The horse was heaving for breath, its flanks a sheen of sweat, but Odd had no thought for the animal.
Why are they still here and fighting? he wondered. He would have thought that Halfdan’s men would strike fast and be gone, long before he and the others could return from the shielding. And yet they were still there.
And then he understood what had happened. These men attacking the farm were the same men who had sacked the shielding. They had doubled back, hoping Odd and the others would not guess at the deception. Halfdan could not risk sending enough warriors to attack both farm and shielding. It would have left his own homestead too ill-defended.
At least they are as tired as we are, Odd thought. He was close enough now to see the mail shirts and helmets worn by the men on horseback. He could see swords raised and men on foot with spears—his men—fighting back as best they could. He could see women huddled by the blacksmith’s hut, guards with spears standing over them. Men putting the torch to the outbuildings and others trying to stop them and men crawling wounded on the ground and men lying still.
“At them! At them!” Odd shouted, loud enough for the men behind him to hear, and loud enough to be heard by Halfdan’s raiders as well. Odd saw heads snap up, look over. He saw men waving their arms and shouting. Giving orders, he had to imagine. He saw all of them, all the warriors below, break off with what they were doing and rush to form some sort of defense as this new threat swept down on them.
Odd looked over his shoulder. His horsemen were riding abreast, a very impressive line of mounted warriors charging into the fight. He looked forward again. Halfdan’s men must have thought it was impressive as well. They were scrambling to form a shield wall, running with panicked urgency. Fifty yards ahead the wall started to coalesce, bright colored shields overlapping, spears reaching out from behind.
“Right at them! Right at them! Behind me!” Odd shouted. He had Blood-letter in his hand now, holding it up over his head as he charged the shield wall. The horse was heaving for breath and its footing was becoming unsure. Odd thought of reining to a stop, sliding down to the ground, grabbing his shield and racing for the line.
No…sons of whores… he thought. He would slam right into the shield wall with his horse, barrel right through the line, make a hole through which the men behind him could ride.
Twenty yards away and Odd could see faces behind the shields, bearded faces and clean-shaved faces and helmets of iron and leather. He thought he could see Einar, but he was not certain.
Then the horse under him stumbled. Odd pulled his eyes from the shield wall and looked down. The horse’s eyes were wide, its mouth open, and it was starting to stagger as it ran. Odd looked up. Fifteen yards. The horse took a wild step and Odd felt it going down.
“Aaaahh!” Odd shouted in surprise as he felt the horse fold up under him, front feet first. He saw the ground coming up at him and he felt himself pitching forward. He grabbed at the edge of the saddle as the horse’s chest hit the dirt, its hind legs still driving. The horse was screaming and twisting as it went down and Odd had an image of its body coming down on his leg and crushing it.
Man and beast were still traveling with the speed and momentum of twelve hundred pounds of horse running at full gallop as Odd kicked his foot free of the stirrup. The horse was nearly all the way over on its side when he pushed himself off and jumped clear.
Odd had just enough time to grab onto two half-formed thoughts. The first was to hit the ground with his shoulder. The second was to not let go of Blood-letter. He had no sense for where he would come to a stop, or what shape he would be in when he did, but he knew that if he was still alive he would need his sword.
He hit the ground with his shoulder, mostly. He came down on his left side, shoulder and back. He felt himself tumbling, turning end over end. He had images of men and shields and legs flashing by. He saw the horse just a few feet behind him, sliding and thrashing. He felt his hand tighten on Blood-letter’s grip until he could not distinguish between hand and sword.
Then he came to a stop. He lay still, but only for an instant. Every part of him was shouting with deadly urgency for him to stand. He pushed himself to his knees and felt the pain rip through his arm and leg, but they seemed to still work so he ignored it. He felt blood, warm and liquid, on his left shoulder and he knew the wound from the last fight, halfway healed, had opened up again. He turned and held his sword up and he got to his feet.
