Sword Brothers (26 page)

His heart pounded in his ears and his palms sweated. With any luck the archers would kill Mord's spies outright, but Einar had mentioned questioning them first.

"Don't worry so much," Einar said, his voice deep and confident.

"Am I so obvious?"

"You twitch at every breaking twig and keep touching your sword as if you're afraid it has vanished. We're only facing two men, and we have another five with horses down the path to aid us if that has changed. You are in no danger."

"I've heard too many stories of plans going awry."

"Thinking is good," Einar said, then unfolded his arms to lay a giant paw on his shoulder. "But thinking too much before a battle is the best way to get killed. You cannot die before Fate has decided your time. If tonight is it, then even should you survive these enemies you will be thrown from your horse, or Thor will hit you with a thunderbolt. So don't worry."

"How comforting," Aren said. He stared down the ever-darkening path. "If they take much longer arriving we won't have shots at them."

"We don't need accuracy. Just fill the area with two or three arrows from each archer. Something will hit."

They waited longer, and Aren began to worry their plans had been revealed. Twilight fell and the last diffuse light of the day was scattered in the trees. Einar hefted his ax, crouched, and pointed with its haft toward the path. "They come. Be ready."

"You can see them?" Aren peered into the indigo gloom but saw nothing. Only after concentrating did two loping shapes resolve from the shadow.

The archers placed arrows to their strings, but pointed them at the ground. The two shadows drew closer. They moved at a fast walk, neither speaking but both with heads down intent upon the path before them. Aren snapped back to Einar, who only peered from the underbrush like a wolf studying a wounded deer. None of the other archers moved.

He wanted to tell them to strike now or risk discovery. Surely Mord's spies would spot them. They were not well disguised and Einar's blade or the arrowheads must be sending telltale glints. How was it the two had drawn so close yet not spotted them? Then he realized his sword was still safe in its sheath. What if they charged for him? He would never draw it in time and they would cut him down. Dying with a sheathed weapon during battle was the mark of a coward. He wasn't a coward, just not suited for fighting.

Einar raises his hand and the archers raised and released their arrows. The air around Aren's head hummed with the snapping bowstrings. The archers already grabbed another shaft from their quivers before they saw where the first ones had landed. Their bow staves bent gracefully as they pulled back and released another arrow. Again the loud thrum made him jump.

The two men screamed and both had crumpled into a dark pile in the center of the track. Einar raised his hand a second time and the archers lowered their bows. After waiting a dozen heartbeats, Einar nodded for them to exit their hiding places. Aren stepped onto the track as if emerging from a nightmare. The two men were filled with arrows, a spiny heap in the gloomy light. A black puddle flowed out from beneath them, and Einar stepped away as it expanded.

"Well, that was good shooting," Einar said, prodding the pile with his ax. "Too good. I hoped one would be alive yet."

Aren's heart still pounded despite the passing of the danger. "At least they did not make it back to Mord's hall."

"They nearly did," Einar said. "Mord's land is not far down this path, just a bit farther north. Now let's strip them of valuables to make it seem like a robbery."

The archers began hauling the bodies to the side of the path. Aren watched them at the gruesome work. Blood flowed steadily from one of the corpses and filled the air with its coppery scent. He had never seen such blood.

Then he saw the dark figures down the path. He tapped Einar's shoulder, who was bent over one of the bodies. The giant jarl followed Aren's pointing figure and he stood up from his crouch. "Looks like they had friends coming."

"Friends?" Aren's question was answered by shouts from the distant group. Aren's first instinct was to dash into the underbrush and get away. Who knew the enemy's number? They were a black clump of waving swords and spears. What if they were just the start of a column of warriors? Yet escape was not Einar's consideration. He bellowed a war cry and charged along with his five archers, who had drawn their swords. None of them even had a shield.

"Wait! This could be a trap," he yelled, but he might as well have warned the moon. Einar's men became an equally dark shape hurtling at the others.

