Banners of the Northmen (32 page)

He longed to feel Runa's warm skin under his hand, smell the sweet scent of her hair, and hear the gentle purr of her voice. He wanted to whisk Gunnar into his arms, and carry him on his shoulders as he did years ago, one final time before his son became too old for such frivolity. Hakon would be walking steadily now, and Ulfrik wondered if the boy remembered him. All those desires were so far away, and all that sat between fulfillment and him was Paris. All oaths would resolve when the walls fell.

At last they were dismissed and Ulfrik wandered outside with the others, still lost in thought until Einar broke in.

"Where did your heart go while Hrolf spoke? You were not in the room with us."

He grinned. "It went home, Einar. If we breach these walls, then I can avenge Ander, claim the treasure we came seeking, and be clear to return home."

Outside, the rain slapped Ulfrik's warm face like a cold hand. Mord, now pulled into his cowl, joined them. Completely bedraggled from standing in the rain, he smiled when he saw them.

"All dried off? I've been thinking about what you said, Lord Ulfrik. My father never asked me to spy on you, I just assumed that was my role."

"And have you done well in it?"

"I have." Mord fell in with them as they rushed through the rain for their barracks. "But you've know it all along?"

"Of course."

"My father believes you will become a great jarl under Hrolf, and he wants to know what you stand for."

"And make sure he's always on the winning side. He told me that himself."

"True." They fell silent for the final distance over the muddy field, but as they arrived at the barracks, Mord spoke up again. "Hrolf has no plans to release you once this is done. My father has said so more than once. Do you know that?"

Ulfrik did not answer. He did not want to consider what he had long suspected: even if Paris collapsed today, he might never return home again.

Ulfrik watched from the rear ranks with Hrolf and his block of fighting men. After weeks of planning, building, and drilling, hundreds of Danes now scrabbled up the walls of the north tower. Less than half the force remained from eight months before, but the defenders were just as strong. Ulfrik glanced at Mord, who gripped Nye Grenner's standard with a white-knuckled hand. He saw his own worry slashed into the taut lines of his face.

The attack was faltering.

Ropes of fire poured down the tower walls, searing the men below and driving them into the river. Franks shoved away ladder crews, screaming Danes clinging like bugs on a falling branch. The mighty arrow storm from both sides thrummed in the air, shafts snapping on stone walls or clunking into wooden shields. Men cried out in death and fear, frustration and rage. Those who surmounted the top of the tower spent their lives at great cost, hurling Franks out of their defenses to shatter their bodies at the foot of the tower. The air tasted bitter with burnt flesh and spilled blood.

Again the Franks defeated the battering ram, this time with fire arrows and burning pitch. Even after soaking the ram housing in water, it still burned. The iron doors had not even bent before the crew scattered.

"Shall we bring up the attack?" asked an eager-eyed hirdman in Hrolf's command. "The men need inspiration."

Hrolf growled but said nothing. Ulfrik shared his lord's black mood. Lives were being wasted on this tower assault, but there was no other entrance. To directly assail the walls of the city was even more dangerous, giving the defenders a wider berth to fire their bows. As it was, their arrows were deadly enough when shot from the limited space of the tower.

Men streamed away from the tower, covered in blood and fear stretched tight on their faces. It was a scene so often repeated Ulfrik had no need to see it. He closed his eyes against the tide of the vanquished.

Defeat.

He would not be leading a force through the opened tower doors, to push inside and then across the bridge into Paris. Instead, he would wait patiently for Hrolf to admit defeat and conserve his fighting force for another day.

"Sound the withdrawal," Hrolf said after too few men remained to sustain the attack. When his hirdman questioned him, he struck the poor fool in the jaw and screamed his order again. The first notes were weak, the man recovering from the staggering blow, but as his notes strengthened other horns joined. Soon, the riverbank reverberated with the sad call of retreat.

Having never witnessed Hrolf striking his own, Ulfrik regarded his lord. His teeth gnashed in bitter determination, which Ulfrik took as a poor sign. Though he had promised one last attempt before departing Paris, Ulfrik was certain Hrolf would not back down. He would lead them all to their deaths before abandoning his ambition. In his heart, Hrolf was stubborn and driven, and he fostered heavy grudges. His fury was not typical of the Norse people; it was every bit as intense, but slower and steadier and capable of burning far past the point where another man's rage would extinguish.

