Sword Brothers (2 page)

They rammed into Ulfrik's shield wall.

Then all was a red haze.

The battle lust was strong in him, even at his age. A whole summer of simmering energy exploded when those first shields crashed into his own. He felt himself shove backward then stop. The spears behind both sides clamped down across the gap, like the teeth of a great dragon closing on its prey, and men on both sides screamed as they died. The instant he had regained himself, Ulfrik slammed back into the enemy and stabbed under his round shield, aiming for exposed legs.

Nothing was louder than a clash of shield walls; not even the collapse of a glacier rivaled the volume. Men roared in pain and hatred, iron rang and hummed, wooden shields thudded together in an awful song of death. The tangy scent of blood filled Ulfrik's nose, overwhelmed only by the stench of someone's bowels being spilled onto the grass. His hands grew hot and slick with blood, and he sewed his blade into enemy flesh.

The whirlwind battle filled Ulfrik with joy, even as companions fell back bleeding and shrieking. Battle defined him, and in the shield wall he found all the meaning he needed in life. A sharp pain lanced through his shoulder where a spear pierced his mail. He tore it free with a growl, plunged his sword into the throng of enemy, and delighted in the soft resistance he encountered.

Despite his love of combat, he realized the edges of his line buckled. Over the turmoil he saw the Frankish archers scurrying up the hill unopposed. They would set themselves at his unanchored flank and shoot into his rear ranks. Unable to turn to see the progress of Hrolf's retreat, he had to hold the line until he could be sure Hrolf had launched his ships.

A blade clanked against his helmet, shifting his faceplate so his vision was obscured. He returned to the shove and strike of holding the line.

"Step back," he called out. "Give some ground."

He had to repeat the order twice before he heard it echoed in the rear ranks. Reversing a block of men required care, for it could easily devolve into a rout. He was glad Einar held the far line, or else it may have collapsed already. The man behind pulled back and Ulfrik stepped with him, leaving a tidemark of bodies for the Franks to hurdle. This was an advantage as well, forcing the enemy to clear the obstacle.

A dozen or more hand axes flew across the gap to harry the Franks as they rushed forward. Ulfrik saw one well-placed throw sink into a Frank's neck and send him flailing back into his shocked companions. Yet victory was short-lived.

"Archers on the flank!" The warning spread like burning oil across a deck. Ulfrik heard the hum of bowstrings and the hiss of arrows in flight, then the screams of the wounded.

Whether Hrolf had extracted his force, Ulfrik's line verged on collapse. The Franks closed again, praising their god and saints. Finn had moved his standard back, but now it wavered as he struggled to plant it again.

"Forget it," he shouted to Finn. "Fall back to the ships. I've got the archers."

Finn nodded and backed away from the oncoming Franks. His rear ranks were already melting away, but Ulfrik grabbed his front line and anyone at hand. "Follow me. Kill the archers!"

He did not stop to watch who followed, but broke free of his line to run for the archers. They were preparing another volley as Ulfrik and his men charged. The Frankish archers were lightly armored, numbering twenty at most, and unprepared for a fight. Ulfrik expected to chase them off long enough to cover his men's escape.

Instead, they lined up squarely and leveled their bows at his charge.

CHAPTER TWO

Arrows swept around Ulfrik, one close enough to feel the rush of air as it sped past his face. Behind him men grunted and he heard them crash into the grass. An arrowhead exploded through the wood of his shield and another glanced off his helmet, which was still twisted over his head. Despite the workman-like disposition of the archers, Ulfrik continued his charge. To falter now would send any man following him into a retreat. The archers had to be driven back or his men would be destroyed during their withdrawal. He had no other choice but to pound across the grass into the morning sun where the archers arrayed for their next shots. He did not even know how many warriors had charged with him.

Judging from the archers' patience, he guessed he might have thrown his life away on this gambit. They had their next shots on their strings, and Ulfrik was close enough to read the determination in their faces. One archer had an arrow lined up to his head. He ducked behind his shield and the arrow clanged against the metal boss at the center. His hand went numb from the blow.

