The dawn of the iron dra.., p.22
The Dawn of the Iron Dragon, page 22
part #2 of Saga of the Iron Dragon Series
“Their intentions will dictate their strategy,” Sigurd said. “Because they do not expect a long siege, they will not bother to cut off your supply lines. They will control the Seine, of course, and they will make a show of blocking the roads, but you will continue to be able to get food from nearby farms and towns. Butchering all your cattle now is a waste of time and will hurt you in the long run.”
“Foolishness,” muttered Grimald.
“Go on,” Odo said. “What else?”
“The bridges must not fall. They will prevent the Norsemen from making a landing close to the city or attacking from their ships. If the bridges fall, your supply lines really will be cut off.” Paris at this time was confined to Île de la Cité, a natural island in the middle of the Seine. Two bridges, a wooden bridge to the north and a stone bridge to the south, connected it to the banks of the river. Each bridge was guarded by two stone towers, one at each end.
“We know this already,” grumbled the marquis.
“Humbert is right,” Odo said. “Give us something we can use.”
“The Vikings will focus their attacks on the north bridge. If they can get close enough, they will burn it down. As long as the tower stands, your men will be able to repel attacks against the bridge. But if it is to stand, the tower must be taller.” Sigurd’s advice was based on the very general account of the siege Gabe had given him. At the time, Sigurd had not been planning to be personally involved in the siege—much less on the defending side!—so he had not paid close attention. Additionally, Gabe’s account was based on his own recollections of reading he had done years earlier, and Sigurd got the impression that historical records about the event were sketchy. He could only hope his vague understanding of future events was enough to sway the council.
“Ah, you suggest we quickly throw another story on the tower,” Grimald said. “Butchering cattle is a waste of time, but sending a hundred men to dredge stones from the Seine is not.”
“Build it from wood if you have to,” Sigurd said. “Hrólfr’s men will measure the height of the tower by comparing its shadow against that of a measuring stick, and then they will build ladders and modify their siege towers to match that height. This will take some time, during which they will focus most of their efforts on the frontal assault. We can repel that assault, but it will be for naught if the tower falls. If we build another story on the tower, we can attack their ladders and siege towers from above.”
Humbert scowled, and most of the others remained unimpressed. Gozlin seemed uncertain. Count Odo, however, listened intently.
“Vision or not, this sounds like wise counsel to me,” Odo said.
“What if it is a trick?” Theodulf asked.
“What would be the purpose of such false counsel?”
“He is trying to get us to waste our time building another story for the tower when we should be stockpiling resources for the winter.”
“You don’t have to build the additional story now,” Sigurd said. “Assemble a supply of lumber and nails at the tower’s base and wait until Siegfried begins building his towers.”
Odo looked to Gozlin, who said, “It seems like a sensible precaution to me.” Odo nodded. “Have it done. And assign a team of men to inspect the bridges. Make sure the supports are sound and shore up any weak points.”
Sigurd went on, “The men who are butchering cattle should be reassigned to collecting supplies for the defense. We will need as much oil and pitch as you can get your hands on, as well as cauldrons for boiling it.”
“Hot pitch is fine for men on ladders,” Robert said, “but it will not help against mangonels.”
“The tower will hold against mangonels,” Sigurd said with more confidence than he felt. “The greater threat is men scaling the walls.”
“Sigurd speaks the truth,” Gozlin said. “There is no time to reinforce the foundations of the tower. Either it will hold or it will not. We must focus on threats we can do something about.”
Odo nodded. “Reassign half of the men stockpiling food. We’ve collected all the pitch and oil in the city, but send them with carts to the neighboring towns. There is little we can do to strengthen the bridges, but we can be prepared for men trying to scale the walls.”
“Then we are entrusting our defense to this Norseman?” asked the marquis.
