Banners of the Northmen (39 page)

The Danes in the front erupted in laughter. It infected the whole troop, who laughed and taunted to mask their fear. Ulfrik joined them. The king gave confused looks to the men beside him, enduring the mockery until he dispatched a single runner toward the Danish line.

"Let him come," Hrolf ordered, stopping several men who had raised throwing spears.

The man was not yet grown into a full beard, thin and pale, to Ulfrik's eyes little more than a boy in poorly fitted mail. Terror showed in his wide eyes and trembling lips as he scanned the shield wall facing him. He did not know where to look, and addressed the crowd in perfect Danish.

"My lord and emperor wishes to speak with the leader of this army. Meet him in the field, but bring no more than ten men."

His message delivered, he wavered as if not knowing what to do next. Hrolf stepped forward, glaring down at the messenger. "A fellow Dane on the losing side once more. Do yourself some good and join us before we hack you to scraps."

More laughter followed Hrolf's taunt, and the messenger stepped back. "Are you the leader? What is your name?"

"I am Hrolf the Strider and I am one of the leaders. Every man here is his own leader. Go ask your lord which one he wants to speak with."

"He wants to speak to the leader in charge of this army." He took three hesitant steps backward then turned to jog back to his lines. Ulfrik and all the Danes in the front ranks hurled insults after him.

"Ulfrik, Gunther, you each take four men and join me. Let's tell the king we are proud to die as warriors and our only sorrow is that it will take all day for his boy soldiers to kill us, and only then if they don't run off first."

Tapping Einar and Mord, Ulfrik pulled in two others from the front ranks and fell in behind Hrolf. Gunther One-Eye smirked at him as they strode toward the enemy. "Maybe they plan to talk us to death instead of blooding their swords."

Ulfrik made to reply, but Hrolf held up his hand for silence as they closed the final distance. Now was the time for the war-face, the impassive, unflinching expression of indifference to death. No Frank would know what fears curled in their guts. Without bluster or curses to fill Ulfrik's mouth, his mind filled with images of Runa and his sons. He had only moments to think of them before the killing would start, and then under the weight of the Frankish numbers he would die with their memories in his heart.

The two lines regarded each other. Up close, Charles was a soft and fair-skinned man, thin-bearded and beady-eyed. Ulfrik counted the shrewd, calculating mind showing in his dark eyes as he swept his gaze across the men, settling on Hrolf. He let the two leaders stand off, and turned his attention to the opposing Franks. They were more encouraging. Their mail was in good repair, but dented and mended from long use. Their faces were flinty and deep-lined, scarred and creased from battles won and lost. They wore the war-face, too, and Ulfrik had to suppress a smile. At least he had worthy opponents to fight and would not cough out his life at the end of some half-man's spear.

"You are the one called Hrolf the Strider?" Charles's voice was rough and shrill, but Ulfrik heard the tiredness in it. Even as the Danish interpreter spoke his words, the emperor covered his yawn with a jewel-covered hand. Several of his guards flicked their eyes at him, though dared not face him.

"Without a doubt, you are Charles the Fat. I am glad you have spared your horse the agony of carrying your worthless body any farther. The beast will be glad to die today, I am sure."

The interpreter froze at Hrolf's insult, his pause drawing an impatient glance from his emperor. He fumbled with his words, and Hrolf snarled at him. "Gods, boy, tell him exactly what I said. Hurry up and get this done so you can go back to sucking your mother's tit."

Ulfrik turned his laugh aside, but Gunther and the others exploded in laughter. Hrolf barked a command for silence.

Finding his voice, the interpreter streamed the bubbling words of the Frankish language to his king, whose face grew darker. His jaw ground, jowls shaking beneath it.

"You are not afraid to die?" The king raised his brow, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

"I am more afraid of my mother than I am of you and all these prick-sucking men pretending to be warriors. Death in battle is glory. Glory is everything. We never lose a battle. When we fall, the Valkyries carry us to Valhalla and we fight on in glory until the end of days. Why fear that? We seek it, crave it."

The interpreter streamed Hrolf's words to Charles. When finished, the emperor folded his arms and furrowed his brow. His eyes grew distant and he seemed to not be present with them. The silence grew uncomfortable, and Hrolf's irritation flared.

