Sword Brothers (23 page)

Finn paused at his side, stared at the water with him, then at last decided to deliver his news. "One hundred thirty-seven dead, including all the people on the two ships we lost. The burning of the two ships did most of the killing. Others either fell overboard in the confusion or arrows took them. There are more wounded, but they will survive."

Ulfrik nodded. He heard the numbers, recognized that one third of his people had been killed, but he could not summon any emotion. He knew the toll should pain him. Mothers and their children were in that number. Yet it remained only a number. He had no tears for that news either.

"She was a beautiful woman. Unlike any other," Finn said. "I will miss her."

They were simple words, but they defined Ulfrik's feelings. He found his hand covering his mouth and his eyes growing hot. Finn patted him on the back and left him to his thoughts. He struggled against his tears, not allowing a single drop lest the dam break and he shame himself before his people. The horrible, blue-veined visage of his dying wife haunted his sight when he closed his eyes. Would he ever see anything else?

Angry shouting roused him from his gloomy mood. He saw a throng of people up the shore, and others rushed toward them.

"Your sons," Finn shouted from the edge of the crowd. "They're fighting."

He bolted up the slope, across the grass to the crowd. At the rear, children hopped trying to see over the shoulders of adults. Ulfrik tore them back, grabbed hold of a burly hirdman and yanked him aside as if he were a sack of feathers. He pressed into the gap and found both Hakon and Gunnar circling each other. Hakon's face glowed bright red and his lip was bloodied and fattened. Gunnar, who had only one hand to punch with, had his eye swollen shut and blood streamed from his nose. Both of them seemed as if they had been dragged through the river from the disheveled state of their clothing.

"You fucking fool!" Hakon shouted. "All of this is your fault! Mother would be alive if it weren't for you."

"Crying like a baby won't bring her back!" Gunnar struck with his left, and a mix of cheers and hisses came from the crowd. Gunnar had taught himself to fight with an ax and specially crafted shield, but he never adapted to brawling with one hand. This was painfully evident to Ulfrik when Gunnar's clumsy swing missed.

Hakon weaved aside and planted a blow into Gunnar's ribs. More shouts went up and Ulfrik suddenly realized people were favoring Hakon over Gunnar. That galvanized him into action.

Ulfrik leaped into the circle and plowed between the two of them. Hakon bounced back, but the arrival of his father was no deterrent. He charged forward again, fists poised for another blow.

Ulfrik's fist slammed into the side of Hakon's head, and dropped him like a stone. Sharp pain lanced through his knuckles, but he had instantly silenced the crowd. Only Gunnar laughed. Spinning with a snarl, he drove his fist into the same ribs Hakon had just pummeled. Gunnar's laughter turned to a grunt of pain and he staggered back. Ulfrik was tempted to follow up with another strike, but Gunnar sank to his knees in submission.

He stood between his sons, chest heaving and legs throbbing from the sprint up the slope, and refused to look at anyone. The entire crowd stood in silence as his two sons crawled to the edge of the circle.

"Is this what you two think we need? Fighting with each other?" He turned to Hakon, who sat on his knees with his head bowed. "Is this how you'd honor your mother? Or the mothers of children who died last night?"

Hakon wiped his bloodied lip with the back of his arm. "Of course not."

"Then stand up and act like a man, not a child." He whirled to face Gunnar. "And you. You've a wife and children. Where are they? Are they safe? Comforted? Too busy throwing punches at your little brother to know? Gods, do I have boys or men for sons?"

"Morgan and the children are fine," Gunnar said, his voice a whisper.

"They must be splendid after witnessing two ships full of people burning to death. I'm sure the cries of drowning friends was nothing at all to them. Do the children even know their grandmother has died?" Ulfrik shook his head and turned from him. "Go to your family."

He looked up at the gathered crowd; hirdmen and craftsmen, farmers and their wives, all stared blankly at him. He turned in a circle to face them, his lip trembling with raw emotion.

"Do you all want someone to blame? Don't look to my sons. They have made mistakes. All of us have. But they did not shower us with flaming arrows, nor fill our holds with oil and pitch. We owe that to Mord Guntherson and his black-hearted father, Gunther One-Eye. Oh yes, I see the shock in your faces. But I know the truth of it. Before we set out, I was attacked in my hall and I kept it secret from any who had not witnessed it. Before he died, the killer admitted Mord's plan to kill me. It's not enough we leave this land, he fears my return."

