Sword Brothers

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Author's Note

SWORD BROTHERS

Jerry Autieri

Copyright © 2015 Jerry Autieri

All rights reserved.

CHAPTER ONE

Blaring horns announced the breaking of the siege. Ulfrik stumbled out of his command tent into a slash of morning light and searched for the source. Warriors were spilling out of tents all around him, and from the slipshod hall where Jarl Hrolf the Strider resided a stream of armored spearmen flowed out in advance of their jarl. The horns sounded again, like the call of a dying beast rolling up from south of the camp, and Ulfrik's hands went cold. He ducked back into his tent and pulled his chain shirt from the rack.

His arms ached as he slipped the heavy chain over his head. He had no help in donning his mail, eschewing the servants that other great jarls employed. Yet he needed help this morning. The mail shirt was tangled with his hair when someone burst in through the tent flap.

"Gods, Father, the men can't see you like this. They'll be worried you'll trip in battle." Gunnar's voice was low, salted equally with impatience and humor.

"I'll be tripping over piles of enemy corpses, if that's your worry. Now help me get this on and tell me the Franks have their relief force at last."

Gunnar worked Ulfrik's gray hair out of the chain links, then helped settle the mail on his shoulders. The cold weight of it was consoling, like the embrace of a strong, protective friend. He clapped his son's shoulder in thanks. Gunnar was a full jarl in his own right. Fearsome to behold on and off the battlefield, hard lines and a ragged black beard framing a dark, angry face. The first wisps of gray worked through his wavy black hair. His sword arm ended in a stump, having lost his hand to the Franks years ago. He made up for the handicap with a custom shield strapped to his stump and a long-hafted ax in his good hand.

"The Franks are attacking from the south, and the Bishop of Chartres has raised some holy relic over the walls." Gunnar handed him his shield then his sword, and Ulfrik slipped on his helmet to complete his transition into a warlord. He strode from the tent, shield on his arm and sword in hand, and Gunnar followed.

"More Christian nonsense," he said. "But it gives them hope, which is the worst thing in a siege. How much time--"

He did not need to finish the question. The outskirts of the camp were already roiling in combat. The din of clashing iron and screaming men was muffled with distance, but the morning light flashed on their weapons and lit the violence with a stripe of yellow. The relief force marched under bright banners of blue with white or yellow stripes or strange beasts to set apart their various lords. The gleam of their conical helmets was like the glittering scales of a snake crawling through the flat grassland. Across the fields, high on the hill, the gates of Chartres opened.

"Caught in the jaws of a wolf," Ulfrik said. "This siege was a fool's mission from the start. Be ready to get bloody fighting out of this mess."

"No other way to fight," Gunnar said. "I'll get my men to the ships. You'll follow?"

"Not until Hrolf agrees," Ulfrik rubbed his face and looked toward the center of camp where Hrolf's banner of red and yellow dragons caught the morning breeze. Beside the hall, the giant form of Hrolf the Strider loomed over a crowd of armored men. In the distance, more enemy flowed out of Chartres. "But he'll have no choice. Make haste. The Franks are not stupid enough to leave access to the river unopposed."

He parted from Gunnar and he marched for Hrolf, whose men clumped to his sides like flotsam to the shore. He plowed through them on his way to Hrolf, but gathered up his other son, Hakon, and his second, Finn Langson. The two men nodded without a word and fell into stride with him. Hakon now fought under Ulfrik's banner, and while he was the very image of Ulfrik in his youth, he was far less impulsive. Finn still had the freckle-splattered face of a boy, but years of battle had hardened it and dulled the brightness of youth with a tarnish of violence. Both of them shoved away men who crowded Hrolf, until Ulfrik stood at the center of the crowd.

"We have to flee," Ulfrik said. "The men have no heart for this fight and the Franks are going to crush us."

"We haven't sat here all summer just to run when the fight starts." The words came not from Hrolf, but from the man standing beside him, Mord Guntherson. He had once been Ulfrik's foster son at the request of his old friend Gunther One-Eye. He had been the main proponent of this siege of Chartres, so his opposition was expected. However, for years he had opposed anything Ulfrik said or did.

