a battle fleet into the harbour of Ro Tiris was to betray his family, his country and his god, but the Red Prince was stubborn. He had decided that if no one else was going to do it, then he must.
The city before them was as tall as it was wide, nestled in a shallow bay and defended by high battlements set back from the sea. Although most of the Red knights were in Ranen, Tiris was still filled to the rafters with guardsmen and watchmen, making it a difficult prize. She could see the white Spire of the King and the top of the Red cathedral. From both flew a new banner, of black with the image of a twisted tree.
‘Captain Brennan!’ shouted the lookout. ‘We have a clear run to the sea wall.’
The wall loomed before them, a huge floating wooden barrier that arced round the city’s two harbours.
‘Artillery? Ships?’ asked Brennan.
‘Looks like... hmm, catapults on the channel defences, a few more overlooking the king’s dock. Some ships at harbour in Northwind Bay. The main harbour’s clear. Shit-loads of watchmen, sir.’
Brennan nodded. ‘Well, they can see us coming, they know what we’re coming to do, let’s fucking do it!’ He shouted a few commands and Sergeant Ashwyn rang a bell, alerting all the men to stand to. The bell was picked up and continued on the nearest ships and flowed across the fleet as a dull, echoing command.
Daganay appeared from below deck and, with a huge yawn, joined them. ‘We there yet?’ he asked, rubbing his eyes.
‘Almost,’ replied Gwen.
‘You know, a Blue chaplain I once knew said that the sea wall of Tiris was the greatest wonder of the world. Engineering that showed the Ro were the finest craftsmen and artisans in the lands of men.’
‘Well, we’re going to blow it up,’ offered Brennan.
Daganay frowned. ‘No romance, that’s the problem with soldiers nowadays.’
Gwen chuckled. ‘Dag, go and make sure he hasn’t fallen into a trance.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
Daganay, almost as unsure on board the ship as the Dokkalfar, rolled forward, his arms spread wide to stabilize himself and his feet tentative. When he reached Xander, the general was shaken out of his contemplation and looked momentarily surprised at being addressed.
The forward catapults were being loaded and the Hawks on board were armed and ready for combat. They had not yet reconciled themselves to the fact that they would be fighting other men of Ro, and it showed in their faces. They were armed with heavy short swords and carried sturdy, rectangular shields. Each man had segmented steel armour, worn for its flexibility and lightness, and their greaves were of hardened leather.
After a moment of conversation between the two men, Xander pulled himself atop a catapult mount and turned back to address the crew.
‘Brothers!’ His words carried across the wooden deck. ‘This city flies a banner not of Ro. These men will fight and they will die, but make no mistake, we are liberators, not conquerors.’
Salutes and shouts from the Hawks indicated that his words were needed.
‘The faster we move, the faster the bloody work will be done,’ he continued. ‘Brennan, raise the forward ram and signal Brom to do the same. Ashwyn, sight the catapults at the sea wall. Tyr Sigurd, prepare to light your fuses.’
‘Aye, sir,’ shouted Brennan and Ashwyn in unison. Sigurd just tilted his head.
‘And raise the hawk,’ said Xander, indicating his banner, currently flying at half-mast.
With quick and practised movements the flag was raised and men began to winch the metal apparatus that raised the ram. Behind them, Brom received the signal and his men did the same, though their banner was of a raven in flight. The winch clicked into place and a huge iron protrusion now jutted from the Wave Runner.
Gwen imagined what the men and women of Tiris would see and how they would feel. Two banners of Ro, of Haran and Canarn, sailing towards them. A fleet of men, shouting and aiming catapults. Some would be glad, others angry... she doubted any would not be terrified.
‘How long?’ Brennan asked Tyr Sigurd, as he and his forest-dwellers touched flames to short fuses protruding from wax-sealed barrels of black wart. Two barrels sat in the cradle of each catapult and most of the men of Ro were afraid to approach them.
‘You should use your contraptions straightaway,’ replied the Dokkalfar, pointing at the catapults. ‘Once the fuse is within the barrel they are watertight, and water will aid the explosion.’
‘Whatever you say,’ replied Brennan. ‘General! Catapults ready, sir.’
Xander, still standing on the frame of a loaded catapult, turned back to the sea wall. They were close now. With a calm sea and a gentle following wind, they sailed between stone pillars and straight for the heavy wooden beams. ‘Announce our presence, captain,’ said the general.
‘Fire!’ commanded Brennan.
The artillery crews, wincing at the explosive barrels, gladly unloaded their catapults. The wooden frames jerked and Xander jumped to the deck as four barrels arced away from the Wave Runner. Thousands of men – warriors across twenty ships, and anyone watching from the city – saw the barrels fly. They flashed into clear blue sky before plummeting back into the shadow of Ro Tiris and towards the sea wall. They hit the water and lolled against heavy wood and chains.
‘This will announce our presence,’ stated Tyr Sigurd
as all four barrels detonated.
It started as a crack and a flash of white light, erupting outwards in a dome. The water magnified the explosion and the two stone towers, anchoring the wooden wall, crumbled outwards in a spray of masonry and water. The wood was reduced to splinters in the centre and flying planks of flaming wood at the edges. When the smoke and debris had cleared an entire section of the sea wall, wider than either of the shipping channels, was reduced to burning wood and twisted metal. The greatest monument of Ro irreparably damaged in one moment of fire and noise.
The Wave Runner crested a rising swell as the shock wave reached them, flowing under the fleet as a breaking ripple. Bells were rung and the fleet redeployed, narrowing their formation to funnel into the king’s dock.
‘Give me some speed,’ ordered Xander.
Brennan shouted orders and men scrambled to their places in the rigging, pulling ropes and unfurling sails, making the ship lurch towards the ruined sea wall. The ships behind followed suit and the fleet accelerated to ramming speed. Gwen held on to a taut rope as they approached the smoking ruin. The wood was burned to the water-line and their ram cleared any debris with ease, until they breached the wall and entered the king’s dock.
This was her first close-up sight of Ro Tiris. It was huge compared with Haran, and sat behind high walls of grey stone and acres of wooden docks. The battlements above the main gate swarmed with watchmen and hundreds more ran from Northwind Bay, clattering across wooden platforms to a long barricade. The channel defences had been turned and the catapults now pointed towards the harbour. They were well out of range, but still their crews loaded and fired. Boulders splashed harmlessly into the bay as the rest of their ships passed the collapsing sea wall and into the huge harbour beyond.
‘So far, so good, general,’ shouted Brennan. ‘Just walls and men to deal with now.’