The shield wall was no more. What had a moment before been a semi-organized defense was now chaos. The horse was still on its side, screaming and thrashing, its hooves lashing out. Men were piled on men where they had fallen, and now were clawing at one another to get clear, to regain their feet. Those further from the horse were colliding with the men racing to get away.
Einar was shouting, waving his sword, trying to regain control. His green cape was half torn from his neck and he jerked it free and flung it aside. He grabbed one of his men as he ran past, turned him around and shoved him toward the fight.
A discarded shield was lying at Odd’s feet and he snatched it up and thrust his arm through the leather strap, surprised to find the agony in his shoulder gone. Through the gap made by the flailing horse he could see Amundi and Ulfkel and the others. They had stopped their charge and were climbing down from their horses and advancing, shields on arms, weapons held high. Odd had stood up ready to fight, but in the confusion no one had even noticed he was there.
All eyes were turned toward Amundi and the advancing line, but Odd did not let that situation last for very long. With a shout he shoved the man in front of him with his shield, made him stagger into the next man in line, and when the man turned in surprise Odd hacked down on him with Blood-letter.
The man, eyes wide, lifted his shield in time to stop Odd’s blade with the iron rim. He pushed the shield up farther and Odd knew what would come next: the slash of a blade from under. Odd stepped back, dropped his own shield, felt it connect with the seax the man was thrusting at him low. He lifted the borrowed shield and pushed the man and he staggered back. He was off balance, just for an instant, but that instant was long enough for Blood-letter’s tip to find his throat.
The man spun away, choking, blood whipping around. Odd could see Einar fifteen feet away, still shouting and waving his arms and trying to get his men in some kind of order. Odd took a half dozen steps towards him—his desire to run a sword through the man had not diminished—but another fighting man came between them, wild-eyed, bearded, ax-wielding.
Odd raised his shield up and the ax came down. The blade hit the wooden face of the shield and shattered the thin boards. Odd could see the bulk of the ax head where it had broken through, but now the weapon was lodged in the shield and the man could not pull it free. Odd jerked the shield to the left and yanked the handle of the ax from the man’s hand, stabbing out with Blood-letter as he did. But the man could see what was coming and he twisted and jumped back and Blood-letter sailed right past.
Before Odd could even draw the blade back, Amundi and Ulfkel, Ragi and Vifil and the rest, and all their men, collided with Einar’s line. Odd didn’t see it, focused as he was on the fight in front of him, but he felt it, felt the weight of the attack as the two small armies crashed into one another. There was no cohesion, no plan or thought, just two bands of angry, brutal men coming together like beasts disputing territory, shields up, weapons flailing, voices shouting.
Einar was still very much on Odd’s mind. Einar, Halfdan’s man, the one who made manifest Halfdan’s wishes. Who had led the slaughter against the shielding, and come back to do worse to Halfdan’s home and family.
The ax warrior, whose ax was still buried in Odd’s shield, was drawing a seax now, the fight not out of him yet. Odd thrust again and the man raised a mail-clad arm to push the blade aside, but Odd twisted his hand, just a bit, and the sword’s sharp edge ran over the man’s exposed wrist, drawing blood and a shriek of agony as it did.
Odd hit him with his shield,
pushing him out of the way, and gained another step toward Einar, who still had not seen him coming. The fight was wild and chaotic, but Odd had the sense that it was not going well for Einar’s men. No surprise. The men on Odd’s side were more numerous, and they were driven by fury at this wonton attack. Einar’s men had been taken by surprise in the middle of doing a job in which they had no real stake. In such circumstances, fury usually won out, and it seemed to be doing so again.
The space was open between Odd and Einar, five steps and Odd would be there and he could run Blood-letter through the man, when another of Einar’s men stepped into the gap. He had shield and spear and there was blood on both, and blood on his face, and for some reason the sight of the blood sparked Odd’s anger. It was like blowing on a hot coal, seeing it ignite where before it had only smoldered.