"Look over my shoulder," Ulfrik said to Mord. "Your younger eyes see better than mine. There's not just a relief force. There's all of Frankia's fighting strength bearing down on us. The Franks wouldn't have sallied from behind their walls if this wasn't their big push."

Mord grunted in frustration, shaking his head like a wet hound. Hrolf turned back toward the city and stared at the open gates. All around, the distant roar of the approaching Franks drew closer. Hrolf sighed.

"There is a hill down the Eure River," he said. "If we can retreat to the high ground, we can make a stand."

"Sound the retreat now," Ulfrik said. "Or the only high ground will be the piles of our corpses."

"We can beat them," Mord said, glaring at Ulfrik. Hrolf dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

"Pull back to the ships," he said. "Have everyone gather at the hill."

Ulfrik sprang to action the moment Hrolf turned from the battle. No one wanted to retreat, but the first wave of Franks was already crossing the ditches dug about their siege camp. Their neat ranks were broken up, but Ulfrik knew what would precede their charge.

"Keep shields overhead while the men are falling back," he said to both Hakon and Finn. "They're going to spray us with arrows the moment they come into range. Hakon, you must gather our men to the ships. Finn and I will meet with Einar. The Franks are already working up the riverbanks to cut us off. We'll keep a corridor open."

The next moments were filled with shouted orders, kicking men into action, and organizing a defense. He assembled a force of fifty of his best hirdmen and joined it with an equal number of hirdmen from Einar's band. Together they marched to the riverbanks where at least triple their number of Franks advanced behind their teardrop-shaped shields. The crunch of their armor and the thud of their boots on the muddy banks reverberated through Ulfrik's own mail. He felt their approach like a fist rapping the center of his chest. He set his ranks deep, but wide enough to plug the gap from the riverbank to the slope. He stood at the middle, Finn at his right, and set his banner of black elk antlers against a green field into the soft earth. Down the front rank Einar set his banner of a boar's head with bloody tusks. Even now with his blond hair and beard streaked with gray, he was still a strong, giant man who forsook a shield in favor of a two-handed ax. He smiled at Ulfrik as the Franks approached.

Finn's shield touched Ulfrik's and it was the signal for all of his men to lock shields. The wooden clacks echoed down the line and spear points lowered over shoulders to meet the Frank's approach. There would be no parley, no attempt at peace. These Franks would be their best warriors, given the crucial task of cutting off retreat. Ulfrik was Hrolf's greatest warrior and Ulfrik's hirdmen the finest troops. The battle would be a clash of giants, and Ulfrik was honored to spill the blood of these noble enemy.

Archers detached from the rear of the approaching Franks. Ulfrik raised his shield and shouted, "Arrows!"

The shafts fell among them, thudding into wood or thumping into the earth. Cries of injured men gurgled up from the rear ranks. As the last arrows fell, he lowered his shield. He knew it was nothing more than cover for the charge of the main force.

The Franks were dashing now, screaming to their god for victory. Ulfrik watched patiently, and not one man flinched in his line. Over the years he had distinguished himself among other jarls for instilling battle discipline in his men. Where others would meet the charge, he waited until they were close then shouted again. "Spears!"

From the second and third ranks spears sailed overhead to crash into the charging line of Franks. The long shafts sailed home into flesh, causing the charge to stutter. Franks collapsed, screaming with a spear through their guts or piercing their thighs. Where the spears missed, they formed an obstacle in the ground or stuck to a shield and weighted it down into uselessness. All Northman spears were made with long, flexible blades designed to bend out of shape so they could not be picked up and used against them. A few inexperienced Franks tried, further ruining the cohesion of their line.

Ulfrik smiled as the first enemy crossed the final distance, leaping dead friends and dodging the last flight of spears.

He had waited all summer for a stand-up battle. He braced his shield and widened his stance. He had his sax in hand, a short sword built for the close fighting of the shield wall where a longer blade was useless. The Franks had yet to learn that lesson and fought with their long swords.

The Franks roared, and Ulfrik's men cursed them with their own battle cries. The enemy charged across the gap, red-faced and wide-eyed, swords and spears flashing in the light.