by David Welch
“You want to laugh at my boys, you better be ready to deal with me!” Gunnar roared. “Standing up there with your bows, don’t got the stones between your legs to come down and laugh in our faces! Well, understand this: I can crush your skull in battle or slit your throat while you sleep! I’ve done both, and I’m not above making an example out of you! You wanna fuck with my men, you’re fucking with me!”
“Hold,” said a familiar voice. Thoam approached the archers from the right, speaking directly to the teenager. The boy relented, removing the arrow and unstringing his bow. The archers moved along down the palisade, and Thoam stared down at Gunnar.
“It’s getting close to winter. Not much for them to do,” he said simply. “Continue.”
Gunnar turned back to his men, who had crossed halfway to the wall.
“Okay, back in ranks! Another hundred, get going!”
***
Five hours later, the men filed back into town, groaning and exhausted. They dispersed off to their houses. Gunnar entered last, making sure they all made it in. When he approached the southern gate, he saw Thoam leaning against the side of the vast doorway.
“Walk with me?” he asked in Trade Tongue.
“Sure,” Gunnar replied.
They headed up the hill, through the various buildings. They made their way towards the keep, Thoam leading the way.
“I’ve seen your technique before,” Thoam started, “in the Kingdoms. The men start out fearful and incompetent and end up respecting you and slaughtering their enemies.”
“It’s how I was taught,” Gunnar said with a shrug. “Works well on raw recruits.”
“Raw? These men have been spearmen for years,” Thoam countered.
“They may have carried spears, but they weren’t spearmen,” Gunnar replied.
They approached the top of the hill, entering the palisade surrounding the great hall and its tall, wooden keep.
“If you feel it’s necessary, then you may continue on. But, as War Chief, I feel you should know what these men will be facing,” Thoam said.
They walked through the hall. At the long table near its far end, Thoam stopped and rolled up the vellum map waiting there. He motioned for Gunnar to follow. They moved into the keep, ascending a spiral staircase. They passed the mayor’s home on the bottom floor, then the weapons stores, emergency provisions, and finally they came to the roof. Fifty feet high, the keep stood atop the hundred-foot height on which Aguaiadain had been built. A broad view, many miles in every direction, opened before them. Decent-sized lakes flanked the hill, their shores fringed with trees to separate them from the cleared farmland. The whole village and hill sat on a strip of land between the two lakes that was maybe five hundred yards wide. Vast forests rose up a few miles from the town, then seemed to stretch endlessly, undulating here and there as small hills and ridges pushed the trees skywards. It was a good view, but Gunnar felt a little jaded. After spending his youth scrambling up peaks twenty times this height, and staring out onto jagged rock and stately pines, there wasn’t much that really awed him anymore.
“There,” said Thoam, pointing to the southeast. “They’ll come from that direction.” Gunnar saw only forest, but he nodded along. “Bailor,” Thoam said, his voice emotionless. “Northernmost of the kingdoms on the Great Freshwater Seas, only one on the shores of the Great Sea of Winds.”
“I’ve heard your people don’t get along,” said Gunnar.
A slight smile formed on Thoam’s face.
“No.” He took a deep breath, sighed, and continued. “They have lots of metal, the Bailor. In the north of their kingdom are mountains shot through with iron. The mountains continue north of their lands, into the territory of the Cataraug people. They have even more iron, and the Bailor let them keep their freedom so long as they sell all that iron to them and none to us. The Bailor make the iron into steel and cover themselves in it.” He paused, deep in thought, then said, “Hold on.”
He disappeared into the keep, re-emerging three minutes later with an armored hauberk. He handed it to Gunnar, who looked it over. It had a faint similarity to his own brigandine armor; it used small, metal plates to cover the body, but, unlike his armor, the plates overlapped. Where they overlapped, holes had been punched in the metal and leather thongs slid through. The effect was to pull the plates together into a rigid wall of metal.
“They call it ‘lamellar’,” Thoam said. “That’s the only piece of captured armor we haven’t melted down. We use it to instruct the archers.”
