Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (20 page)

Ten catapult balls hit the
town, several more falling short and crashing into the ice in mighty bursts of flame. Jorn had heard of such catapult shells, large balls of glass wrapped in oily rags and then filled with oil. The rags were lit and the missiles launched. As each missile hit, its glass shattered and the oil within caught fire.

The streaking fireballs landed all along the shore. One hit the roof of a small warehouse and exploded in a cascade of bright flame as it impacted. An archer standing watch there was set aflame and fell from the roof to the snow-covered ground. There he rolled back-and-forth, screaming in panic more than pain. He rose a few moments later, his clothes smoking and wet.

Another missile landed at the base of a nearby wall and exploded as it impacted. Flames crept up the side of wall with shocking speed. A few other missiles landed in alleys and muddy streets, exploding in great orange bursts which did little more than frighten. More men began to shout and run about now, roused from quiet sleep.

“The attack!” Jorn shouted loudly over the chaos. He was standing at the very edge of the river. “The attack is begun!”

“Withdraw from the river,” Wulfgrim said to him. “It’s too dangerous here. They’ll be another volley.”

“We need to charge across and take out their catapults!” Jorn insisted.

“We’ve not enough men yet,” Wulfgrim said. “We need to regroup further from the bank, then we mount the charge.”

“Grang’s balls!” Jorn muttered, surveying the scene.

Wulfgrim was right. They didn’t have enough men, at least not yet. He glanced back over the ice of the river and wondered what was going to soon charge across it, after the catapults had weakened up their defenses. How many troops were even now massing behind the line of catapults waiting to surge over the frozen river?

He needed to form battle lines, and quickly.

“Come with me,” Jorn said. “We need to hurry.”

Together, they made their way from the river bank to the nearest encampment of Jorn’s men not a fifty yards away. All around them was mayhem. The alarm had been raised and men were hurriedly readying weapons and rushing to and fro. Many looked up into the sky as more streaking balls of flame streaked across the night sky.

“To the river, men!” Jorn shouted. “Meet the attack!”

Many warriors ran towards the river, swords and spears in hand, but just as many were running the other way. In the heat of the surprise attack the character of each man was revealed. The brave gripped their swords and hurried down to the riverbank, the cowardly or uninitiated fleeing the scene in rushed panic. For many, this was their first taste of battle and they didn’t like its flavor one bit. They were farmers and shepherds from the hills of The Westmark who had taken up arms to defend it. The decision to resist Einar suddenly seemed like a foolish one as fire rained down from the sky all around them.

Explosions echoed in all directions, one missile crashing into a large tent and setting it instantly ablaze as soldiers scrambled out of the way. Einar’s catapults were firing continuously now, each at its own pace, creating an irregular pattern of attack as every few seconds at least one catapult launched yet another missile across the river. Flames issued from a dozen buildings on the main street of the town, countless screams resounding throughout the night.

Jorn found an untended horse amid the chaos of the barrage and, mounting it barebacked, rode into the midst of the chaos as he waved his sword over his head frantically and somehow made himself heard over the din. The horse was panicked and would not venture too close to the fires, but Jorn
was still able to navigate through the chaos. He wound through the lines of tents, imploring the men.

“With me!” he shouted. “Form your lines at the river! At the river!”

Everything remained a jumble of flaming chaos, men running around in confused panic. Enough men gathered in crude lines at the ice’s edge even as more flaming catapult shots arched overhead and exploded behind them. Jorn turned the horse back towards the river, still rallying as many men as he could.

_____

              Braemorgan strode into the center of the chaos all around him. The entire keep was awash in frenzied activity. The wizard leapt onto the back of the nearest horse he could find and rode out of the keep, his staff in hand. He was determined to get down to the battle while there was still time for him to make a difference.

             
“Make all haste!” he shouted, turning back towards the mounted warriors behind him. 

A dozen men on horseback had fallen in behind him, and he meant to lead them down to the river. He raised his staff high above him and, with the uttering of a single magical word, the high end of it suddenly became a white flame whose blazing light lit the way along the twisting path leading down from the keep.

              The wizard’s mind was racing as he guided the horse along the diving path at a full gallop. He had been roused from a sound sleep only a few minutes earlier by shouts and alarms. Leaping from his bed, he threw open the shutters of his window. He was in time to see the initial volley from the catapults reaching the near side of the river. He grabbed his staff from where it was propped up against a chair in the corner and raced out of the bedchamber.

             
“Where is the thane?” he asked the Watch Captain when he found him. The Captain was already on the first floor of the keep, hurriedly organizing men for battle.

             
“He rose early and went towards Loc Goren,” the Watch Captain told him. “Not a half hour ago.”

             
Braemorgan reached the bottom of the hill and turned onto the main road, spurring his horse roughly on towards the town. Soldiers on both sides of the road were already hurrying towards the town, the entire night alive with noise and activity.

_____

Morag mounted her horse, her dark purple cloak billowing behind her. Glorbad, already on his own brown steed and gathering men about him, noticed her out of the corner of his vision. He rode forward and blocked her path out of the keep. She looked up. He was fully arrayed for battle, wearing a long-sleeved hauberk with a steel helm atop his head and a thick leather breastplate covering his chest. In one hand he held a large wooden shield. In his other he held a long battle-axe.

              “Morag,” he said gently. “This fight is no place for you.”

             
“Grang’s ass!” she swore. Her green eyes glared at him. “Damn your audacity! You do not command me!” 

Morag pushed Glorbad roughly aside and rode past him into the night.

              Glorbad turned back towards his men.

