The Storm God's Gift (Ulfrik Ormsson's Saga Book 5)

by Jerry Autieri

  “You waited here all afternoon hoping I’d wander into your trap?” Ulfrik’s hand floated above his sword hilt, fingers loose.

  “And here you are,” Gudrod spread his arms wide, a yellow-toothed smile bright in the sun. Rocks crumbled behind Ulfrik and a man cursed. Gudrod’s smile faded and his eyes flicked past Ulfrik.

  “If you kill me, the people will rise against you. The gods have sent me here for this purpose, or were you not listening to Eldrid?”

  “No one wants to kill you.” Gudrod stepped closer. Ulfrik heard the crunch of rock behind him. “Merely seeking a bit of justice.”

  Ulfrik spun on the men behind him, kicking the loose, broken rock at them as he did. Bits of sharp, black stone sprayed up and they reflexively covered their faces. It was enough of an opening.

  He charged the first man, plowing his shoulder beneath the man’s outstretched arm. A warm, sweaty stench filled his nose as Ulfrik shoved into the man’s torso. His feet caught on the rough ground and he stumbled. Without delay Ulfrik whirled on the other man, Bresi Black-Eyes, and landed a wide-arced, left-handed punch around Bresi’s raised arm and clipped his head. It was not solid, but it distracted him. Ulfrik followed with a right-handed jab to Bresi’s soft gut and folded him over.

  But the time wasted was enough for Gudrod to catch him from behind. He heard Gudrod’s feet scraping and crushing the loose rock as he ran, but he did not have the speed. His leg, already bearing too much of his weight, pulled tight with a pain like hot wire tied over his thigh. He faltered and Gudrod had wrestled his right arm behind his back. Off balance, Ulfrik staggered to the side and Gudrod pulled him along until he had hooked both arms behind his back. Ulfrik was pinned.

  Bresi recovered as did his partner, who was the man whose nose Ulfrik had flattened. Seeing the two of them smeared with dirt, he laughed.

  “You two fools. For a moment I was frightened. Now I’m relieved. Even with Gudrod holding me down, you’ll probably miss me.”

  Gudrod jerked on Ulfrik’s arms, and the old injury in his shoulder lit up with pain. Ulfrik gritted his teeth, but did not cry out.

  “This is for breaking my nose,” said the one Ulfrik now decided to call Flat-Nose. He balled a fist as if to punch Ulfrik, but he did not let it fly.

  “Gods, lad, be a man about it and fight me fair.” Ulfrik rolled his eyes as if he were disgusted. In truth, despite every manner of violence he had survived, he had never broken his nose. It had been a point of pride for him, and to have some angry farmer finally break it was humiliating. Still, pride dictated he goad the man.

  “Do it, if you won’t bust your fingers. What are you waiting for?”

  Flat-Nose hesitated, lowering his fist. “What if he curses me? The gods sent him. Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”

  “By Freya’s tits!” Bresi shoved Flat-Nose away. “You wanted to kick in my stones? Have a taste of it yourself.”

  Ulfrik slammed his knees together and Bresi’s kick failed to connect. Still, the jolt to his knees tightened the wire of pain he felt in his left leg. He had to end this before they seriously hurt him.

  Tugging forward as if to break free, Ulfrik waited for Gudrod to pull back in response. When he did, Ulfrik plowed backwards.

  The two scrabbled in reverse a few steps before the rough ground tripped Gudrod. As Ulfrik crashed atop him, he slammed his head back and bounced his skull off Gudrod’s face. He screamed as he released Ulfrik, and he bound up before anyone could react. The lightning pain in his leg nearly sent him to the ground again, but he slammed it straight and clenched his teeth. His sword was in hand.

  “No more foolishness. I’ll make three fresh piles of stinking guts out of you then piss in them. You want revenge? Like this? Are you boys or men? Lay the hazel branches and deer skin. Make a ring and we will fight to first blood, then all will be settled. Do you accept?”

  Gudrod flipped onto his back, cradling his face. Bresi and Flat-Nose traded glances, uncertain if they should draw weapons.

  “I thought not. Too weak to fight me on even terms. Well, I’ll remember that. When the enemy comes, you three will be standing at the front of my lines where I can see you. Let me warn you now. Come too close during battle and I might accidentally slice off your empty heads.” He thrust his sword forward, and Flat-Nose jumped as if he had actually been pricked. “Now get out of my sight before I lose my temper.”

  Castling on his hands and knees, Gudrod hung his head. Spit and snot hung down, and Ulfrik guessed he might have broken Gudrod’s nose. He smiled. That was a satisfying trend.

  “What if the enemy doesn’t come?” Gudrod said, his voice thick and muddled. “You’re just keeping us all afraid so you become important. You’d have us act like cowards when our homes are threatened.”

  “You murdered Lang and witnessed the escape of his son. The enemy will come, and will seek revenge. Knowing how stupid the lot of you are, you’ll not give them justice and they’ll have to attack. Honor demands no less, though you scum know little of it. My tactics are the only way I can keep a bunch of simple-minded farmers alive. Now go before my patience is gone.”

  Gudrod stood, hand over his face and tears in his eyes. His smirk still managed to radiate arrogance. “You can’t kill us. Eldrid would bring everyone down on your head.”

  “I can kill you and be gone before Eldrid finds out, which is beginning to sound more pleasing with every moment.”