Ulfrik paused and surveyed the crowd again. Some faces were shocked, others frightened, and still others unmoved. He knew not all the men would follow him after he made his next declaration, yet he did not care.

"Well he should fear my return, for I swear before all of you, I will destroy Gunther One-Eye and Mord Guntherson. I will drink a toast to my wife from their hollowed skulls. Anyone standing with them shall die. If Hrolf the Strider keeps such snakes at his side, then he is my enemy as well. I will tear the gates from Rouen's walls and gut him before his bitch of a wife. There is no rest for me until the land has forgotten the names of Mord and Gunther."

No one cheered, nor stirred. The sheer enormity of his revenge appeared to have overwhelmed them. Ulfrik himself wondered at the scope of his quest, yet if Hrolf stood in his way, then he was an enemy. Oaths to Vilhjalmer be damned. He wanted to ask who was with him and to cheer them onto a frenzy of revenge. Yet too many had died and the rest had not yet slipped from Frankia. Mord might have another attack planned, or the ambushers from the prior night might strike again and crush him. No one would feel capable of taking on the Count of Normandy when fighting off skirmishers was a challenge.

"We will honor the fallen, tend the wounded, then get back upon our ships and reach the open sea by nightfall." He met as many eyes as were willing to meet his, then the circle parted and he exited.

The rest of the morning passed with him shoring up support of key men. He was already formulating new plans for revenge, and he would need his best hirdmen to stay true to him. Fortunately, he had not lost many of his hird, but mostly his bondi who were the young and able-bodied who filled out his ranks and were not part of his regular guard. He avoided both Hakon and Gunnar, preferring to work everything through Finn. His young friend had done all the hard work of preparing a funeral ship for Runa and a few others who had died of their wounds during the morning. It was Hakon's ship, which had been burned too badly to chance the open seas.

By afternoon, the ship was filled with dried wood covered with oil and pitch that had not been discarded. The vision of another burning ship was not the best image for his people's morale, but Ulfrik could not stand to bury his wife without honor. A sea burial, even though this was a river, seemed more appropriate. Such a burial was rare for a woman, but Runa had been a shield maiden and had once fought in battle against other men. She deserved the respect owed her.

Now they stood by the tired, brown waters of the Seine, Ulfrik with his sons and Gunnar's family beside him. Rows of others had formed up along the banks, and despite their losses they still numbered in the hundreds. Runa's body was wrapped entirely in Ulfrik's cloak and her own. He did not want to see the horrible, twisted visage of his wife's poisoned face, nor did he want his family to see it. He preferred to remember the radiance of her smile, the clearness of her soft skin, or her tightly curled, full hair. But more than anything else, he would forever remember her bold spirit, her stubbornness, and her courage.

Besides Runa, two other bodies were laid out, a man and a woman, both who had caught arrows that eventually killed them. Their families lingered beside Ulfrik's and he nodded to them. All the families carried their dead aboard the ship. Runa was light in Ulfrik's arms. A single tear streaked down his cheek as he laid her on the deck, and he lingered when everyone else cleared.

"As you asked, I will have revenge for you," he said to the wrapped body. He placed his hands over the lumps where Runa's were bound. "Now you make me wish I had been a farmer, so that I could have spent every day with you. But I don't think you would've settled for such a life." He smiled and patted her hand. "You loved glory as much as I did. We were well suited in that, I think. We were just two children once, who dreamed they were more important than they really were. Somehow, along the way, we made it come true. I promise I will not lose what you built. I understand who I am now. I am not a farmer, nor a jarl, but a conqueror. I was meant for war, and I will bring it to our enemies. When they are crushed, I will find others to fight and bring ever more glory and riches to our family. When I join you in death, you will see what I have done and know it was all in your name. It has always been in your name."

He sat back and reached into his pouch of gems, the same gems they had hid for so many years. At last he understood why the gods had given them to him. An emerald the size of his thumbnail fell glittering into his palm. He tucked it into the folds of her wrapping.