They clashed together with a clang of iron and shouts of anger and pain. Aren stood frozen to his spot. He had never fought a battle. His real father, Konal, had not taught him much, and his stepfather Ulfrik had not put any faith in his fighting. If neither man believed he could fight, then why should he?

Screams echoed in the growing darkness. He saw men stumble and fall, but he did not know who. Only Einar was distinguishable for his great size and the two-handed ax he wielded with practiced skill. He did not chop, but hooked and stabbed with the sharp horns of his ax head. He appeared to prevail, but at this distance Aren was not sure which side would win.

He wavered, realizing his sword was still safe in its sheath. He put his hand on it. This is a test, he thought. The gods will decide whether to aid me or not based on what I do now. Cower like a child and they will scorn me like one.

The blade hummed when he drew it, and the blade flashed with the final rosy light of the day. He raised it overhead and roared.

He charged in beside Einar. Up close that battle was pure confusion. He did not know who to attack, until a man solved his confusion. A fearsome man with a double-braided beard slashed at him. Aren slipped back, feebly clanking his sword on the attacker's blade in an attempt to parry. The enemy laughed and pushed forward, now breaking through the line Einar's men had formed across the path. Aren was the easy prey and this wolf had scented him.

The enemy had a shield, but did not seem to wear any other armor besides a leather cap. His sword licked at him again, and Aren tried to remember what he had been taught. He again skipped back, and as the attacker roared for another strike Aren backed up, anticipating the killing blow.

He slipped into the underbrush, and the enemy growled with frustration. "Coward! Raven-starver!" he shouted. "I'll gut you yet."

Aren's foot caught on a rock as he backed up. The man was lunging after him, shield forward. Aren reached down and grabbed the rock just in time for the man to reach him. He fell back again, leading his attacker farther from the road.

"Stop and fight me, you goat turd!"

The man raised his shield and marched forward. Aren felt the cold, gritty weight of the rock in his left hand. He hauled back and let it sail.

In the gloom, the enemy did not see the rock streaking for his head. Aren assumed it would miss and was already crouched and searching for another. Yet a heavy thud and grunt caused him to look up. The man staggered and fell.

Aren leapt like a cornered rabbit, but unlike a rabbit he did not bolt for a hole. He sprang at the fallen enemy. He was already crawling to his knees when Aren plunged his sword to its hilt into the soft flesh at the enemy's neck. He growled with agony, the whites of his eyes bright in the dark, and blood bubbled up black from his mouth. Aren felt the man's pulse vibrating up the sword, and released it to let his foe drop into the dirt.

"Aren?" he heard Einar calling. He answered with a shout, but stood transfixed over the fallen enemy. Einar and another of his men arrived at his side. They were both splattered with blood.

"I ran away," Aren said, his voice small and defeated.

Einar laughed and clapped him on his shoulder. "You killed a foeman. Your first, yes?"

Aren nodded and Einar grabbed him close. The stench of blood was overwhelming, but Aren did not complain. "Congratulations, you are a man today! Your father would be proud of you."

"I don't think so," Aren said, not certain why he did.

"It doesn't matter how you killed him, only that you did. You used your mind against his strength. Such deeds are what songs are made from."

Einar clapped him again and laughed. "Come now. Mord's men are all dead and some of mine are hurt. Let's finish our work and be away."

Aren continued to stare at the dead man. He had killed an enemy and now the gods would aid him. He had become a man worthy of their favor.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Ulfrik stood on the hill and watched the shipbuilders below scurrying over the frames of his ships. They looked like ants picking clean the bones of a beached fish, carrying wood and tools back and forth from the rows of hulls. Behind the builders the Schlei Inlet sparkled in contrast to the green cliffs of Jutland, and hundreds of ships crowded the piers and jetties of Hedeby. He wondered at how many of those ships were fighting men answering his call. He inhaled the sharp sea air and turned to join his own men.

Behind him Finn and ten of his best hirdmen waited. The former slave woman, Elke, also had refused to let him out of her sight. She smiled nervously at him, seeming to debate hiding behind Finn or standing still. Ulfrik smiled but passed her as he returned to the main town.

