The Siege of Jorvinburgh

The night was still, around Jorvinburgh. The usual sounds that disturbed the otherwise peaceful calm of the night were absent. No crickets chirped. No wolves howled obnoxiously. Not that the absence of these things was a bad thing. Gods alone know it would have felt peaceful were it not for the knowledge of what this foreboding calm told. The calm before the storm was always the quietest. Standing along the walls of Jorvinburgh, Lord Pyrelig had waited vigilantly; anticipating the unmistakable ruckus that an invading force brings with it. He'dhad instructed his men to man their posts along the ramparts of the palisade.

He'd done all he could to prepare them for this day. He'd always known it would come. He told his men. Told his wife. Sometimes, he even told his dog when nobody else was willing to listen. They must have thought him a lunatic, he'd concluded to himself. Vindication didn't feel quite as satisfying as he hoped. No amount of justification prepares a mans stomach when they're on the verge of battle. His men would hold their own. They'd had some experience in the shield-wall. The benefits of having holdings along a border, he supposed. There were few other benefits to that.

'My Lord!' Cried a baby faced youth. One of the men in his service. A funny term, "man". The lad was barely old enough to forget the taste of his mother's milk. A good lad though, nevertheless. It was about time that he killed his first man. A siege would not yield much hope of that unless the King's forces were delayed in arriving. The last news he heard of King Brenjulf came from a messenger riding a few days ahead of him. He reported that the King was bringing a sizeable force ahead of reinforcements from Wræclas. If he didn't arrive in time, the boy would get to hear the bittersweet music of the sword song. To be overwhelmed by the battle madness. Perhaps it was for the best if the King was late. More fun for them.

'My Lord!' Came the call again, snapping Pyrelig out of his musings. He turned his head and regarded the approaching man. 'The scouts have returned. They report several burning villages to our east. Villages beyond our border'.

'How far did they go? Did they see anything of the enemy?' Replied Pyrelig.

'They saw some warbands pillaging due north of us, but only a small scattering of men. Maybe fifteen at best. They didn't see the bulk of the force together, but then they didn't get too close either'.

'The bastards are up to something', Pyrelig grumbled to himself, 'Cænred, there's a good chance they're going to try and encircle us and burn villages around us. They're probably hoping to coax us out entirely. Go and tell Lassen to get some horses and keep our western sector clear. See if they can't chase some of the warbands back east. Do it now, boy!'

As Cænred sped off to find Lassen, Pyrelig scanned the horizon. It was too dark to see anything, but he liked to feel like the act somehow gave him command of the situation. Maybe one day the gods would bless him with the ability to see long distances in the night, but until then this would have to do. He'd planned for this eventuality for a long time. Dreamt about it, in fact. It was his moment to shine now. To show the King the benefits of re-manning the burghs and keeping a standing army. It was all well and good declaring your kingdom at peace, but to assume the world was going to follow suit? That was suicidal!

Still, it was not the lack of preparedness that concerned him right at that moment. Villages burning beyond the border? Now that was curious. The scouts must have been mistaken, surely? Unless Åscator was being invaded itself and they weren't even facing an Åscatorian army? So much to consider. They had no spies in any kingdom. They had no idea what was happening beyond the confines of their own border. If they survived this battle, it would be worth investigating; or at least bringing up to the King.

It had been some time since he'd sent Lassen out with a handful of men. They could hardly spare the manpower, but securing their western border was far too important to ignore. If the King was coming then they needed to have a reasonably clear path to arrive. He had no idea what battle plan Brenjulf had in store, but it would be for nothing if they were waylaid by an ambush. Smoke rose from the west. Some small farmsteads were clearly burning. The pitch black sky was luminous with the evil blaze of the smoldering buildings. Lassen could only do so much. He appreciated that. Why was it always the innocent who suffered the most in war? Warriors fought warriors. Cowards fought peasants. Clearly this invading force wasn't wanting for cravens. The sound of distant screaming and burning timber overwhelmed the peaceful silence. This was it. The storm had begun. The calm was over. Soon, the air would be buzzing with the excitement of battle. He hoped that his preparations had been enough. the gods alone know he couldn't have done much more.

