The Queen of the Draugr: Stories of the Nine Worlds (Thief of Midgard - a dark fantasy action adventure Book 2)

by Alaric Longward

  “You’ll lead them there?” he asked, and drew his sword.

  I hefted my sword and left the cumbersome shield on the walls. “I will. Get ready. If I fall, trust Quiss with the plan, if there is an opportunity for it. She knows it, the dverger as well. The dverger will take their orders from her. Trust her.”

  “She’s pretty enough to make a man jump off a cliff,” he said wistfully. “I don’t have to trust her. I’ll just obey.”

  I snorted, and we watched as the enemy marched for the gate. Stones kept raining down on the city, and the breaking sound of the houses and masonry was disconcerting, like gigantic bones being brutally broken, each one a loss to the people on the walls.

  “No fire shots?” the Sergeant rumbled. “They are in a hurry. Don’t want to wait until it burns.”

  “As we thought,” I responded, feeling animal-like fear, as the ranks of shields came closer and filled the gate like an avalanche of metal. They were chanting; we could hear that now. It was a marching chant, half a song, and what their story was, their past, their dreams and wishes, we could not concern ourselves with. We only knew they were armed head to foot, and their shields looked like a wall of death, and they wanted to put us all down to our graves. “How many do you think we can let in?” I asked.

  “Thousand,” he said unkindly. “The rabble will be lucky to handle that.”

  “Two,” I told him. “It’s doable.”

  “Not with them,” he muttered. “But, yes, two, since there will be the others as well. Maybe two. No more.”

  We waited, as the enemy legions stopped just before the gate. Riders left the enemy legion, some dozens rushing through the gates, swords and spears at the ready, heads going left and right. They were heavily armored, their horses had tassels of red and yellow twirling, and more martial look you could not find in the North, since the Brother Knights were nearly all dead. The riders passed the gate, always looking cautiously around the streets and corners. Hopefully, they thought we had abandoned the first wall, due to lack of troops. That we were fighting at all, was probably an uncomfortable surprise to them, since they had been promised an easy victory, a city full of loot, slaves, and not a drop of their own blood spilled. One of the dverger ran up to me, pulling at my sleeve.

  “What is it?” I asked him.

  “They won’t get in below, King,” he panted. “We fixed what our dead kin had dismantled. Just in time, too. The legionnaires tried the tunnels they were supposed to use. Lost a hundred to traps, and then, the ceilings fell on another twenty. They’ll be all coming through here, unless they find the tunnels far away. It’s not likely.”

  “They’ll all come through here,” I told him, nodded, and he grinned, his bone white face and wide chin trembling with bloodlust as he left.

  Thank Odin for the short warriors.

  Though, I reminded myself, they were sent here by Hel originally.

  The thought made me chuckle, as I watched the enemy scout the city. The riders dispersed to all directions in twos. Some rode hard for the harbor, clattering through the near empty streets. Occasionally, they spotted some fools who had stayed in the city, and chased them. An old, cancerous man was shrieking and running, and a Hammer Legionnaire rode him down, hacking brutally with his hammer, leaving the first red stain of that day on the pavements. There was a chilling silence at the sight, but it didn’t last for long. Then, northern anger rippled through the people in the walls. They mocked the riders with terrible slurs.

  “Steady!” I yelled. One legionnaire raised his spear at us, riding like mad past the walls, spitting insults back, headed for the harbor, but it was not to be. A keen Mad Watch man aimed a dverg scorpion, a javelin flinger of terrible power, and the weapon spat two torso length missiles after him.

  One missile missed with an eerie sound, and the man laughed at us, at the danger, his horse whinnying wildly, and then he shirked, as his horse was pierced so brutally it catapulted forward a dozen feet to land on its side and rolled into a cabbage garden. The man was left there, unmoving. There was a huge cheer along the wall, which faded when the gateway filled with shields. The enemy entered the city, and the battle truly began.

  A One Eyed Priest led them, the leader of the Legion, the King of Kellior Naur, his horned helmet ominous, and the red robes making him stand out like a king amongst jesters.