"Two more crews are prepared to join us," Finn said as Ulfrik passed him. His freckle-faced companion fell in beside him. "When do you think the ships will be ready to sail?"

"By the fall we should have all we need," Ulfrik said. He stared ahead to the crowded town of Hedeby. Despite its cramped, ramshackle appearance, the town was home to many wealthy merchants. The ease at which he had haggled a price for his gems was a testament to the wealth concentrated here. Dozens of hearths chugged smoke into the air above it, and people wove through its maze of streets intent on their own business. Even from this distance the hum of people engaged in trade was like a buzzing fly.

"What are we going to do with all these men now?" Finn asked. "They'll be bored, and you'll remember we were warned about causing trouble."

"They arrived on their own ships? Then they can sail off on other adventure while they wait. I'll not bear responsibility for their actions."

They had been in Hedeby for close to a month, and Ulfrik hated the crowded, arrogant city. This was a place where all was weighed in a merchant's scale, and everything from one's boots to one's honor could be converted to gold. He preferred to stay outside the earthen walls, where his own ships remained beached beside the Eider River. They had followed the portage routes to the Treene River which dumped them in the Eider, and in turn brought them to the estuary in Hedeby. The river water reminded him of Frankia, and he preferred its muddy scent to the hot and foul stench of a crowded merchant town.

As they left the hill for the main track into the town, Elke let out a short gasp from behind. Ulfrik turned, finding her already pale skin grown whiter. The hirdmen around her continued past, but stopped when Ulfrik put up his hand.

"What is wrong?" He followed her gaze down the slope to where a group of men were climbing the path toward them. A rotund man in fine clothing waddled ahead of six guardsmen all wearing white and red surcoats over their mail. The man pointed at him, scuttled four more steps, pointed again, then continued his struggle to mount the hill.

"You know this walrus?" Ulfrik said. "From before I freed you?"

"Yes," she said. Elke had spoken little about herself since Ulfrik had freed her, yet he asked little of her. She had become a companion, following him like a lost puppy and as eager to please as one. He had pushed her off on Morgan and the other women as often as he could, not wanting to worry for her when dozens of decisions required his attention. She had only been a comfort in his bed, and then only as someone soft and warm to fill the emptiness beside him.

"Jarl Ulfrik Ormsson?" the fat man hollered from a distance. He waved at him, walked seven or eight paces, stopped to wave again, then continued his arduous trek.

"I'll die of old age before he arrives," Ulfrik said. "Finn, come with me and the rest of you protect Elke."

They strolled down the track, and the fat man was so intent upon his footing he drew up short when Ulfrik set himself before him. His blubbery chin quivered as he staggered back. Faded blue eyes wide with surprise were hidden behind puffy creases of pink flesh. He wore a heavy mustache that buried his mouth, but otherwise kept his head shaved close to the scalp. A golden crucifix swung from a chain across his chest, and beneath it a silver amulet of Thor's hammer twirled from another chain.

"Who are you to call my name so brazenly?" Ulfrik folded his arms, not even glancing at the guards behind the man.

"I am Udolf," he said, straightening the hem of his red linen shirt. His Norse was lightly accented, not his first language, but any trader wanting the best goods learned it well. "I have been searching for you for days."

"You can't have her," he said. "I found her and I freed her."

Udolf's mouth hung open and his arms hung limp at his side. He gasped soundlessly, like a fish left to die on the shore. "She told you about me?"

"No, but she's frightened of you and that means you either owned her or represent the man who thought he did. I don't need to know more."

"Well, that's a problem. I did own her, and she fled. She was never properly sold to you, and so that makes her stolen property. The law is clearly on my side in this matter, and I will have her back."

"So you're a slave trader?" Ulfrik picked up the cross from Udolf's neck. His guards bristled, but a glance from Ulfrik stilled them. He twisted the gold cross in his fingers. "Doesn't the Christian god despise your kind?"

"Jesus asks only that a slave be treated well. And Elke was treated well, better than I imagine you treat her."