Sword Brothers (4 page)

There appeared no end to the number of Franks in the rear who were roused by the commotion at the fore. He was not breaking out as he had expected and hoped Hrolf had not encountered the same resistance. Hrolf's escape path had been at the thinnest point of enemy concentration, yet the reliability of estimates made in darkness was not strong.

As Ulfrik was discovering.

After a day of running and fighting, he was amazed he could weave and dodge like a man half his age. The Franks at the rear were either chasing horses, calming their fellows, or forming up for a defense. A knot of warriors readying their teardrop-shaped shields caused him to veer to the right and sprint past like a stag fleeing a hunter.

But this bought him squarely into a line of spearmen ranked up and marching with purpose. They were too wide to skirt and too closely ranked to break. He whirled about to backtrack and found his pursuers were close behind and had gathered more support.

He was in the jaws of a closing trap. He had only a sword and mud-smeared mail for protection. Even in murky light of the campfires he could see the gleam of anticipation in the eyes of his pursuers. Holding out his sword, he touched the silver amulet of Thor's hammer at his neck.

"A bolt of lightning would be good right now," he said, then screamed his battle cry.

CHAPTER FIVE

Mord Guntherson's toes throbbed with pain. He guessed he had kicked every stone and root as he fumbled through the darkness in retreat. Now that they arrived at their ships, he wanted nothing more than to launch his and be away from this horrid mess. Dozens of ships were a jumbled mass along the shore, just as they had left them. Men carrying torches walked among the hulls, directing men to their ships or helping to launch others into the river. Mord ordered his own men to locate their vessel and fetch him once they were ready to leave. He sat on a fallen log and began rubbing his calves.

He had pitched headlong down the hill, along with all of Hrolf's forces, and broke through the thin Frankish resistance. It had not even been a resistance. The Franks were so ready to believe in a surprise attack that they had scrambled at the slightest provocation. Mord and his fellows had only to march through them as the Franks fled the so-called attack. None had pursued them up the banks, probably expecting a trap, and so the enemy had let Hrolf and his hundreds upon hundreds of men melt away into the night.

Another victory snatched from total defeat, all thanks to the perfect and wonderful Ulfrik Ormsson. The man must shit gold and piss silver. Of the years he had spent under Ulfrik's command, Mord had seen a man who made more mistakes than successes and whose choices were questionable. He had an uncanny knack for worming out of trouble and appearing better for it. Men flocked to his banner despite so many of them ending up dead shortly after. Mord had to admit he did at least provide glorious ends for his men.

The mood of his fellow warriors had lightened, and now people hustled about with purpose. Only hours ago they were sodden with defeat, himself included in that number. This adventure in Chartres had gained them nothing, and he had backed it harder than any other jarl. He had only just earned Hrolf's respect after years of being relegated to his backwater for the incident with his bullish, arrogant brat. What had begun as another attempt at Paris to test the new King of West Frankia's resolve had devolved into this siege of a secondary target of Chartres. They would be counting the dead for months, and Hrolf's skeptical eye would be turned toward him once more.

"Has no one seen Ulfrik?" Hrolf himself was calling out for his second in command. Mord scowled at the giant king and his unseemly concern for Ulfrik. If he was such a hero then no doubt he would fight back the entire Frankish army with a stick and then walk all the miles back to Rouen with a sack of booty over his shoulder. Why should the greatest and most powerful jarl ever to rule this land stoop to seeking out one man?

"We've not seen him, Jarl Hrolf," answered another warrior, whose arm was in a sling made from his cloak. "There was too much confusion."

Hrolf waved the man aside then began to shout orders as others filed past him. "You three, begin the formation of the barricade. Fill the space from the riverbank all the way into the tree line with anything you can find. Make it waist high. Use my authority to gather whoever you need. Hurry, there are only a few hours before dawn and the Franks will come."

Mord continued to rub his leg as Hrolf surveyed the progress of the retreat, standing with hands on his hips as if presiding over a victory march. Mord set his leg down and was about to hide himself elsewhere when Hrolf caught him.

