“Then provide them. I will take whom I please.”
The trek to the battlefield took little time. The battlefield was a clearing in the trees the Franks had to cross and stood in the shadow of the great hill and its jagged side. The tower seemed impossibly high from the ground. Stein wanted to see the spot where his father and brother had died, and one of the men showed him the ground. Ulfrik satisfied his doubts with a glance. Arrow shafts crisscrossed the grass; rust-red stains blotted the ground; water from the prior night’s storm filled the ruts and holes where men had dug in their feet to hold their ground.
“If this is an approach the Franks use, then we must take care to have it watched once we renew our attacks.” Ulfrik’s obvious statements drew flat nods from Hrut and his men. Stein was still kneeling in the mud where his father had fallen.
“There’s time still to climb that tower,” Hrut offered. “Maybe we should allow Stein some time with his thoughts while we go.”
Ulfrik had not been so high since walking the cliffs of his old home in Nye Grenner and the Faereyjar Islands. He relished the thought of seeing to the edge of the world, like he had on a clear day in Nye Grenner. “Is Paris visible from its height?”
“So they say,” Hrut answered. “I’ve only been to the tower once and I didn’t get to the roof. I’m as eager as you are to see it.”
Sharing a smile with Einar and Hogni, he patted Hrut’s shoulder. “Then let’s be quick.”
Two men remained with Stein, whose eyes were red and wet as he walked the battlefield that had claimed his kin. Three accompanied Ulfrik to climb the hill and reach the tower. Crumbled stone walls outlined the failed attempt at fortifying the location. The tower was backed up to the cliff, but he knew all too well from the siege of Paris that a tower like this was easily blockaded. The door had been removed from its hinges, ensuring no one would hole up in it. Hrut claimed patrols kept it clear of bandits and animals, though a bear had supposedly adopted it for a home one winter.
The inside was dark and empty. The bottom floor was of pounded earth, but subsequent floors were of old, stained wood. A moldy scent enveloped the place and the rain of the last two days had worked its way inside. At last they came to the top floor. The square room had one window to let in light, but it faced away from the high view. A single wooden ladder stood at the center to access the roof.
“Still glad you wore your mail for this climb?” Hrut smiled and Ulfrik laughed with him.
“I could swim the Seine in my mail,” Ulfrik said, then cheerfully punched Einar in the shoulder. Despite his strength, he was red-faced and sweating after mounting the fourth floor.
“You first, Lord Ulfrik.” Hrut held the ladder for him.
Wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, he set his shield aside then began to climb. Once within arm’s length of the top, he pushed open the trapdoor and white light bathed him. “That air feels good,” Ulfrik said as the clean smell of pine mixed with the stale interior.
He glanced down and saw Hrut just below him with Einar waiting to climb. As he continued, his hand gripped the final rung and felt something cold and gritty. Stopping, he looked at his palm. It was mud.
“Up you go, Lord Ulfrik,” Hrut said cheerfully, but the push from below was anything but friendly. Hrut grabbed both his legs and shoved him through the hole. He landed half outside the trapdoor.
A shadow hovered over him, and he instinctively pulled himself through and rolled out of its way. White sunlight peering from behind dark rainclouds obscured the form closing on him, but he clearly saw the trapdoor slam shut and the figure stand atop it. Muffled shouts came from below.
Ulfrik was leaning on his sword arm, and rolled to free it. When he did, he could now see who stood over him.
For the first time in long memory, Ulfrik’s guts turned to ice and he froze in place.
He knew the man, and knew death was at hand.
Chapter 9
“Surprises like this come but once in a lifetime. A gift from the gods.” The man’s drawn sword flashed in the milky evening light striking the top of the tower.
“Throst! You gutless bastard! I’ve dreamed of your death a hundred times over.” Ulfrik scrabbled away from Throst’s feet. He heard the muffled combat below, clearly hearing Einar’s voice.
