The nearest of the longships had moved quite a bit since he and Leofric had first observed them. In fact, even as Nothwulf watched, the ship’s bow seemed to strike the sand under the water and the ship came to a stop, as close to shore as she could get. He watched as the men moved toward the bow. They had shields on their backs and some wore mail and some helmets. They were too far off for Nothwulf to see what sort of weapons they carried, but he knew from experience what they would be: swords, seaxes, axes, spears.
Surely the water’s too deep right there for them to get off the ship, Nothwulf thought. If the heathens had to wait for the tide to go out before they could get ashore then it would buy him and his men some time. For what, he did not know. Setting up with flaming arrows, perhaps. But any delay would be welcome, because the thought of going right into another fight, particularly against Northmen, was not appealing.
One of the Northmen vaulted over the side of the ship, but rather than sinking out of sight he stood with the water just below his waist. He pushed his way to the shore, and more and more of his fellows came over the rail and followed behind.
Damn it… Nothwulf thought.
The bow of the second ship was butted up against the stern of the first, the men climbing over and using the first ship as a bridge to the land. Nothwulf watched the activity and tried to work out how many he should let get ashore before he launched the attack. Not so many that they posed a real threat to his men. He did, however, want to kill as many as he could, so he needed to let a goodly number get off the ships.
How many that was he did not know. He watched as more and more of them came ashore. And then he knew it was time. Something inside told him so, and also suggested that he might have waited too long.
Nothwulf scrambled down the ladder and onto the ground. He would lead the men at the northern end of the wall, since they were closer to where the heathens were coming ashore. He ran to the southern end, told Bryning to wait for his advance before launching his own attack, and then raced off to the north, taking his place at the head of the men waiting there.
“Very well,” Nothwulf said. He peeked around the corner of the wall, then adjusted his helmet, took the shield off his back and drew his sword. “Let us go!”
He came around the barricade, his men following behind. He had no plan of battle, really. He just meant to surprise the heathens and attack while they were unprepared. As he moved down the slight slope to the water’s edge he called for his men to spread out, form a line like a loose shield wall. That should be enough to drive the Northmen back. He looked to the south to make certain Bryning was with him, and he was, getting his men in a line just as Nothwulf was doing.
He turned back, getting his first good look at the heathens from ground level. Those on shore were considerably outnumbered by his own men, which was good. They were in no sort of order as they gathered on the beach. They watched in silence as the English men-at-arms came around the ends of the wall. Nothwulf looked for signs of panic, but he saw none.
Nothwulf was leading at a quick walk. He wanted to hit the enemy before they could organize, but he did not want his men running, their order and discipline breaking down. The heathens were just a couple hundred feet away and Nothwulf figured even at that pace they would reach the enemy while they were still in disarray.
But he figured wrong. He heard the man near the center shout a few words, point left and right with his sword and the Northmen fell into two loose lines. Then the Northmen began to advance, one line toward Nothwulf and the other toward Bryning, as more and more of them poured over the bow of the grounded ship.
Nothwulf slowed his advance with some vague thought that he should not be too quick to engage these men. The one in the center, the one who had given the orders, was making right for him. He walked with a painful limp, but that did not seem to dampen his apparent desire to get into the fight. Beside him walked the young, yellow-haired Northman who had come to negotiate. Harald.
The two lines continued to close with one another and Nothwulf began to feel less certain about his decision to attack. He was no coward, and this was far from the first time he had fought Northmen, but it was the first time that he alone had led men into a fight. The first time it had been his decision. His pace slowed a bit more.
One of the Northmen banged his ax on his shield and the sharp noise made Nothwulf jump. Then another did so, and another, axes and swords and spears banging on the faces of shields. Then the Northmen began chanting a rhythmic chant, yelling in time to the beat of the weapons, and all the while moving toward Nothwulf’s men.