That was the archers' last volley and already they were drawing swords. Ulfrik careened into the closest archer, bowling him to the ground and continuing through the ranks. The man behind struggled with his sword caught in the sheath. Instead, he swiped at Ulfrik with his bow staff. It thumped onto Ulfrik's shield then a quick jab beneath it and the archer screamed in agony.

He whirled now, finding he had been joined by only half the number of archers. Behind his on-rushing men, bodies stuck with feathered shafts squirmed in the grass. Beyond them the Franks had pursued Finn and Einar's men down to the waiting ships at the shore. Dead bodies and ruined weapons streamed out behind the Franks like the wake of ship.

An archer fired at point-blank, sending a shaft into the throat of one of Ulfrik's men. He did not falter, but continued through, lopping off the archer's arm at the elbow, then collapsing in death. Each of his men was worth three of the Franks. Filled with pride, Ulfrik bellowed his challenge.

"It is Ulfrik Ormsson come to bring you death! Prepare to meet your god!"

Despite their superior numbers, the archers did not fare well against Ulfrik's heavily armed and armored followers. The swirling combat lasted only long enough for the remainder of the Northmen to charge home. The raving Northmen carved a swathe through the enemy ranks, Ulfrik a bloody-handed devil roaring at their center. His arrow-studded shield collided with the head of one archer while he drove his blade into the leg of another. He would have delighted in nothing more than running down the rest of the fleeing archers, but he witnessed the arrival of the main relief force.

A tide of bright banners and iron flowed across the siege camp and their defiant shouts were like the breaking of waves on a beach.

"To the riverbank," he shouted at his men. A wild-eyed warrior was bent over, tearing the through the belongings of an archer who still lived. Ulfrik grabbed him by the collar of his mail shirt and shoved him back. "Run or die. Look at what's coming."

He left the man to decide if booty or life were more important, and began sprinting for the shore. The Franks had moved past him, now away to his right and crowding the rear guard of Einar and Finn. He saw their standards waving and thrashing over the chaos, and he prayed they would escape. Ships filled with men were launched into the green waters of the Eure River. The hill where Chartres stood crawled with exultant Franks, and their cheering could be heard over the clash of battle.

Ulfrik arrived at the riverbank. His left leg throbbed in such agony that he had to check for wounds, but it was the old injuries that had never left him. He waved on his men, who dashed toward him as if reaching him would make them safe from attack. Nothing could be further for the truth, for Ulfrik stood on the shore and watched helplessly as Einar and Finn fought to board their ships, which were already pushing into the river.

As men arrived, they shared his realization, but like him simply scowled and turned to face the Frankish army. If they were trapped, then they would all die as heroes and take as many with them as they could. Ulfrik did not need to tell these men; they were the bravest and strongest of his hird and would rather die in glory than to drown trying to reach a ship.

Between him and the approaching Franks, one of his men carried a wounded companion, arms looped across their shoulders as the injured man tried to hobble to their tiny line. Ulfrik cursed their pace, then ran out to help.

"Thank you, Lord," said the injured man. "I didn't want to die under their feet."

"If it's your day to die, then it will be with us at the riverbank," Ulfrik said, rushing the injured man to his line of nine men. "I don't think anyone is stopping to fetch us to a ship."

They stood together and watched the Franks approach. When it seemed they would reach them, they turned their formation and rushed to join their brethren attacking Einar and Finn.

"Over here, you fools," Ulfirk called out to them. "I'm your prize! A jarl! I'm worth more than anyone there."

He shouted in Frankish, but his words could not overpower the din of battle or their lusty cries for blood. He would have made a fat prize for someone, being Hrolf's second. Yet the Franks were more interested in breaking the back of Hrolf's power.

"We're not that tempting," said the injured man, who supported himself with a spear. "I don't think they'll bother."

Ulfrik picked up a broken spear and hurled it in frustration. The only bright spot was that his banner and Einar's were on their ships, and the bulk of Hrolf's ships had slipped away. At least Hakon would be aboard one of those ships.

