It took them a day and the better part of two whole nights, to get Aart’s plan working. That is, the plan worked theoretically, the trunks and cut timber didn’t. They didn’t stay put. Not all of them. Not for long. Some stayed attached creating a bridge or sorts to walk on gingerly, icy water splashing over men, tied with ropes and each other.

Others didn’t and got washed away by the river, forcing men walking over them to plunge into black waters, cursing and crying as they tried to swim across, or pull their way to safety. Four drown in the shaggin’ process, half of them too tangled in the rope that was to save them, to reach the shore, Dirk reckoned.

When the morning came, no one was in the mood to celebrate, what was quite a feat of courage and perhaps ingenuity. The makeshift bridge was long gone and the road to Ludr wide open.

So they walked in silence.

“I see four guards, in front of the gates,” Aart said hours later, standing in the woods, outside the walls of the Burg. “We charge them, force our way in.”

“Where are the mercs?” Dirk asked, not liking having to sprint in full battle gear, after walking in mostly wet clothes for six hours, in the freezing cold.

“Keeping the road open, for our return,” Their leader replied.

“How they do that?”

“Keeping an eye, on the passages towards Maza,” Aart explained, not really answering him though.

“How is that keepin’ the road open?” Dirk wondered aloud, the distance to the bridges huge, Maza Burg and the Norhmen sandwiched between them. Aart snorted at his worries, unsheathed a javelin from his back, hefted it once in his right hand and then hurled it, hard as he could, towards the armed guards. Himself charging after it.

His idea of starting a scrap, almost as foolhardy, as his plans.

The guard ducked and his blade got him on his twin-horned helm, chopping one of them away. He turned, made to raise his round shield, but Dirk put a hand on it and pushed down. He downed his axe, but the man pulled away dropping the shield. Dirk stooped to pick it up, got a kick on the side of the head with a heavy boot and went down, axe slipping through his fingers.

“Gah!” Dirk yelled rolling away, shoulder popping in and out, in the same shaggin’ tumble, the pain blinding.

The guard raised his sword, right bastard had followed him over all other targets, blade catching the light of the fires and shining in the gloomy cold afternoon. One second the blade was there, Death’s scythe high over his head, the other gone; a scalding red mist spraying his face and the maimed man squeaking like a pig facing the slaughter.

Thankfully it ended fast.

“Ye are a lucky man Curd!” A warrior boomed over his face, giving him a helping hand. “Fool died going after you and glory.”

Dirk spat down, what was mostly the dead man’s blood, a bit of mud and horse manure mixed in.

“Where’s Aart?” He asked picking up his axe and a shield. Iron finishing, hardwood at its core and a good leather strap to keep it on his shoulder.

“He’s fixin’ to burn the houses, flush them out.” The man replied, deep cut on his cheek half frozen, half bleeding.

“They went up the heights,” Aart explained a part of Ludr burning behind them. Mostly near the walls. “Too many of them, but no warrior worth his salt.”

“Take some prisoners, and let’s get back,” Dirk said, pointed at some of the women and children, leering men pushed out of a house. “There’s coin to be made here!”

“Haha! Devious Dirk,” Aart yelled for all to hear, “Wants to make more coin, but we’re here to avenge my brother!”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“They are stallin’ ye Aart!” He yelled in his face, hoping to break through. “They can see the fires from Maza Burg, especially if night falls. See that dark closin’ in? That’s the night fallin’… We need to pull out… NOW!”

“Bah! I ain’t leavin’ without more of them dead.” Aart snapped looking around for potential victims. Finding none, he stabbed a thin woman through the heart, the rest of the prisoners charging him en masse, with a cry of vengeful anguish.

It was a bloody, messy affair.

Halfway through, the bulk of Ludr’s citizens, hearing and seeing them butchering prisoners and families in plain sight, got out of their makeshift defenses that were blocking the main road and charged at them.

Dirk would have died to a pitchfork, but for that shield. When he stopped hacking at the guy that almost killed him, he realized he was fighting an old man, no hair, or teeth, one foot in the grave, even before he went to work on him.

The fight spread, and turned into a gory brawl, lasting just under half an hour.

In the end, you can only kill so much, before numbers push the needle the other way.