  Officers and flags followed them, and then, the dark mass of enemy soldiers came on, looking up at the gatehouse and the empty and lifeless murder holes. The One Eyed Priest hovered right, and pointed a finger to the stairs up to the gateway. Men, dozens, charged that way, and many others to the left. The main troop kept marching in, a hundred, then two, and men broke off to kick in doorways. Many surged inside to see they were unoccupied. A dog barked angrily, then whined, and died. The creaking of wood, the heavy trump of feet echoed in the city as we waited. On the wall, squads of men on catapults aimed the weapons, some manned with but two soldiers, and civilians were carrying ammunition.

  Five, then six hundred enemies entered.

  The enemy soldiers filled the main road, the alleys as well, and streamed for us. Some were staring over their shield rims, probably praying, because they knew they’d have to face deadly missiles, but their brave officers barked odd, high pitched orders, and on they came, without faltering. They had done it before, they thought they would do it many times after.

  Thousand, then few hundred more entered. Ragga was counting them.

  I nodded at a man in our gatehouse, who nodded back, and barked an order. They began to lift our portcullis below. I heard men move nervously amidst the three thousand waiting for me, encouraging each other, and knew many would shit themselves, as they saw the wall of death coming for them up the street. The portcullis was up, and then, the gates were heaved open. The enemy officers were yelling orders, as they saw the gates swinging open, and the spears of the enemy rattled, as they took more cautious steps up the street, eyeing the mass of armed people behind the gate. I looked at the Sergeant. “If I die, fight well.”

  “You told me already. Kill them, and get back here,” he said, and shook my arm in a soldier’s grip. “And look out for that bastard.” He pointed a finger at the red-robed king, sitting near the gate, looking up at us amidst his marching troops.

  “You are now a captain,” I told him.

  “Thank you, but I’d like to die a general,” he laughed. “Thank you, Lord, anyway. Time’s up, and you must go.”

  There were now nearly one thousand five hundred troops in the city, marching up the road and small alleys, all aiming for the wall and our gate. I could see tall ladders amidst the troops, carried by strong, well trained warriors.

  I prayed to Odin, wished for the best, and ran down. “Do it,” I yelled at the newly made Captain.

  “Sound the horn!” I heard him scream.

  A silvery horn of great girth was blown on the wall. It made a thrilling sound, three times, and then the catapults and ballista fired. A thrumming sound echoed. Screams to fix the aim were uttered, and some were celebrating success. The packed enemy would be hard to miss. Somewhere, another house crumbled, but the enemy was no longer firing.

  I reached the yard. The huge-eyed men and women lifted their weapons in salute at me, and I nodded back at them. They were all shaking with terror. The old soldiers amidst them alone looked confident, though not one of them were untouched by fear.

  “Ready?” I asked them.

  “Yes, by Dagnar!” yelled a man, another agreed, and I prayed to the gods. I rushed through the gateway, past the doors at the head of the troop I intended to lead down to battle. They enveloped me, holding shields up, guarding me and each other, as best they could, with no real training. Far below, I saw the gateway where the enemy milled. There were many at the walls near the first gateway, looking our way, but I doubted they had any reason to be in the gatehouse itself.

  And that was where we had hidden ten strong men, in a hastily built trapdoor on the roof.

&
nbsp; And yet, despite the horn blowing the note which was supposed to push those men into action, nothing happened.

  I hesitated, and decided I had a job to do anyway. I turned to the milling troops, lifted my sword high, and grinned at them like a dead man would, brave and slightly mad. “At them, at them! Do not fear them! They live and breathe, like you. Make them stop doing so!” I yelled, and together we rushed forward.

  Down the street, the enemy army was shaking into column, bristling with spears, now two thousand strong, and our siege weapons rained death at them. Heavy stones struck their ranks, rolling and bouncing over the shields and helmets, breaking armored men in the tight press slowly moving towards us. Huge javelins struck men down with fierce force, impaling many at the same time, leaving split shields and flowing guts in their wake, and holes which filled nearly immediately.

