The Siege of Fécamp
Adrenaline surged in his veins. His mouth was bone dry, his gut clenched, and his pulse thundered in his throat. Every limb twitched, his muscles jumping with energy, primed for the impending battle. As the Dragon of Denmark, he’d led countless raids and won numerous victories against the Franks. But now, as he led a fleet of fearsomedrakkarwarships and a formidable army of two thousand Viking warriors into the greatest combat of his entire life, Skårde found that he no longer yearned for glory on the battlefield.
He wanted to live for Ylva.
In Denmark, he’d always thrived on Viking raids, expeditions, and conquests. He’d sought to win his father’s attention and approval through ferocity and triumph in battle. He had not wanted a forced marriage for political alliance and had never considered taking a wife. Being sent to Normandy had seemed like a banishment. A betrayal. Another abandonment by a father who had always spurned his bastard son. Skårde had always thought he would die in battle. And feast with Odin and theEinherjar—the valiant Vikings chosen by the Valkyrie—in the splendor of Valhalla.
But now, as his enormous longshipDragonclawsailed at the head of the fleet toward Fécamp, he prayed for the very first time that he would survive the battle so that he could return to his beautiful Breton bride and his oceanfront castle atop the white chalk cliffs.
“Just beyond the next bend, the beach curves into the sheltered inlet at the mouth of the Valmont River. Richard’s castle is on theright bank facing east, which gives us an advantage when we land on the western shore. I will fly ahead now and scout the fortress—determine if they have an onager atop the battlements which could launch boulders or flaming projectiles at our ships. I’ll return shortly to report back to you and summon the seabirds to coordinate with the arrival of your ships.” In a shimmer of golden light and a glimmer of gilded feathers, thevitkishifted into a peregrine falcon and soared into the sky.
Twenty minutes later, the raptor returned to the ship and resumed human form. “There is a large trebuchet on the flat top of the highest tower, and an onager on the battlements facing the beach. The trebuchet could take out a few of our ships, and the onager could hit our warriors forming a shield wall. I’ll summon the birds to swarm the men manning the weapons and the archers that line the battlements. As soon as we round this upcoming curve of the cliff, they’ll spot us and begin firing at our ships. The birds will be our best offensive move, enabling us to land on the beach and disembark.”
Once theDragonclawflagship rounded the curve, a resounding boom from an ominous horn blasted a warning from the sentinel in the watchtower on the eastern point. As Frankish soldiers scrambled into position, archers nocked their arrows, and fortress defenders prepared to launch the trebuchet.
Haldor Falk, standing on the prow of Skårde’s dragonship, raised his outstretched arms and painted face toward the pale afternoon sun. Like wings of a falcon, his feathered cape fluttered and flapped in the westerly wind as a piercing, eerie shriek tore from his lungs and streaked across the cloud strewn sky, emitting theFalcon’s Cry.
Within moments, the skies darkened as hundreds of sea ravens, gannets, gulls, and guillemots swarmed the castle battlements and swooped down upon the hapless men. Squawking and screeching, claws and talons extended, the raptors gouged eyes and pecked at the faces of the Frankish soldiers who howled in terror and agony. While the avian assault was in full force, Skårde and his fleet landed on the beach, the Vikings storming the shores and formingshield walls as they advanced up the sand.
Hissing arrows thwacked against wooden shields, the screams of the Viking wounded mingling with the shrieks of the Frankish soldiers being plummeted and pecked atop the battlements. As the trebuchet from the tower launched heavy boulders toward thedrakkarships docked along the coastline, the thunderous boom and cracking of hulls added to the shattering and splintering of the warriors’ wooden shields.
Again, Haldor raised his arms within the winged cape and his feather painted face to the dark sky, summoning stinging insects which swarmed the archers firing upon the shore. Weeping and wailing, the Franks vainly fought to repel the hornets and wasps, some plummeting to their death from the watchtowers and ramparts at the top of the white chalk cliff.
“To the castle!” Skårde bellowed above the din, directing his men toward the west bank of the river just as hundreds of Franks poured out of the fortress and stormed down upon the beach.
Steel clashed as axes met swords, the cacophony of shrieks and shouts punctuated by the rhythmic creaking of the trebuchet and the thunderous thud of boulders hitting the beach, spraying sand into blood stained faces. As he blocked a staggering strike from a Frankish blade, Skårde spotted Haldor Falk from the corner of his eye. Standing on the shore at the base of the cliff, thevitkiwas a conspicuous target with his fierce face paint, feathered cloak, and unfurled arms raised toward the skies.
As if Falk had read Skårde’s thoughts, he swiftly shifted into a peregrine falcon and tore from the beach, blending into the flock which swooped and swarmed the Frankish soldiers on the ramparts and towers of Richard’s captured castle.