“We will follow his counsel to the extent it seems wise,” Odo replied. “And if the Vikings do not attack on November twenty-sixth, we will have him hanged from the tower as a sign to his countrymen.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
O’Brien and Joseph spent the day alternately trudging across muddy fields or scrabbling through underbrush, doing their best to approximate a straight line back to Saint-Pol-de-Léon. The weather was cold and rainy, and they had to keep moving to stay warm. They were aided in their navigation by Carpenter, who guided them from above. Having pinpointed the location of the Cho-ta’an’s carriage and entourage, it was a simple matter to keep them out of sight—simple for Carpenter, not so much for O’Brien and Joseph, who had to make their way across the mucky, obstacle-filled landscape that appeared so clean and flat to Andrea Luhman, a thousand miles up. It had been touch-and-go for the first few miles, as there was little cover in the grain fields that surrounded the town. At one point, they’d had to hide for nearly an hour, shivering in a pig-sty, waiting for the Doctor’s agents to pass.
Once they were several miles out of town, though, it was just a matter of staying off the road while finding a way around the copses and bogs that dotted the Frankish countryside. When nightfall came, they were still ten miles from Saint-Pol-de-Léon. Having left in a hurry, they’d taken no food or other supplies with them, so they spent a cold evening sleeping fitfully under piles of dead autumn leaves. After spending the day prowling all of the streets out of the town for several miles, the Doctor and his men retired for the evening too: they parked the carriage in a meadow not far off the road, and the men slept in tents nearby.
At dawn, O’Brien and Joseph set out again. Their stomachs growled, but they did at least find a brook near their campsite to ease their thirst. Andrea Luhman was over the horizon when they set out, so they could not get an immediate report of the Doctor’s location. When Carpenter finally came online, nearly an hour later, he had bad news.
“They’ve gone ahead of you,” Carpenter said.
“What do you mean, ahead?” O’Brien asked. “How do they even know where we’re going?”
“That’s a very good question,” Carpenter said. “They’re heading straight for Saint-Pol-de-Léon.”
“Why the hell would they go there? They’re going backwards. There’s no way they could know our camp is there.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Carpenter said. “I’ll keep you updated.”
O’Brien and Joseph spent another two hours trudging through muddy meadows, losing contact with Andrea Luhman as they neared the road going into Saint-Pol-de-Léon. Not wanting to risk being caught in the open, they waited behind a stand of birches until the ship came around again.
“—you hear me?” Carpenter’s voice said, garbled with static. “—right for the beach!”
“Say again, Carpenter,” O’Brien said. “You’re breaking up.”
“—but his henchmen are headed for the beach. You gotta… your people out of there!”
“How the hell…?” O’Brien asked, more to himself than to Carpenter. He turned to Joseph. “The Cho-ta’an’s henchmen are on the beach. We need to get over there, now.” He left their hiding place and ran toward the road.
“Wait!” Joseph cried from behind him. “We can’t fight four armed men! We don’t even….”
But O’Brien wasn’t listening. He’d reached the road and was running toward the town. The beach was still almost a mile away, and he realized as he neared the houses at edge of town that he was not going to make it in time. Even if he cut through the woods to the west of town, making a beeline for their camp, the Doctor’s men would reach Helena and the others before he did.
“O’Brien, stop!” Captain Mallick was shouting in his ear. “Forget it. There’s nothing you can do.”
Panting, O’Brien slowed to a walk. “What’s… happening?” he gasped. Joseph came up alongside him.
“They’re approaching the camp. Looks like all four men, on horseback.” This was Carpenter’s voice again.
“What about the carriage?”
“They left it in town.”
“And the Cho-ta’an?”
“Don’t know. Don’t see him, and the carriage seems to have some heat shielding. Nothing shows up on infrared. Okay, they’ve made contact.”
“Made contact? Jesus, Carpenter. Talk to me.”
“Looks like… fighting. Can’t make much out. Cloud cover at the beach, and it’s hard to differentiate with infrared. It’s… I think it’s not going well.”
“Where’s the carriage?”
“About a klick straight ahead of you, near the trailhead.”
“Come on,” O’Brien said to Joseph, taking off at a run again. Joseph followed.
“Somebody’s running away,” Carpenter said. “Several figures, running into the woods. Hard to make out, with the cover. The ones at the beach, they’re… I think they’re dying, O’Brien. There are three… four down already. Five. I’m afraid your people aren’t putting up much of a fight.”