“Have you enjoyed your stay in my new hall? Too bad it will burn down with your men inside.” Throst’s feet widened into a fighting stance and his sword lowered. He wore no mail nor carried any shield, not even a cloak. He was stripped to deerskin pants and a gray linen shirt. His bright face had acquired new scars and sharper features. Ulfrik remained on his back and had no chance to stand before Throst’s sword would skewer him.
He rolled to his side, wishing he had taken the shield rather than leaving it below. As expected, Throst struck like a snake, but Ulfrik’s mail turned the blow. Space on the roof was tight and the floorboards beneath him sprang like loose decking as Throst’s foot landed next to him.
He lurched upright, hand searching for the sax sheathed at his lap. It was still hooked into the sheath and the moment he took to flick it free was enough for Throst to spin with animal ease, a deadly white line of his blade leading.
Flexing back, Ulfrik stumbled into the rail atop the tower. An idea flashed in his mind. If he let Throst charge him, he would step aside and throw him from the tower.
But instead of charging, Throst backed up with his sword lowered and maneuvered so the sun swallowed him from behind. He laughed and teased Ulfrik forward. “Come now, mighty Jarl Ulfrik. You showed me your plan when you stared at that railing. Did you think I would plan this far ahead only to be stupid enough to be thrown from this tower?”
“You were foolish enough to make me your enemy, and now Hrolf the Strider as well. I’ll be doing you a favor when I slit your belly.”
A horrible scream came from beneath the trapdoor. Ulfrik could not think on that battle, needing only to win his. Throst only laughed and continued to back up to the center of the square tower roof.
“Hrolf is not long for this land. I’ve no worries. The Franks are uniting and I’m on the winning side. Getting you in the bargain was a boon I could not pass. I’ll be sure to send your head back to your wife. She can put it next to your son’s severed hand.”
Ulfrik roared and charged forward, sax held low in a double grip. Throst crouched as the sax stabbed up for his gut.
Throst kicked back with his leg, his heel catching a thin rope that now pulled taut across Ulfrik’s path. It caught his legs as he drove his strike where Throst had stood. Careening forward, it was as if the world moved ensconced in ice. He felt his feet lifting off the ground, his free arm wheeling for balance. He staggered as he landed, and he forced his legs to pump back lest he crash on his face. He dropped his sax as his arm reached forward to keep himself upright. It all moved in crystal, icy slowness.
Then the world flipped and time resumed.
He had pushed too hard and now stumbled for the rails. He crashed into it, breaking the weather-beaten wood and plowing through it. His stomach lurched and his groin ached with the terrifying feeling of being in the air over a massive drop into dark treetops.
Both hands grabbed the edge of the roof before he plummeted. His arms felt like they would rip from his shoulders and his face slammed against the wooden side. For a moment, he held his breath and pressed his face to the rough wood. His hands were filled with splinters and he already felt them sliding away. He tried to pull up, but his mail coat was like another man clinging to his back. Unless he had help, he could do nothing but fall. Tilting his head back, his helmet had twisted on his face so that only one eye could see through the face guard.
He saw Throst squatting over him and laughing.
“Not what I had planned, but it will do. Death is death. I’d invite you to grab your sword before I send you to Valhalla, but I can understand why you wouldn’t feel inclined at the moment.”
“You fucking worm! Pull me up and finis
h this like a man. You’ve no honor, no pride at all?”
“Honor and pride? Interesting words and often inconvenient ideas. I was hoping to flatten you and put my sword through your back. Shattering you on the rocks below will have to do. Unlike what you think, I have plenty of pride. Long ago, you took my father from me, you took my home, you took my place in your hird. No one takes what is mine and gets away with it. So think on that in whatever time you’ve left.”
“You’ll never get away with this. Hrolf will crush you. My sons will be avenged.”
“Your sons will have to live long enough for that, wouldn’t they? Right now, a bunch of boys waving their wooden swords is not concerning. I have to admit, speaking to you like this has been more rewarding than my original plan. I’m glad we’ve cleared up matters. Now you die.”
“I’ll be avenged! You will—”
Throst’s sword thunked into the wood of the tower and severed the little finger of Ulfrik’s left hand. He lost his grip as he howled with pain. His right hand alone could not support his weight, the chain shirt an anchor stone that wanted to sink to the bottom of the sea. His hand came free and his guts felt as if they had piled into the back of his throat.
