Disclaimer : This was written for a short story competition. Surprisingly, it was actually finished before the closing date (a personal first); unsurprisingly, it didn't win. As a quick note, it is NOT historically accurate, although there may be elements that are familiar to anyone with a knowledge of Manx history.
It was the time between times; the end of summer and the beginning of winter. The families should have been gathered around the fires inside their homes, with plenty of food stockpiled against the coming cold. It should have been a time of celebration.
Instead, the families found themselves in strange surroundings. They had been driven from their homes and forced to huddle together within the protective walls of the castle. They had brought what supplies they could and had set up a tented village on the central green, but all of them knew that they faced a hard winter if the army outside could not be turned away.
Thorin had been one of the last to retreat to the castle. His wife had been adamant that they stay behind until their eldest son returned from the north. They had waited until the invaders had been practically at their door before they had fled. Their son was still out there somewhere. Already Thorin's wife wept for his loss and prayed to her Celtic gods for his soul.
There were about a hundred people in the castle now, mostly from the nearby village and the surrounding farms. The majority of them were farmers and fishermen, and the few who did know how to fight - mostly the transplanted Norsemen like Thorin - had put down their weapons years ago. There were always campaigns going on across the seas, always a Norse or an Irish king with a cause to fight for, but the Southern Isles were a place of peace. It was a place where men went to marry and raise a family. Thorin was one amongst many who had assumed that their days of war were behind them.
The invaders had come from the west, crossing the sea in strange vessels that were nothing like the sleek, streamlined Viking longboats. These ones wallowed like fat cows on the water, their massive sails straining to keep their bulk moving in the right direction. Each of them flew the emblem of the new church - that which worshiped one God above all others. When Thorin had seen those craft on the horizon, he had scoffed loudly and announced that his fishing boat could easily have outrun them. What he had not realised at the time was that the strange ships were built not for speed, but for the number of men that they could carry. It had been the village elders who had realised this fact, and it was also they who had counselled the move into the castle. There was a token force stationed there, left behind by King Ofred of Norway in order to keep the castle and the west coast of the Southern Isle secure. The Elders knew that those men would protect the villagers.
Very few had wanted to abandon their homes, especially so close to the start of winter. A large number of villagers had been left behind, determined to defend their property and their livestock. They had been the first casualties in this fight. The fat ships had landed on the beach and poured forth a tide of men, who had swamped the village within minutes. Thorin and the others watched from the castle walls as their kinfolk were slaughtered or taken back to the ships in chains.
The sky that night was lit by the fires of the village burning. The houses built by the Norsemen blazed fiercely, their thatched roofs catching light with ease after the long, dry summer. Thorin and his wife saw their farmstead, which they had built with their own hands and raised five children in, collapse in a shower of sparks. The old roundhouse on the hill to the east - one of the last few on the island still in use - had proved more resistant to the flames, although its inhabitants too had been forced out in short order. Its internal timbers had been set alight and it too had collapsed.
And then, in the morning, the invaders approached the castle across the causeway.
They were led by a tall, arrogant man wearing a chainmail vest and a flowing white cloak. The horse that he rode was white, as was the banner held by the man behind him. The symbol of the One God stood out starkly on the white background.
'Show them the Raven,' one of the older Norsemen in the castle had suggested with a smile. 'Odin's banner doesn't fly here as often as it should.'
So the red flag with the black Raven had been lifted above the battlements in greeting. It fluttered proudly in the stiff breeze, glaring down at these bold intruders.
The white-cloaked man had not come to negotiate. He referred to the land that the castle was built on "the Isle of Saint Patrick", and demanded that it be returned to the church. He declared that they would take it back by force if necessary. No-one in the castle doubted that the man was serious. His army numbered many hundred men.
The commander of the small garrison within the castle climbed up to the battlements to offer a reply. He was a huge and imposing Icelandic man named Fenrin, who despite his size was a notoriously kind and cheerful man. He was, however, blessed with a booming voice and thick, heavyset features, which combined to make him appear almost frightening. He was also a natural storyteller - also known as an exaggerator.