  I heard our artillerymen shrieking orders, excited like children, the Mad Guard veterans making their best effort to harass their enemy to tears. Dozens of the foe fell, and I saw how a golden crested officer disappeared under a bouncing stone, making a whole company of the enemy flinch and take a step away, though only until their captains and sergeants had them moving again. They came on, loping over dozens of their broken ones, up the street. We rushed down, an irregular, foolish mass of three thousand fanatical men and women, and I was at their head. We had no solid shield wall, no grand tactics; we made war the old way, and many would pay the price for that. The artillery shot one more time at the ranks before us, bringing bone-breaking ruin to a rank of enemy soldiers. Despite our bravery and limited success with the artillery, I cursed since the First Tier gateway remained open.

  I begged the gods Quiss would lead what remained, because we were all doomed, if that gate didn’t close.

  The horn on our walls blared again, demanding attention. It rung thrice, and then, finally, the men hidden in the distant gatehouse did what they had been told to do.

  The portcullis crashed down, impaling some Hammer legionnaires.

  The enemy warriors on the wall turned in shock, and scurried to look down, then ran for the gatehouse, confused since they had just checked it. They charged inside, but if the men had done their job, the damage could not be fixed, and the steel grill would stay down until broken in pieces. The men were masons, and knew how to immobilize a gate. Some were warriors, who would buy them time to make sure the gate would not open, and I saw several enemies fall dead by arrows and spears on the doorway, one rolling and falling from the wall.

  The enemy swirling before us cast surprised looks behind them.

  Then, I had no more time to think. We were very close, roaring at the enemy faces, even I, though I had not realized it.

  The enemy ranks closed up. Spears rippled towards us, and it felt like we were charging a gigantic porcupine. Their eyes were glittering fearfully under their helmets. The shields were banging together, their officers roaring encouragements, and then, we struck them in a tangle of steel and flesh.

  Three thousand men and women bowled over the first enemy ranks, a hundred or so falling to the spears. The rest bravely broke and stumbled into the midst of the enemy formation. There was no discipline to the attack, just proud and terribly mad people, fighting together for their lives and homes, and not one showed their fear. They had no time to think of anything, other than slaying.

  I was spared the spears, though two men at my side died. I thought my luck had been spent many times over as I crashed into a solid mass of men. My sword rang with hits. I felt weapons striking my helmet, followed by more on my pauldrons, one sword scraping my helmet, and I brought my sword down savagely in the terrible press. I caught a glimpse of a bloodied helmet as a man fell, gulping for breath desperately. I tried to keep the huge sword high, bringing it down when I could, the dverg steel doing horrible damage, even when the arms that held it had little strength or room to swing properly.

  I was in a river of weapons, armor, and meat, being swept forward, with little control over my life, except to make sure I lifted my feet high over the corpses, and kept the sword high, and hacked down. I killed one more man, then wounded another. I was carried on by the rush, constantly crushed against ranks of foe, occasionally bumping into a horse of an officer, still hacking down. I was on my knees once, before someone pulled me up.

  All around us, shields broke, flesh was carved, men and women died and fell, to be trampled in a merciless process of death. A young man was ripping at a Hammer officer’s throat with a dagger, an arrow in his chest. A woman fell, impaled by three spears. A massive mason killed a tall, thick Hammer officer on his horse, ripping his arm off with a wicked, sharpened hook. The enemy troops regrouped, but our mad, impetuous charge, the downhill tumble, and pure despair slowly pushed them back, and back some more. On the sides, in the alleys, men and women tried to break through to the Hammer flanks, fighting with the enemy there as well. The enemy took steps back, leaving behind hundreds of dead and wounded for us to stumble over, unable to stop us. Yet, they did it with seemingly well planned maneuvers, steadily, taking our raging hits stoically, blooding us for each foot of the street gained. So we soldiered on, and bled like slaughter animals, and like a miracle, climbing over trashing and still bodies, the gate suddenly loomed very close.

