The Great Pagan Army

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Get my cup,” Bjorn told one.

  That berserk hurried away.

  “We must sacrifice to Odin,” Bjorn said.

  Heming knew he meant Willelda. Heming was, however, even drunker than the champion. He swayed, blinking, his eyesight blurry and his thoughts churning.

  “I will drink blood this night,” Bjorn said. “Then Odin will give me visions. Heming! Have you slain that woman like I told you?”

  Heming peered up at the stars. He remembered that night in the apple grove with his father, Ivar Hammerhand. He remembered the oath to his father, and that Ivar had swung in the Odin Tree. He had sworn to Odin to slay Bjorn for that.

  “Heming!”

  Heming unglued his lips and grinned fiercely. “I know how to win the city,” he slurred. “Odin has shown me in a dream.”

  Bjorn loomed before him. The small eyes in that strange, wide face, with that huge lower jaw, bored into him. “You lie in order to save your woman.”

  “I lie?” roared Heming. He spat onto Bjorn’s boots. “No one calls me a liar, not even you.”

  Bjorn clutched Heming by the throat. Heming fumbled for his dagger. Bjorn hurled him onto the ground. Heming sprang upright. Bjorn clouted him hard across the face, knocking him back down.

  “I am the master here!” roared Bjorn. “Who doubts that?”

  Heming rolled onto his feet, although he remained crouched. A dagger gleamed in his fist. He readied to hurl himself upon Bjorn.

  “What did Odin tell you?” Bjorn shouted drunkenly. “Hurry, speak!”

  The fog of Heming drunkenness and his rage at being struck made it hard for him to comprehend Bjorn’s words. He judged distances and wondered if he could plunge this knife into Bjorn’s throat before the other could draw his sword.

  “Tell me Odin’s words!” bellowed Bjorn.

  Slowly, Heming rose, swaying, the faces before him blurring into and out-of focus. A sly, drunken cunning came upon him. He remembered his father swinging in the Odin Tree. He remembered his oath to Ivar Hammerhand. “I know how to take the city,” he said.

  “Then tell us!” shouted Bjorn.

  “The walls,” Heming said. He laughed at the idea, at the simplicity of it.

  “What about the walls?” Bjorn said.

  Heming made a wavy motion with his hand. Then he stood back, waiting to see what Bjorn thought about his brilliant idea.

  “Odin’s plan has struck him dumb,” said a berserk, not in jest, but in seriousness. The others nodded.

  “Heming,” Bjorn said, reaching out, squeezing Heming’s shoulder. “Speak to us the plan.”

  Heming made the same wavy motion with his hand. “Up and over the walls,” he slurred. “Don’t you see?”

  “See what?” Bjorn said, growing angry again. “We’ve tried that many times.”

  Heming shook his head, wondering how they could be so dense. It was perfect, and it would see Bjorn slain like the beast he was.

  “What? Speak!” roared Bjorn. “And wipe that silly grin off your face.”

  “At night,” Heming said, “just a few us. We slip over the walls, slay the guards and open the gate for the rest. Then the Great Host slays everyone.”

  “That’s no plan,” Bjorn said. “That’s madness.”

  Of course, Heming realized, knowing that if Sigfred accepted such a plan that Bjorn would have to lead it.

  ***

  Late that night Sigfred listened as Bjorn spoke of the plan. The huge berserk kept pointing at Heming. Heming didn’t think his plan so wise anymore. He was no longer quiet so drunk. He realized that not only would Bjorn go over the wall and die, but he would, too.

  “The Franks keep a sharp lookout for just what you suggest,” Sigfred said, scowling.

  Bjorn licked his lips, glancing at Heming.

  Heming bobbed his head, wanting to say that he quite agreed. But he realized that whatever punishment Sigfred inflicted on Bjorn, Bjorn would give double to him, and probably slay Willelda, too. “Odin knows that,” Heming said, just drunk enough to lie with conviction. “That is why he says to first march your men by those walls several nights in a row.”

  “Why?” Bjorn said.