He shouted across the intervening distance to the man in white. 'We have no quarrel with your king or your people,' he said, his voice echoing off the surrounding rocks. 'If you had approached our shores peacefully we would have gladly welcomed you.' (This was maybe not entirely true, but no-one felt the need to contradict him). 'Instead, you attack our homes like barbarians. Well, we have five hundred men within this stronghold, and not one of us wish to see you take it from us.'
A worried murmur ran through the army outside. Within the castle, the men looked at each other, wondering if such an exaggeration was really wise.
The king's messenger replied in kind, and the argument went back and forth between the two men for some time. It was obvious from the outset that it was a stalemate. The invaders would not leave, and the villagers would not surrender. Thorin listened for a while, then went back to the tent that he had set up on the grass of the courtyard for his family. He was worried, but Fenrin was a good tactician and knew what he was doing. Their best hope was to stall for time - as soon as the strange ships had been spotted on the horizon, a messenger had been sent north. Within three days help would arrive from King Ofred's men, stationed on the west coast of Scotland. All the villagers had to do was to keep the castle secure until then.
It was a good stronghold, built on a spot that was easy to defend and difficult to attack. Its thick walls were made of the same dark-red sandstone as the isle it stood on. The sea encircled it on three sides, and access was via a narrow causeway from the headland. But even so, they had only two score men available to defend it. Thorin was not convinced that they would be able to hold out for three days.
He glanced up at the battlements. The morning sun was warm, despite the fact that winter was just around the corner, and the air was still and hazy. There had been a light sea mist at dawn, but it had not burnt off by mid-morning as it usually did. In fact, it seemed to be thickening. Thorin had lived by the sea for long enough to know that the weather there was truly unpredictable, and there was little it could do that would have surprised him.
What did surprise him, as he looked up at the sandstone battlements, was that there was a figure standing there. He was wrapped up in a long grey cloak that was exactly the same colour as the hazy skyline behind him. Thorin blinked, wondering if it was a trick of the light. He knew everyone within the castle, but did not recognise this man.
Curious as to the identity of the strange figure, Thorin climbed the wooden steps to the top of the flanking wall. The man in grey was looking out over the sea towards the west, despite the fact that everything of interest was going on at the opposite side of the castle.
As Thorin approached, the man looked around. Although his face was lined and weathered, as of one who had lived at sea for much of his life, his hair and beard were jet black and untouched by grey. His eyes were the peculiar grey-green colour of the ocean on a cloudy day, and had a strangely distant look, as if focused on something that no-one else could see.
'You should go and take up your sword,' the man said before Thorin could even speak. 'The king's army will attack in a matter of minutes. The fog will hamper them, but you should still be at the ready.'
Thorin blinked, taken by surprise. 'I expected Fenrin to keep them talking for a while longer,' he said hesitantly. 'He boasts that he can hold an enemy in place for hours just with the sound of his voice.'
'I have no doubt of that,' the strange man said with a smile. 'But the king's messenger is not like other men. He will quickly tire of Fenrin's words and decide to take action instead. Go take up your sword, Thorin.'
Thorin nodded, not knowing what else he could do. He retreated back down the steps, frowning to himself. He glanced up at the sky, noticing that the wind had abruptly died down to nothing, leaving the air warm and still. Already the mist was spreading upwards from the horizon. Thorin looked back at the old man, wondering who he was and how he had been so sure that the attack was coming. And how he had known Thorin's name.
His thoughts were interrupted by a shout from the other side of the castle. The battlements there were a mass of activity as people scurried back and forth. Thorin caught the fragmented shouts and realised that the attack had already begun.
He ran to his tent to grab his sword, taking only the briefest of moments to reassure his wife that everything would be fine.
Casualties within the castle had been light, but each loss had had a high toll on the villagers. They had only a small fighting force to begin with, and this skirmish had whittled away at their meager defenses. Worse, the men who had died had all left behind family and friends, making each loss all the more acute.
