Swadian Invasion
The apple tasted rotten; Willum tossed it over the wall. The winds were howling and it rained for the first time in weeks, and so this night had to be Willum’s turn to take watch on the town’s low wooden wall.
He had been assigned to a battalion of footmen under Jarl Gunder, men who raped and pillaged Swadian villages by the dozen for the length of the war. It was a war that had raged on for two years, since King Ragnar of the Nords declared he would annihilate the Swadians and subjugate their lands. Two years ago that had been, yet here they were, on a cold night, defending some impoverished village by the border between the Nord and Swadian kingdoms.
“Have the scouts returned?” asked Renn, as he stood tall beside him, leaning on his longbow. Willum shook his head. Renn sighed. “Three nights we’ve waited and still nothing. I hope they run down the scum and display them for all the poxy villagers to see”.
Three days ago, Jarl Gunder and his retainers had come through the village after trying to hunt down a band of Swadians nearby. Supposedly, these men were Swadian knights who had fled from a recent skirmish, and decided it was a brilliant idea to raid the Jarl’s baggage train from the rear. Word had gotten round quick that some local villagers were aiding them as outlaws, stealing supplies and foraged food from Nordic soldiers. For this was a Swadian market town, held by the Nord kingdom; today they had hanged twenty peasant farmers by the gatehouse to set an example.
“The bastards better come soon or I am going to freeze to death.” Willum dropped his short pike on the wall and crossed his arms, hugging his rusty mail hauberk tight in some futile attempt to warm himself. “Once we get word from the Jarl we can torch this place down and get out.”
“At least we’d get a nice fire going,” Renn smiled, with raindrops bouncing off his half-helm, “I fancy a few roasted goats for me-self.”
From here on, whether they would be marching forward or back to Nord territory was still unknown. King Ragnar and his marshall had a disastrous siege at Praven, where a Swadian vanguard of heavy horse came charging down by the Nord rear. Two of the Nord princes were cut down in the process. Willum had heard one of the sergeants already talk about a succession crisis.
The winds bellowed in chorus, and the Nord heraldic banner - the black raven on the blue sea - tore from its mast and flew over the wall. Renn cursed, but Willum knew well it would be his job to sort that out on the morrow.
“Set up a kettle here, Willum,” ordered Renn, “and bring some spiced wine for boiling. Enough for all the other guards as well.”
Willum bent over to pull up his short pike. Renn let out an odd choke.
“You what?” muttered Willum. Gazing up, he found Renn with a quarrel in the side of his neck, spewing blood. Renn’s body lopped and fell a few feet from the inside of the wall. Men were already roaring. The alarms were ringing as the rest of the Nord guards took positions. Looking out onto the field below, Willum could make out figures approaching the wall, their armour faintly glimmering. “King Harlaus!” they cried. “For Swadia!” they cheered.
He heard a crash of steel - they were already on the wall. He watched three of the Nord men-at-arms overwhelmed by a group of Swadians scaling the wall. With only several feet of wooden walls, with supporting barricades as a makeshift walkway, it wasn’t long before dozens of enemy men had hopped over it. So much for this defensive position.
Clutching his weapon, Willum stood still in fear, bracing for whatever was to come. Before he could react, a mace landed on the back of his shoulder. And with a loud crack, he flew forwards - falling.
The night had calmed. Rain splattered gently on his face as he opened his gaze upon the heavens. The right side of his body was in severe ache; the rest of him, numb and still.
Soldiers clad in mail had approached him as he lay on the wet grass. They glared down at him - the Swadian lion raged in crimson red on their surcoats. Coughing up bile from the back of his mouth, Willum cackled quietly to himself.
“Hang him with the rest.” He heard one of them utter.
They dragged his body to the base of a tree and wrapped a rope round his neck. They hoisted and lifted him up, attaching the rope to a branch. Slowly, Willum went up. Quickly, his body came crashing down. Something for the Swadians to see, and for all of them to hear.
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History by SaxonCamel