Blood of the Wolf

The Walls of Borislav

The bells of Borislav had barely stopped ringing when the fortress gates opened.

Erik saw the movement from the shore.

The Vikings had already formed along the beach, shields strapped to their arms and weapons ready. Solvi's men stood beside them beneath the raven banners, while the ships remained behind them in the shallow water.

For a moment, Erik expected the southern soldiers to stay behind the walls. Instead, they came out.

A column of horsemen appeared first, followed by rows of infantry carrying long spears and painted shields. More men gathered behind them until the road below Borislav was filled with soldiers.

Erik studied the fortress. The main gates stood open.

"They're coming to meet us," Solvi said.

Erik tightened his grip on his twin arm-swords. "They think we're a disorganized raiding party. He wants to crush us before we can set up siege lines."

"Or he doesn't know whose ships just hit his shore," Solvi added with a grim grin.

Erik raised his right blade high. "Shield wall!"

The northern line advanced from the riverbank up to the wide grassy plain before the fortress. Behind the southern soldiers, the grey stone ramparts of Borislav loomed, lined with archers who held their bows at the ready.

At the center of the Kievan host sat a man on a dark stallion. He wore a conical iron helmet and a long red cloak pinned with a silver brooch. His beard was trimmed close, and his gray eyes swept over the Viking ranks with cool, practiced assessment.

Lord Egor.

Egor had held Borislav for fifteen years. He knew every trail through the hills, the strength of his garrison, and the exact weight of the men under his command. He had expected Halfdan's death to plunge Gutagard into chaos. Instead, Halfdan's son was standing on his doorstep with fifteen warships at his back.

Egor raised his broadsword. "Forward!"

The distance between the two armies evaporated in seconds.

"Hold!" Erik roared.

The Vikings braced, digging their iron-shod boots into the turf. The southern infantry lowered their pike-tips, and the two hosts collided with the deafening thunder of wood, iron, and shouting men.

The initial impact pushed the northern shield-wall back three paces. Spears splintered against oak bosses; axes bit into linen padding and mail.

Erik fought at the absolute center of the breach.

A Kievan spear jabbed toward his throat. Erik slapped the shaft aside with his left blade, stepped inside the guard, and drove his right sword upward through the soft leather under the soldier's helmet. Before the man hit the mud, Erik spun, catching a descending broadsword on his crossguard, shoving the attacker back with his shoulder, and crossing both blades through the man's throat in a single fluid stroke.

Around him, the battle ground into a bloody contest of endurance.

Áki fought like a berserker, his heavy two-handed axe rising and falling in rhythmic, devastating arcs that splintered shields and shattered shoulders. Beside him, Bo fought with disciplined precision, using his shield rim to hook enemy guards before driving his short blade home.

On the far right, Solvi's Raven warriors hit the Kievan flank hard, threatening to turn the enemy line.

Egor saw the danger immediately. He raised his sword, shouting a command to his trumpeter.

A sharp horn blast sounded, and the southern cavalry surged forward, hooves tearing up the wet turf as they thundered toward Solvi’s exposed flank.

"Turn!" Solvi shouted.

The Raven warriors swung their shields around just in time. The lead horseman slammed into the wall of wood and iron with a sickening crash, horse and rider tumbling over the line into a sea of axes. Another rider broke through, his sabre slashing downward, but a northern warrior grabbed the horse's bit and hauled the beast sideways, pitching the rider into the mud.

Erik saw the cavalry stall. "Push them now!"

The Wolf Coast warriors roared, surging forward as one.

With the southern horsemen bogged down on the flank, the Kievan center began to buckle. Erik pressed the advantage, driving his twin swords into every gap. He moved with a speed that startled the southern soldiers—parrying with his left, striking with his right, ducking beneath wild spear-thrusts, and stepping over the fallen without breaking rhythm.

A Kievan sergeant tried to thrust at Erik's ribs. Erik caught the spear-point between his crossed blades, twisted the weapon out of the man's hands, and drove his shoulder into the sergeant's chest, sending him crashing into the men behind him.

The southern formation fractured.

"Fall back!" Egor’s voice boomed above the din from atop his horse.

The infantry hesitated, caught between the press of northern axes and their commander's order.

"Fall back to the gates!" Egor shouted again, reining his stallion around.

The Kievan army began a controlled retreat, stepping backward over their dead while keeping their shields raised. The Vikings pursued them, hacking at the rearguard until the shadow of Borislav's stone gatehouse fell over the field.

"Archers! Loose!" a voice screamed from the battlements.

A dark cloud of iron-tipped shafts rained down from the walls.

"Shields up!" Erik barked.

A canopy of overlapping wood shielded the northern warriors, though two men screamed as arrows found gaps in their armor. Erik looked up through the shield-seam.

The last of the southern soldiers were retreating through the heavy iron gates. Lord Egor paused at the threshold, turning his stallion to look back across the littered field.

Their eyes locked across fifty yards of blood-soaked grass. Neither man spoke. Then the heavy portcullis dropped with a grinding crunch, and the oak gates slammed shut behind it.

The Vikings held the field. But the fortress stood unbroken.

Erik wiped a smear of dark blood from his blade and sheathed both swords. "Collect our dead and fallen. We fall back to the river."

By late afternoon, the Viking camp was established along the riverbank out of range of the fortress ballistas.

The longships rested in the shallows while healers tended to the wounded under open canvas shelters. Driftwood fires burned along the shingle, sending grey trails of smoke into the evening sky.

Erik stood with Solvi on a rocky outcrop overlooking the valley. The keep of Borislav rose above the treetops in the distance, its battlements lined with torchlight.

"We can starve them out," Solvi said, nursing a bruised shoulder. "Or build ladders and take the gatehouse."

"Ladders will cost us fifty men before we even touch the parapet," Erik replied, watching the fortress patrols move along the ramparts. "Egor has archers, hot oil, and three months of grain behind those stone walls."

Solvi grunted. "So what's the plan, Jarl?"

Erik looked down toward the valley road that ran past the fortress toward the deep south. "We don't break stone with muscle. We make Egor open those gates again—or we find the way in that he thinks we don't know about."

Inside the central hall of Borislav, Lord Egor unbuckled his blood-spotted steel breastplate and let it fall onto the oak table with a heavy thud.

Outside, the courtyard was a crowded field hospital. Wounded soldiers lay on straw mats, while priests moved among them administering last rites.

Egor’s second-in-command stepped into the hall, splinting his left forearm. "The count is in, my Lord. We lost sixty men on the plain. Forty more are too wounded to hold a bow."

Egor ran a hand over his face, staring at the map laid out on the table. "And the Norsemen?"

"They've set up camp along the river. They're not retreating."

Egor looked out the arched window toward the distant smoke rising from the riverbank. "I expected a seasonal raid led by a hot-headed youth looking for glory. But Halfdan's son didn't come here for cattle or silver."

The officer frowned. "Then why is he here?"

"He wants the valley," Egor said softly. "He wants Borislav."

He turned to the table, grabbed a piece of parchment, and wrote a brief message in charcoal before sealing it with red wax.

"Get a rider out through the postern gate under cover of dark," Egor ordered, handing the scroll to his officer. "Send him south to Kiev. Direct to King Askold."

"What shall I tell the King?"

Egor looked back toward the river mist. "Tell him Halfdan is dead, but his son is at our gates with warships. Tell him Borislav holds for now—but if he doesn't send reinforcements, the North will own the river before first snow."