****

'Askladan, send your warband and secure our northern flank. Hagar line your men up behind them and form the rearguard.' Brenjulf began distributing his orders as best he could. Nobody questioned him. They received their orders and saw to their own men. Pretty soon there was a solidly built battle line. The reserve forces remained in the rear with the king. The southern flank began curving its formation around to worry at the southern flanks of the Åscatorians. It was a solid battle plan. Draw attention away from the burgh. Hold the shield wall while preventing encirclement and allow Pyrelig to form his own shield wall behind them. He'd thought about this tactic as being akin to a great anvil. The Åscatorians would be the metal ingot ready to be smithed and Pyrelig's men would be the mighty hammer ready to drive home into the softened surface of the enemy. He doubted he was the first one to make such a connection, but he liked to think of himself as a little profound all the same.

The enemy had begun to react to their movement. They split their ranks off to welcome to oncoming Ørkadian reinforcements. They had a sizeable force. They outnumbered the Ørkadians, though not by much. The numerical supremacy of the enemy would be rendered useless once Pyrelig's men attacked from the rear. The burgh itself looked to be in bad shape. Sections of the palisade were hacked into splinters or burning gently. There were arrows pierced into the wooden frames of the buildings within. On the rampart he could see more than a few corpses dangling over the side slight.y the first casualties of this battle. There was nothing Brenjulf could have done to prevent it, but he truly wished he could have.

Shield walls were formed on both sides. Askladan's forces began to press gently forward, encouraging the rest of army to precariously move their warbands forward too. The archers held back behind the Ørkadian lines. Somehow they would need to move on to the flanks once the battle had commenced. Had Kjartan been here, he'd have organised the archers better than he. Askladan had shared some of his insights on the matter, but admitted that he'd never used archers before.

'A shield wall's where real men should stand'. He'd boasted proudly. 'What goods a bow? Are we hunting rabbits?'

'Perhaps not, but the odds are stacked against us old friend'. Brenjulf had replied. 'We need every advantage.'

'Aye? Well if you ask me, we either need to draw the enemy to us, or keep them behind their shields long enough so we don't get cut down on approach. Problem is, they have archers too'.

In the end, they had concluded that they were doomed either way. They decided that the best course of action would be to advance on the Åscatorian lines while maintaining the shield wall. They hoped that the volley fire from the Åscatorian archers would be rendered ineffective this way. They had to act quick though. The problem being that shield-walls were anything but quick.

The Ørkadian line halted their movement a little bit ahead of the Åscatorian lines. They began hurling abuse and threats to their foe. It was typical shield-wall behaviour in truth, but it took courage, drunkenness, stupidity or a combination of the three to encourage men to charge forward. A slow process but they couldn't afford to be held on the back foot. They needed to meet the enemy with such ferocity that they'd be blind to all else.

'I hope you kissed your wives goodbye!' Came a cry from somewhere amongst the Ørkadian ranks.

'Don't worry, if you didn't. I'll soon be kissing her hello!' Joined in another.

'What's wrong? Afraid of fighting real men for once, you craven bastards?'

'See how these whoresons cower before us like frightened sheep?'

The exchange went on for some time. Each side questioning the others courage, manhood or even their sexual prowess. Dehumanising the man ahead of you played as much a part in the battle as actively killing him. In some ways, it made it easier. Easier to kill that man. Easier to be brave enough to approach him. The hunter does not baulk when he kills the deer after all. Brenjulf could see the courage of the men around him growing. Soon they would be ready to press forward. Soon they...

'Charge!' Came the cry. The right flank surged forward; shields down. Arrows lined the sky as they flew towards the shield-wall that was ploughing on ahead. Men fell and blood sprayed like mist in the air.

'By all the gods', cried Askladan loudly, 'Baelson! What is that fucking idiot doing?'

The aforementioned Lord had broken formation far too soon. Whether it was eagerness or fear he had thrown the well placed plan into disarray. there was nothing to it. Brenjulf gave the signal and the horns began to blow. Forward it was. The rest of the army moved forward with their shields up. The advantage of surprise was lost now. They had no choice.

"Gods, preserve us this day. Let us win and go home". Brenjulf thought to himself.

****

Baelson's heart was was beating rapidly. The sprint between the two lines would hardly be considered a marathon, but his overbearing equipment encumbered him greatly. His warband was the first to reach the Åscatorian lines. They were supported by volleys of arrows lessening their casualties, although a significant portion of their shield-wall was already dead. Shield smashed on shield as the two groups met and became locked in battle. The rancid smell of foul breath filled their nostrils. The screams of pain as men faltered in the shield wall and were hacked down pierced the chaotic sound of battle. It was a mess. A horrifying mess. Although Baelsons men were holding, they were severely outnumbered on both flanks. If the rest of the Ørkadian army did not arrive in time then they would be massacred.