Harald leaned over and spoke to the man in the center of the line, then pointed with his sword directly at Nothwulf, and the man in the center gave a quick nod. Nothwulf remembered Harald had said his father was the leader of this band. Was that him? He would not be happy about the trick played on him.
Then another scream cut through the sound, a single cry, like something that might come from the mouth of Satan himself. One of the Northmen, shirtless, no helmet, no armor of any sort, and carrying two axes, burst from the crowd and went running at Bryning’s line. Nothwulf glanced over in time to see him crash into Bryning’s men with the axes whirling like threshing flails, knocking the soldiers aside.
Nothwulf looked back at the line advancing toward his own men. They were still chanting and beating their weapons, save for the man who had given the orders, the man with the limp. He was close enough now that Nothwulf could see his face. His beard, like his hair, was dark but shot through with gray. He wore no helmet, and the parts of his face that were not covered by hair seemed streaked with blood. He held his sword with an ease that spoke of long use.
But it was his eyes that stopped Nothwulf in his tracks. Dark eyes peering out from the weathered face. Strange, animal eyes that radiated threat like heat coming off of red hot coals. Nothwulf had looked into the faces of many enemies on the field of battle, English, heathen, but he had never seen anything like this. Nothing as unearthly as those predator eyes that were staring right into his.
Now, rather than advance, Nothwulf took a step back. The Northman’s eyes did not waver, they did not blink. Nothwulf took another step back. The heathens continued to come at them, their pace unwavering, the banging of weapons on shields rhythmic and unceasing. The limping man’s eyes did not let go of his.
Nothwulf’s mouth was suddenly very dry and he felt his hands and legs trembling, just a little. Then, suddenly, mindless panic rolled over him like a freak wave. He whirled around, plunged through the press of his own men, and ran.
Standing on Sea Hammer’s deck, looking toward the shore, Thorgrim Night Wolf had never felt anything like the rage he felt burning in his gut and spreading out from there, crackling like lightning through his arms and legs and driving him along. He pushed his way through the men until he reached the forward end of the ship, then vaulted over the side. He felt the water, cold and briny, envelope him up to the waist. He felt the wound in his thigh pulse and radiate pain, but the agony was delicious, and he welcomed it.
He found his footing and made his way ashore, stopped a dozen yards from the water’s edge. The men already there parted before him. No one tried to speak to him, and he spoke to no one.
Right in front of him was the wall, the wall from which the English had assailed them with their flaming arrows. Burned Long Serpent to the waterline, killing Jorund in the process. Nearly burned Sea Hammer as well. The wall. He would burn it to ashes once he was done with the killing.
The English were hiding behind the wall. Thorgrim could not see them, but he knew they were there. In the still-reasonable place in his mind he wondered if he was lapsing into a wolf dream. It had never happened that way before, a wolf dream coming on him while wide awake and heading into battle, but that didn’t mean it could not. Any number of changes seemed to happen as the years spilled by. He wondered what it might be this time.
He could feel the press of men around him as more and more came wading asho
re. He took his shield off his back and slung it over his arm. He was not wearing his helmet, but that didn’t matter because he felt certain that he could not be hurt, could not even be touched.
Harald stepped up beside him just as the English came around the end of the wall. A hundred men-at-arms at least, Thorgrim guessed. He looked to the south and saw another hundred coming from that direction.
“Make a line!” he called. He pointed with Iron-tooth to his right and left and his men fell quickly into order. “Another to meet the bastards to the south.” He waited for a moment as the men sorted themselves out, then stepped off, the pain in his thigh blinding, but rather than hinder him it seemed to drive him on. Harald was at his side, his men a pace behind.
He lifted Iron-tooth above his head, and off to his right someone started banging a weapon against a shield. The gesture was taken up by the others until soon a world of sound seemed to precede them up the beach. And then the men started to chant.
The English would not understand the words, Thorgrim knew, but he could see that the sound alone was having the right effect. The man at the front hesitated and those behind him did as well. The chanting grew louder.