He plummeted down the cliff side, blood streaming from his left hand as it searched for his sword hilt.
Death awaited below in the crowns of dark pine trees.
Chapter 10
In what seemed a lifetime ago, Ulfrik had fallen out of tree while playing with his brother in the woods surrounding his father’s hall. The image of that day crystallized in his mind. He was no older than ten winters, still a lithe boy with no cares of the world beyond his forest playground. Sun shined through the canopy in blots of golden light. Birdsong filled the green spaces. His brother, Grim, clung to the foot of the tree too afraid to climb and Ulfrik had teased him. He reached for a limb that had seemed sturdy until he pulled on it. Suddenly he was plunging headlong to the ground with the limb in his hand. At the time he only remembered lying on his back, but now memory revealed how his hand flailed out to grab other branches to slow his fall. He had gashed his check on an exposed root, but his worst injury was the derisive laughter his brother had poured out over him.
Pain exploded across his shoulder, jarring him out of his dream. He was falling and struck the side of the cliff.
The pine treetops were flying at him like green spears.
Then his left leg caught an outcrop of rock and it crumbled like an old tent pole. He heard a snap and his vision went white. When it returned, he was plummeting into the pines face-first.
He remembered to extend his arms like he had a lifetime ago. A handful of pine branches tore through his grip as he rushed through the tops of the trees. The crack and rush of the top branches filled his ears.
Heavy limbs came next.
Crashing into one, he bounced like a leather ball into the trunk of another tree. He screamed, feeling a broken branch impale the meat of his left calf. His head clunked on the trunk, helmet taking the blow and spinning off his head.
The next branch caught him on his hip, but the velocity of his fall had already been broken. Rather than crash through it, he bounced to another branch that failed to hold him. He dumped the final distance down the long trunk, enduring a hundred rends and cuts to his exposed skin. His mail prevented his body from becoming impaled but had done nothing to lessen the crushing power of thick branches battering him.
He crashed to the ground on his left side, the branch driving deeper into his shoulder. He rolled a short distance until he slammed into the stump of a fallen pine tree.
The sky above had grown dark purple as the sun retreated and storm clouds threatened. Had the fall taken all afternoon? His vision blurred and his ears filled with a high-pitched ringing, and he realized he had passed out. Judging from the sky, he had been unconscious for hours, though to his mind no time had passed at all.
Nothing hurt. He struggled to raise his head, but he had sunk up to his ears in thick muck that sucked at him as he tried. It took nearly all his strength and raising his head made his head swim. The scene took a moment to understand. His left leg was bent above the knee and a dark stain appeared on his pants. His right leg seemed normal, but he could not move it. He could rotate his right ankle slightly, but his leg seemed unable to lift.
Bits of broken branches stuck out of his mail shirt, and both hands were ragged with bloody cuts. His left hand was completely coated in blood, and something about it bothered him. He could not think of what.
Overall, he was not too bad for such a fall. He expected he should get back to Einar and tell him all about it. He probably would not believe it either. With a sigh he attempted to sit up again.
Vomit ejected over his mail shirt and he fell back and turned his head to the side to expel the rest of it. He could not get up. He remembered his leg. Was something wrong with it? Yes, he had fallen and broken it.
What was he doing here looking at the ever darkening sky? Nothing made sense. He had to get back to Einar, that was his only thought. Einar needed him, but for what?
A burning scent wafted through the air. It was a light, pleasant scent. Ulfrik imagined a cozy hearth fire, so much better than the damp muck and wet pine needles encasing him. A fire. What about a fire?
It all flooded back in an instant: Throst, Einar and Hogni ambushed in the tower, the promise to burn Ulfrik’s men in their barracks. He lifted his head again, only high enough to see the stump of his little finger. He dropped his head back down.
Voices. Distant voices drawing closer.