Ulfrik was tied to this man, who had tied himself to vanquishing Paris. All the while, the defeated army flowed around both of them.

They stood in place, a block of discipline amid a chaos of disorder, each man looking ahead—fixing on nothing but their own thoughts. The Franks cheered, as usual lauding their gods Christ and Saint Denys. Ulfrik wondered if their other god, Saint Denys, was responsible for defying Odin and Thor. To Ulfrik's mind, the gods of the Norsemen had grown bored and abandoned them to the new gods.

"Lord, they have shown a white sheet. What does it mean?" One of the hirdmen pointed at the tower, where a white flag fluttered in the wind while the Franks continued to cheer. Ulfrik did not understand the meaning.

"They want to parley, or surrender." Hrolf's voice did not sound as if he believed they intended surrender. "It's a sign for a temporary peace, like our hazel branch. I will go to hear what they say."

Hrolf took Ulfrik and Gunther along with ten other spearmen, each bearing the siege shields that to Ulfrik appeared more like hall doors. Not even the dirty Franks would attack under the sign of truce, but precaution was always prudent. A translator, a Dane who had long lived in Frankia, accompanied them. They had to step over bodies and slog through bloody pools. A hand grabbed Ulfrik's ankle, a weak and trembling grip of a man not yet dead. Pulling his foot away, he continued forward. Too many suffered like this man, and to save them all would take a half day of labor. Normally, the Franks allowed them to cart away the dead and injured as long as only small parties worked at it.

Halting before the tower, puddles of flame still twisted at the base of the walls. Ulfrik averted his eyes from the smashed corpses, his stomach churning from memories of the sounds of shattering bodies. Gore sprayed the ground along with spent arrows, broken weapons, and blood-soaked clothing. Ulfrik kicked away a busted shield, and squinted up. The flag withdrew and a gray-haired man leaned over the edge, speaking perfect Norse.

"Jarl Hrolf, why have you persisted in this foolish quest? Return to your ships and leave. God forbids you entrance to our city."

"Humbert!" Ulfrik shouted before Hrolf could answer. "I'll pull apart every stone of your walls to get you. I'll dance in your guts!"

"Ah, my old master, Ulfrik. My name is Anscharic and you would do well to learn it. I am bishop now that poor brother Joscelin has passed on to our Lord in Heaven."

"I'll call you a dead man. You killed my hirdman and friend." Ulfrik stepped forward, shaking his fist at the walls. Anscharic spoke to the men beside him, and laughter filtered down.

"I've put a price on your life, Ulfrik. You will not live long."

Ulfrik inhaled to roar back defiance, but Hrolf's long arm yanked him by the hood of his cloak. "Forget your grudges with the old man. Let me talk."

Glaring at the shadowed faces laughing at him atop the tower, he reluctantly stepped back in line. Hrolf cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted.

"Listen, fools, your king has not come and Henry has died on the way to save you. If your god loves your city so much, why has he delayed and killed those who seek to protect you?"

The Franks disappeared back over the edge. Hrolf chuckled, then spoke to his men. "Their wondering if that news is true. I'm glad someone up there is translating for me."

The Danes laughed, but Ulfrik glowered. At this moment, he would trade his life for a bow to shoot Anscharic off the walls.

"Unless you called me here to surrender," Hrolf continued, "you waste your time. For seven hundred pounds of silver, I will be pleased to take my men away. Otherwise, you'd die happier if you jumped from this tower."

Hrolf folded his arms, and the Franks continued to murmur. Their white flag withdrew, and Ulfrik along with the others raised shields expecting an ambush. Only Hrolf did not flinch. Soon, Anscharic leaned over the wall again.

"God will have no mercy on you. Leave before you perish in the mud." Anscharic withdrew along with the defenders.