“That one, Father,” Harald said, pointing to the Englishman who was leading the slow charge. “That’s the one I spoke with, the one who agreed to remove the wrecks.”
Thorgrim nodded, but his eyes did not leave the man whom Harald had pointed out. You die first, Thorgrim thought. He tried to quicken his pace, but his thigh would not allow it.
From somewhere behind him Starri Deathless screamed. Thorgrim had heard the sound too often to be moved by it, but he understood how terrifying it was to an enemy on the field. Starri would be flinging himself at the other line, the one to the south, because even in his madness Starri knew better than to get in Thorgrim’s way.
Thorgrim’s eyes remained on the Englishman in the front, locked on him as if a cable were binding them to the man’s face. He could see the man take a step back, then another, the panic building.
Don’t run, Thorgrim thought, but he knew it was useless, and just as the thought came to him the man turned and fled.
That was the end of the English attack. As the one commanding the men-at-arms clawed his way through the line and raced off, the line itself fell apart, and the others followed as fast as they could, shields and weapons flying in the air as they were cast aside. Thorgrim looked to his left. Starri was on the ground, a confused look on his face, head turning side to side, looking for an enemy to fight, but they, too, were running as fast as they could.
Thorgrim wanted to run after them, but he could barely walk, let alone run. But he did not want the others to go on without him, so he continued on, his pace unchanging, and the men followed behind.
Get around the wall… Thorgrim thought. Get around the wall, see what the bastards are doing.
Four more painful steps and then a man stepped out from behind the wall, the very spot where Thorgrim was heading. Thorgrim squinted, thinking this might be a renewed attack, but it was only one man. He waited for more to come behind him, warriors bolder than those who fled, but there were no more. One man, walking toward him. No shield, no weapons, his hands held out at his sides.
They closed for a few more steps and then Thorgrim saw who it was. Leofric. The man he had mistaken for a man of honor. The man he wished to kill more than any other. He felt the rage surging up again and he lifted Iron-tooth a little higher. But Leofric did not flinch. He did not slow as he walked toward Thorgrim, his hands still out by his side.
He stopped four feet in front of Thorgrim, a perfect distance for Iron-tooth to split his skull. He met Thorgrim’s eyes with his own unwavering stare. There was no fear on his face, no emotion at all. For a moment the whole world hung suspended as the two men stared at one another. Then Leofric spoke.
“He says you may kill him if you wish,” Harald said. “But he says he did not know the channel was still blocked. He swears it on his honor. He says if you choose to not kill him, then on the low tide his men will help remove the ships so we may get to sea.”
Thorgrim stared at him for a moment more. Then he sighed and lowered Iron-tooth until the sword’s tip rested on the dirt.
Epilogue
Victory to his sons he gives,
but to some riches;
eloquence to the great,
and to men, wit.
Poetic Edda
The fight outside Odd’s burning hall ended much more abruptly than it began. The better part of Halfdan’s men had run off into the dark. Some gave up the fight on seeing their king flee the field of battle. Others had taken their leave once it became clear just how the battle was turning out. The rest were prisoners, or they were dead.
Those who ran off were allowed to go. None of Odd’s men had the strength or desire to go after them.
Amundi wiped the blade of his sword on the hem of his tunic, slipped it into its scabbard and embraced Odd in a hug. They held each other for a moment, then Odd let Amundi go and said, “Hold a moment.” He stepped over to where he and Einar had been fighting and scanned the trampled ground. The hall was still burning, even more so now as the fire worked its way down the long building, and the light cast moving shadows like spirits of the dead over the ground. And in that light Odd saw Blood-letter, trampled and half sunk in the mud.
He felt a mixture of relief and dread as he bent down and snatched it up. He held it up to the firelight, turning it side to side. It was well coated with blood and dirt, but it seemed unharmed, the blade still straight and true. Odd bent down and wiped it on a dead man’s tunic and slid it back into his scabbard.