They’re half-dead of plague, O’Brien thought. And the others are children. And Helena…. But he did not reply, saving his breath for the run to the carriage. Shortly, it was in sight, parked in front of the woods that stood between the town and the beach. The curtains of the carriage were drawn. Other than the two horses in front, there was no sign of life.
O’Brien approached the carriage, intending to throw open the curtain and throttle the Doctor. As his foot hit the running board, a gloved hand reached toward him through the curtain. Before he could react, Joseph gripped his shoulder, pulling him backwards. The Doctor’s long finger brushed against his chest and pain shot through O’Brien’s body.
The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back on top of Joseph, his entire body tingling. The carriage was pulling away. Joseph groaned. The charge from the shock glove had gone through both of them. If Joseph hadn’t grabbed him when he did, he’d be dead.
O’Brien struggled to his feet, his muscles trembling. He took a few steps after the carriage, but it was no good: he could barely walk, much less pursue the carriage.
“O’Brien,” Carpenter said in his ear. “You need to move. The henchmen are coming back your way.”
O’Brien helped Joseph to his feet. “Horses coming,” he said. “Have to get out of sight.”
Joseph nodded, and the two staggered into the woods, taking cover behind a fallen pine tree as a man on horseback came around a bend in the trail. They waited for the men to pass.
“Looks like two of their men are down,” Carpenter said in his ear. “Lots of bodies on the beach. Some of your people are missing. I think they ran into the woods.”
O’Brien listened silently, not daring to speak. The two men on horseback passed and headed toward the carriage, which was receding in the distance. O’Brien and Joseph stood and made their way down the trail to the beach.
The beach was a scene of carnage. Bloody corpses lay strewn across the beach, many with limbs missing. One horse lay on the ground, a bloody gash in its neck. Another stood some ways down the beach, looking back on the battlefield. Skjöldur remained moored a few yards away.
O’Brien came upon Birgir almost immediately. His jaw had been completely crushed, perhaps by a horse, rendering him almost unrecognizable, but O’Brien knew the coxswain’s clothing and sturdy build. Folki lay not far from him, blood seeping into the sand from a half-dozen wounds.
“They’re all dead,” Joseph said. It seemed a foolish thing to say, but then O’Brien realized what he meant: every single Norseman in their party had been killed. Helena and the boys were nowhere to be found. The Vikings had died protecting them.
“They… saved them,” a voice gasped from farther up the beach. O’Brien turned to see a well-dressed man lying on his side. The sand under him was stained with blood. Dimitris.
O’Brien ran to him.
“I’m afraid I… wasn’t much help,” Dimitris gasped. “But the Norsemen, oh they were glorious! Barely able to stand, some of them, fighting men on horseback….” He erupted in a fit of coughing, blood spattering from his lips onto the sand. Dimitris’s face was ashen, and his hair was matted with sweat. Like the Norsemen, he had been in rough shape even before the battle began, and the blood pouring from his chest and his back near the shoulder blades indicated he’d been run through with a sword.
“Where are Helena and the boys, Dimitris?” O’Brien asked.
“They rose… like giants,” Dimitris said. “Oh, to see it! Do you know, have you seen? The men of the North. I have stood under the dome of the basilica at Hagia Sophia….”
“Dimitris,” O’Brien said urgently, gripping the architect’s arm. “Helena and the boys. Are they okay? Where are they?”
“…compared to this,” Dimitris babbled. “Norsemen on the beach at sunrise, axes gleaming in the crimson light. I see them now, their glorious wings beating against the dawn. I am no warrior. I struck but one blow, and that weakly, but I stood. I stood alongside them. Surely the penumbra of their valor envelopes me as well! Oh, to see the Hall of Odin….”
With this, Dimitris’s head fell to the sand.
Chapter Thirty-nine
The people of Paris worked tirelessly for the next two weeks preparing for the expected attack. Dozens of barrels of oil and pitch were collected, in addition to hundreds of pounds of wax. Thousands of arrows were produced. The supports of the bridges were reinforced, and deep trenches were dug around the towers at the far end of both bridges. Some food was stockpiled, but only enough for a few weeks. The city’s leaders were counting on Sigurd being right about the Norsemen’s overconfidence.