  Sigfred lifted his black eyebrows, studying Heming. “Yes, clever,” said the Sea King. “The Franks will become used to seeing men there. After a week or more, the Franks will become bored of it, even when we’re near the walls. I should have thought of that myself. Then on a moonless night, with the Twelve painted black with charcoal, you throw up grappling ropes, climb into the Merchant Quarter and hurry to a gate and open it.” He gave Bjorn a mirthless grin. “I accept Odin’s plan. And since he gave it to you, you shall lead it and win the glory.” Sigfred smiled hugely, rising, clapping Bjorn on the shoulder. “Praise be to Odin and his berserks. Paris will finally be ours.”

  ***

  As much as Odo hated Abbot Ebolus, he refused to return to the divided defense of Paris that Gozlin had practiced while alive. Thus, Odo daily met with the abbot. Today they marched through the Church’s storehouses, deep in underground vaults, tallying the remaining hams, cheeses, wheat sacks and wine casks. Afterwards, Odo and Ebolus conferred in the nave of Saint Etienne, standing underneath an image of the praying Virgin Mary. Her eyes were shut in anguish, and Odo idly wondered what she thought about to cause her such pain. The abbot and he spoke about the possible length of the siege and the dwindling food stocks. Many had died to wounds and pestilence, but many more still devoured the long-horded stores.

  “Women, children and any man too old or weak for the walls will have his rations cut in half,” Odo said. “Any priest or monk who doesn’t swing a mace or throw a boulder will also go on half rations. I would put the soldiers on that, too, but they need full bellies to stand against Northmen. Vegetius is quite clear that starving men seldom make brave fighters. I quote: Famine makes greater havoc in an army than the enemy, and is more terrible than the sword.”

  Ebolus nodded slowly, by his features showing that he was unconvinced. “Most of the monks have already been eating less. The priests will find the rationing more difficult, however.”

  “Then let those swing a mace,” Odo said. “Doesn’t Scripture tell us, He who doesn’t work shouldn’t eat? I’ve simply modified it to he who would fight. Now, there are too few knights left. Many of those bear ugly wounds. Therefore, I will mingle more of your fighting priests and monks with the knights. At all costs, we must preserve the deadliest soldiers. The others must protect the knight. Those priests and monks who fight away will not return to the cloisters as they have been doing, but stay in the barracks or house with the knights and militiamen they’ve joined. They will fight together, live together and win or lose together. They must become a band of fighting brothers, led by the knights.”

  Ebolus became grave. “It is not only your generalship that has saved Paris, milord. God has also aided us. Without His grace we would all be dead.”

  “I have never doubted that,” Odo said stiffly.

  “We must pray, beseech Heaven through the saints and continue to maintain our vigil before the relics. That is the true task for the man of God.”

  “Your wounded will do all that,” Odo said.

  “Milord, we must give God our best, not our leftovers.”

  Odo fixed the abbot with a stern gaze. “Who is the best? I deem it the wounded monk who has given his body to defend others. Does not Scripture say to pray and fast? Doesn’t it also say that he who suffers is done with sin? The wounded man of God will be on half rations and his wounds will pain him. Thus, he fasts, at least in a sense, and his suffering helps him conqueror sin. Thus his prayers will be redoubled in effectiveness.”

  Ebolus stroked his chin. “If the situation were not so dire, milord, I might believe that to be flippant logic. Do you truly believe your own words?”

  Odo brushed that aside with a wave of his hand. “I am well aware of what you have done through prayer and parading the relics, and what the Bishop did
when he was alive. You give men hope. You have stirred their courage. You must continue to do so, but I need more fighting men. Pestilence and wounds have stolen too many. At all costs, we must defend the walls. Now with this new Danish trick of night-maneuvers, too few of my men get enough sleep.”

  Ebolus rubbed his chin, his eyes filled with worry. “What do the Northmen hope to achieve by this trick, milord? Do you know?”

  Odo shook his head. The night marches plagued him. He didn’t know the reason for it. For several nights now, he had been on the walkways, watching the Northmen gather into their host, torches crackling in the darkness. Bands of Danes ran near the wall, digging holes and throwing up embankments. They peppered the battlements with onager stones and arrows and raised a ruckus. It had made the soldiers of the Merchant Quarter edgy and afraid.

  “Vegetius speaks of night fighting,” Odo said. “It is a dangerous gamble. Darkness panics men, makes the simplest plan difficult.” He shook his head. “There is tricky afoot. That’s why I want a knight at every point on the wall. I want your men used to taking orders from the knights.”