He scanned the area ahead of him. He was matched up against a grim savage of a man. Wounds were cut across his face; fresh and old. His black, unkempt beard was streaked with grey hairs. His eyes were beady and deep set in his podgy face. His deathly glare was full of menace and hate. He wanted Baelson dead. More than he ever wanted anything in his life. More than his greatest sexual desires, he wanted that. It was all there in his eyes. A sudden warming sensation flowed through his body rising from his legs. A warm, wet feeling. The stench of piss rose to his nostrils and he knew he'd emptied his bladder in terror.

Another scream. An Ørkadian warrior stumbled as his legs were sliced beneath his shield. His enemy fell upon him and hacked at him with his ax. He Baelson's line was failing. They'd been torn to pieces by the better prepared Åscatorian shield-wall. They had barely even exacted a toll on their foe. Soon his own shield-wall would break and men would be running. Most would likely not get far. He had to do something, but what? He was no commander. Yet, here he was. in the centre of a shield-wall and very much in command. There was nothing to it. He had to regain the control of battle, or die trying.

The sound around him was muted. He could not hear the screams, nor the clashing of swords. He would not hear the dull thud as shield met shield. Suddenly, he was all to aware of his own existence. In that moment, he never felt so conscious of his own being. It was as though he'd been woken up from a long slumber. Perhaps that's what fear was. A dulling of the senses.

He didn't consider the philosophy of it in that moment. Instead, he let out a blood curdling scream of fury. His blood shot eyes were now focused on the man ahead of him. He gripped at the man's shield with the blade of a small ax, which hung from a small sheath on the front of his tunic. With it, he hacked at the Åscatorian warrior's shield and yanked forward. The man tumbled into Baelson's path as he lost his footing and was met with the sharp end of his blade. As the blade sank deep into the man's gut, Baelson pushed it further in, tearing through flesh and puncturing vital organs.

The man was dead within seconds. His weight fell upon Baelson who pushed him aside and began slicing his short sword left and right, feeling the resistance of muscle and cartilage on his sword. He pulled his blade clean through and carried on his attack. The surviving members of his warband saw their Lord pushing forward and, with a renewed sense of purpose, pushed against the might of the Åscatorians. They were with Baelson now, hacking and slicing as though the very might of Praias was possessing them. The battle madness had taken them. They were lost to the fray as their shield-wall rallied against the might of the enemy.

****

Brenjulf often considered himself unlucky, but the gods must truly have cursed him today. Now, his army was charging desperately towards the enemy to save Baelson from his the consequences of his own terror. The thundering of boots hitting the dry earth resonated around the field. They were running hard. The enemy was ahead and their arrows were singing through the air. Loud thuds and cracks could be heard as the charges met their mark. Some men fell. Not nearly as many as expected, thankfully. Their shields were raised high which negated the effectiveness of the Åscatorian's bows. They were close now. They could see the beady eyes of their foe, read the hateful intent in their faces. Soon they would be smashing upon their enemy like water on rocks. They had to strike with such a fury to compensate for Baelson's foolish charge. They needed some advantage to win. The southern flank of their army had pushed its warband around to shepherd their enemy around. Keeping their backs to Jorvinburgh at all times. They couldn't afford to lose the opportunity for Pyrelig to break out and catch them on the rear.

The swords sang their deadly tune as battle was met. The old warriors talked of this sound as though it was a merry tune, eagerly sought after as though a favourite ditty. There was nothing pleasant about it right now. It wasn't the sound of joy. It was the tune of death. The Ørkadian shield-walls met the Åscatorian lines like a furious blow from a hammer, but they weren't the hammer. They were the anvil. Gods but Brenjulf hoped Pyrelig would take the initiative. They were likely dead without his timely intervention.

Unbelievably, the battle seemed to be going in their favour. The Åscatorian forces were certainly taking heavy losses. The land was littered with their dead; though, so too did the same land drink heavily from the blood of too many Ørkadians. To Brenjulf's left he could see the unmistakable face of Hastor. His body was slumped on the ground and his eyes were wide open staring into nothing. Lifeless. Gone. No matter the outcome of this battle, the toll would be too severe for merriment.