Gunnar noted that two holes had been punched clean through the front of the hauberk. Whoever had worn it had fallen victim to the Duahr and their longbows.
He fingered one of the holes and said, “I can see why they don’t want you getting metal.”
“It’s all cyclical,” Thoam said. “In the time of our grandfathers’ grandfathers, they first attacked us, and we fell back. Dozens of eastern villages were burned, never to be recovered. We’d always used the bow trees for shortbows, for hunting. One of our men realized that a longbow, cut from where the heartwood meets the sapwood, could fire arrows at incredible speed with incredible power. The stories say it took years to master them and build up the strength, but eventually we did, and we started shooting down the Bailor like the dogs they are.” Gunnar put the armor down. “Which is why they used their power to cut off our supply of iron. All we get either comes from caravans off the plains or smugglers willing to risk the Bailor’s wrath. It all goes into arrowheads and spears.”
“So why do you need me to train the spearmen? You’ve survived this long,” Gunnar probed.
“They’ve gotten smarter,” Thoam sneered. “The Bailor didn’t come last year when it was warm and the undergrowth hides our men. They came in early spring, just before planting season, trekking through the mud and snow. They knew our men would be easy to see sneaking through the trees without all the bushes and undergrowth to conceal them.” He paused and looked southeast again. “We weren’t always the southernmost village of the Duahr. Up until last year, there was another, two hour’s ride southeast: Nekrador. Then, the Bailor sent an army, and they force-marched right up to the gates. We’ve always been able to kill enough, picking them off from the woods, to fatally weaken them. But this time they could see us, and they knew to put up their shields and move as one. Our bows can penetrate wooden shields, sometimes with enough force to kill, but not always. I fought with the people of Nekrador, our whole village did, but we couldn’t shoot enough of them, not quickly enough, and when they reached the pastures and farms around Nekrador, the town was doomed.” The man’s fist closed hard and smacked the crenellated wall collaring the keep’s flat roof. “We can hit from two hundred yards,” he declared.
Gunnar’s eyes widened, impressed. He’d maybe made a single one-hundred-yard shot with a shortbow in his entire life.
“But in the miles of open country around each town, we were at a disadvantage. They formed a ring around the town, just out of bowshot, and starved it out. When we tried to approach in the open and get a shot, they’d send horsemen with swords and lances to cut us down. We killed many of them, but never enough. They’d get in and kill our men as they ran for the woods, but when we stayed in the woods, we weren’t able to shoot our enemies or help the villagers trapped inside.”
Another sigh, another strike of his fist against the hard wood.
“We started sending men out on horses as bait. They’d dismount, fire one arrow, get back on their horse, and ride for the woods. I’d have men lined up in groups, told them to fire arcing volleys. Not something they normally do, but we do practice it. Killed dozens of cavalry, but eventually they caught on and stopped chasing us.
“Finally, the people inside the town grew too weak from hunger to draw a bow, or put up any fight. The Bailor put up ladders, stormed the town. They drove all the people out, separating the men from the women. They set fire to the town, then…”
Thoam fought rising anger, breathing de
ep to control himself. The man’s calm façade nearly broke, but he held.
“They raped the women, time and time again, their whole force. In front of their fathers and husbands, who they made watch at swordpoint. They killed the old women and young children, anybody who wouldn’t be able to walk on their own. Then they tied leather straps around their necks: leashes! They led them off like dogs!” Gunnar bowed his head in sympathy but said nothing. “Finally, they cut the hands off the men, the right hands. The one you use to draw a bow. They bled to death on the ground in front of their village. The bastards stabbed our men in the hearts with their swords and spears, just to make sure nobody survived. Then, they staked the bodies to the ground, through the chests, so anybody who came upon the place would see their corpses being torn apart by coyotes and vultures.”
The war chief looked off into the distance, toward the lost village, for a long while.
“That’s why I need spears,” he said. “When we fired as a volley on their cavalry, they died like ants beneath a boot. I want to meet them in open battle, and I need spears to hold them in place.” Thoam smacked an open palm against his fist. “The spears will hold the front, and we will rain steel on those men behind and kill them all. The men you train will be the anvil, and our archers the hammer.”