He looked up at his hall. The flames were well past the north door now, the one he had barely been able to get to. It was likely the fire had reached his and Signy’s sleeping closet. His first impulse had been to rally the men and set about fighting the flames, maybe preserve part of his home so that when it was time to rebuild he would not have to start with nothing. One look now told him that the effort would be pointless.
He turned away from the burning building and walked back to where Amundi stood.
“We wondered, or I wondered, where you had gone off to,” Amundi said. “I thought you were right by my side.” There was no censure in his words, but Odd could well imagine the accusations of cowardice that must have run though Amundi’s mind, if not out of his mouth, when he realized Odd had left them.
“The fight was not going well,” Amundi continued. “These men that Halfdan had with him, they’re good warriors. His best, I would imagine. Better trained than our men, more accustomed to this work. I had my doubts that we could beat them. And then suddenly this fire demon comes screaming out of the burning hall.”
Odd gave a weak smile and shrugged. He looked around him, his thoughts settling. “I wanted to get at Halfdan. And I failed. I might have hurt some of his men, or killed some, I don’t know. But whatever I did, it didn’t do much good.”
“Oh, that’s not so,” Amundi said. Ragi and Vifil appeared through the crowd of half-stunned men, their right sides lit up orange from the flames, their left nearly lost in shadow. They, too, were carrying sundry wounds and tears it their armor. They, too, were smiling.
“Here’s that fire-spirit!” Ragi said. “I’ll swear on my sword I nearly pissed myself when you came out of that door, flaming shield in hand!”
“That’s it,” Amundi said. “You coming out of that door. It shook everyone. Distracted them. And then Halfdan’s hird had to fight you, and they were not even sure you were of this world, I imagine. At least not immediately. Everyone was in such confusion, then Halfdan’s men just folded up in front of us. I’ve never seen the like.”
I’ve never seen the like, Odd thought. Amundi had seen many such battles and he, Odd Pig-binder, had not. That was all Odd heard in those words of praise.
“What will we call you now?” Vifil said as if Odd had spoken his thoughts aloud. “Odd of the Burning Shield? Odd Shit-fire?”
Odd gave a weak smile.
“Maybe Odd Fire Eater would be better,” Amundi said. Odd continued to smile but said nothing. He had no idea if such a name would stick. He had no idea if he would welcome it if it did.
But there was no time for such trivial things as nicknames. Odd and the others spoke of what needed doing next, then called out orders to those who served them, instructing them first to see to the wounded, both their fellows and Halfdan’s men as well. Odd could see that the men were already attending to Halfdan’s dead and wounded: purses cut away, arm rings, bracelets, seaxes and swords liberated.
“Where’s Ulfkel?” Amundi asked. The fight had been over for some time, but they were only just noticing his absence. Had their heads not been swimming from the noise and strain and shock of the fight they would certainly have noticed earlier. Ulfkel was not an easy one to miss.
They walked north, the direction from which Ulfkel had led his men, and it did not take long to find him, though they walked right past him at first. Two of Halfdan’s men, or the corpses of two of his men, lay on top of Ulfkel’s body, mostly obscuring it. Ragi and Odd grabbed the first corpse and rolled it aside. A seax was jutting from the man’s chest, and Ulfkel’s hand, which presumably had still been gripping the weapon, fell free. They did not have to guess how the second man died. The blade of Ulfkel’s sword was run clean through him and it stood up through his back like a flagpole.
The four men looked down at Ulfkel and for a moment they were silent. A knife was sticking out of Ulfkel’s chest, right at his heart. His mail was slashed and they could see the pale skin and the blood around the vicious wound in his flesh. His helmet was gone and a part of his scalp had been cut away and now hung off the side of his head. The ear on that side was gone as well. There was another gaping wound in his thigh that looked as if it had been made by the tip of a spear.
Kings and Pawns Page 38