Brenjulf dropped down to his knee ready to open up the legs of the man in front of him when he was suddenly pushed backwards. The Åscatorian warrior had lunged forward with his shield and caught the King off guard. He panicked and tried to get to his feet, but the enemy was upon him, hacking down at his shield with frenzied strikes. As he desperately looked around him for support, he saw that his own men were falling back slightly against a renewed onslaught from the enemy shield-wall. Men were slipping over the bodies of the fallen in a desperate attempt to pull back. They were hacked to pieces as they hit the ground.

Now Brenjulf was alone amongst a mass of Åscatorian bodies. His own men were behind him but unable to help. Another blow on his shield. He heard the wood crack and understood that it would not sustain much more punishment. He could do nothing. He was helpless at the mercy of an impossible situation. Another blow came and the shield fell apart from his arm. Now he was lying on the floor with his arm raised, but with nothing to protect him anymore. This was it. He was dead. With him dead, the entire army would fall back. Ørkady's fate was sealed. Brenjulf closed his eyes and awaited the final strike. He heard the enemy warrior cackle as he prepared for the kill.

Suddenly, the laughter was cut short and replaced with a scream. Brenjulf opened his eyes and saw a vast, bulky figure above him. The figure had swung a mighty swing of his sword and separated the enemy from his arm. The next swing separated his head. Alongside the man, more Ørkadian men pushed forward, keeping step with the great bear of a man as he threw down enemies around him; as though they were children. As his eyes regained their focus, he recognised the man as Askladan. His friend had rescued him from certain death, though he wasn't sure if Askladan was aware of that fact, embroiled in a frenzy as he was. Brenjulf helped himself to his feet and retrieved a shield from the ground which wasn't in too bad a state. He steadied himself and rejoined the fight, feeling a great sense of relief at the continuation of his existence.

****

Baelson's mind swam with confusion as his mind cleared and he found himself in the middle of so many enemies. How had he got here? The last thing he remembered was the feeling of despair as his line faltered. Now he was holding firm with the remainder of his men, surrounded by a litter of corpses and nervous looking Åscatorians holding back with their weapons poised towards them. His arm was bleeding and he could feel one of his ribs was broken. All around, the unequivocal sounds of battle could be heard. It was clear that the rest of the army had joined battle and were likely in as much a mess as he. He was still alone, however. He and a handful of men who were left to him. The rest of the army were too preoccupied with their own dance with death to assist. As he pondered his situation, one of the Åscatorians saw their opportunity and dared to step forward to lunge his sword at Baelsons knee. The sword met its mark and Baelson fell to the ground in agony. Another blow hit his shield arm. The pain was excruciating and he let out a loud groan.

That moment of weakness was all that the enemy needed. Their initial fear of Baelson was replaced with joy at the fought of finally killing the man. Baelson raised his sword weakly to parry the blows. His muscles were tired and he felt himself resisting the strikes less with each blow. He mustered enough strength to swing his own sword in retaliation and felt the sickening crunch of bone as he struck one of the warriors arms. The man screamed and dropped his sword as he cradled his wounded arm. That was all Baelson could manage. His strength was drained. Beads of sweat dripped down his head and his eyelids began to droop. He was losing blood rapidly and his consciousness was beginning to fade. Another sword struck the side of his chest and he felt the dull thud as the blade caught against one of his ribs.

His men had been held off by the, slightly superior, Åscatorian forces, but they had been dispatched now and they made their way to their Lord, pressing their advantage against the exhausted remainder of the Åscatorian shield-wall. They put the enemy to the sword quickly and immediately turned to help Baelson. As their Lord, it fell to them to keep him alive. They would not lose their honour today. They dragged him away from the mound of corpses just as he lost consciousness altogether. It was his own panic that had caused them to face a larger enemy force alone. It was his panic which separated them from the rest of the Ørkadian army. He did not deserve to live when so many had died. He tried to speak, tried to tell his men to leave him where he belonged. The words wouldn't come. He just could not summon the energy to say them. He let himself slip into unconsciousness and saw no more of the battle.

****

'There's too many of them!' Screamed Lord Gerat as he pushed his shield in to the face of another Åscatorian. The battle had been raging for some time now. They were well past midday now. Thankfully the sun stayed out late in these summer months.

'Hold fast! Kill the bastards! Don't let up!' Screamed Askladan.