Gunnar nodded his understanding.
“Sound plan,” he said. “But I’ll need a few things.”
“I heard you ranting about the shields,” Thoam said. “Our carpenters should be able to make the big oak ones you want. It’ll give them something to do over the winter.”
“Good,” Gunnar said, picking up the lamellar hauberk. “But your men will still need some sort of armor.”
He stared at the hauberk for a long moment, an image of his ‘test’ flashing through his mind’s eye. He remembered the innkeeper in the corner of the hall during his fight with Frad, selling drinking horns full of liquor.
“Do you have horn?” Gunnar asked, a smile crossing his face.
“Horn? Plenty of it,” Thoam said, motioning to the herds of hairy, long-horned cattle that milled about in the distance. “Why?”
“I have an idea.”
***
“What is it?” Noke asked.
Gunnar dropped a corselet on his table. The tanner and hornsmith had worked all day on it, but they’d finished.
“Lamellar armor,” Gunnar replied.
It bore no metal, but it was armor all the same. They’d started with a simple leather tunic, running from knee to shoulder then down the elbow. They, they’d started boiling. Boiling horn so it would soften and shape, and boiling large pieces of cow leather so it would harden and shrink. The tanner had chopped the boiled leather into squares, then gone down the road to get similar-sized squares of horn that the hornsmith had prepared, so the two could be joined into one armored scale. Then, the blacksmith had come in and punched holes through horn, leather, and tunic alike. Mimicking the metal pieces of the captured armor, they had threaded leather thongs through their leather/horn scales, overlapping them and forming row after row.
And the rows covered everything. The only breaks, where the underlying leather tunic was exposed, were on the shoulders and around the waist. The sides and front of the armor had been slit from knee to the waist, to allow movement.
Noke rapped his knuckles against the horn scales. The lamellar held stiff.
“Not as good as metal,” Gunnar conceded. “But it should turn a blow and withstand a few hacks from a sword.”
Noke picked up the armor and fumbled to pull it on. It barely fit over his broad back and shoulders.
“It’s heavy!” he said, genuinely surprised.
Gunnar smiled and watched the man grab a kitchen knife and stab at the armor. Kamith walked into the house with a sack of bread from the baker, pausing to watch Noke’s battle with himself, a confused expression crossing her face. The archer’s stabs and swings were wild, like hers had been just a few weeks earlier. He was clearly not a man who got into a lot of fights.
“Armor without metal,” Gunnar said to his lover, motioning at Noke. “So the spearmen don’t get chopped to bits.”
Kamith nodded, dropping the food on the table. Eugen came and gathered it up, then took Kamith by the hand and led her to the hearth. She’d been cooking with Kamith, who really hadn’t had time to actually prepare food in their months of travel. Gunnar smiled as they stuffed bread into the chicken they were preparing to spit roast. Gunnar felt a flush of warmth and turned back to Noke. He was wrangling out of the lamellar with great effort. The armor fell to the table with a loud thud.
“Well, that is neat,” he beamed. “Not sure I’ll need it, being an archer and all, but damned if it won’t come in handy.”
“Glad you agree,” said Gunnar.
***
Snow crunched under his feet. Two weeks had passed, and all of the men stood before him with their new shields. The carpenters had glued together long, oak boards, shaping the result into a long oval a few inches thicker in the middle than on either end. Rawhide had been stretched over the shields then wrapped around the edge to protect wood from splintering under a blow. The hides had been attached with glue and small metal pins, which the mayor had grimaced over using. But Thoam had won out, and the shields had been made. Wolf heads had been painted across the front of the shields. Noke had explained to him that ‘Duahr’ literally meant ‘wolf’ in the Duahr language, so it had seemed fitting.
Gunnar looked out on his wolves. Only a half-dozen horn-lamellar coats had been made so far. He’d given one to Aled, who stood at his side. He’d made the big man his second-in-command a few days ago, after picking out men to lead squads of ten spearmen. They stood in those squads now, a long line in front of him.
