Page 31

It was less than an hour after the first rays of light had penetrated the cloying blackness.

For an entire day and night, the men of Skarthveit had waited, alert, poised to fight for their homes and families.

Fiona scurried beside Ulfric as he paced the settlement offering words of encouragement and praise, fortifying his Viking force for the battle to come.

They both halted at Ranulf’s warning and exchanged a knowing look.

“It is time.”

She nodded. “I will get them.”

Fiona reached for his cheek and delivered a quick kiss, then she was running toward their longhouse, which now teemed with Celtic ex-captives. All were armed with hastily produced slingshots and most were elated at their sudden change in fortunes.

They were free men. The Viking had said so, and his lady backed him so it must be true since she was also a Celt.

They had been promised their liberty and boats to take them home should they so desire, or they might remain in the land of the Norsemen as karls.

All they had to do in return was wield a slingshot in defence of their captor’s homestead.

Many declared it a strange enough bargain, there were some mutterings about letting the vicious Viking bastards get what they deserved, but most saw the benefits of throwing in their lot with Ulfric.

If the Bjarkessons were to prevail, they would simply take possession of the slaves along with all other property they took a fancy to.

The Celts would be no better off, and their lives may be considerably worse since Ulfric was a less harsh master than many.

It was true he had dragged them from their homes and enslaved them, but he also fed them, sheltered them, even permitted them to marry and raise their children.

The thralls also had much to lose, so were ready to consider Ulfric’s offer.

At Fiona’s urging, those who were skilled in the use of this weapon fashioned rudimentary slings from the materials supplied by the Vikings, then tested them on a variety of targets.

The results were somewhat haphazard initially, but improved as they practised.

The slaves who were not able to handle a slingshot were set the task of scouring the surrounding terrain and gathering suitable stones to use, and the pile of missiles amassed in readiness for the coming fight was impressive.

Only when darkness descended did they come inside to sleep.

Ulfric insisted that they make use of his longhouse since it was the only one large enough to accommodate them all but Fiona was not fooled by this apparent generosity.

Ulfric did not fully trust the Celts and had no wish to see the ex-slaves disappearing into the night.

He had preferred to keep them together and under some semblance of control, at least for as long as the threat remained.

She burst into the longhouse. “Everyone, up. Now. They are coming.”

Men leapt to their feet, scrabbling for garments, for weapons, for the mugs of mead that she and Njal hurriedly poured. Moments after she had started to rouse the men, Ulfric followed her through the door.

“Go to the southern meadows, just beyond the woodland. Your men can hide themselves in the trees and launch their attack unseen from there. Take down as many as you can, and we shall be waiting on this side of the woods for any that manage to get past you.”

Fiona nodded and turned to issue the necessary commands. By unspoken agreement, she was to lead the assault with slingshots. Ulfric was already drawing his sword as he returned to his men but he stopped and pivoted on his heel. “Be safe, little Celt.”

“And you, Viking.”

The freed slaves followed Fiona to their position at the edge of the woods that ringed Skarthveit’s southern boundary.

From there they could just make out the bobbing heads of the approaching force, numbering at least a hundred by Fiona’s quick count.

It appeared that Olaf Bjarkesson had called on all his followers to aid him in this attack.

Fiona gauged their numbers and speed of approach and did a quick calculation in her head.

The enemy would be within range in a few seconds.

There were eighteen men at her back, all armed with slingshots.

She made a nineteenth, and each of them could fire off three, possibly four shots a minute.

If all were on target, they would be able to cripple this attacking force within the first sixty seconds.

Of course, not all would hit their marks, and as soon as the Bjarkessons realised that they were under attack they would start their charge on the settlement itself and a fast-moving target was much harder to hit.

The stand of trees in which they hid was slightly elevated so this would offer further advantage to her marksmen. She was glad of anything in their favour. The more they might fell in the very first wave, the better. That could be the deciding factor in ultimately winning this skirmish.

“Take careful aim,” she reminded them. “Choose your mark, one you know is within your range, and take your time. Once you have loosed your first shot, reload and keep up the attack for as long as they remain in sight. Then, when they have passed, we will leave the shelter of the trees and follow them back to Skarthveit. We will keep up the assault from their rear and the Vikings will deal with any that actually reach the settlement. These Norsemen prefer to fight hand to hand, so we stay out of reach. Is everyone ready?”

Her answer came in the form of murmurs and nods. All appreciated the vital part that surprise would play here so none would alert the approaching horde to this unorthodox defence. They crouched in silence as Fiona stood, her arm upraised, each one awaiting her signal that the battle was on.

“Now,” she hissed, and stood to swing her sling around her head.

The Celts leapt to their feet and did likewise.

Moments later a volley of stones hurtled from the trees and rained down upon the unsuspecting men lower down the hillside.

With a chorus of startled shouts and oaths the Viking force started to break ranks.

Many broke into a run whilst others crumpled where they stood.

Six. They had dropped just six. She had hoped for more.

“Reload. Again. Keep at them.” She was yelling now, no longer seeking to conceal their presence.

Her raggedy little army rose to the challenge and a hail of stones pursued the now utterly confused Bjarkessons.

The attackers were in chaos, some turning back as though to abandon their mission, others stopping to attend to fallen comrades.

Most though just ran forward, unknowing where the assault was coming from but seeking to escape the deadly onslaught.

More fell, and their comrades just leapt over their prone bodies to rush headlong in the direction of Skarthveit as though they might find sanctuary there.

Fiona urged her men to reload and shoot again and again, delighted when she estimated that at least twenty of their attackers were down and those remaining on their feet were in total disarray.

They would be easy enough prey for the well trained and disciplined men of Skarthveit.

“Come, we will pursue them. Keep letting off shots from behind.” Fiona stepped from the cover of the trees and sprinted after her quarry. Her men followed, now whooping and cheering as yet more of their would-be attackers dropped under their barrage of rocks.

By the time the nimblest of the Bjarkessons reached the first buildings that marked the edge of the settlement, their numbers had been depleted by half, and several of those still upright were walking wounded.

Fiona saw Ulfric charge forward at the head of his men and cut down the first two himself.

Then she lost sight of him in the mêlée and in any case, she knew her part in this was to harry from the rear, not observe proceedings from a distance.

“Pick them off,” she commanded. “Select your targets now, only those at the back. Do not risk hitting any of our men. Once they reach the first longhouses, they are Ulfric’s.”