'Any man who runs: I'll kill you myself!' Hagar offered his typical contribution to the discord. Brenjulf couldn't disagree with the man entirely, though. Valkrygan honour demanded dedication to your Lord and King. Any man who fled would be stripped of their honour and cast out of society; if they were lucky to not be killed for the treasonous act.

The battlefield was a mess of corpses, blood and the ripe stench of perspiration. They never say how truly awful the smell of battle was. If they fought any longer, men might begin keeling over from the miasma alone. Both sides had seen heavy losses. Both sides had clearly lost entire shield-walls. It was a mess. Any semblance of organisation had long since departed the field. This battle would not be decided upon the earthly plane, but instead by the gods themselves. Still, Brenjulf couldn't help wonder why Pyrelig had failed to join the battle. He must have been able to see the need to assist.

As though summoned by the power of thought, a horn called from within Jorvinburgh and the doors to the burgh were opened. Out came a hoard of men. They looked tired from the nights siege but not even half as tired as the ragged remainders of both armies on the field. A glimmer of despair washed across the faces of the Åscatorians as the news of reinforcements reached them. The battle had been fairly even despite advantages on either side in their individual battle lines. Now more Ørkadians were surging forth, and from behind to make matters worse for them. They would be fighting a battle on two fronts. It was a hopeless situation now, and they knew it.

At the head of the Jorvinburgh army was the unmistakable figure of Pyrelig. His helm was crested with the figure of a boar and the cheekpieces were made from the shiniest silver. It was a sight for sore eyes and no mistaking it. his men charged at the rear flank of the Åscatorian lines and began slicing their way through. The weary limbs of the enemy fell away at the fresh strength of Pyreligs men and soon they were beginning to waiver under the weight of the two armies.

'This is it men!' Yelled Brenjulf loudly. 'For Ørkady, send these curs to Dithð's halls!'

Men cried their support. They were winning. War was a concept unheard of in Ørkady. Few men had heard the sword song. Few men had seen men bleed from the savage blows of a sword. Now, they were winning. They were sending the hated enemy to their graves. Crægaric would rue the day he sent his men to a foolish death. Perhaps they would raid into Åscator itself and put their kingdom to the sword. Victory was certain and the men of Ørkady were riding high. Pride filled their hearts as they slaughtered the enemy.

The day was coming to a close. The sky was growing dark, yet the sun had still been high in the sky. In fact, they had been fighting for some time, but they couldn't have been fighting all day. Brenjulf wasn't the only man to notice this. Even the Åscatorians had ceased their fighting and wondered at the sky. No stars. No moon. No sun. What in the name of all the gods was happening? Men muttered to each other anxiously. Some called out to their friends, stricken with a sudden panic. In that moment, all focus on the battle ceased as screams pierced the air. Blood curdling screams of pure terror. The screams came from both sides. Ørkadian and Åscatorian. The sound of men gurgling as they choked on their own blood brought home the reality of what was happening. They were under attack. Under attack from an unknown source. Men were dying. The army was scattering blindly. The unforeseen assailants were indiscriminately slaughtering the Valkrygan men present.

A hand grabbed at Brenjulf. He jumped in shock and reached for his sword, ready to strike down whatever phantom villain was trying to end his life.

'Brenjulf, we need to go. Now!' came the unmistakable voice of Askladan. He tore the King away as best he could in the enveloping darkness. It wasn't long before the two became separated and Brenjulf found himself alone and forsaken. The screams of the dying, or the fleeing, still resounded across the shattered remains of the battlefield. The thunder of footsteps of men running scared, the slump of bodies crashing to the ground. Death was now all around him, and he had nowhere to run.

As Brenjulf spun around on the spot, he tried to call for help but the words were lost in his dry throat. He was going to die there. Die and his remains would be found days later by scavengers. An ill fitting end for a King. To die and be discarded moments before his first military victory. He would laugh at the situation, were he not so terrified. He hoped most of the dying were Åscatorian men. He couldn't stand the thought of his own men being butchered like animals.

Suddenly, he was dragged from his thoughts by a sharp pain in his chest. He looked down and felt with his hand where the pain had appeared. No blood, but he'd definitely been stabbed. He felt another slide across his side by the ribs. The pain was excruciating, but still no blood. As he stood there, frozen in confusion. A smokey visage appeared before him, clear in the dark despite all things. It glared menacingly at him with a shadowy blade in its hand. The blade smote him through the heart. As Brenjulf collapsed to the floor, his final thoughts were of Ælhdrega.