"What are you doing sitting down?" Hrolf was to him in two quick steps, a looming giant. Mord leapt to his feat.

"I had something in my boot, Jarl Hrolf."

"You should be leading the men to safety, not tending your foot like some old woman." Hrolf's eyes were hidden in the low light, but his frown was plain to read. "Oversee the construction of the barricade. Put whatever you can find into it. It just has to slow down the Franks."

"Jarl Hrolf, we're wasting time with the barricade. The enemy did not pursue us, so we should get onto our ships and leave. The barrier is wasted effort."

Hrolf had returned to studying the flow of men out of the darkness, nodding with satisfaction. "I thought we'd been backed into a trap we'd not escape. Ulfrik's plan saved us. I only hope he will join us before long."

Mord felt his face growing hot. Of course the unspoken words were that the trap has been Mord's fault and that the failure at Chartres was his idea. Of course Ulfrik would get all the credit for anything good, as he always did. Mord cleared his throat.

"I think we have the gods to thank for our escape tonight."

Hrolf looked down his nose at Mord and squinted. "Yes, Ulfrik and the gods. The two seem to go together, don't they? Would that all my men be so favored, then Paris might have been mine by now."

The jab stung and Mord turned aside, face on fire and heart pounding against his ribs. "I will see to my men, Jarl Hrolf."

"I've not dismissed you," Hrolf said, a hint of irritation in his voice. "See to this barricade's construction and close it up once the last man has come through. When Ulfrik arrives direct him to me immediately, and if he does not, then we will post a guard for him. Do not fail me in this simple task. Build a barrier of shit, but build it high and wide enough to halt the Franks long enough for us to be back at Rouen."

When Hrolf stalked off, the guards following in his wake gave Mord sly smiles. He shook his head and cursed Ulfrik's ridiculous barrier. Yet it was now his task to make the idea real, and to do it to Hrolf's satisfaction. Swearing as he went, he gathered up all the uninjured men he could find and set them to work.

The effort was more than he had expected, and hours later he had organized dozens of crews to fell trees, gather debris, and assemble a chest-high wall from the banks of the Eure up the slope and into the woods. The men were animated and positive, glad to have escaped with their lives. Whenever he heard Ulfrik's name mentioned, he was sure to interrupt and redirect the men. By the time a vague light stained the eastern horizon, most of the ships had departed, including Ulfrik's whelp Gunnar the Black and Ulfrik's lackey, Einar Snorrason. They had wanted to wait for Ulfrik, but Hrolf insisted they return to safety.

Now Mord presented his wall to Hrolf, who had returned with his full crew at his back. Hrolf nodded and patted Mord's shoulders. "That's a tangled mess if ever there was one. It won't fall over easily. Is that a deer carcass woven into it?"

"Someone threw it into the mix," Mord said. "Anything to keep the Franks from crossing. I've anchored it to the deep woods, where the density of the trees does the same job as the wall. They won't be skirting this."

"And Ulfrik has not come. I fear the worst, but he is the most resourceful man I've ever met. Whatever his fate, he and his band will arrive here, and I will not leave him behind. We owe him our lives."

Mord stared at Hrolf, unwilling to add any more praise. His father, Gunther One-Eye, had told him his contempt and hatred for Ulfrik was too open. He counseled to praise him and show support no matter what he felt. The advice was too hard for Mord.

"You've done all you can," Hrolf said. "Get to your ship and leave. I will select men to stay."

"Allow me to leave some of my own," Mord said. "I was harsh in judging Ulfrik's plan and it's the least I can do now to make up for it."

Hrolf patted his shoulder again. "Good for you. If the Franks arrive before he does, then get to the ship and flee. Ulfrik will either be dead, captured, or following another escape route."

As Hrolf set about his final preparations choosing a guard for Ulfirk, Mord located his own second in command. He had been his father's man, only leaving Gunther because he had grown too old to fight and too blind from the cataract on his single eye. The strong man was devoted to Gunther and had passed the loyalty onto him. He found him now, Magnus the Stone, leaning against the barricade with arms folded and watching him. Magnus had a fiercely weathered face, deeply lined, and a hooked nose with a red scar on its bridge. His dark hair was shot through with gray.