  “Why not take men from South Town like you did before?”

  Odo smiled starkly. “I wonder if that is the trick, brother. Does Sigfred hope to fix my thoughts on the Merchant Quarter so he can slip warriors unseen into South Town? No. We will flesh out the defenders with your priests and monks, agreed?”

  Ebolus sighed. “My uncle would have never agreed. You know that, milord. And I do not like this new rationing, but… Yes. I agree. Paris is in your hands. Your plans make sense. Pray do not forget God in your calculations, for it is He who ultimately gives or withholds victory. It is He in the end who allowed you access to this secret book.”

  Odo gave a brusque nod and then marched out of the Church of Saint Etienne. He rubbed his eyes. He was so tired. His body ached for sleep. Yet there was so much to do. What was Sigfred’s plan with the night maneuvers? The Sea King was up to something. What?

  53.

  For two weeks, the Northmen maneuvered at night before the Merchant Quarter’s northern wall. Many Danes grumbled about it. It made them angry. More fights than usual broke out among them. Talk of lifting the siege grew louder. The Franks had taken to laughing and slinging filth at them. The Franks shouted insults from the battlements, asked them if this was a new Danish dance or if goblins had invested their camp and made them afraid to sleep at night. Once, a Viking band had flatly refused to march out. Sigfred spoke with the leader, took him into his plans.

  “Bjorn will go over the walls?” asked the chieftain.

  Sigfred nodded.

  The chieftain grinned. He had no love for Bjorn. “Yes, we will march then. I want to see what happens when the berserk falls into their hands.”

  At the end of the two weeks, the host did not marshal before the walls. Sigfred let the men stay in camp. Instead, select bands maintained the appearance of marshalling. They made a din of noise and launched many onager stones.

  “I have found,” Sigfred told his wizard, as they stood in the largest redoubt and several feet behind a thudding onager, “that a cunning man often outthinks himself. The Count will wonder what we’re doing, why so few of us parade before the walls. He will grow suspicious and soon think that we merely mean to tire out his men. That will be the moment for Bjorn to strike, the second night after they drop their guard.”

  “If you crawl near their wall,” said the wizard, “as I did last night, you’ll see that the Franks have grown bored with our demonstrations.”

  “Three more nights,” Sigfred said, “and then it is time to see if Odin indeed spoke to my berserks.”

  ***

  The berserks of Bjorn had grown grim. Each in turn had asked Heming if he was certain that Odin had spoken to him. It had turned Heming even more moody than before. He practiced with his she-troll, raced hard in the woods, regaining his wind as he forbad himself any drinks. Finally, the moonless night arrived. It was a witch-night filled with evil spirits and hidden trolls.

  The wizard came to them, offering a spell of protection. Bjorn nearly killed the Finn with the flat of his sword as he drove the wizard away. “Odin guards us!” shouted Bjorn. “We need no stinking spells! Tonight,” he told his Twelve, “we break the siege. Tonight, we bask in glory.”

  The berserks rubbed charcoal over their faces and limbs and painted their swords and axes lest they shine in torchlight. Each chose his darkest furs. Then they slunk to a small redoubt near the wall. It was far from the gate they planned to open. As they studied the wall in their sector, none saw a Frank lift his head over the battlement. Far down at the other end of the Merchant Quarter, two hundred Vikings lit torches and cranked their onagers.

  “Silence is our weapon,” rumbled Bjorn. “We must kill without sound. Now, follow close behind me.” Bjorn dropped to his belly and so did each of the berserks. They crawled out from behind the redoubt, and like snakes slithered toward Paris.

  Heming had his she-troll slung tightly against his back. He crawled nearest Bjorn. They crept through grass, as the wall loomed higher. Heming’s gut churned, and the need to fart became overwhelming. How had he been so stupid as to come up with a plan like this? Why hadn’t he slain Bjorn in his sleep? This wasn’t vengeance; this was suicide. Any moment he expected a Frank to stand up on the battlement and throw down a torch as javelin-throwers showered them with missiles.