Distracted by the sight of the Falcon taking flight, Skårde suffered a crushing blow to his chain mail helmet, the blunt impact from the enemy sword dizzying and disorienting as he struggled to maintain his balance and parry another swift, incoming strike. At a sudden blaze along the riverbank, he realized with horror that the defending Franks had poured boiling oil over his advancing army and had set his men afire. The earsplitting shrieks of hundreds of Viking warriors being burned alive tore up his spine as another staggeringslash sliced through the links of his armor, severing flesh on the left side of his torso under his shield arm.
Enormous boulders and flaming fire barrels hurled from the onager had shattered the Viking shield walls and scattered his men, the constant barrage of projectiles taking its gruesome toll. While the coppery stink of blood and the overwhelming stench of bowels and vomit assailed his nostrils, Skårde observed in paralyzed shock as a Frankish knight severed Viggo’s beloved head and Gunni fell beneath the blow of an enemy sword. Amidst blazing ships and burning shields, a thick, acrid smoke hung in the salty, stinging air, the pitiful wails of dying men piercing the charred, chaotic carnage. Mangled bodies, torrents of blood, and glistening gore littered the pebbled beach and stained the sandy shore.
Blood poured from his throbbing wound. His head spun, and bile roiled in his gut. A crippling blow to his left leg dropped him to his knees. As the armored knight hoisted his gleaming Frankish blade to inflict the fatal strike, Skårde thought of Ylva.
And remembered the enchanted emerald talisman hidden beneath his hauberk.
Through the Nordic rune ofEihwaz—imbued with hergaldrmagic and etched in her Viking blood—Skårde summoned the aid of the Nordic gods.
“Thor, grant me your thunder. Tyr, infuse me with your strength. And Odin, blessed Allfather, guide my sword. To victory or Valhalla!”
As Skårde’s booming voice bellowed across the beach, a sizzling jolt of energy shot through his veins. He lurched to his feet, a sudden surge of strength pulsing through his limbs while bolts of lightning sparked from hisLjósálfarsword. Encased within the silver hilt, the dazzling emerald emitted a deep green glow, blinding in brilliance and preternatural power.
He spun, slashed, and struck, disarming and disemboweling the stunned Frankish soldier who moments before had been poised for the kill. Like a berserker in a bloodlust rage, Skårde slew enemy soldiers left and right, the momentum of his sudden charge spurring his disheartened, despondentmen. As another swarm of aggressive birds swooped down from the skies, the deafening blast of a horn resounded from the forest at the crest of the embattled cliff.
The Duke of Normandy had arrived to reclaim Fécamp.
The Franks who had been fighting Skårde’s men from the superior vantage point above the beach now turned to face the unexpected reinforcements of Richard’s allied army from behind. In the blink of an eye, the tide of the bloody battle had turned.
A thunderous thud reverberated from the castle, the rumbling vibrations from the impact sending tremors from the ground up into Skårde’s very bones. Another crashing boom collapsed the southwest watchtower, the devastating blast dispersing fragments of shattered stone and splintered wood like perilous projectiles in a powerful, explosive wave.
As Skårde and the remnants of his devastated army reached the top of the cliff to join Richard’s men, he saw teams of Norman knights pulling, pushing, and rolling three massive siege towers of thick, solid timber with narrow window slits and iron hinges from the edge of the woods toward strategic positions along the exterior castle wall. Richard’s two trebuchets launched a continuous volley of boulders, logs, and quicklime at the Frankish defenders, causing shrieks of agony as the projectiles killed, maimed, or incapacitated their intended targets.
Castle archers along the wall scrambled into position, firing flaming arrows at the towering siege engines and the armored warriors straining and groaning with the effort of moving them. With a final heave, the wooden giants reached the wall, their massive wheels grinding to a halt.
As the assault ramps were lowered, Frankish defenders along the battlements of the castle wall—armed with pots of boiling oil and flaming torches—prepared to set fire to the Viking attackers, as they had done to Skårde’s army on the bloody beach. But Haldor Falk, standing beneath an enormous oak, raised the arms of his feathered cloak like wings of a predator in flight and shrieked a shrill, piercing cry. Within moments, hundreds of owls, hawks, and falcons swarmed the skies, screeching and swooping down upon the Franks with sharp talons, pointed beaks, and curved rapacious claws.
While raptors gouged the eyes, ears, and faces of the Franks, castle archers took aim at Haldor Falk. Once again, thevitkishifted into falcon form, taking to the skies as the first wave of Norman Vikings poured forth like a relentless tide from each of the three siege towers, brandishing axes, maces, and swords.
