Banners of the Northmen (35 page)

Franks slouched in their mail hauberks, shouldering spears and axes, shuffled past him. They made dull conversation in bored voices, a rumbling murmur that ran through their column.

Then the thrum of bows followed by shrieks of the injured.

"Hold a moment," Ulfrik commanded, his voice barely louder than normal. "Let their backs turn to us."

Swords hissed from sheaths and arrows slammed into upraised shields. A few shafts sprinkled to the edge of the woods, disturbing the remnants of the morning fog still clinging to the ground. Frankish leaders hollered orders at their men, and the column lined up to face the archers.

"Now! For battle and glory!" Ulfrik sprung and two hundred men shed their camouflage in an explosion of leaves.

They charged the rear lines, spears lowered or swords braced to drive through the backs of the unsuspecting Franks. Ulfrik bolted straight for the first man in his way, and cleaved the Frank at the shoulder hard enough to collapse the man to the ground. Mord followed at this left, the banner of Humbert's cloak swinging wildly overhead. Einar brought up his right, wielding a two-handed ax that chopped an unsuspecting Frank like firewood.

The ambush had been expertly timed and the Frankish column broke and scattered. The archers abandoned their bows and joined the fray, trapping most of the enemy against Ulfrik's force. Screams of terror and curses flowed out of the cleft where the Franks staggered and died. Ulfrik's heart sang with the glory and freedom of battle. His charge carried him through the first man and into the fray. All around he had enemies to strike. Einar's massive ax hooked shields to drag them down and Ulfrik stabbed his blade into the gap. Franks gasped and perished. Mord showed himself as capable as Toki had been with the standard, planting it beside Ulfrik and destroying enemies who sought to batter it down.

After months of inaction or uninspired raids against unworthy foes, Ulfrik was giddy with the thrill of a true battle. His blade flashed white as he slashed right, and his shield slammed left. He cut a swathe of victory through the ranks of the enemy, and Danes swarmed alongside him.

"Kill the bastards," he screamed. "Their blood is ours to spill. For Odin and Thor! For battle eternal!"

The killing song drove him like a madness. Franks scattered at his approach, tripping over one another to escape his wrath. He spit blood into the face of one wide-eyed man and gutted him in the next moment.

Then the thunder.

Ulfrik tumbled back, the sky in his eyes. Dark shapes flying past. The copper taste of blood filling his mouth. Sounds were muffled and dull. He realized he had been hit in the head, and his helmet knocked away. Someone screamed his name as he felt the thunder throbbing in the earth.

Cavalry.

Out of nowhere horses crashed through Ulfrik's line and scattered the throng of defenders. His standard had fallen. He rolled to the side, away from the approaching sound of hoofs beating the ground. A spear lanced the ground where he had just sprawled out, and the horse and rider sprinted past him.

On his feet, he had little time to consider. The riders rode beneath a standard of some strange beast. A regal man in shining mail and a casque embossed with a gold crown led the group of ten riders, undoubtedly Henry of Saxony. They were turning their horses on the road, hampered by the trees crowding them. They reached for fresh spears carried on the flanks of their mounts as they maneuvered for a second pass.

Ulfrik had lost his sword, and so drew his sax. The short blade was worthless against mounted men, but he had nowhere to turn. Behind him a gap hung open where the cavalry had breached the line. Men were strewn on the ground, dead or dazed. He hoped the horses might trip on the bodies on their second pass.

Henry shouted something in his language, hefted a spear, and kicked the horses to a run. Five went in front with five others behind. Their cloaks of blue or gray fluttered behind them as their horses kicked clods of dirt into the air. Ulfrik and a handful of bloodied men faced them.

"Go on, you Frankish bastards!" he roared at them. "I'll take you and your ponies to the grave."

Henry singled him out, pointing his spear for the others to follow. Ulfrik realized too late he could not escape all five horses. Only one veered off to avoid fallen bodies, and the remaining riders bore down on him.

Shield still lashed to his arm, he ducked behind it. As the first horse reached him, he collapsed on his back and hid beneath his shield. One spear hit him square on the shield, while the others flew wide as the first wave galloped past. Sloughing off the shield, he grabbed an enemy spear, then flipped it to point at the next wave.