  And that was where the tide turned.

  The enemy King screamed, officers stood under the gate, Minotaur banners high.

  There, well over one thousand of the enemy bunched up and began surging back, while many struggled to raise the portcullis.

  We were gritting our teeth, as we hit that thick wall. Spears killed a dozen around me, and more where I could not see them. More spears stabbed over the shoulders of the first rank, but we valiantly crushed into the foe once again, sacrificing lives to get to the range to kill them. We had fought for long minutes, trusting in our mass, our rage, but now, you could feel the change.

  We were spent, and the enemy was not.

  They could see it as well.

  The enemy were yelling encouragements to each other under their shields, cursing, promising us death. We were raining blows on a wall of shields, we hacked and tore at the enemy, but they held, like a wall of iron. On the sides, some of the enemy were aggressively slaying, forcing our people back.

  I kept killing, hollering incoherently, not really sure of what I was spewing out of my mouth. The words might have been curses, or prayers. With those efforts, my superior, terribly sharp weapon, the barely shackled jotun’s power, held us there, fighting. Bodies piled up before me, my armor saved my life a dozen times. An enemy officer, with a long crest, broke through to fight me, and I killed him with a huge swing of the sword, heartening our troops as the man fell back on his men’s shields, a broken thing.

  “Fiiiiight!” I screamed. “Fiiiight!”

  Then, I saw the One Eyed Priest, the King on his horse.

  He was close to the first rank, braiding together a spell, holding power in his hands, keeping it steady in his gnarled fists. Clearly, he decided he had to brave a show of power, and then, he released that power with a mocking, dry laughter of the draugr.

  Fire rained down on us.

  It started with small, tiny fireballs, followed by a high-pitched sizzling noise, but suddenly, the air above us was filled with death, and the fireballs were no longer tiny, but fierce and deadly. I grabbed a shield, and fell down under it, as the conflagration struck flesh and stone. A cacophony of death rose to horrendous pitch, as the spell was killing people, indiscriminately. A molten ball of magic rolled by, and a pair of men fell in fiery heaps behind, their cloths burning fiercely. One woman’s head was a ball of flames, which she tried smother with her hands while on her knees. The volley of fire stopped, and as two men tore me back to our remaining ranks, I saw the enemy was advancing, though slowly. Hundreds had fallen into burning pyres in the street, dozens of the enemy as well. What remained, was shocked and disorganized, and the enemy wasn’t much better off. Behind me, people were retreating, some even runnin
g.

  Worse, the enemy King, giggling madly, heaving with laughter, was braiding together another spell. His men were staring at him in open-mouthed shock, having never seen something like the death the King had just reaped.

  I was dragged back, and of the thousand and half who still lived, I knew very many would fall to the spell which was being prepared. The enemy army charged, we yelled a ragged scream of defiance as we retreated, all eyes on the horned figure, waiting in terror for what would follow. I struck down wildly in the melee, at the companies of legionnaires which surged deep into our ranks. A hammer struck my helmet, another my chest, but the rage and despair took me, and I ignored the stinging pain. The mighty sword caved in a head, then took an arm. I broke a shield, shattered an arm. An officer, who stabbed at my side, caught an arrow in his face. He fell back, his face red, squirting blood.

  The enemy flowed around me by now, hoping to find easier prey, but I’d not be spared long.

  The One Eyed Priest finally let go with a spell, and I felt icy cold wind whip up the street, and knew the spell would tear the heart out of the remaining army. They would die.

  I would die.

  I felt stinging pain, I could hardly breathe, as the air turned deathly cold, but then, finally, Ragga decided it was time to change our fortunes. The horn on the second wall rang out four times, clear and demanding, desperate, and our final—and best—card came to play.

  In the form of a sturdy force of dverger.

  Out of the half-shattered house near the gate, a hole opened up from the Old City. Three hundred of our five hundred strong force of dverger blazed forward, having patiently waited to surprise the enemy. Now, their savagery rained down on the enemy, with ax, sword, and spear, and spells.