Throst had come looking for him, to find his body and hang it on the walls of Gunnolfsvik as a trophy. He tried to raise his head, to search for a weapon. He had lost his sax and sword in the fall. Throwing axes had been in his belt, but he could not move his right arm. He clawed the earth with his left hand, searching for a rock in the mud, anything for defense.
“Right where the gods marked,” a voice exclaimed. Ulfrik lay flat, hoping no one would see him. It came from behind his head. “Do you see him there?”
It was a woman’s voice, light and flush with excitement. A moment of relief drained away when he heard a man speaking as they drew ever closer.
“It’s true. By the gods, Eldrid was right.” The man’s voice was even more astonished than the woman’s.
Two faces crowded overhead. They were indistinct, wreathed in shadows, nothing more than human blurs. The woman ran her hands along his body, stopping at the lump in his broken leg.
Ulfrik opened his mouth and began to demand their names and intentions.
“I think he is trying to speak,” said the man. He leaned his ear closer to Ulfrik’s mouth. “Speak again, friend.”
“Get back, Gudrod,” the woman said. “He is worse than I imagined. We must bind his leg now.”
The woman shoved the man called Gudrod aside, and her cool hands touched Ulfrik’s face. She still remained indistinct, and the ringing in Ulfrik’s ear was loud enough to overpower her voice. She pulled back the lids of his eyes, moving her head aside to let the light strike them and blind Ulfrik.
“His wounds have dulled his senses,” she said, taking the hem of her cloak and wiping the vomit from Ulfrik’s mouth. She continued to examine him. “This chain shirt is in the way. I need to see if he has any wounds on his back.”
Ulfrik was vaguely aware of hands prying him out of the mud. His tongue was like swollen leather in his mouth and he could not form any words. He caught a flash of the woman’s face. She was young, firm-jawed with smooth skin and a pixie face. Dark blond hair fell loose around her shoulders. She met his eyes for a moment as she worked on cutting away his pant leg with a small knife. A ragged white scar ran through her left eyebrow.
Hands let him down gently. “His back looks fine. No blood or anything stuck in him.”
“This bone has to be set and braced before we can move him. His other leg is also broken. He’s a mess. The two of us can’t move him alone.”
/> Their conversation echoed in his head as his eyelids began to droop. Sleep was overtaking him.
“Why move him at all? The gods can’t have intended to send us a broken man.”
A long silence ensued. He was about to drift into sleep when a terrible pain lanced through his leg. A muddy, hot hand had been clamped over his mouth to muffle his scream. His broken bone had been set, the only thing painful enough to cut through the numbness enveloping him.
Consciousness bobbed like driftwood on a choppy sea. Hands worked over him, binding and patching injuries, searching his body. At last the woman leaned close enough for him to kiss her.
“You will live,” she said. “You are too heavy to move. I’ll be back with help. We are going to cover and hide you. Anyone else who comes is an enemy. Make no sound or I assure you it will be your last. The jarls of Gunnolfsvik are dead. Some of our own betrayed us. Trust no one but me.”
“Who … you?” Ulfrik managed to croak the question.
“I am Audhild Brandsdottir. You are the storm god’s gift to me and my people. We will see you whole again, I promise. For now, be patient.”
She pulled back and dripped water into his mouth, only enough to wet his parched throat. Placing her cloak over him, she stood and the man named Gudrod began to cover him with pine branches. For a moment, Ulfrik felt like they were building a pyre for him, but the wood was wet and thick with sap. The cloying pine scent nearly gagged him.
“He just can’t be the one,” Gudrod said, the disappointment clear in his voice. “He’s almost dead.”
“Cease your questioning,” snapped Audhild. “You heard Eldrid. Now let’s go while there’s still light to see. We can’t leave him here much longer.”
Footfalls across the branches and sucking mud retreated into the distance. Beneath the cloak and pile of branches, Ulfrik could hardly move. He imagined a mountain of limbs piled over his head and wondered how Einar would find him. Scrambled thoughts rose and fled through the ringing emptiness of Ulfrik’s head. Nightfall was at hand, but his own darkness came before it.
The Storm God's Gift (Ulfrik Ormsson's Saga Book 5) Page 5