“You are holding large shields! Today, you will begin to learn how to use them,” he shouted. “First thing you need to know: your shield is a weapon! It is not just a piece of wood you use to block swords and arrows; it’s a gods-damned ram, and you’re going to learn to slam it into your enemies’ faces!” Silence. The murmurs and whispers had ceased days ago. “And you will learn to turn one-hundred-odd men into one fearsome beast of metal and wood!” They looked at him uneasily. “Form your ranks!”
The men did, scrambling about until each squad was two men deep and five wide.
“Now, lift your spears above your heads. Find the leftmost man in your rank! That man is to remain where he is. Everybody else is to take one half-step left!”
The men did, their shields clanking against each other. Gunnar half-smiled at the confusion.
“Your shield should overlap the man to your left by several inches at least!” he declared, walking up and down the line.
The men settled in, their shields overlapping, forming a long shield wall across the field. They instinctively moved their spears forward, above their shields and pointing downwards. A hedge of blunted points faced Gunnar. The half-smile grew to a full one.
“This is a shield wall!” he declared, walking up next to the men. He grabbed the nearest shield and pulled. It lurched forward an inch then stopped as the shield of the man to his left resisted. Gunnar then pushed it, but the shield on the right held him firm.
“Banded together like this, you will not be moved! Nothing short of a charging bison will mow you down! You are a wall, and walls do not break! They may flex, they may bend, but they never break! The Bailor will charge you and fall back on their asses, where you will stab them and kill them!”
One of his men roared his support. The others stayed silent, waiting to see how Gunnar would react.
“Exactly right!” Gunnar declared.
More shouts. They had just died down when a yell came from the wall behind him.
“You think that’s gonna stop a Bailor sword?” an archer shouted, the same fool Gunnar had knocked over. “You think wood is gonna stop heavy steel? You’re dumber than you look!”
Gunnar smiled and pulled his sword. Without a word, he stalked forw
ard and swung a heavy, two-handed blow against the face of the nearest shield. The poor man holding it went white with surprise as the blade hacked into the rawhide and then into the wood.
The shield held. Gunnar pulled his sword away, flicking bits of leather and dust from the blade. A shallow cut, not even a tenth of an inch deep, lay across the shield. Gunnar turned back to the youth.
“Next time, know what you’re talking about before you open that ugly mouth of yours!”
The spearmen cheered. The youth scowled and skulked away, down the wall. Gunnar spun back to his men.
“That’s enough! What are you cheering about? You have three hundred stabs to give me!”
No groans came, though many eyes did try to stare holes in Gunnar. He ignored it, picked up his own spear, and joined his men in the exercise.
***
The day before winter solstice, Kamith stood on the palisade, watching the town. Inside, the village folk bustled about preparing for the next day’s feast. Outside, the dark of the winter cast a pall over everything. The distant sun seemed to never quite get to its zenith, leaving the skies above gray and the world below blanketed in white.
She watched as Gunnar ran with his spearmen, churning through eight inches of snow as they circuited the palisade. This was their third loop, the men trotting on just shy of a jogger’s pace. Nearly a third of them had armor now, and they lagged near the back under the weight of their gear. But they kept going, never straggling.
“You may not be the best warriors, but you damn well will be in better shape than any other! You win by fighting harder and longer than you enemy!” Gunnar yelled as he ran, also in full armor and shield. “Technique is for showing off to the ladies! Lungs and legs win wars!”
They jogged past her, out of earshot. She watched her man go until he disappeared around the curve of the wall, then moved in the opposite direction, down the allure. The deep cold of winter didn’t bother her. She’d bought one of the thick, long, woolen sweaters that the people wore. It ran to her knees, almost a dress, but she still wore leather pants and boots. She’d brought a knit scarf and winter hat as well, just as warm and thick as the sweaters. The bowmen had given her a pair of deer-skin gloves, as she wouldn’t be able to draw her bow or pull her sword in the mittens that were so popular amongst the women of town. The gloves weren’t very warm, though, so she wrapped her arms around herself and balled her fingers.