"You always liked this one best, so keep it. I will use the rest of them to buy ships and men. I will raise my own great army, one to rival anything seen in Frankia. I will return and burn this land flat."

He kissed her forehead, the soft wool fabric cold against his lips. "Farewell, Wife."

Men launched the ship into the water, and once it took to the current, Ulfrik and his family threw flaming torches onto the deck. The fire caught in a whoosh, startling many of the onlookers. In the overcast light, the ship burned bright as it wandered into the main current and the wind billowed the flaming sail. They watched until the ship began to list and sink.

Faster than Ulfrik expected, the flaming ship slipped beneath the surface with a gurgling hiss. Without looking at anyone, he turned from the river and walked away.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Aren and his three escorts arrived at the gates of Eyrafell on a gloomy morning that threatened rain. Sparrows circled the high stockade walls and the dark shapes of men stared down. None hailed them or offered a challenge. Aren considered they were an unimposing group, but still raised his hands to show he came in peace.

"Hail, men of Eyrafell. We wish to enter the walls." He hesitated in shouting his name. Gils, the leader of his escorts, had warned him to take a false name, even though while traversing the interior of Hrolf's land no one seemed aware of the bounty associated with his name.

"We don't get many visitors," called one of the guards. A few other interested faces appeared over the top of the stockade wall. "Who are you and what is your business here?"

Now Aren would discover Einar's loyalties, or at least those of his men. He glanced at Gils, who gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. Aren licked his lips. "I am Halfdan Halfdanarson and these are my guards. I come with a message from Ull the Strong for Jarl Einar Snorrason."

The guards disappeared from the wall and Aren waited, his pulse quickening.

"A wise choice," Gils whispered while they waited on the guards.

"It seemed best not to announce our presence, even among friends."

The gates swept open and four spearmen stood inside. They dressed in mail and wore shields on their backs. They used their spears more like walking staffs than weapons, and Aren felt the tension in his belly release. He had not thought to raise the hood of his cloak, and to do so now would invite suspicion. So he kept his head down and entered along with his escorts. Gils had prepared the silver bits for the gate tax they would be expected to pay. Einar likely never saw half the silver collected this way, but Aren guessed he did not care.

As they paused for the collection of the gate tax, the three other guards told them to leave their weapons at the gates. "We'll keep them dry for you. If you want, while you're visiting, we could have Hogni the blacksmith sharpen your blades."

"That would be fine," Gils said on Aren's behalf. They started forward but one of the guards barred Aren with his hand.

"I recognize you. You're--"

"Yes. We held a drinking contest during Sumarmál and you out-drank me three times over. Where do you put it all?" Aren gently lowered the bemused guard's arm as he continued to walk past him. He had visited Einar enough times that his face would be well known. He had been so focused on the journey that he had not planned for the arrival. Until he knew where Einar stood, he could not have his name circulated.

"No, that's not it," the guard began, but again Aren cut him short.

"I can't blame you for not remembering anything after that day. Well, we do have important news for Jarl Einar. I'm sure he would not be pleased to be kept waiting while we remember old times."

The guard stared at him, plainly unsure of what to do. His companions had already walked off with their collected weapons. Before he left he narrowed his eyes at Aren. "Whatever you say, friend. I'm sure you have your reasons for it. Since we are old drinking companions, let me escort you to Jarl Einar's hall."

Again Aren breathed a sigh of relief. As they waited for the escort to confer with his peers, Gils leaned in and whispered. "Luck is with you today. May that continue."

The guard returned with a bemused smile for Aren, then showed them through the narrow tracks of Eyrafell toward the hall set upon a small hill. The tracks were paved with planks, and chickens wandered over them and pecked at the gaps. A dog barked in the distance and the banging and clanking sounds of men at work surrounded him. He had always enjoyed his visits to Eyrafell. It was a living town, full of people all contributing to the greater need of the whole. The sounds and smells reminded him of his childhood home in Ravndal. It lived as nothing more than a faded memory to him, but so many of the homes and fences that defined this place seemed like something out of his youthful remembrances. Threading the winding tracks and hearing the voices in the buildings that flanked them gave Aren a feeling of wellness he had not experienced in the weeks since he left for Rouen. It was good to be among a peaceful, friendly people again.