"Tell your lord to wake up. Tell him we are going to hack his balls off and make him eat them. Then we're going to cut the guts out of every last one of these bastards surrounding us and march off to rape their wives and daughters until their crotches split. Tell them we are his death and the death of his world. Tell him now!"

Hrolf's shouting drew ire from Charles's guards, white-knuckled grips on their trembling spears. Ulfrik admired their discipline, seeing the hate emanating from their faces. Yet Charles had barely stirred. The interpreter said something to him, far too short to be faithful to Hrolf's threats. Then the king held up his hand, a green jeweled ring catching a blaze of light. The interpreter fell silent as Charles spoke. His bodyguards suddenly snapped to him, faces contorted with repugnance and confusion. Several appeared to protest, but the emperor shouted.

Both sides paused at the sudden outburst. Charles surveyed his men, ignoring Ulfrik and all the other Danes around him. He spoke in sharp, clipped words. Several times he looked at the sky and pointed up. Ulfrik and his fellows followed his finger, but saw nothing more than a cluster of white clouds tumbling through a blue sky. Finally, Charles shouted again and commanded his interpreter, who slowly addressed Hrolf.

"What would Hrolf the Strider desire to leave these lands in peace?"

Ulfrik blinked. He looked at Einar, who stared at the interpreter with his mouth open. Hrolf's head inclined slightly, as if he had heard wrong. Even he stole a glance back at Ulfrik, but did not hesitate.

"My demands have been clear since the day I set foot on this wretched land. I want right of passage on the Seine. I want Paris thrown open to me. Most importantly, I want seven hundred pounds of silver. That will keep my sword out of your lord's belly. Go on and tell him."

Words flowed back and forth, one of them, who apparently was more than a bodyguard, pleaded with Charles. The king shook his head, spewed more words over his men.

"The seven hundred pounds of silver was your original demand to leave Paris. You will be paid the silver for abandoning your siege of Paris, but there are conditions."

"No," Hrolf shouted. "No conditions. If your king values his kingdom, he'll give what I ask."

Without need of interpretation, Charles stepped forward to Hrolf and shouted at him. Men on both sides tensed, and Ulfrik dropped his hand to his sword hilt. Behind Charles, the lines of warriors stirred. The interpreter hastened to explain his king's shouting.

"You will have all that you've asked for since arriving. It is more than enough. The conditions I attached will be favorable to you, if you will hear them."

Tensions subsided and Hrolf smiled. "I'll listen."

Mollified, Charles slipped back into his aloof and tired demeanor. He swiped his hand generally to the north as he spoke. "The silver will be delivered in the spring of next year. In the meantime, the lands of Burgundy have revolted against my rule. You have shown an amazing talent for smashing people into submission. On my authority, whip the Burgundians for me. Return them to obedience. Whatever you find there is yours, save anything from the Church. You are not to harm clergymen or destroy churches. If you agree to this, then you have my word on the silver and passage of the Seine."

Ulfrik's legs buckled at the stunning offer and he almost jumped forward to accept for Hrolf. The terms were better than he could have expected, but now Hrolf folded his arms and appeared deep in thought. Of course, Ulfrik realized the performance for what it was and his esteem for Hrolf's canniness increased.

"I will lift the siege of Paris and agree. I give you my oath, and swear it before all the gods. I want to hear you promise in the name of your god."

Charles smiled, pulled out a gold cross hung from his neck and made his promise. The men around him winced as if stuck with needles, but Charles beamed. The expression reminded Ulfrik of a simpleton who had lived in his father's hall. The fool smiled even when slapped or spit on, much like the slap the Danes had just delivered to the Franks.

Promises made, Hrolf led them back to their lines in silence. Ulfrik shared eager smiles with everyone, excited to deliver the news to the rest. As they approached, Hrolf shouted for the men to stand down. "We have reached an agreement, and we are rich. Cheer with me, for you are all lords this day!"

Hesitant at first, the sight the Frankish lines backing down and breaking up convinced them. They burst into delirious celebrations only as men snatched from death could. Ulfrik joined their frenzied rejoicing. He hugged Einar, the two of them slapping each other's backs and laughing. Gunther One-Eye joined them, and soon even Hrolf forced his way to them.

