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At Winter's End pt.1

“Everyone, be quiet!” Halfden called from the front.

His men obliged.

Harald, too, fell into silence. If there was nothing else he had learned during his time amongst the man’s guard, he was sure that anything that could gag them should gag him too.

He hadn’t seen the initial attack, if that is what it was; but he had seen when Agmund Gimmal, Halfden’s top man, fell abruptly from his horse, crashing into the mud-stained snow beneath its hooves.

Harald’s eyes darted up the hills to their right, past thinned trees and dying brambles. He saw nothing. There was no life in the forest except their murmuring convoy of two hundred; none that he could see, anyway.

The others remained silent. Gimmal lay still in his own growing puddle of crimson, while those still on horseback seemed stunned equally lifeless, lost.

The biggest issue, Harald now noticed, was that Halfden seemed no different. He sat, as brutish looking as usual, only this time he made no booming calls, no passionate rallying cry. He only waited.

At that moment, Harald could not help but wonder where the man he had seen ruthlessly protecting his people through the year-long winter had gone. Where was the man that had offered him protection when even his own father would not?

He watched as the man’s eyes darted similarly around their surroundings. It seemed to be all that he could do.

Then came the whistle, that deafening, death-like screech. It echoed between the trees and rang like thunder as it reached Harald’s ears.

Another of Halfden’s men fell; then another, then another, only this time Harald saw what hit them.

Arrows!

Finally, Halfden regained his stolidity. “Shield wall!” he called, throwing himself from atop his horse. He turned to its saddle, ripping his shield from the leather strap holding it in place, breaking with it the thing’s sturdy metal buckle.

His men followed suit. Those on horseback dismounted, while those already on foot sprinted at whatever pace their armour would allow, forming a makeshift line facing the hill.

It was only now that Harald recognised his lack of experience and training, for he was still atop his horse by the time the wall had been formed.

The others were trained for this, weren’t they? That was why they acted so quickly!

As Harald finally fell unnaturally from his saddle, catching his foot in its stirrup, Halfden had disappeared somewhere into the wall, recognisable only by the booming voice that carried over his men’s nervous whispering.

“Shields ready!” He called. He was somewhere to Harald’s right. “I will not be seeing any more of you die here today, do you hear me?”

Harald got that fuzzy feeling down his spine as Halfden’s men roared in solidarity with his words, smashing swords or axes against heavy wood.

It was not long before everything fell still once more. Following the initial rush of movement when forming the wall, only quiet remained. But for the bodies that lay lifeless behind it, the whole thing seemed almost like a training drill, as if not truly a battle.

The wall swayed, pulsating with the breathing of its makers. One – Harald noticed from behind his loyal horse – stood above a circle of yellow snow, legs shaking.

He, too, couldn’t help but shake. There was no sign of whatever had killed the others, nothing except…

A dark speck had appeared where the top of the hill met the blue winter sky. It was small at first, peering only slightly around one of the thicker trees.

Harald blinked, wiped his eyes, and squinted, hoping that the thing might disappear. It didn’t. Instead, it seemed even bigger now, more than just a speck behind a tree.

It had limbs, at least two. They were gangly, almost armlike, and stuck out from behind the tree like twisted branches. Those limbs were brought upward, and its twig-like fingers twisted into a sort of circular shape around a small hole that Harald could only assume was its mouth.

This time, there was no gap between the screeching whistle and the ensuing barrage of arrows. Harald had no time to duck behind his meat shield and could only watch as the volley arched and began to fall.

The arrows had been fired so perfectly in unison that they seemed almost a single brown line, spreading across the horizon, with none being any closer, nor further away, than the next.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

After what seemed an eternity, they hit. Some smacked hard against the colourfully decorated fronts of the wall’s wooden shields, splitting shards of splintery timber as they burrowed, while others pierced the shield wall entirely, sending its holders flying back into the wet mud behind. One, which veered from the rest, landed within a few steps of Harald, and he cowered once more behind his horse, poking his head around only when it seemed safe to do so.

The wall quickly closed its gaps. It grew thinner on either side while maintaining its strength at its centre.

Harald found himself sighing with relief as Halfden’s voice continued to shout its commands. He was ordering the wall up the hill, step by step.

There was nothing Harald could do, he knew that, so he remained hidden. He knew nothing of battle tactics, of how to fight a real swordfight. He knew only what he had been taught by Grimvald. Even then, he had scarcely allowed the man to teach him the basics.

As the fight moved further uphill, Harald found himself with an odd moment to think, unaffected by what was happening around him. At that moment, he thought of home, of where he was returning to, of the warm keep fires and of his own bed. He felt almost as if he could touch it. It was as if it warmed his shoulders in that otherwise freezing place.

Warmth? Why could he feel the warmth?