If it hadn't been for the thick fog surrounding the castle, casualties would have been a lot higher. The defenders had placed archers along the length of the walls, and they had held back the king's army for much of the day as it fumbled its way forward over the steep and treacherous ground. General consensus within the castle was that the appearance of the fogbank had been a timely miracle, and the villagers all prayed to their various deities that it would remain in place for the next day.
Now, the fog was suffused with the warm, red glow of the sunset. Most of the defenders had gone back to their tents to be with their families or tend to their wounds, but a handful remained on the battlements. Among them were Thorin and Fenrin. The latter was staring out in the direction of the destroyed village, a look of disgust on his broad face. 'The fog's thinning a bit,' he scowled. 'And if I didn't know better, I'd say that those men out there are regrouping.'
The fog had indeed cleared a little, and signs of activity on the beach were becoming visible. From their vantage point, it did look suspiciously like the attackers were planning a second attack. Thorin nodded grimly.
'But that's madness!' Fenrin banged his fist down on the stone wall. 'They wouldn't attack after dark. Especially this close to the start of winter. They wouldn't dare.'
'Maybe they would,' Thorin said. 'They're strangers, remember. They're of the new religion. Maybe they don't hold the old beliefs and superstitions as strongly as we do.'
Fenrin gave him a sharp look. 'Your wife is a corrupting influence on you,' he rumbled. 'When you start referring to the ways of the Old Gods as mere superstition' He shook his big head. 'But regardless of what they choose to believe, it's madness to attack during the night. They must know that.'
Thorin nodded and said nothing. He knew the legends of the Old Gods as well as any Norseman. They were the stories that he had been born and raised with; they were the ones that he had told to his own children. He knew that no sane man would dare slay another after sunset, for fear that the restless soul would haunt them forever after. And he knew that that was doubly so at this time of the year, when the spirits of the years gone by walked the earth, signaling that summer was over and winter was coming. Thorin's wife had her own beliefs, but on this one she had never questioned him. This time of year was special.
By all rights, they should have been in their homes, preparing the celebrations. There should have been laughter and drinking, and a warm fire to hold back the night. But it was hopeless to dwell on thoughts like that - the festival would have to be delayed, and the spirits would just have to understand.
Thorin's thoughts were interrupted as someone came walking towards him. He looked up and was surprised to see the old man in the grey cloak. The man nodded in greeting to him.
'The fog will not return, I'm afraid,' the man said. 'It was very tiring to hold it in place for that long.'
Fenrin turned and looked down on the man, who was considerably shorter than him. 'Who is this?' he asked Thorin.
The old man held up a hand. 'I am merely a traveller,' he reassured them. 'I will be staying only until our island is out of immediate danger. I wish I could have got here sooner, to prevent our foes from ever finding our shores.'
Fenrin and Thorin exchanged a look. 'I see,' Fenrin said. 'Well, since you are here, I'm sure you can help us in some way. Can you hold a sword?'
The man shook his head. 'No,' he smiled. 'I am not a warrior. But I can assist you in other ways. As you saw, I brought down this mist to confound our enemies.' He gestured towards the greyness that cloaked the castle. By now the sun had set, and darkness was rapidly stealing in. The full moon hung wanly in the sky.
Fenrin scratched at his beard, regarding the strange man. 'That's a clever trick,' he said, ever the diplomat. 'And of course we appreciate your assistance. But if those dogs out there are planning to attack us in the darkness, then we're going to need more than that. None of our men will be willing to fight after sundown. If we force them to, then they will not fight well.'
'There will be no need for them to fight,' the man said.
'No? How can you be so sure of that?'
'Because,' the man smiled again, 'I know more than just one trick.'
There was a shout from one of the towers. The look-out there was pointing down towards the village.
'Here we go,' Fenrin muttered. He picked up his helmet. 'If anyone wants to start working on that miracle, now would be a good time.'
The king's army was advancing along the beach towards them. The mist had faded to tattered wisps, and the scene was illuminated by the first faint glow of the moon overhead.