Sigurd’s primary concern remained the tower at the far side of the wooden bridge to the north of the city. The tower was the main defense for the bridge; archers stationed on the tower could dissuade any attempts to cross—or destroy—the bridge, which reachable through a massive gate connected by a stone wall to the tower. The tower itself was nearly thirty feet tall, with three levels, the lowest of which was windowless and accessible only via a heavy wooden door inside the gate. The second level was outfitted with angled slots, colloquially called “murder holes,” that could be used by archers to target anyone approaching the gate. A partial wall topped with stone crenels ringed the top of the tower, allowing a dozen archers to fire arrows a hundred yards or more.
Inspecting the towers, Sigurd found them to be well-constructed; Bishop Gozlin had ordered them built with a mind to the lessons learned in the last Viking siege, forty years earlier. Still, Sigurd found it difficult to imagine how any tower could stand for long against Ibrahim’s mangonels. He had seen the mangonels throw a sixty-pound stone three hundred yards. The tower was round, which meant that projectiles would tend to glance off it, but it would likely take only a few direct hits to shatter the walls. He could only hope Ibrahim’s engines weren’t as accurate as they’d appeared to be.
On the nineteenth of November, Siegfried’s ships began to come ashore just west of the city, ferrying men and equipment. From the western wall, Sigurd could see Ibrahim’s lieutenant, Lothar, managing the assembly of the various siege engines. On the twenty-fourth, Siegfried arrived with his entourage at the city gate, and he was allowed inside to meet with Gozlin. Sigurd was not present at the meeting, but it went as expected: Siegfried demanded some ridiculous amount of silver to order his men to leave Paris. Gozlin declined.
The attack began on November twenty-sixth, as Sigurd had predicted. He had known it would come, but he couldn’t deny feeling a surge of relief at the sound of the first arrows plinking off the northern tower. Expecting the tower to take the brunt of the Norsemen’s initial assault, he and Njáll had joined the twenty men-at-arms there the night before. Bishop Gozlin had arrived early that morning.
Sigurd’s relief turned to worry as the mangonels and ballistae were dragged into position. The first stones flew toward the tower just after noon. They missed by a considerable distance—some falling short, others splashing harmlessly in the Seine. The mangonels were recalibrated and fired again, with some improvement in accuracy, but it was several hours before a glancing blow struck the tower. Occasionally a stone would land on the bridge, splintering the rail or thudding against the plank surface, but doing no real damage. Some stones rolled into the water; others accumulated like neglected toys on the bridge. The ballistae proved far more accurate, but the bolts did little damage to the sturdy stone walls.
At the same time, the Viking archers sent hundreds of arrows toward the battlements of the tower. These made a tremendous racket, bouncing off the tower and clattering on the wooden bridge, but they were unlikely to hit flesh: the men in the tower remained behind cover, waiting for the Norsemen to get closer before firing. The defenders might be able to pick off a few Vikings at a distance, but they weren’t going to win a war of attrition. By Sigurd’s estimate, the Norsemen numbered over twenty thousand, and ships continued to arrive.
The Vikings, realizing they were making no headway, soon opted for a more direct approach. A rallying cry went up from the Norsemen’s lines and a hundred or more men rushed toward the tower. Sigurd counted fourteen ladders. The Norsemen ran with the ladder over their heads and their shields resting on the ladder, giving them near-total cover from the tower.
Sigurd had acquired a bow, and he and the other archers rained arrows down on the attackers, to little effect. Most of the arrows thudded into shields or stuck in the ground. Gozlin himself was the first man to score a hit, sending one of the ladder-carriers to the ground with an arrow to the knee.
The attackers slowed as they reached the trench, some twenty yards from the base of the tower. The trench was fifteen feet wide and eight feet deep at most points, making it nearly impossible for a man in armor to leap over it. The bottom of the trench was littered with boulders, brambles and spike-filled holes covered by leaves and branches. A few of the attackers clambered into the trench and began to work their way through the hazards while holding their shields above their heads. Others lay ladders down to act as makeshift bridges and then attempted to crawl across them. Both methods met with mixed success.