“Ride, men!” he roared. “Protect Lady Morag. At all costs, see to her safety!”

He spurred his horse ahead, cursing under his breath. The coming battle would be hard enough. He did not need the added worry of having the woman he loved in the thick of the fighting.

_____

             
Hundreds of warriors stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the river’s edge, clutching their weapons and staring anxiously into the darkness. All the Westmarkers could see of the far shore were more balls of fire being hurled high into the air. Men’s necks craned upward to watch the flaming missiles pass overhead and land somewhere behind them. At least it was no longer so very cold, the billowing flames warming their backs as dozens of buildings were consumed in fire.

             
Jorn sat on horseback riding along in front of the lines of men. He was grateful that the enemy was now firing so far past the river’s edge. They must not have expected so quick and organized a response to the opening barrage. Probably, they believed Jorn’s entire army would be thrown into a panic by now instead of massing at the river’s edge to meet an attack. Jorn drilled the men endlessly in case of such an attack, however. Many warriors had grumbled at the drills and whispered that the new thane must be some kind of imbecile. None grumbled now.

Jorn took measure of his troops, and then glanced back across the river. He was expecting some kind of charge across the ice at any moment. It had to be coming, and soon. With any
luck, the enemy expected Jorn’s army to be in full flight by now. That meant the Westmarkers might just catch them off-guard and repel the attack. They did not have to hold the line long, either. Ardabur was camped just south of town, not a mile away. All Jorn’s men had to do was hold the line long enough for Ardabur’s men to arrive. 

Yes, they might well win this fight.

              “Hold the line, men!” Jorn shouted as more men hurried to the river’s edge.

He sounded panicked, and realized it. He paused, remembering how Orbadrin always told him how important to show calm during such times. The only emotion you should ever show as battle loomed, he used to say, was absolute defiance and contempt for the enemy.

              “They’ll be coming strong, boys,” Jorn said more calmly, riding along in front of the line. “But they won’t expect to find you waiting here for them. You are well-trained, and you hold the high-ground. You will repel the enemy, and you will deny them their victory! Grang’s teeth! We’ll turn the ice red with their blood!”

             
Across the river behind Jorn, the far shore suddenly fell completely dark.

_____

Jorn rode along the thick ice at the edge of the river one last time, sizing-up the men. Every shield was clutched tightly, every spear held parallel to the ground. Jorn looked into the faces of his soldiers. Some were young and still beardless. Others were grim and weatherworn, faces long accustomed to battle. Every eye among them stared out across the frozen river with a single-minded intenseness, wondering what might be coming across the ice towards them at any moment. 

Behind the line of spearmen, lines of archers were in place just as Jorn had drilled them. The archers had just enough room to operate between the spearmen and the burning structures behind them. More archers were climbing atop a pair of buildings thus far spared the catapult barrage, readying their arrows and waiting.

Out on the ice, at the very edge of the darkness, a line of shadowy figures emerged. Hundreds of gruks clad in mismatched, ill-fitting armor came towards them on foot, bearing a wide variety of weapons in their hands. They carried swords, spears, axes, maces, and even simple clubs.  Scattered
amidst the gruks at regular intervals were huge, towering animals ten feet tall at the shoulder and covered in thick brown fur. They were bull mammoths, the giant beasts with mighty tusks that roamed the northern tundra. Bare-chested men smeared with bright blue war paint and wild eyes rode upon the backs of the mammoths as they lumbered forward toward Jorn’s men. The mammoth-riders screamed orders, gesturing and shouting incoherently. A gasp went up through Jorn’s ranks.

Jorn fought such wild berserkers before. Such men charged happily into certain death and fought to the last man, all the while in a strange trance brought on, it was said, by a broth made from a particular mushroom. They were half-animal in nature, filing their teeth into points and feasting upon the corpses of both friend and foe.

A charge from such mammoth-riders was said to be formidable, but Jorn knew they could be beaten. Mammoths were large, and made easy targets.

“Archers!” Jorn shouted. “Target the mammoths!”

The archers responded at once, firing a volley towards the hulking beasts. The mammoths roared in pain as the arrows struck them in their shoulders, legs, or trunks. One arrow pierced a berserker’s neck and sent him sliding off the side of the beas0t.

Jorn felt a hand on his elbow. It was Wulfgrim.

“My thane,” he said. “Pull back into the line, please.”

Jorn nodded, suddenly realizing he was still on the ice in front of his troops. He turned his horse back towards the line, the men opening a gap for him to ride through. He turned his horse around to face the oncoming charge just as a second volley of arrows cut down several more of the enemy.

Jorn noticed Ironhelm standing close by. The dwarf seemed to be shaking with rage, growling and cursing as the hated gruks came closer. He held his gleaming battle axe high and looked ready to charge out onto the ice and take them all on.

The enemy grew closer, The Westmarkers bracing to meet them. A moment later the charge was upon them, the gruks running into the line of spears at the river’s edge. All along the river men grappled and thrust with spear and sword as the noises of battle filled the night air; the clang of metal and the agonizing screams of men and gruks.

Jorn waded into the fighting swinging his sword, striking down several gruks from the height of his horse.

Jorn brought his sword crashing down through a gruk’s helmet, pulling back from the front lines for a moment to assess how his men were doing. His lines were holding well against the gruks all along the river. The Westmarkers stood atop the riverbank, cleared of snow and ice the day before to provide solid footing for just such a stand. The gruks were forced to come up a small rise at the river’s edge just where ice turned to frozen earth, and were having trouble gaining much traction. No gruks showed the slightest signs of breaking Jorn’s lines.