Now, a line of ships drew close to the shore, and he recognized Gunnar's sleek hull. The sides were bristling with bowmen, and he led six ships' worth. These bowmen launched a volley into the attacking Franks, a blur of black arrows humming across the water to land among the enemy. They screamed in fury, their own archers dispersed and their relief not yet fully engaged. Gunnar's ships sent another volley and the Franks recoiled. It was enough to allow Einar and Finn to launch out of reach.

"That's my son," Ulfrik said, then ran to the shore and began waving. The ships sailed past, strafing the Franks and driving them from the shore with howls of frustration. Ulfrik waded out into the water until it was up to his waist. His men followed, two of them carrying the injured on their shoulders. Gunnar steered his ship close to the shallows, but not close enough to run aground on mud. The crew cast out ropes so that the men could haul themselves to the sides.

Ulfrik was the last one, and now that the shooting had ceased the Franks charged to the shores and sent their own arrows after them. A shaft plunged into the water as he dragged himself to the hull. The fetid taste of it filled his mouth and his hair hung over his eyes. He realized his helmet had fallen off in the water. As he clambered up the sides, Gunnar reached down to haul him over the rails.

"That's the last of these fat walruses," he shouted to his crew. "Get on an oar and row."

The sky streamed past Ulfrik as he wiped water out of his eyes and blew it out of his beard. Gunnar's dark shape hovered over him. "That was too near for my taste. I'm glad they have no ships or we'd be in a bad way."

"Don't be so sure we've escaped yet," Ulfrik said, content to lie on the deck. "It's not like we've broken into open sea. They only need follow the shore to wherever we land."

"Why not keep sailing all the way home? They'll never catch us."

Ulfrik stared up at Gunnar and blinked. "Because we're not done fighting."

CHAPTER THREE

Ulfrik sat around the campfire with Hrolf and his jarls and hirdmen. He did not need to hear the scouts' reports to know they were now encircled and trapped. His only curiosity was to learn if the Franks had expended any energy to search for their ships. The lack of any major fires from the south told Ulfrik they had not taken this key step. Yet to glance around the fire he saw every face drawn in tight anguish, as if their beloved ships had been sent to the river bottom. The fire crackled loud against the silence of the early evening. With hundreds of fighting men both on and around this hill, the stillness of the night unsettled Ulfrik.

Hrolf especially seemed drawn after a day of hasty retreat. He squinted into the dancing flames, rotating a drinking horn in his heavily jeweled hand. Beside him Mord stole glances, like a child expecting his father's displeasure. The other jarls rubbed their aching muscles or sipped at their drink. No one would dare a word, and Hrolf would not speak until the scouts had confirmed what everyone guessed.

Finn appeared behind Ulfrik, plucking his shoulder for attention. Even in his mail, Finn could be more of a ghost than a person when he wanted. Ulfrik twisted around to look into his friend's freckled face.

"The scouts are coming, but I already had a look for myself."

Ulfrik glanced warily back at Hrolf, who did not shift his expression. Mord, however, squinted at him across the flames and frowned. Ulfrik got to his feet with a low groan, using Einar who sat beside him for support. Finn guided him away from the others to where the common men huddled and mumbled about their plight.

"What have you seen?" Ulfrik whispered. Finn checked over his shoulder.

"The ships are untouched, at least for tonight. I went down myself and warned the guards. They'll be ready to launch if the Franks attack them."

"These Franks are smart enough not to turn their backs on us to burn our ships. A cornered wolf fights to the death, after all. How bad is it around the hill?"

Finn's bright face darkened. "They must have used the bridge south of Chartres to cross. I guess almost all of their army is here."

Ulfrik rubbed his neck. He had argued with Hrolf to destroy that bridge, but it was stone and guarded with a tower. He carried bad memories from Paris of such bridges. Mord, who was no more than a boy then, weighed in against Ulfrik, too. Now they paid the price for their fear.

"They will have left part of their force to relieve Chartres." Ulfrik stared north at the moonless night where the faint glow of the city stained the sky. "No doubt they will celebrate all night. There's no hope for taking the city now."