Odd shouted as the fury came over him. The man thrust his spear tip at Odd’s chest. Odd caught the tip with the remnants of his shield and pushed it aside, but the man at the far end of the shaft was too far for Odd’s sword to reach. He hacked down with his sword and the blade caught the wooden spear shaft and split it like kindling, leaving the man with a broken butt end in hand and a surprised look on his face.
Two quick steps and Odd was within striking distance, but the spearman seemed to have lost interest in the fight. He threw the broken end at Odd and stepped quickly back. Odd saw his eyes and mouth open wide with surprise and the tip of a sword rip through him, back to front, as the men who had come with Odd pressed against the other side of Einar’s line.
But he did not care about any of that. He wanted only to get to Einar. He turned again and hacked at the next man who stood between them. Einar looked up and their eyes met and Odd saw the fury sweep across Einar’s face to match his own. And then the whole thing collapsed.
Einar’s men were done. Taken by surprise, outnumbered, exhausted, there was not much fight left in them in any event. It did not take long for Odd and the others to make them break and run.
Run they did. They raced off in every direction, some grabbing nearby horses, some racing for the road that led back toward Grømstad, some just running. Einar shouted and grabbed men as they ran by and tried to shove them back into the fight, but it was pointless, and he realized it was pointless even before Odd could push his way through to get at him.
Einar turned and raced a dozen paces to where his horse stood. The animal was shifting nervously, but it was well enough trained to stay where it was, even in the middle of the fighting.
“Einar, you bastard!” Odd shouted, but Einar seemed to have forgotten all about him, and that made Odd more furious still. One of Einar’s men was struggling to get his foot in a stirrup and Odd cut him down where he stood. The man dropped and the horse ran off, dragging the man, wounded or dead, behind.
“Kill them all! Before they escape!” Odd shouted, and behind him another voice called out, just as loud and emphatic.
“No! No!” It was Amundi. “No! Let them go, let them go!” He was running in front of his own men, and Odd’s men, arms up, shouting. “Let them go!”
You son of a whore, I’ll kill you too! Odd thought, and even as the thought formed in his head he felt a flush of shame and his fury collapsed like a wooden house burned through. What was he thinking? He was insane. He let the tip of Blood-letter rest on the ground and he tilted his head back and gulped air and let his mind settle.
Signy… He thought of his wife for the first time since riding into the fight. Signy. And the children. They were the singular reason he had been so frantic to return, and in the madness he had forgotten them entirely.
He looked around, turning a complete circle as he scanned the yard. Einar’s men were racing off and it was only the men with Odd, and the wounded and dead, remaining. He remembered seeing the women under guard, over by the blacksmith’s shop.
Odd wiped Blood-letter on the tunic of a dead man at his feet and slid it back into the sheath. He jogged off toward the blacksmith shop where the women and the children were on their feet now. He could see Signy, their children huddled around her and clutching at her dress. She held a spear in her hand. Odd could see the blood gleaming on the head and shaft.
“Signy!” he shouted and she looked over and he could see the relief on her face. He grabbed her, hugged her, and she hugged him back with the arm not holding the spear. He felt the arms of his children wrapping around his legs.
Odd straightened his arms, holding his wife so that he could see her. He looked her up and down but could see no visible injuries. He looked at the spear. He looked down at the man who had been guarding them. He was lying face down on the ground, his helmet a few feet away, blood soaking his torn tunic. He looked back at Signy.
“He wasn’t paying attention,” Signy said by way of explanation.
Odd nodded.
“You’re letting them get away?” Signy asked. “Halfdan’s men, who did this?”
Odd nodded again. “If we slaughter them it will only make things worse.” He was sure that was why Amundi had let them go, and now, as the anger subsided, he could see it was the most sensible thing to do.
“You think Halfdan will be satisfied now?” Signy asked. “What he did here, and at the shielding, for what you did to his men?”
“We can hope,” Odd said.