They got out of the burning Ludr, much as they came in. Well, sort of, if ye wanna keep it real. Running they were that much was true, but this time the other way around; their mood much worse, than what it was coming in.

Their clothes at least had all dried up.

Stayed that way, until they reached the river.

The man had to jump over the woman’s body to reach him, his attack announced well ahead for Dirk to block it, with his own sword, push the blade away. He raised his axe to cut him across the face, but sensed the man behind him coming and pulled away.

He got bodied by the first and went down, which was lucky… as his friend, had another even better chance to cut him, now wasted. Dirk turned his legs one way, whacked him with the flat of his axe’s blade the other and got free from him. Made to suck some air, deep through the nose, his head light without it, mucus and blood clogging his pipes. Coughing it all up, he spat a fat blob of phlegm on the man’s face, ruining his charge.

“Gah! Ye nasty bastard!” The man cried disgusted, wiping his face, his friend always sneaky coming at him from the side, wicked custom sword in hand.

Dirk parried his sword cut aside, testing the man’s defense with his axe, in turn. His opponent jumped away, a nimble fucker and probably less tired than him. He had to duck under a furious attack from the first man, boots slipping in the sludge almost being the death of him.

He heard more cries coming from the woods.

More Northmen.

Finding his footing again, now under constant assault from the first man, Dirk blocked a wild swing with his blade, sparks raining on his skin and his strength waning fast. He turned it aside and cut the sweating Northman across the chest with the axe. The blade bit the chainmail, split it diagonally, ruining the leather underneath, but not cutting deep enough.

The man groaned and jumped back rattled, losing his sword, feet tripping over the woman’s corpse and going down, giving Dirk a rare and probably his last opening. He swung around, caught the second man sneaking up on him again and taunted him.

“HERE!” Dirk yelled, but the man paused undecided. He was gonna wait for his friend to get up. Dirk would’ve done the same thing, in his place. He flicked his axe high, caught it, as it came down mid-shaft, the man’s eyes growing in terror and tossed it, going all in with the throw. The axe traveled like a scorpion bolt, going end over end and landed at the right side of his torso, as the man turned hard, in an attempt to avoid it. The blade disappeared in him, going through, mail, leather bindings, skin and ribs with a loud crunching thud.

Dirk pushed forward, keeping the initiative, his mood much improved and finished him off, with a well placed cut below the ear. He raised his left hand to keep the spraying blood off his eyes, felt something hard piercing through his armour and turned with a cry of panic to avoid it. He wasn’t fast enough. The point of the spear exploded out his sides, blood shrieking out of him, ears popping and the pain paralyzing.

“Arrgh!” The first man cried in triumph, as Dirk turned hard pale as death, left fist grabbing the spear’s shaft holding it in place, as it turned with him. The man, just about ready to pull back the weapon and disembowel him, lost his footing, the shaft he held pushing him to the side and down. Dirk’s sword coming right after. He got him below the elbow, splitting the bone, left his hand ruined.

The man groaned, a drawn out heart-wrenching affair and clasped his arm trying to stop the bleeding, the almost cut away piece, daggling lifeless. He tried to put it back in place, his eyes wild, teeth grinding in desperation and his screams coming faster, as his knees gave out on him.

Dirk mimicked him right after, letting out a moan of his own, as he snapped the spear shaft to shorten it, near his wound. He was losing blood fast.

At the edge of the woods, he had originally come from, men appeared, younger men mostly, full of vigor and stamina; lots of them.

All armed.

All after his blood.

Kill a named man, Dirk thought, will fix ye up for life, is what these lads thought. The way of the North, sucked everyone in, himself included in his youth. He spat down, more blood than saliva this time, glanced at the injured man breathing heavy on his knees, a pool of blood gathering around him. Dirk thought about the poor bastard's kid, who had its life snuffed out, because of Aart’s stupid plan and a King’s greed.

Turned his eyes around, looked at the still distant Montfoot Bridge, half-hidden behind the first snowflakes falling. Plump as his palm. Maybe the Northmen will stop there. They hadn’t in the river's first leg, rather and much as Dirk had expected, swam right across after them.

Run for it, he decided.