  Without incident, however, they reached two siege ladders hidden under grass mats. A week and a half ago, Vikings had placed these here. Heming flung aside several mats, dared stand, and along with others picked up his ladder. He wanted to roar, to shout, anything to get rid of the fear that raced up and down his body. He found that he was trembling, and hoped that none of his brothers realized it. How could they remain so calm? Their faces were grim and determined. It felt as if his eyes boggled outward, trying to leap from their sockets. Their calm awed him. They marched in step with the ladders, two, huge wooden constructs, with six berserks to each.

  The wall towered over them, and still a Frank hadn’t peered down. It was amazing. Bjorn whispered instructions. This was the terrible moment. Heming grunted as he helped lift the ladder. As gently as possible, they set the giant ladder against the wall. Heming froze at the clack of wood against stone. Bjorn rushed past, climbing fast, with the rungs creaking at his weight. Heming awoke at that and followed hard on his heels. The familiar feel of rage now surged through Heming’s limbs. No Frank shouted. No rocks rained down. Then Heming scrambled over the battlement and saw why no Frank had given the alarm. Each man lay stretched out, asleep at his post. Bjorn plunged a dagger into a monk. Heming’s knife came out. He slew two men in their sleep, the sharp iron sliding in oh so easily. A knight in mail awoke and coughed an alarm as a berserk thrust a dagger deep into his throat.

  “Odin guides us,” Bjorn said in a strange and terrible whisper. He drew his sword and picked up a Frank’s shield. The Merchant Quarter spread out before them in the darkness. “Now follow me. Don’t get lost.”

  They hurried down a ladder. Heming jumped the last few feet. They were in Paris. Black houses loomed all around them. The lanes were almost pitch-black because the buildings blocked out the starlight. The lanes seemed like caves, except for torches and bonfires that flickered in the distance. From nearby, a pig grunted in its pen. A dog barked once and then grew quiet. It seemed magical that no one gave the alarm. Maybe Odin had given him the idea. That thrilled Heming. Surely, the others would look upon him with greater respect.

  “Hurry,” hissed Bjorn.

  Heming threw away his dagger and grabbed his she-troll. A fierce grin stretched his mouth.

  In the dark, with each man’s hand on his neighbor’s shoulder, the berserks moved down a narrow lane. Buildings towered on either side of them. Then a sleepy-eyed monk with a candle stepped out a door. He must have heard something. He raised the candle, squinting in their direction. What the flickering light revealed caused the monk to stumble bac
k against the house, his eyes wide. “D-Danes,” he said, trying to shout, only getting off a croak. Bjorn rushed the monk, hacking at his neck. The monk slid against the wall, dead, his candle falling beside him, the flame guttering out.

  “Faster,” Heming said, rushing past.

  “Wait, you fool,” hissed Bjorn.

  “Odin guides me,” Heming said, waving his she-troll. He no longer whispered, but spoke loudly as he broke into a trot, heading toward a bonfire that threw enough lurid light to guide him. The other berserks grinned, running after Heming. They came upon three men, knights it appeared. “For Odin!” roared Heming. He leaped to the attack, his axe swinging in a whistling arc. The thud of it against flesh made him howl with joy.

  “Northmen!” a man bellowed from the wall, lifting a torch. “Northmen are in the city!”

  All along the battlements, from on the walkways, Franks began to shout in alarm and fear. Many raised torches.

  Then Heming saw the gate. The bonfire roared beside it. Franks with shields and wearing mail stood around the fire. One of them cupped his hands and shouted up at a man on the walkway. The other berserks gathered around Heming. Bjorn took in the scene at a glance. His eyes glowed like a bear’s, or so it seemed.

  “Strike them down, brothers. Then guard Heming and me. We will unbar the gate. Ready?”

  “Odin!” shouted a berserk. The others roared with him. And with Bjorn in the lead, they charged. It was a short, brutal fight, with the clangor of iron and the heavy thuds of oak. Two of theirs died, with swords shoved into their bodies. The Franks lay in murdered heaps. Then the berserks formed a ring around Heming and Bjorn, facing outward.

  Heming gripped the huge cold bar that kept the gate closed, and he strained. Bjorn grunted at his side, and Bjorn’s wide face flushed crimson. Heming gritted his teeth. His muscles bunched. The iron bar was impossibly heavy. Yet the two of them lifted one end up an inch from its bracket. Then Heming’s hands grew slippery with sweat. He couldn’t keep his grip.