“We can hope,” Signy repeated.
“And we can make ready, in case he is not.”
Twenty-One
Has the sea him deluded,
or the sword wounded?
On that man
I will harm inflict.
The Poetic Edda
Thorgrim’s ships were ready, with time to spare. The tide line was still creeping up the beach when Godi declared Blood Hawk seaworthy. Hundreds of willing hands heaved her up onto an even keel and guided her down the rollers, back into the shallow water of the river against which the ad hoc longphort was backed.
Godi and Harald and a few others were aboard as the ship eased into the water and then floated free. Their eyes were fixed on the repairs that had been made to the damaged plank. They were quiet for a moment, and then Godi called, “Good! It’s good! Once the wood takes up it’ll be tight as can be.”
Thorgrim nodded. That was indeed good, good for many reasons. He was ready to get out of that place. They had the spoils from the monastery. They had the danegeld, one hundred pounds of silver, even though they had intended to leave without it. They had won all those riches with just a little hard fighting, nothing more. Thorgrim did not know how long such good luck would last, and he did not wish to push it.
“We are not so far from Frankia now, you know,” Louis de Roumois said. He was standing beside Thorgrim, one of the last of the men remaining on the shore. “A week or two’s sailing would get us there.”
Thorgrim watched Harald vault over the Blood Hawk’s side into water up to his knees, then come wading ashore. He turned to Louis.
“You’re a navigator now?” he asked. “If you can turn yourself into a sailor, maybe you can turn yourself into a bird and fly home.”
Louis shrugged. “We’re both guessing as to where in Engla-land we are. If our guesses are right, then it is a week or two to Frankia.”
Thorgrim looked out over his fleet, the bows of the ships pointing roughly east into the flooding tide. They were all manned up, the men using their sea chests for rowing benches, oars held straight up, waiting for the order to ship them and row. The English prisoners had been distributed around the fleet. Gudrid and Harald had told them of their fate, explained that they would be set ashore on the far side of the harbor, but it was pretty clear from their faces they were skeptical at best.
“My family is very wealthy,” Louis continued. “Once I have regained my place you would be paid well, you know. A lot more than a pathetic hundred pounds of silver.”
Thorgrim smiled. He did not consider a hundred pounds of silver to be an impressive haul, riches beyond his imagining. He wondered if Louis thought he did.
“And I’ll probably tell it to you many times more,” Louis said. “Because we seem to grow closer to Frankia all the time.”
“If you go to Frankia, and become king or whatever you say you are, would you bring Failend with you?”
The question seemed to startle Louis, and his reaction was visible. “Failend is with you, not with me,” he said. “Do you question her loyalty? Or my designs on her? Because you should not.”
“I don’t worry about you,” Thorgrim said. “You yearn for Frankia more than you yearn for any woman. Failend? She’s given me her loyalty, I believe that, though I never asked her for it. But I wonder if she’s growing worried about being with one such as me. One who doesn’t follow your Christ god.”
“You could be a follower, you know. You could be…” Louis said a word that sounded like baptized but Thorgrim did not understand. He guessed the word was Frankish, that there was no such word in his language, or if there was, Louis did not know it.
“What is that, that word you said?” Thorgrim asked.
“It is how you become a Christian. There are priests here, they could do it.”
Harald approached. “The repairs to Blood Hawk are holding,” he said, “and everything seems ready for us to leave.”
“Good,” Thorgrim said. He turned to Louis. “No time for me to become a Christian now,” he said. “But if we are where we think we are in Engla-land, and we are on our way to Norway, which we are, then Frankia does indeed lie in between. So take cheer.”
Louis nodded, a smile playing over his face. Thorgrim stepped closer and spoke in a lower voice. “I would not hurt Failend, but I fear she’ll be hurt by me, because I’ve grown too weary of this world to care much for anything. And if she were to love you, I would not stand in the way, or challenge you.”
Kings and Pawns Page 21
