Kings and Pawns

by James L. Nelson

  “Wait for it,” Odd said, “Follow my lead…”

  They waited, heaving for breath, horses heaving for breath, but they did not wait long. They had barely stopped when Einar and the others came charging into sight, pounding down the center of the road, coming into view as they rounded the hill. They were close enough that Odd could see the surprise on Einar’s face as Einar realized that the men they were pursuing had stopped and turned and were waiting for them. Einar was just starting to rein his horse in when the animal’s feet broke through the thin cover that hid the ditch from sight.

  It was not deep—only a foot or so, which was as deep as it needed to be—and six feet across, so there was no chance of a running horse simply leaping over it. Gnup and his men had done it just as Odd instructed, and they had done it well.

  The ditch ran from one side of the road to the other. Once dug, it had been covered with a screen of wattle fencing set over it like a lid, straw over that, and last, a layer of dirt deep enough to hide everything beneath. It was visible enough on close examination, but Odd did not think that Einar, chasing after them, would see it at all. And he was right.

  Einar’s horse stumbled as its front feet dropped under it. Odd saw Einar’s eyes go wide as he pitched forward, saw his cape come swirling around as the momentum tossed Einar over his horse’s head. The rider just behind Einar had no time to react before his horse hit the ditch and Einar’s flailing mount at the same moment, and they, too, went down.

  In an instant the orderly column of riders was turned into a frantic jumble. The first rank of riders could do no more than shout in surprise as their horses hit both the ditch and the other horses and fell into a trashing pile.

  The last of the riders had time to react, as much time as it took their running mounts to cover the thirty feet between them and the ditch, but that was not much time at all. They jerked reins left and right, trying to twist the horses out of the way. Two hit the ditch and went down, and three managed to stop in time, the horses whinnying loud, bucking and twisting and prancing at the sudden stop and the terrifying sight in front of them.

  Those men still mounted leapt to the ground and swung the shields off their backs and drew swords. Einar and the men in the ditch fought their way free of the tangle of screaming, kicking horses and as they climbed out they also took up swords and shields. They were fighting men, trained warriors, and they knew what would come next.

  “With me! With me!” Odd shouted and he swung his leg over his saddle and dropped to the ground. He pulled the leather strap of his shield over his head, thrust his arm through the loop fastened to the back and gripped the handle of the boss with his left hand. With his right he drew Blood-letter, and for the first time he felt the sword dance in his hand the way that his grandfather had described it to him and Harald, when they were very young boys sitting by the hearth.

  “Let them live! Let them live!” Odd shouted next as he hurried over the fifty feet from where their horses stood on the road to where Einar and the others were just pulling themselves from the ditch. He had told his men all this before. They were sending a message to Halfdan, not starting a war.

  Odd was at the head of his men and Einar was at the head of his, at least those who had extracted themselves from the trap, and both had sword and shield in hand. Their eyes met and Odd could see the fury and hate in Einar’s face and he guessed it matched his own. He lifted Blood-letter as he ran.

  Then from behind Einar another of Halfdan’s men pulled himself from the ditch. He was taller and broader than Einar, his face streaked with blood, his mouth open. He might have been shouting, but Odd could not tell over the great noise made by the downed horses and riders. The man had a crazed look in his eyes, and he must have been crazed indeed, because he shoved Einar out of his way, took shield and sword in hand and took a step toward Odd. As much as Odd wished to cross swords with Einar, he knew he had to forget him for the moment and deal with this one first.

  The big man brought his sword back, backhand over his left shoulder. He was shouting, a meaningless animal roar, as he swung the sword in a circle that nearly slashed Einar’s arm on its way around. It was a powerful stroke but an awkward one and Odd let the blow glance off his shield as he lunged straight in with Blood-letter. He saw the sword pierce mail and taste blood once more.

  It was not a fatal wound. It might have gone straight through the big man’s gut, but he had the presence of mind to twist as the point came at him and he took it in the side: painful but not enough to end the fight.