Ulfrik carved out the flank of a horse. It screamed and bucked, sending the rider to the dirt and disrupting the others. In the crash, Ulfrik again sprawled out, horse hooves slamming around him as he covered his head in fear.

Now Mord had raised the standard, and the Danes cheered. They crashed back into the mounted Franks like the tide into rocks. Staggering to his feet and retrieving his shield, Ulfrik bellowed encouragement. "Pull them down and chop them up! Victory is ours."

"Lord Ulfrik, watch out!"

Something hit his back, and he tumbled forward. A man screamed behind him, and fell over his body. Ulfrik spasmed, fearing a killing strike in his helpless position as both friend and enemy converged around him. He shoved the man aside, a shattered spear shaft impaled through the man's thigh and black blood flooding into the dirt beneath him. Over the man's body, a white-eyed Frank was already charging with sword drawn.

Renewed rage strengthened Ulfrik's resolve. He took the Frank's wild blow on his shield, then plunged his sax into the man's groin. The Frank slid to the ground with a howl and Ulfrik left him to writhe in slow death.

The battle churned as the Franks rallied around their trapped leader. Without another thought, Ulfrik dashed for Henry's beast standard that rocked and swayed amid a press of Danes.

"Henry is mine," he shouted. "Move aside."

Henry had already taken several wounds, one hideous gash in his arm glowed brilliant red amid the iron gray surrounding him. He slumped against his bodyguards, and Ulfrik snorted. "You're already dead. Grip your weapon, and go the hall where your god praises his heroes."

Lightning fast, Ulfrik slipped between the bodyguards, deflecting one with his shield and letting another Dane distract the other. Henry's face was old and bruised, defiant and proud, as Ulfrik plunged his sax into Henry's gut. The mail links broke and blood gushed, along with a rush of air from Henry's mouth. His standard bearer fought on, but men clambered over each other to drag him down. Henry fell flat at Ulfrik's feet. The battle was won and he howled victory.

As the standard plummeted to the dirt, Ulfrik's men cheered and the Franks that could not escape pleaded for mercy. As swiftly as the chaos had begun, it had ended.

Mord bore Ulfrik's standard to his side, dirt and blood mingled on his face. "Victory, Lord Ulfrik! Let me plant your standard over Henry's body."

Out of breath, dizzy from the battle and the blows he sustained, Ulfrik nodded. He knelt beside Henry, and tucked the gray-haired warrior's hand over the hilt of his sword. It was all he could think of to honor an enemy leader.

His warriors clamored around him, shouting victory and congratulations. He accepted their adulation, but his thoughts were for the man who had saved his life. He pushed his way through them, back toward the edge of the forest where men lay broken and suffering in scattered heaps. He saw Einar's massive form kneeling in the road, one hand resting on his ax and the other placed atop a body lying before him.

Ulfrik dashed to his side, then leaned down to view the man twitching in the churned earth.

"Thrand!" Ulfrik's heart leapt in his chest. "How did you get here?"

His old hirdman turned traitor was a battered wreck. Blood soaked his pants black and his shirt had ridden up to his neck, revealing bruises and cuts the length of his torso. The spear shaft in his right thigh had stemmed the blood loss, but it leaked from the wound in a steady stream. He would die instantly if the shaft were extracted.

"Lord Ulfrik," Thrand's voice was the hoarse whisper of a man straddling the threshold of death. "You are victorious."

"You saved my life today." Ulfrik glanced at Einar, who stared into Thrand's eyes. "I don't know how you got here, but I am grateful to the gods for sending you."

"Forgiveness, lord?" Thrand's hand pawed for Ulfrik's sleeve, having no strength to grab it. Ulfrik took the hand and placed his own sax beneath it, then laid both over Thrand's chest.

"Yes, Thrand. You've earned it with your blood."

A smile broke on Thrand's face, his teeth stained red. He closed both eyes, and tightened his grip on the sword. "Thank you."

Ulfrik and Einar lingered over him as his heart pumped its final beats. He sucked his breath, then feebly whispered, "Njal, brother. They have come."

