Rurik's Arc

Chapter 11 of 22

The camp was theirs, all but one thing. In the middle of the burning tents rose a squat stone tower. Rurik's men crashed against its door and fell back. Arrows came from the slits above, quick and sure. Two of the wild folk lay dead in the open mud. Every man who ran at the door drew fire. Rurik crouched behind an overturned cart and watched the shafts fall. Thorin dropped beside him, breathing hard. The old dwarf had fought his way through the center and still gripped his father's axe. "Door's oak banded with iron," he said. "We won't cut it. Not before they cut us." "Then we don't cut it," Rurik said. He looked at the tower slits, then at his wyrm. The beast lay near the wall, too spent to fly. But it could still crawl, and its iron scales could still turn an arrow. Bjorn came at a low run and threw himself down. Blood ran from a cut on his arm. He had ridden here on Rurik's word and a knife given as hostage. "They'll hold that stone till dawn," he said. "Then their main host wakes and takes us from behind." Rurik had no time and no gold to buy any. He turned to the ones still with him. Kjell knelt near the cart, a monster hunter with teeth strung in his beard, iron traps hung at his belt. Beside him stood Gunnar, the smith, broad through the shoulders, a heavy hammer in his fist. "The door," Rurik said to Gunnar. "You know iron. Where does it fail?" Gunnar wiped soot from his eyes. "Hinges," he said. "Not the wood. The pins." Rurik moved fast. He sent the wyrm forward first, crawling low, its scaled back raised like a shield against the slits above. Arrows struck the beast and skidded off. Behind it came Rurik, Thorin, Gunnar, and Bjorn, crouched in its shadow. Kjell hung back and threw. His silver-tipped knives found the slits, and two archers dropped their bows to duck. At the door Gunnar swung. The hammer rang once, twice, on the lower hinge pin. Iron screamed. The pin bent, then jumped free. He struck the upper pin while Rurik and Thorin set their shoulders to the wood. Bjorn braced beside them. The last pin sheared. The whole door tore loose and fell inward with a crash. Men poured through the gap. The archers had no time to draw. It was close work now, axe and knife in a small stone room, and close work was where Rurik's people were strongest. In moments the tower fell silent. Rurik stood in the dark room, breathing smoke. The north camp was broken and the tower was his. But through the arrow slit he saw torches waking to the south. The enemy's main host had heard the tower fall, and now it was rising.