  Odd glanced to his right. Vermund had charged past him and now he was engaged with Einar, sword to sword, but Odd could spare them no more than a glance. Not even that. He turned back in time to see his opponent’s sword stabbing at him like a heron hunting minnows.

  Odd jerked his shield up just as the sword point bit into his left shoulder. The rim of Odd’s shield caught the sword blade and knocked it aside, but the point was still in his flesh and it tore its way free. Odd could feel the spread of blood and he had a barely formed thought that the wound should hurt more than it did, but that thought was washed away by the wave of blind fury that swept over him.

  The big man drove forward with his shield, hoping to push Odd off balance, but Odd leapt back and the man’s push met only air. He stumbled, having expected resistance and meeting none, and Odd stepped forward as he drew Blood-letter back.

  Flat of the blade! Flat of the blade!

  A voice in his head told him to hit the man, not slash him, as he had instructed his own warriors to do. But it was only a voice in his head, which he could ignore, so he thrust Blood-letter right through the man’s neck.

  It was like stabbing a wineskin. The blood came out in a great burst, the man’s eyes went wide, his knees buckled and Odd pulled Blood-letter free. In the corner of his eye he had seen another of Einar’s men coming up on his left side. He raised his shield and was surprised to find he was barely able to do so. The man’s sword came down and Odd felt the jarring impact of the sword slamming down on the flat wood, and a heartbeat later the agonizing pain radiating out from the wound in his shoulder.

  “Bastard!” Odd shouted. He twisted as he pushed the sword aside and thrust and felt Blood-letter stab into the other man’s shield. He twisted and pulled the blade back and the man stepped forward and hit Odd hard with his shield.

  The blow made Odd stagger back and the pain in his shoulder redoubled, but he was moving without thinking now. His muscles remembered the many hours of training in private and sparring with whomever he could find to spar, practicing with sword and shield, ax and spear and bare hands. Odd Pig-binder he might be, but he was still the son of Thorgrim Night Wolf, grandson of Ornolf the Restless and Ulf of the Battle Song. He might spend the bulk of his days at farming, but he would not be found wanting in a fight.

  He glanced to his left and down. One of his freemen was on the ground, grimacing as he clutched his bleeding thigh, and others were fighting Einar’s men in a line along the edge of the ditch. He saw Ari, who was old but still strong and quick, dodge a sword’s thrust, step up and hit his adversary hard on the side of the head, knocking him back into the ditch where the hurt and frantic horses were still thrashing around.

  Odd took all that in as if he were looking at some elaborate tapestry, interesting but of no concern to him, because all he could feel was the rage that was driving him now.

  The one who had shoved him with his shield thrust his sword at Odd’s chest. Odd brought Blood-letter straight up and he felt the blade scrape along the other man’s blade. Odd caught the man’s sword with Blood-letter’s cross guard and pushed the thrust out of line.

  The man was off balance, vulnerable, but too close for Odd to drive Blood-letter into him. Instead he cocked his arm and drove the pommel of the sword down on the man’s forehead and sent him staggering back. A hard shove would have sent him flying back into the trench, but that thought did not even cross Odd’s mind, because no thoughts were forming there at
all. He brought Blood-letter back and drove the point right through the man’s mail shirt, right through his chest. He jerked it free and turned to take the next man on and did not even bother to watch that one fall.

  The fight was nearly over, he could see that. Some of Einar’s men had been flung back into the ditch, some were lying on the ground with the freemen standing over them, holding them down at sword-point. Some were lying still. But not Einar. Einar was still fighting.

  Vermund had gone after him first, but now Vermund was ten feet back, sword and shield at his feet, right hand clamped over a bleeding gash on his left forearm. Another of the freemen lay at Einar’s feet. And yet another, a man named Aslak, was engaged with Einar, blow for blow.

