Chapter 69: Into the Wolf Den
The scent of blood and ash filled the air over the ruins of Dún Ailline. The first wave of the united Connacht host had crashed against its ancient stone walls, and broke among iron and flame.
It was not surtr’s flames that burned these men, no such legendary fire would be reserved for an army worthy of its magic.
Rather, it was a more traditional mixture of pitch that coated their shields and mail coats, sending them to Christian hell where they belonged.
Vetrúlfr stood atop the ramparts, sword and shield in hand. Howling at the enemy below, as if to taunt them. He knew they were here for his head. Why wouldn’t they be?
He had caused far too much trouble for these Kings, and the Pope who backed them to not become their primary object of their hate filled desires.
And here he stood, ranting, raving, biting the iron rim of his shield as he wore the skin of a beast whose white fur invoked the primal fury of its bestial spirit.
Arrow loosed towards him from below, but his shield arm raised with precise timing, blocking them with ease.
It was a mocking gesture, and the Gaelic archers knew it. It did not help that a rain of arrows fell upon them every time they popped their head out from behind what limited cover they could take.
Twice in three days the host had tried to raise ladders above the walls, to find themselves falling into the depths of the dry moat where wooden stakes smeared with human feces lie in wait for them.
Even if they lived to tell the tale, the rot would claim their life within a fortnight. It was a dirty, disgusting, and brutally efficient tactic.
One that caused the Gaels to curse the white wolf who laughed at their misfortune from above.
Ármóðr watched the way which Vetrúlfr goaded the enemy into rushing towards their doom, and could not help but admire the spirit of the man.
Each gesture designed to provoke fury and loosen the grips of sanity that would otherwise compel these men to think before they charged.
It was all too easy for Vetrúlfr to corral the enemy exactly where he wanted them to be, and then unleash a terrible trap upon them.
Finally, after the third day, and hundreds of losses, the host broke and returned to their pitiful attempt at a siege camp below the solid stone walls of the ancient ring fort.
Having watched his army bleed with little to show for it, Conchobar and the other petty Kings who rallied behind his banners for the sake of hunting these wolves of the north who preyed upon their lands, could not help but slam his fist on the table where his horn fell and spilled onto the ground.
“God damn them all to hell! How many? How many men did we lose these past three moons? And yet the walls hold firm, and the gates remain unblemished! What sorcery is this!?”
Conchobar’s words rang out beneath the broad canvas of the command tent, scattering the nearby attendants.
One nearly dropped a tray of boiled meats, which only deepened the scowl on the king’s war-flushed face.
Across the rough-hewn table, Cathal mac Ruaidrí leaned back, his eyes sunken, fingers drumming along the pommel of his dagger.
“It is not sorcery,” he growled. “It is cunning. These Norse build pits and palisades faster than rats breed. Every approach is trapped. Every night our sentries find one more poor bastard with his throat slit, his purse cut, and strange runes carved into his skin.”
A murmur rippled among the gathered nobles. Donnchadh mac Maelruanaid made the sign of the cross, then spat.
“Runes… curses more like. Let no man say it twice; they draw on darker powers, else how could so few hold against so many?”
Flann mac Taidg slammed his hand down.
“So what then? We sit here and let them rot us out from within? Their arrows find gaps in our mail, and their blades creep through our lines at night. Every day, more men vanish from the watch fires.”
“And yet if we storm the walls again,” Aedán Sechlainn interjected, voice thin, “we bleed thrice as many. We stand between spear and stake, Conchobar. These walls were built by the ancients for such defense, and the wolves have made them their den.”
The tent fell into grim silence, the only sound the gentle slap of damp canvas in the evening breeze.
Outside, torches sputtered. Somewhere, a horse screamed; likely another beast gone lame from rough forage and endless marching.
Conchobar’s jaw worked. At last, he rose, pacing. “If we starve them out, they might break. But these Norse… they are used to hardship. I would wager their bellies are filled from our own granaries, their men well fed on our cattle.”
Cathal’s eyes glittered.
“Aye. They feast on our land while we wither in our own fields. Every day we wait gives them another day to fortify. Another day for their ships to return with fresh loot; And let’s not forget, according to our scouts, only half of their army is here, the rest ravages our lands.”
“Then we must break the walls.” Donnchadh’s voice was almost a plea. “Even if it means throwing ten men for every one they lose.”
“Aye,” Flann said darkly, “and how long do you think your lands will stand when you’ve spent your sons on these stones? Who will till your fields come harvest?”
Conchobar turned on them, face flushed. “Enough. Tomorrow, we strike again. But not like before; no blind rush. We’ll send in fire teams. Set their timber works ablaze. Smoke them like foxes from a den.”
“And if that fails?” Aedán’s voice was almost gentle. “What then, Conchobar? Do we grind this host down to nothing on stubborn pride alone?”
Conchobar looked at him for a long time. Then turned away. “Then we pray God makes the wolf tire of our land and take ship back to whatever ice-cursed shores he came from.”
No one dared to answer.
Meanwhile, atop the walls of Dún Ailline, Vetrúlfr paced like a wolf in truth. His breath misted before him in the cooling air, eyes bright with predatory delight.
Below, Gaels wandered between the tents of their sprawling camp. Fires burned low. Here and there, the distant wail of mourning rose where a man’s kin found his body returned with the night’s gleanings.
The Norse archers had grown bold; arrows whistled into the camps even by moonlight, thudding into tents or sending men ducking behind carts.
Vetrúlfr’s smile was thin. “They think to starve us. Yet it is they who grow lean.”
Ármóðr joined him at the parapet, blood still dark along his vambrace from an earlier duel at the gate.
“Their stomachs turn at every new grave. They are men with homes to lose, not raiders like us. Too long here and their hearts turn soft.”
“Aye,” Vetrúlfr breathed. “Let them break. Each day we hold, their unity cracks. The petty kings snarl at each other, counting dead sons and empty purses. By winter’s breath, they’ll be cursing the fool who dragged them here.”
Ármóðr chuckled, savage satisfaction in the sound. “And should they press us too hard; should their next assault come with enough madness to breach our gates?”
Vetrúlfr’s smile never wavered. “Then we will show them why wolves rule the night. Every street, every hall, every hearth inside these walls is now a trap. If they come through the gate, they will find only slaughter waiting.”
He glanced upward, where crows circled the ramparts in ever-tightening spirals, their dark shapes blotting the dusk.
“They sense what comes,” he whispered. “Feasting not yet done. And should we falter here, at least we’ve left them fat enough to mock the priests who would deny them a place in heaven.”
Ármóðr’s laugh boomed across the stones. “Ever the poet, Vetrúlfr.”
“Poetry is for the living. Let us ensure we remain so.”
By the time the moon crowned the distant hills, the siege lines of Connacht were restless with feverish activity.
Fires burned too hot, as men crowded around them for comfort that food could not bring. Horses shifted, uneasy, scents of blood and pitch thick in their nostrils.
In Conchobar’s own pavilion, the king lay awake upon his cot, staring at the embroidered roof, as if God himself might send down a sign through the swirling lions and crosses there.
No sign came. Only the thin moan of the night wind, and the echo of wolves howling far beyond their lines; or perhaps only in his weary mind.
He rose at last, poured himself a draught of bitter ale, and let it sit upon his tongue.
Then, with slow dread, he realized the wolf had done more than hold a ring fort. He had crawled into their thoughts, sunk fangs deep into their dreams.
And that, Conchobar feared, was a sorcery no prayer could banish.