"You've brought me good luck again, Ulfrik. If you hadn't come to me, we couldn't have scared them into a surrender."

"It was the only thing to do, lord."

Hrolf danced with laughter, said more to him that could not be heard above the celebration. Ulfrik let it go, content Hrolf considered him a lucky man.

As the Franks bled away, the Danes continued to dance and celebrate. Finally Hrolf got control of enough people to lead them back to camp. Finding Ulfrik once more, he threw his arm about his shoulders as the two walked from what should have been a raven's feast.

"You and Gunther will help me rule this kingdom. Such a fat fool on this Frankish throne won't last for long. I will stay here and carve out lands for myself. Do well by me and your rewards will be more than you ever dreamed."

Intoxicated with easy success, Hrolf bounced from jarl to jarl and made similar promises. Einar offered Ulfrik congratulations, but as they slipped into the woods from which they had come, Ulfrik had a deeper realization that furrowed his brow.

"Is there something wrong?" Einar asked, his smile fading.

Shaking his head, Ulfrik waved the concern away. "I was just thinking of my family. We're here for another winter, at the least."

Einar frowned, then joined Ulfrik in silence. The two continued to trudge through the woods amid their singing and shouting companions.

Ulfrik thought of his home, of his people, and of his foolishness for chasing after treasures that did not exist. He had led his men to slaughter, tempted a worthy hirdman into betrayal, missed his mentor and friend, and had lost his family. The day's great victory felt more like defeat with every step he took toward Hrolf's camp.

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

Ulfrik emerged from the hall into the morning light. Paris still squatted, sullen and dark, in the center of the Seine. Smoke still rose above its roofs and birds still circled its towers. Its gates remained barred.

Nothing had changed. Three days after Charles conceded all of Hrolf's demands, and the only discernible difference was men no longer filled the trenches surrounding Paris. Count Odo had refused to open his gates and promised to attack Hrolf if he approached the walls. Charles the Fat had departed without even visiting his besieged city. His commands to Odo also failed to breach Paris's walls, much like the Danes' failure.

Morning walks along the trenches had become a nervous habit Ulfrik found difficult to break. Men were still asleep, recovering from nearly three continuous days of drinking and celebration, and the air was crisp and still. To his surprise, he still found men passed out in the trenches, but left them alone.

He rubbed his arms against the chill air. He thought forward to the next phase of this adventure in Frankia, hoping to smash the Burgundians into order and collect their silver by springtime and return home. Even Toki would begin to doubt his survival. He would have to find a trader or traveler willing to carry a message home over winter. Snorting at the impossibility of the thought, he resigned himself to Fate. The Three Norns, spinning the threads of each man's life, would decide what happened next.

His oath to Hrolf came first.

Turning on the muddy grass, he was about to return to the hall when he saw the northern tower doors open and a single man emerge. He carried a white flag with him, its brightness stark against the burn streaks of the tower walls. Instinctively, Ulfrik scanned the walls but found no more men atop them than usual. A small group idly observed the man with his flag, one dark shape pointing to him has he trotted up the banks.

Ulfrik met the flag bearer, who turned out to be a boy, out of bow range from the tower. If any other Dane saw him none were interested enough to learn what he wanted. Only Ulfrik greeted the boy, who was tall but not more than twelve years old and dressed in drab clothes that had been torn in a half dozen places. In one hand he held his flag and in the other a wooden cross.

"You better speak Norse, boy. I can't stand the noise of your Frankish." Ulfrik put one hand on his sword hilt, never underestimating anything the sneaky Parisians might attempt.

"I've come seeking Lord Ulfrik Ormsson. I serve Bishop Anscharic. Could you take me to him?"

"You serve my sworn enemy, did you know that?"

The boy's eyes went wide and he stepped back, mumbling a Frankish prayer.

"Be at ease, boy, I won't harm you under your flag of peace. I am Ulfrik Ormsson, amazing luck for you. Do you have a message from that swine you serve? I would hear it with great interest, though it won't prevent me from gutting him as soon as he's in sword's reach. And your Norse is good, but you can still do better."