  “Einar, you whore’s son!” Odd shouted as he advanced. Einar slashed at Aslak and made him jump away and Odd stepped in between them. He had a notion to slam Einar with his shield, but his shoulder was burning and he was not certain he could lift it, let alone drive it forward, so instead he lashed out with his foot and kicked Einar hard in the leg.

  It was apparently not what Einar expected. By the time he moved to block the kick it was too late. Odd connected with his Einar’s thigh, just above the knee, a solid, powerful blow. Einar staggered and his leg nearly folded. Odd brought his sword up over his head and cut down with the considerable strength of his still-intact right arm.

  But Einar was quick, and he managed to get his shield up and take the blow, though it threw him further off balance. He took an uneven step back. Odd stepped forward and swung at him with his shield and the two shields struck and Odd shouted with the agony in his shoulder.

  Einar took a feeble stab at Odd and Odd knocked his sword away with his own blade. He drew Blood-letter back. He was looking at the wide gap between Einar’s sword and shield, the clear path from Blood-letter’s tip to Einar’s heart. And he was just starting the thrust when he felt hands on his sword arm, hands on his shoulders, pulling him back.

  He looked right. Aslak had his sword arm gripped in two hands. Ari, on his left, had him by the shoulders and someone else did too, but he could not turn far enough to see who it was.

  “Sons of bitches!” Odd cried and tried to twist free, but the others held him tight.

  “We weren’t to kill them!” Ari said, loud, so his voice could pierce the madness. “Your orders, Odd! Let them live!”

  Odd gave one last shake of his shoulders and then stopped as Ari’s words began to register. It was indeed what he had said. It was his plan. He was certain Halfdan would send men to stop the goods from Thorgrim’s farm from being removed. His intention was to fight those men, subdue them, humiliate them. He knew they would be more powerful than his own band of ad hoc warriors, so he devised the trap.

  Fight them, subdue them, make they walk back to Halfdan’s compound with a message to deliver. But somehow, once the blood was up and the sword was in his hand, Odd had ignored his own directions.

  He lowered his sword and shield and his body relaxed and the men holding him let him go. Two of the freemen were flanking Einar. They had taken his sword and shield and now Einar stood straight, trying to project as much fearless dignity as he could.

  Odd said nothing as he looked around and let his breathing settle. A few of his men, a few of Einar’s lay sprawled out on the ground. Some were still moving, some were not, but most of them seemed to be intact, with Einar’s defeated warriors stripped of weapons and held at bay by the freemen. They, at least, had heeded Odd’s words not to kill, even if Odd himself had not.

  Einar was the first to speak. “This was a very, very stupid thing to do, Odd Thorgrimson,” he said. “I don’t know what you hoped to get out of this. Maybe the wrath of Halfdan the Black. If so, you’ll have it.”

  Odd dropped his shield to the ground and found he could move his left arm better than he had hoped. He stepped toward Einar, and Einar, to his credit, did not react in any way. Odd grabbed a corner of Einar’s cloak and used it to wipe Blood-letter clean before sliding the blade back into the scabbard.

  “I went to Halfdan, humbly, to speak with him, but he would not hear me. So I did this to make certain he would listen,” Odd said. “I am a loyal subject of my king. I pay him his due. I’ll fight for him if he asks. But I am not a slave, and I am not a fool. None of us are. You tell Halfdan that we expect to be treated like the freemen we are, and then we’ll treat him like the king he is.”

  Odd turned and walked away before Einar could reply, and Vermund and Ari began to issue orders. Einar’s men were made to coax the horses that could still walk from the ditch and kill those that could not. They bound their fellow warriors’ wounds and used the fit horses to drag the dead ones well clear of the road. They were given shovels and made to fill the ditch back up.

  When all that was done they were set free. Three of Einar’s men had been killed, two by Odd’s hand, and they were loaded onto horses. Four were too wounded to walk and they, too, were given mounts. Einar took one of the remaining horses for himself.