Thrand's last breath exhaled a stillness onto the battlefield. Ulfrik bowed his head and sat back. Thrand's passing stirred so many conflicting emotions: frustration at Thrand's senseless life; anger at not preventing his slide into evil; relief for his redemption; justice for his treachery. He had to force aside all of this else he be swept away.

"What did he mean?" Einar asked, wiping his eye with the back of his hand. "Who has come?"

"The Valkyries," Ulfrik replied, as he struggled to his feet. "We shall see him again. In Valhalla."

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

September 10, 886 CE

Runa awoke with a start, a nightmare vanishing back into the dream world as reality asserted itself. Chill air flowed over her shoulders in the dimness of her bedroom, and she drew the wool blanket to her neck. The place beside her was cold. Konal had already arisen, and the low tones of his voice vibrated through the walls from the hall outside. Sounds of muffled conversation, clacking wood plates, and benches sliding on the floor mingled with Konal's voice. She had overslept, a terrible habit of hers since Konal had begun sharing her bed and Gunnar and Hakon had moved to another room.

Rubbing her face, she tried to recall the dream and was relieved to fail. She slid to the edge of the bed with a sigh and lingered with her injured foot hanging over the side. Even without recollecting the dream, she knew it was of the battle. Ever since that day, the gods sent terrorizing visions of bloodshed and death: her sons decapitated; Ulfrik impaled on a spear, clutching her leg as he bled into the grass; her own legs chopped to stumps as she desperately stemmed the blood pumping from them. She knew the nightmares well. They had all been scenes she had witnessed in the battle with Skard, only the faces were replaced with her loved ones.

Her foot throbbed as she drew her boot over it. She had been lucky not to have broken it. Thor had been with her that day. Not only had Skard's army been killed to a man and her foot spared, but her life as well. In the final moments of battle, a spearman had tried to run her through, but her wolf pelt had protected her. More proof of the gods' favor was that the spear point had caught in the strap buckle that held her sword sheath. In the chaos it had flipped to her back and saved her life.

Each morning she had to ease into standing, but as long as she let her foot accept the stress slowly, she adjusted. In moments, she was able to dress herself, comb her hair, then limp to the hall.

Bright morning light filled the main room. The women were busy preparing breakfast, and Konal sat with Gunnar at the high table. Hakon ran with other children between and around the women's feet. Behind them, she remained unnoticed in the shadowed corner. A smile flickered as she watched Konal leaning into Gunnar's ear to impart some wry observation that set both of them laughing. Ulfrik would have approved, she felt, if he were alive to see this. The thought bought a wince and the threat of tears.

She had cried enough already. Ulfrik had been gone a year with no news and no survivors returned. His final adventure had led him away forever, to Valhalla where he would enjoy the glory and honor he had sought in life. The living remained behind, and had to make their way until Fate cut the threads of their lives.

Konal had been willing to remain with her, and his men were happy to find a land of widows and unwed daughters. Kell had resumed his pursuit of their escaped slave, and had not pressed his brother to join the search.

"At last you've awakened," Konal said, having turned about on his bench. "Come, before I eat your breakfast."

Limping to the table, Gunnar rose and helped her sit. Since the battle, he doted on her. His boyhood had been slain in the battle with Skard. He was no longer carefree, running with the other children. He stayed apart, practiced with his weapons, and frowned often.

"I'm fine," she said as he guided her to the bench. "If you are finished, why not go out and play?"

He shrugged, his dark eyes dodging hers. "I don't feel like it. Those games are not fun anymore."

The silence stretched and Runa studied him as he gazed at the ground. Children squealed outside, and Gunnar twitched at the noise. She shook her head. "All right, but there is work to do. The trading ships will pass here soon. You should play while you have the time."

"We'll practice later today," Konal offered, his mouth full. "I'll show you how to fight spears. How's that?"

Gunnar nodded, then smiled. "It's good. I have to know how to fight everything."

"Yeah," Konal agreed, lifting his bowl to his mouth. "A good spear fighter is a deadly opponent."

Gunnar left them, wandering down to the tables where several of his friends stopped to watch him pass. He ignored them, leaving the hall with hands folded behind his back.

"Looks like he carries the burdens of a jarl." Konal belched and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.