Fenrin shouted a series of commands and the men in the castle came running up to the battlements. Surprise registered on all of their faces - despite all evidence to the contrary, none of them had seriously expected an attack after dark. The archers in the towers took up their bows, preparing for the enemy to come within range. It was easy for them to judge when that would be, for the furthest reach of their bows had been marked on the battlefield earlier with a line of felled bodies.
The old man in the grey cloak remained where he was, watching the proceedings without comment.
One of the men looked up at the ominous moon. 'This is madness,' he said, unconsciously echoing Fenrin's words. 'We'll bring down the wrath of the spirits if we do this.'
Fenrin shrugged his huge shoulders. 'We've not a lot of choice in the matter, lad. It's kill or be killed tonight.'
The king's army paused just before the causeway, forming itself into neat formations. Their black and white uniforms looked harsh as bleached bone in the moonlight. A horn was sounded and, with their messenger on his white horse leading them, they started forward.
The archers in the castle held their positions, waiting for Fenrin's order.
The army was halfway across the causeway when a ripple ran across the battlefield in front of them.
Looking down from his vantage point, that was the only way that Thorin could have described it. The field itself seemed to shudder, as if a vast giant beneath it had stirred in its sleep. The bodies strewn across it - mostly those of the king's army, but including a few of the villagers who had fallen from the battlements in death - moved with it.
Then the ground was still, but the bodies continued to move.
At first it seemed almost a trick of the light. Fingers appeared to twitch; muscles to contract... but it could just have been imagination. It wasn't until the first of the bodies stood up that the men realised what they were seeing.
It wore the white uniform and black cross of the king's army. In life it had been a young, dark-haired man. As it slowly dragged itself to its feet, the horrified watchers saw that several arrows protruded from its chest, precluding the slim chance that it was just an injured man who had regained consciousness. Its dead eyes gazed up at the castle, unblinking. Then slowly it turned itself around to face the advancing army.
The front rows hesitated, slowing down and breaking ranks as the men spotted the apparition on the slope in front of them. A murmur spread through them, filtering backwards quickly. Only the man on the horse refused to break stride, even though his standard bearer fell back and his horse tried to shy away. He held the reins firm, urging the horse forward.
The resurrected corpse took an awkward, stumbling step forward. Behind it, three dozen other bodies twitched and began to rise.
The king's messenger swore at his horse, hitting its flanks with the flat of his sword. He was almost within striking distance of the apparition. As if in welcome, the corpse lifted its arm towards him.
The horse reared, its eyes bulging in terror and foam flying from its mouth. The messenger had just swung his sword arm back, and he was caught off balance. He lost his grip and was thrown off, striking the ground hard. The horse bolted back through the ranks of men, running several of them down.
The corpse staggered towards the fallen man, who was struggling to get back to his feet. Before he could recover, the corpse had hold of him, grappling him back to the ground. The man's shout of surprise changed quickly to a cry of terror and the monster's teeth bit into his throat. The spray of blood looked black in the moonlight.
Behind him, many of the soldiers had already taken to their heels. A few had stood their ground as the dozens of corpses got to their feet and came after them. They attempted to fend off the ghouls, but quickly found that injuries that would have killed a normal man barely even slowed the walking corpses. Many more screams echoed into the night.
The corpses stumbled their way down the slope and across the causeway. Others joined them there, as the dead that had fallen into the sea resurrected and waded slowly out, dripping black water. They followed the quickly retreating soldiers with eerie single-mindedness. They moved slowly, a lot slower than normal walking pace, but did not show any sign that they would cease their advance.
The soldiers were driven back to their ships. The first men to reach them set about hastily untying the moorings and immediately put out to sea. Those left behind were forced to discard their chainmail and swim after them.
When the ghouls reached the edge of the surf they did not hesitate for a moment, but walked directly ahead. Their slow gait carried them awkwardly through the water. None of them made any attempt to swim, and one by one their heads disappeared beneath the waves. If the men in the ship observed this, they obviously decided against returning to the shore. None of the boats made any move to turn about.
No-one in the castle had dared speak the whole time this had been happening. A shocked, almost reverential silence hung over them. Several of the Celts were gripping the charms that hung about their necks, their lips moving in prayer but no words coming out.