  They had been stripped of weapons and mail, and now a pile of swords and shields and helmets and mail shirts lay by the side of the road. Odd had been considering the pile, and now he came to a decision.

  “Give them their swords back,” he said. The others looked at him, uncomprehending for a moment, then they retrieved the weapons and handed them back to their owners. Halfdan’s men would suffer enough recrimination and humiliation without having to return without their swords.

  Einar took his sword and held it across the saddle. He looked down at Odd. “This will not help you,” he said. “This will not calm Halfdan’s wrath in the least.”

  “It was not meant to,” Odd said. “You just tell Halfdan the things I said to you.”

  Einar held Odd’s eyes for a moment more, and then without a word he nudged his horse to a walk, heading back the way he had come, and the others followed behind. Odd and his men remained silent as well as they watched them go.

  It had played out just as Odd had envisioned, save for his own rage, which he had not seen coming. The message was sent. But still Odd heard Einar’s words, over and over in his head.

  This was a very, very stupid thing to do. He was starting to fear that Einar was right.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Long he sat, until he slept;

  and he awoke of joy bereft:

  on his hands he felt heavy constraints,

  and round his feet fetters clasped.

  The Poetic Edda

  Thorgrim Night Wolf walked along the top of the longphort’s wall, staring out into the dark. He stopped and listened. He walked some more. He spoke softly with the sentries he encountered along the way. He walked on, stepping carefully over the uneven surface of the makeshift barricade.

  There was an army out there. For days now, five or six days, they had remained camped in a semicircle around the longphort. They had come, as Thorgrim guessed they would, hoping to attack him and his men while they took their ease at the poorly defended monastery. It might have been an easy victory for them. Instead, it was the Northmen who had a good laugh when the English launched their attack only to find there was no one there.

  How they must curse us fin gall, Thorgrim thought, and then he corrected himself. No, not fin gall. The Irish call us that, not the English. He wondered what the English called them.

  I can well imagine, he thought.

  He moved on further west along the wall. Five days, and save for that one minor raid, the enemy had shown no inclination to do anything. Of course, that raid might well have turned to something bigger if it had not been found out by Failend and the others.

  Failend…

  She, more than the enemy out in the dark or any other matter really, had been chiefly on his mind.

  Did you miss me? Or just miss humping me?

  The question had taken him aback. It was like an arrow shooting out of the dark. He had no notion it was coming, no sense of the potential danger, until it struck.

&n
bsp; Did you miss me? Did he? He had never given her much thought, in truth. They had taken her prisoner…how long ago? Three lifetimes? She and Louis. And she had gone from prisoner to warrior to lover and Thorgrim had just gone along with each change because each was certainly to his benefit and came at no cost at all.

  He had been a widower for five years now. He had been with other women since, but only in a carnal way. He had not loved any of them. Since the loss of his wife he had given little thought to his feelings about any woman, and likewise had given little thought for any woman’s feelings toward him. He had men and ships to command and keep whole, he had raiding and fighting to consider, he had his son Harald always on his mind. He was trying to return to his home in East Agder and had been for three years now. Women and their concerns were not generally a part of going a’viking, and they had not been thus far.

  But Failend, apparently, did not feel the same.

  Thorgrim came to one of the ladders that stood at various intervals along the wall. He took one last look out toward the enemy’s camp. If the sun had been up he would have been able to see their tents in a line and the wagons and horses further back. He would have seen smoke from cook fires and men moving about. But it was dark, well past midnight, and all he could see were a few points of light that indicated where torches or small fires burned. Every once in a while he could hear the clatter of something dropped or the sharp note of someone calling out, but those minor punctuations of sound only served to emphasize how very quiet it was.

  He climbed down the ladder. He had not yet been to bed. Or, more correctly, he had gone to his bed and once again found it empty, but this time he did not feel like climbing under the covers alone. He realized that he missed Failend’s presence, and that realization had come as a surprise, because he had never thought of it before, one way or another.