July 18th, 1193
Outside the walls of Great Novgorod
Afternoon
Pillars of smoke dotted the plains, rising straight for kilometres in the summer-still air. The old god within Sigurd chuckled with glee at the sight; it had come forth more clearly, of late, since the long ships landed. Sigurd smiled too; every pillar was a hundred or more Russians dead, taken as slaves, or made homeless and forced to run for the south. But there was a greater burning still to come, and his smile faded as he looked again at the walls of Novgorod. Great Novgorod, the citizens called it, and the huge walls that sneered at the Norwegian army deserved the name. Nobody had even suggested storming the place; the walls were seven metres high, and the citizen militia manning them knew full well that they were all that stood between their wives and children, and Sigurd's revenge.
The problem gnawed at him all the day, while he dealt with the endless trivia of an army settling in to siege; ensuring that latrines were dug deep, settling disputes over position within the camp, checking on the walls surrounding it, and establishing patrols to make sure that no relieving army could surprise him. Siege was a chancy business, as likely to rip apart the besiegers' army from disease and hunger as to succeed. Novgorod was reputed to be well supplied, a full year's worth of grain in the silos, it was said, and enormous cisterns of water. And winter came early here, colder even than in Norway.
He was bone tired by the time he found his own tent and collapsed onto the rushes; so he was surprised to find himself standing on a large plain underneath an enormous tree, miles tall, and realise that he was dreaming. He felt a presence behind him, and turned to meet it. Dream-like, he was unsurprised at the tall, grey-clad figure, leaning on a staff, one-eyed under a large hat. He had never seen the old god within him before, but he had known.
"Hail, Sigurd, Oathbearer."
"Hail, Father of Victory."
"Indeed so. And you've had victories this year. But Novgorod's walls are strong."
"Yes. Have you come to give me advice, then?"
"Advice you can have, yes. But I give nothing freely."
"What is your price?"
"Here is Yggdrasil the World Tree. In this place you may buy wisdom. But the going rate is somewhat steep."
Sigurd shuddered, and woke, drenched in sweat. He rose, knowing he would be unable to sleep again for an hour at least, and walked about the camp. Talk with the watchmen calmed him, and in the twilight of this high-summer night his dream began to seem insubstantial. When he returned to his tent, his sleep was dreamless.
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July 24th, 1193
Outside the walls of Great Novgorod
Morning
Five nights, and five dreams, and still Novgorod stood defiant, daring the invaders to do their worst. The knowledge that there was a solution was almost as bad as contemplating the price the old god was demanding; but try as he might Sigurd could find no weakness in the city's defenses. Today would be different, though. 'Wisdom', the old one had said; well, let him keep it. There was a time for tricks, and a time for force. He looked out at the assembled hirdsmenn, and concluded his short speech:
"I will lead the attack myself; and I will carry the Raven Banner. Now, who will follow me to the wall, and glory?"
There was a long moment of silence; the walls of Novgorod were daunting to the bravest. But then his cousin Vegard stepped forward; and his brother, Ketil. And then they followed: Ragnvald, Lodin, Knut, Yngve, all the young men who thought they were immortal. They were a hundred all told when Sigurd called a halt; any more would just get in each others' way. An escalade worked swiftly or not at all. The rest of the army would stand to arms, to follow them in if they won the walls and drive victory home.
The ladders were ready; he had ordered them made yesterday. Nothing remained but to pick them up and make ready to charge. Sigurd was not carrying one; he had the Raven Banner instead on its short pole, wings hanging lifeless in the still air. Nonetheless he was at the front when they began to run; cousin Vegard was right behind him with a ladder. Horns blew on the wall ahead of them, and militiamen rushed towards the threatened spot. Arrows fell, and the attackers spread out as they dodged; the bows the townsmen were using weren't very powerful. Only three men had broken off, clutching at arrows in unarmoured legs, by the time they got to the walls. That was where the real danger began; baskets of rocks and bricks were tipped over on top of them, or thrown down to shatter helmets and heads. Most banged off shields hastily raised, though, and the ladders slammed into place; Sigurd pushed Vegard aside to be first up, holding the banner in one hand like a lance, balancing with the other. It was an awkward way to fight, but you could only fit so many militia onto a short piece of wall, and they had exhausted most of their rocks. A well-aimed piece of masonry caught Sigurd in the arm nonetheless, and he cried out at the bruising pain; but his byrnie saved the arm from breaking, and he climbed on. A spear thrust at his face; he grabbed at it and hauled. The young man - a boy, almost - holding it let go, as his only alternative to falling off the wall; that gave Sigurd a moment of relatively free action, which he used to climb another two rungs and slam the Raven Banner into a militiaman's face. The crunching of broken teeth was inaudible over the screams of both sides, but he felt it as a shiver down the flagpole; the man fell backwards, making a momentary opening in the militia ranks.