They realised then that not all of the resurrected dead had disappeared into the sea. A few remained on the beach, and, as the villagers watched, these ones slowly turned about and began to make their way back towards the castle.
That broke the silence abruptly. There were panicked shouts as the men rushed back to their positions, certain that they had been saved from one enemy only to be faced with another. They were quieted when Fenrin's voice boomed out over the castle, calling for peace.
'Look at the ones who are returning!' he ordered them. 'Don't you see? They're our kinsfolk.'
The others looked and saw that he was right. Out of the several dozen corpses that had risen up and gone after the soldiers, the only ones that had remained behind were dressed in the tanned animal skins of the Norsemen. One woman who had joined the men on the battlements cried out as she recognised her husband, who had been slain just earlier that day. Now he was returning to the castle with slow, determined footsteps.
When the first of the resurrected reached the castle gates, they stopped walking and stood immobile, staring blankly at the huge wooden doors.
'You!' Fenrin barked the order at one of the young men. 'Get the gates open!'
The man hesitated. 'Do you think that wise...?'
Fenrin swore at him in Norse. 'You know the old tales as well as I do, and yet when you see them played out in front of your eyes, you question the will of the gods. Those are the spirits of our kinsfolk, and they are returning to their homes for the winter. You know the bad luck that will befall us if we don't allow them in, so get moving!'
The look on Fenrin's face convinced the man not to argue further. He ran down to the gate and, with the help of several of the other men, lifted the heavy wooden bar that secured the gate. Then, regardless of Fenrin's reassurances, the men retreated very quickly back up to the battlements.
In absolute silence, the dead men filed into the castle. They paid no heed to those around them, even when the women and children cautiously came out of their tents. The men on the battlements shifted nervously, many of them still gripping their swords. Belief in the spirits was one thing, but to see them actually appear in this way
The dead men made their way to the grassy area in the central courtyard of the castle, just in front of the tented village. Then, each in turn, they lowered themselves to the ground and lay still. Within moments they had returned to nothing more than the dead.
The villagers came down from the battlements and out from their tents, and gathered together in the courtyard. Families hurried forward to reclaim their fallen menfolk. There were no shouts of triumph and very few tears of loss - at that moment everyone was too shocked to feel anything like that. In a few hours, once the dead had been laid to rest and the campfires rekindled... maybe then they could think of victory.
Only Thorin remained up on the battlements, and that was because he had realised that the old man in the grey cloak was still there. Cautiously, he approached him. The man turned and smiled, his eyes the colour of the moon-lit sea.
'Our people can rest easy tonight,' the man told him. 'And tomorrow night and the night after. Winter has come, but our home is still safe.'
Thorin nodded. 'I'm not sure I understand everything that has happened here tonight, but you're right, we've survived. That's the most important thing.'
'As you say,' the man smiled. 'And you maybe don't understand but you at least believe. I would say that that's also important.'
'Did you really do all of that? Did you bring the dead back to life? How can anyone do that?'
The old man waved it away as if it were a matter of no importance. 'I told Fenrin before, I have many tricks in this old head of mine. I have been protecting this isle for a millennia past, and will still be protecting it a millennia hence. For now though, I will draw my cloak around the isle again, to keep it hidden from the next people who seek to claim it for their own.' He met Thorin's eyes and seemed to sense the question there. 'Speak with your wife,' he instructed. 'She knows my name, as all my people know my name.'
Thorin glanced down at the camp. His wife was there with their youngest daughter in her arms, casting about anxiously for him. 'I should go speak with her,' he agreed. 'Thank you for your help today... I'm sure that Fenrin will want to thank you as well.'
The man laughed quietly. 'I think he will want to thank his own gods first.'
Thorin left him then and went down to the courtyard. His wife was waiting for him there with relief evident on her face, and she hugged him fiercely. He was not at all surprised to find that, when he looked back at the battlements, the old man in the grey cloak had gone.
Against the skyline, the Fatal Raven on Odin's banner fluttered proudly, its black head held high.