Harald’s mind rushed back to reality as a piercing pain stung sharply where his shoulder became his arm. He brought his left hand up, clutching firmly against it. He could already tell exactly what had happened. As he pulled his hand away, drops of wine-like liquid fell like the early signs of rain onto a patch of otherwise untainted snow at his feet.

Shit!

His throat became both bone dry and agonisingly wet at the same time as he was forced to swallow several mouthfuls of phlegm. He knew that feeling… Who didn’t?

Dizziness overtook him. Things seemed to darken in the outskirts of his vision, and he stumbled a few paces away from his horse, managing barely to keep himself upright.

After desperate attempts to keep it down, Harald gave in and threw the morning’s meat soup up in his mouth before swallowing it back down with a hard gulp. Even in such a situation, winter habits told him not to waste food. It went down like wood chippings, and he had to swallow a few more times to keep it down.

This is no place to die, he thought, clutching at his blood-stained shirt. He had never been hit before, and it was making him beyond nauseous. I’m so close to home… so close…

Harald was awoken by the not-so-gentle bobbing of his head against something hard. It took a moment for him to collect himself as he opened his eyes, his head still a dizzy mess.

Finally, his sight cleared enough.

A figure sat before him, burly in the same way that Halfden was, and tall enough that Harald was only at shoulder level. The man’s feet were placed in the stirrups of a brownish-black saddle – one that Harald recognised but couldn’t quite place – and his gloved hands clutched firmly to the reins, carefully avoiding wetter patches in the mud.

Harald attempted to crane his neck – to work out with whom he had made his escape – but he couldn’t. His body ached, everywhere. It wouldn’t move when he told it to.

He could, however, manage just enough movement to catch a glimpse of his shoulder. It seemed that whoever he rode with, or perhaps someone else entirely, had made quick work of bandaging his wound. A decently thick stretch of cloth had been wound tightly around it. The application was not perfect, but even he knew it could be considered an experienced job, even given the situation they found themselves in.

Harald dozed in and out of consciousness as he rested his head against the figure’s back. It could have lasted days, or it could have been minutes.

It was almost evening by the time Harald regained enough strength to do more than weigh against his saviour’s back. He grabbed at the figure’s shoulders, steadying himself, and raised his chin.

Thin grey whisps of hair crawled down the back of the man’s head, clutching desperately for life as the wind blew them backwards. Though he had not seen it from that angle before, it was a sight he recognised.

Grimvald! Of course, it had to be Reinhardt Grimvald, his father’s most loyal bannerman, friend and advisor.

The figure’s silence had worried Harald. Who was it that had taken him? Why had they not said anything? But now it was the man’s silence that reassured him. Though silent, Grimvald was a calculated warrior, efficient in every sense of the word. He spoke only when necessary, when his reliable strength would not carry him further.

“How much further, Grimvald?” Harald finally said, pulling gently on the stringy fur of the man’s cloak.

The old man, revealing no sign of his distaste for conversation, replied: “Not much, lord.”

The pair travelled slowly now, and Harald had been able to loosen his grip. It was made apparent by their lack of pursuers that they had not been the targets of the attack. They seemed to have made their escape.

In a brief conversation, Grimvald had outlined how he found Harald passed out in the snow, how he had thrown him over the back of his horse and had fled under the cover of the chaos.

“What of Sammi?” Harald asked, suddenly remembering the others in his party. “What of the others, of Halfden’s daughter?”

Grimvald only shook his head.

That didn’t mean they were dead, did it? It only meant he didn’t know. There was no way that he wouldn’t tell Harald if they were.

“We have to go back for them!” Harald accidentally raised his voice. It carried and echoed in the otherwise silent stretch of forest they found themselves in. “We have to help!”

“It would be no use now,” Grimvald managed, “it is much too late, and much too difficult to find our way back.”

“But…” Harald couldn’t argue against the logic. “We have to try!” He felt almost childish continuing the same line of argument. He knew that he was being too emotional, but couldn’t help himself regardless.

Grimvald brought the horse to a stop, turning back to face his young lord. Harald noted that his face had taken a look of seriousness, but that the old man still showed some sort of sympathy for his opinion. “Halfden and his men are perfectly capable,” he said, “you know that.” He pulled on the reins a little, and the horse began moving down a path to their right. “I know you worry for them, but you, too, are injured. And my duty lies in protecting you.”

Harald had no response. As usual, Grimvald was right. The two continued their journey in whichever direction his father’s man was taking them.

“Here is as good as anywhere,” the old man said, finally, as he brought the horse to a stop. The two hopped from it on its left side – there had been a deep-looking puddle to its right – and Grimvald tied the thing’s reins around a neighbouring tree. He did so tightly enough that the horse would never even dream of breaking free while they rested.