Another rung, and a sword blazed towards his helmet; he got his arm into its path, and again his byrnie saved him anything worse than a bruise. In return he thrust the banner upwards again, not hitting anyone but forcing his immediate opponent to duck, winning yet another rung; and now he was on a level with the militiamen, and could grasp the banner with both hands and wield it as a quarterstaff, clearing space. Then he was over the wall and onto the parapet. The townsmen were unarmoured except for light leather jackets, no match for a hirdsmann on level ground; in quick succession Sigurd slammed his quarterstaff sideways into one's head, then thrust behind him at groin level, hitting something yielding, then forward to complete his clearing of the space around him. Now Vegard was up, and they fought back-to-back; but the other laddermen had not had his luck of facing an inexperienced boy at first. He and Vegard were the only Norse on the wall, and men were running towards the trouble spot from every direction. Now Ketil was up and helping his brother, and townsmen were falling quickly; without the advantage of their wall, the militia were no match for armoured men trained in the Yngling way of battle. They fell back, making room for more Norse; but the single ladder could not feed men in rapidly. Five, six, and with the pause in close combat arrows began falling on the wall, fired from rooftops inside the city; one hit Lodin in his unarmoured knee, crippling him. Speed was the key. He pulled Vegard and Ketil aside, forming them up for a charge to clear the way for the next ladder in line; two townsmen had formed a line of sorts there, holding their spears ready to defend their comrades, who were still throwing rocks at the Norse at the base of the wall, and thrusting spears at the luckless ladderman.
Two men abreast were all the parapet had room for; since Vegard and Ketil had shields, Sigurd let them take the lead. They leapt forward, shields first; Ketil caught his opponent's spearhead and swung it aside in the finest training style, coming up close and thrusting his sword into the man's throat - but in the close press of the wall, he hadn't considered where he was sending that spearhead; it hit Vegard in the flank, and by malign luck the other end stuck between two bricks of the parapet, driving the spearhead through chainmail and flesh. The other militiaman was able to avoid Vegard's dying sword thrust, recover his spear, and slam it sideways at Ketil, quarterstaff style; he hit the round shield Ketil was wielding, but that was enough to overbalance him and send him seven meters into the unyielding cobblestones. Sigurd arrived a moment later, wielding his banner pole like a lance; it hit the townsman in the stomach and lifted him off his feet, rupturing the stomach sac.
But now Sigurd faced two men on his own, and these were no militia. The reserves had arrived: Armoured men of some boyar's personal warband. They advanced shields first, swords flicking out to threaten Sigurd's face and unarmoured legs; professionals, indeed. Two on one, there was nothing for Sigurd to do but retreat until one of his friends could come up and help him. He risked a quick glance behind, and a chill went through him. There were more of the boyar guardsmen on that side, and archers were firing between them; the bows were not very strong, but at such short range and against men busy fighting warrior equals, they were deadly. Norse were falling there faster than they could be replenished from the ladder; and the other ladders were faring no better, the defenders had got the hang of it now and bodies were piling up at the bottom of the wall.
The hope that had flared in Sigurd when he gained the wall shriveled to ashes; there was no point in throwing away more brave men, the defenders had been too fast, and the escalade had failed. There was nothing for it but to shout "Retreat" and consider the problem of getting back down. It didn't seem very likely that his opponents would consider standing back and letting him get back onto the ladder. On the other hand he wasn't going to have a lot of time to consider the matter. An arrow whizzing past decided him; the parapet was getting extremely unhealthy. Without stopping for thought, he leapt back over the wall.
(to be continued)