"I have a job for you," Mord said. "Hrolf is assembling a guard for Ulfrik's return."

Magnus did not show any recognition, yet he had served his father once in arranging for Ulfrik's demise. Without having to say more, Magnus simply nodded in acknowledgment of the mission. "I'll be glad to watch for his return. I'll have my bow ready."

"I'm sure a retreat can be very confusing. Be careful to shoot the right men," Mord said.

His hands were cold and his heart racing. Throughout the siege he had few opportunities to remove Ulfrik from the board, as his father liked to describe it. Now it seemed his chance was at hand. With Ulfrik off the board, Mord's competition for Hrolf's favor would be gone and Ulfrik's lands would be in question, particularly if his sons had also died in the battles. He had been waiting patiently for that land, for it was the southern gateway into Hrolf's territory and to defend it was the highest honor. That it held a large concentration of farms was also attractive. They had expected Ulfrik to die as he threw himself into battle after battle in an effort to rebuild his wealth and reputation. No one survived such constant warfare, yet at the end of every summer Ulfrik had a new victory and more glory. Hrolf awarded him with more lands, and when he reached the limit, he awarded Ulfrik with gold and status. Now his own father, Hrolf's most trusted man, took a seat on the rowing bench while Ulfrik replaced him at the steering board. His father had saved Ulfrik from nothing, promoted him, and that was his thanks. It sickened him to think on it.

Years ago his father had recognized the threat Ulfrik posed to their future, and he had worked through others to arrange for his death. It had failed when that young fool, Throst Shield-Biter, had chosen drama over practicality in Ulfrik's murder, and the lucky bastard survived. During the years Ulfrik was away, Gunther had positioned Mord as Hrolf's closest man, and was grooming the young Vilhjalmer to fall under Mord's sway. However, the brat did not get along with Mord, and the disaster that followed was something he did not want to remember.

Gunther insisted that this adventure would be the right moment to have Ulfrik meet his end once more, and this time no fancy traps but a tried-and-true stab through the heart. Mord feared he would have to return to his father with yet another defeat, but this retreat had worked out in his favor. Both Ulfrik and Hakon might either be dead already or, more likely, lagging behind them. Magnus was efficient and unswerving in his purpose, and two arrows would find their marks before anyone understood what was happening.

"It would be good to leave me some help," Magnus said. "Just in case things become difficult."

"Of course, a good idea. Just watch for Ulfrik and report back to me immediately."

Mord left Magnus to attend the details. His hands actually trembled with excitement that this gambit might succeed. If Ulfrik was not dead already, he would be if he showed up here, and Mord would be free of his biggest obstacle to standing at Hrolf's side where he rightfully belonged.

CHAPTER SIX

Ulfrik flew at his pursuers, five in all, led by a potbellied man with a fringe of frizzy beard and hair surrounding his red face. He screamed for their deaths, sword held recklessly overhead as if he planned to split a tree. In his time, Ulfrik had learned that men who feared death often found it, and those who did not concern themselves with it lived. Besides, no man died before the Fates had chosen his time. Today was not his time. He knew it.

All five enemies skidded to a halt and scrambled to line up. Ulfrik laughed at their reaction, so typical of drilled men who had not learned real combat. He was already cleaving through the links of their potbellied leader's mail as they formed up. The blade cut deep into his neck and the man bellowed as he crumpled to his knees with blood flowing down his chest. Ulfrik slashed right, clipping a shield, punched left and cut his knuckles on the edge of the man's nose guard, then sprang through the opening he had created.

He did not turn to see if he was pursued. He plunged back into the milling confusion and men made room for him to pass. In the predawn darkness they did not recognize him as the enemy. Running in a wide loop through the campfires and confused enemy, he came to the edge of the camp then slipped into the woods. He sought the biggest tree he could find in the slate colored murk, then collapsed against it. His breath was ragged, his heart thumped so hard his eyes pulsed, and his legs burned with the effort. Sweat rolled into his mouth off his nose and he laughed. Behind him he heard crashes and clangs, Frankish curses, and the cries of horses.