Skar spat on the ground.
‘We’ll have to fight our way in now,’ he said.
‘Get those Welsh bowmen up here.’ Sweyn shouted orders back down the slope.
The Scots archers were already running onto the fighting platform above the gate. The Norse outside drew back to a safe distance before they could shoot any more arrows.
The Wolf Coats and Sweyn gathered a council at the top of the slope down to the harbour. The rest of the Norsemen crouched down, taking the chance to grab some rest, get their breath back and tend to the wounded.
Einar leaned on the standard pole, noticing for the first time how his shoulders ached and how heavy his breathing was. The air was cold but he could feel sweat streaming down his face and into his beard.
He looked around. The sun had crept over the horizon above the sea during the fighting and the world was lit by the grey light of dawn. He saw the harbour full of smashed ships and the quay that was awash with blood and bodies. The hill that ran up to the fort was a shambles, littered with corpses, discarded weapons, smashed helmets and dying men. Picking his way through the mess was a small figure hobbling along on a crutch. It was Ulrich.
When he reached the others, Ulrich joined the council.
‘We were so close,’ Sweyn said with a shake of his head. ‘A few moments earlier and we would’ve got in.’
‘I can’t believe Ori and Bjarki.’ Einar blinked as if he still could not quite grasp what he saw. ‘They must both have had twenty arrows in them but they were still going, still trying to kill their enemies. Wasn’t it amazing?’
‘That’s the berserkergang for you, lad,’ Skar said. ‘When they go into that rage they feel no pain, no fear. They just need to kill. And not just their enemies. Anyone will do. Their wits are gone. The rage completely takes them over. That’s the power of the berserker but also their weakness. We Wolf Coats have this gift too, but we can control it, focus it. But you know all this. I’ve seen the rage take you.’
Einar felt an involuntary shudder go down his spine as he remembered the violent trance that had taken over his mind on the quayside in Dublin several months before, and the sickly, weak state he had been left in when the rage wore off.
‘We’re not lost yet,’ Ulrich said. ‘The Scots king’s still in there right? We can be sure he’s not going anywhere soon at least.’
‘If the rest of his army arrives, we’re fucked though,’ Sweyn said.
‘And if the rest of your fleet arrives first, they’ll be equally fucked,’ Ulrich said.
Sweyn shook his head and looked as if he was about to say something, then he closed his mouth.
‘They are coming, aren’t they?’ Ulrich said, looking sideways at Sweyn through narrowed eyes.
‘Of course,’ Sweyn said. ‘Some of them anyway. But I don’t want to risk losing this place while we wait for them. We need to take that gate.’
‘Why don’t we just charge it?’ Narfi said as he and Gizur joined the group. ‘It will only take moments to cross that distance. We’ll lose a few men on the way to the archers but what can you do?’
Skar arched an eyebrow.
‘There you go. That’s a berserker talking,’ he said from the corner of his mouth to Einar.
‘And what will you do when you get to the gate?’ Ulrich asked, his voice sour with sarcasm. ‘Knock politely and wait for them to let you in while the archers pick you off one by one from above?’
‘I want revenge for Ori and Bjarki,’ Narfi said. ‘The Scots have to die.’
‘Agreed,’ Ulrich said. ‘But I’d rather as few of us as possible die trying to make that happen.’
‘So what do we do?’ Sweyn said.
‘Form a group of warriors whose job it is just to protect others with their shields,’ Ulrich said. ‘Have them advance with the archers. When they can get close enough to shoot, their arrows will make sure the Scots above the gate keep their heads down.’
‘And then what?’ Narfi said with a fierce sneer. ‘The gate is still barred.’
‘We send someone up onto the rampart to open the gate for us,’ Ulrich said.
The others looked at the gate and the palisade that towered three times the height of a man.
‘We’d need someone who can climb like a spider to get up that,’ Sweyn said.
‘Lucky we have such a man,’ Skar said. He laid a large hand on the shoulder of Einar.
‘What?’ Einar said.
‘Come on, lad,’ Skar said. ‘We saw you climb up that tower the Gaels put us in. That wall will be easy, compared to that.’
‘There were hand and footholds on that,’ Einar said. ‘And there was no one at the top trying to kill me.’
‘Have some faith, lad,’ Skar said. ‘Now we have Odin’s banner!’
‘The banner might bring victory,’ Einar said. ‘But I haven’t heard it can help climb walls.’
‘You’re just using it wrong,’ Skar said and winked. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll go with you and show you how to use it properly.’
He ordered a rope to be brought up from one of the ships. When it arrived, he tied a slip knot on one end to make a noose, which he slipped over Einar’s shoulder. The other end was left to trail behind him.
‘Take those heavy gloves off,’ Skar said. ‘You won’t be able to climb in them.’
Einar took off the leather gauntlets he wore and stuffed them into his belt.
‘Now let’s go,’ Skar said.
The group of warriors and archers advanced. The Scots began raining arrows and spears down from the fighting platform above the gates. Einar, the pole of the Raven Banner on his shoulder, moved forward among the others. Skar held a shield high over them both. The hammering of the arrows on it was deafening. They moved forwards with steady, measured strides, everyone taking great care where they placed each step. A slip would result in falling over, probable exposure from the cover of a shield, then swift death from the Scots arrows.
As they got closer to the gates the arrows began striking the shield above Einar with such force they broke right through the linden wood of Skar’s shield, their iron heads left sticking out of the back.
Then the Welsh archers began returning shots. One by one they leaned out from under the shields held by the Norse warriors, loosing an arrow then ducking back under cover. With a cry, one of the Scots archers above the gate went down but one of the Welsh was hit too.
When they were almost at the gate the whole company stopped. The warriors crouched down and the archers stood up, as one, and loosed a volley of arrows. The Scots had no choice but to duck behind the rampart to avoid the wave of missiles streaking up at them.
Skar handed the shield to Einar and stood up. He had a long-handled axe like Einar’s in both hands. He swung and the head of the axe thumped into the wood of the gate. Skar grimaced, then wrenched the axe back out of the gate. He adjusted his grip and set his feet wider apart, preparing for another swing. Einar wondered if he meant to try to chop through the gate. Such a plan was folly, even for a man as mighty as Skar. The wood was thick as his own chest, strengthened with iron bands and cross-timbers. Cutting through it would take many men half a day.
The was a loud clang and Skar staggered. A Scottish archer had leaned over the wall above and shot an arrow, straight down, at Skar. At such short range it should have gone straight through the big man’s skull but by luck it struck the boar-crested iron band that ran from front to back across his helmet. The arrow shattered and ricocheted back up towards the man who fired it.
Affreca stood up from behind one of the shields nearby. She drew her bow, aimed and let fly in one movement. Her arrow hit the Scotsman who had fired on Skar through the throat. With a strangled gurgle he toppled backwards off the fighting platform.
Skar ground his teeth and made a growling sound. Then he roared and swung the axe again, two handed, driving the head deep into the gate. The head buried half its width into the wood and stuck there, rigid.
‘Right lad,’ Skar shouted to Einar, ‘I’ve made you a foothold. Now give me that banner and get up there.’