Hrolf led his group back to the line, stepping over the dead as if they were nothing more than stones in his path. "If we can't defeat these walls, then we will starve them into submission. The Franks are not as confident as they want us to believe. The carry on about their god, but it is empty boasting. Their god is dead, and can't help them. Don't fret, in a few more months they will be starving and ready to open their gates."

Ulfrik swallowed his anger, and glanced at Einar. He shook his head, and Ulfrik agreed with the silent condemnation he read in his face. Months from now, they would be no closer to breaking the Franks. He closed his eyes and imagined Snorri and Toki arriving to a happy and safe Nye Grenner, where Runa and his sons prospered and received them with joy.

To imagine anything else would inflict more pain than the bite of a Frankish arrow through his heart.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

Two ships raced across the gray waters, strong winds filling their red sails. Men bristled on the deck, sharpening spears and swords, checking belts and fasteners, or testing the strength of their shields. These were men sailing for war, hearts full of bloodlust and desire for gold. Gulls rode the winds above the ships, squawking encouragement, eager to be led to a feast of flesh and entrails.

Summer had come to the Faereyar Islands, coloring the fields green and the mountains blue. The season of the raider was at hand.

Runa stood with Konal at the tiller. Though the weather was balmy, she swathed herself in a gray woolen cloak. Her pants were loose and comfortable, and her sword and sax carried easily on their baldrics. She would no longer wear mail to battle; its weight was a hindrance and danger to her. Instead, she covered herself with a wolf pelt. Animal skins were almost as much proof against a blade as mail, and less restrictive.

Runa the Bloody would don the armor of the great berserks. She planned to fight like one, as well.

The deck rolled with the waves and sea spray dappled her face in cool pinpoints. Konal guided his ship close to the shores of the islands. Runa did not know the exact location of Thorod's hall, and so they followed instructions given by one of Ingrid's people.

"Mother, I don't want to stay on the ship," Gunnar said, tugging Runa's cloak to draw her eye down to him. "I want to stand with you."

Gazing down on him, he appeared even smaller amid so many strong warriors. She had considered leaving him with the women and his brother, but surrendered to his persistence. He wanted to accompany the men to battle. Though his eyes and hair were hers, Gunnar's heart was all of Ulfrik's. She patted his shoulder, and dismissed him with a faint smile.

"I need a guard for my ship," Konal said. "I've trained you and your friends for that very task."

Shaking his head, he defied his young age by seeing through the trick. "You want me out of the way."

"That too." Konal laughed. "Now if the directions are true, then Thorod's hall should be along that beach."

Runa followed his pointing finger to a dark strip of rocky beach that swept up into hilly grassland. A velvety purple ridge of mountains backed it up. Squinting ahead, she detected delicate twirls of smoke rising amid the hills. "I see their hearth smoke. We have found them."

The crew animated at the news, leaning over the rails to view their landing area. Some began to take their colorful shields off the rails, slinging them over their backs. Konal's second stood in the stern and yelled orders to Kell's ship trailing behind. Once he had their attention, hand signals conveyed his intentions. Watching these ships coordinate their actions bought her mind back to when she had sailed with Ulfrik against Harald Finehair. The battles fought aboard Ulfrik's ships had stained the decks red with blood. She had stood amid fighting and dying men and terror had rendered her useless. Now, nearly a decade later, she would stand at the center of carnage, just as terrified but prepared to fight and kill. She ran her hands along the racked shields until one felt right, then she tugged it free.

Wary of rocks, Konal and Kell dropped their anchor stones in the shallows and the men had to slog to the shore. Gunnar grabbed Runa's arm before she dropped over the rails. She had wanted to avoid seeing him, knowing she might not survive true combat. He looked at her with sober eyes that expressed his realization of the danger. Her neck pulsed and her face was hot. Nothing had prepared her for what to say, and so she remained mute. Gunnar released her, and she splashed into the water.

Stumbling through the cold water, the rocks were sharp against her feet. Konal and Kell organized their men into groups, and looked expectantly at her.

"You're the leader," Konal said, smiling. "Take us to whom you want slain."

"Follow the smoke," she said, not knowing what else she should say. "Drag them out of their homes and do as you will. If they resist, put them down."