  They did leave, backing away deliberately then turning to a jog. Ulfrik stood with his sword drawn, wondering if he should chance escaping on his own. He still had no idea where or how far north Lang’s people were, nor if they would kill him outright as an enemy.

  The thought had no chance to take root. The warning notes of lookouts blowing on their horns sounded in the distance.

  Lang’s people had finally arrived.

  Chapter 33

  Ulfrik coolly greeted the man who would rescue him. He stood at the same strip of beach where the trader Heidrek had landed, the same surf lapping at his sealskin boots. The man was no sun-beaten farmer but the best vision of the warrior ideal Ulfrik had seen in this part of the world. His mail coat had been scoured, though orange rust clung to sections of the links. His helmet was dented from a blade, likely an ax, and the nose guard did nothing to conceal the fierce green eyes staring out from beneath it. His salt and pepper beard was interrupted at his right cheek, where a white scar drove up to his nose and furrowed down to his jaw. A gold band clasped his bicep over a red shirt, and a fat hand like an old root breaking apart a stone rested on the hilt of his sword. Arrayed beside the man were five others just like him, though younger and stronger. Their small ship leaned to the side and behind them at anchor was their high-sided knarr with dozens of men crowding its deck.

  These did not seem like men to be led into traps.

  “Be welcomed, friend.” Gudrod stood beside Ulfrik and offered the greeting with little enthusiasm. His face was swollen and bloodied, and overall disheveled from the beating he had just taken. Still, there had been no time to wrangle over authority, particularly with Eldrid having become insensate in the moment of crisis. Audhild bade both he and Gudrod to represent them while she organized the defense according to Ulfrik’s plans. They selected ten men to follow—Gudrod selecting Bresi and Ulfrik grabbing a bewildered Lini.

  The man looked Gudrod head to toe with his mouth bent in repugnance. Ulfrik shivered with the pleasure of having such disdain directed at his enemy. It was about time he got a taste of it.

  “We’ll see about your welcome. I am Valagnar Dannarson, jarl of Reykjaholt. Who leads you?”

  “We are all equals here,” Gudrod said, his nasal voice grating on Ulfrik’s ears. From the frowns of the others, he guessed they felt the same.

  “Then who gives justice from crimes done to freemen? Looks like someone broke your nose, friend. Who will judge that crime?” Valagnar’s comment drew a snicker from one of his companions. It was cut short with a curt glance from Valagnar
.

  Gudrod glared at Ulfrik, but did not answer.

  Ulfrik found his sword hand itching. Everyone knew why Valagnar had come, so he decided to cut to the point. He stepped forward, the slight movement setting all of Valagnar’s men reaching for their weapons. Ulfrik raised a hand.

  “I am Ulfrik Ormsson. I know why you have come. A man called Lang died here.”

  “Murdered,” Valagnar said, twisting the word like a dagger in the gut. “He was my wife’s brother and my lifelong friend. He meant no harm to anyone, and you cut him down in front of his only son.”

  “He was here to spy,” Gudrod said. “If the boy hadn’t fled, you wouldn’t be here with your army.”

  “You mean to say if you had not been caught, you could’ve escaped justice for murder? What is your name, so I might mock it after I nail your head over my hall door?”

  “Gudrod Bone-Breaker.”

  His nasal voice diminished the grandiose name he had assigned himself. He was pumped up like a walrus defending its rock, arms wide and chest out. Ulfrik smiled at the childish inspiration, and if Gudrod had broken many bones it was likely from hitting his own thumb with a hammer. Still, Valagnar rose to the challenge.

  “Well, Gudrod Bone-Breaker, I see you’ve had a fine start today breaking your own nose. I’ll give you one chance to surrender the men who killed my brother. Will you grant me justice?”

  “You are a beast come to steal our land. You’ll get nothing from me.” Blood began to flow again from Gudrod’s nose, but he was so worked up he did not notice. Red flecks sprayed over Valagnar, who flinched as if hot coals had been thrown at him.

  “Fling your bloody spit on me? Then you’ve made your choice. Call your men and name the place. We’ll settle this with a fight and see who the gods favor.”

  “In that field.” Gudrod stabbed a finger where Ulfrik had planned. “Bring your best, so we can stomp you roaches out all at once.”

  Valagnar and his guards stomped back to the water’s edge and waved his ship forward. Ulfrik watched men begin to haul up the anchor stone. Despite the impending battle, he imagined himself on its deck, sailing from this madness. The thought shattered as Gudrod shouted through his broken nose. “Let’s get ready.”

  As they marched up the field, out of Valagnar’s hearing, Ulfrik halted Gudrod with an outstretched hand. He tried to bat it aside, but Ulfrik held it steady.

  “Calm yourself and keep to the plans I’ve set. Remember I am the leader of this battle, sent by the gods for this purpose and prophesied by Eldrid herself. Go against me and you defy the gods. Your defeat at the hands of these men will be terrible. Do all of you understand?”

  He stabbed his gaze at Bresi and others who seemed to drift into Gudrod’s angry circle. None met his eyes. He dropped his arm from Gudrod’s chest and let him pass. The others fell in, and he grabbed Lini’s shoulder as he passed.

  “Stay close to me. Gudrod, Bresi, and maybe a few others will try to kill me during this battle. Warn me if I don’t see them.”

  Lini stared at him with eyes wide and mouth half-formed into a word. Ulfrik did not know whether he was shocked that Gudrod planned murder or that he had trusted him to guard him. In either case, he had no one else in the battle lines he could trust. Lini was the best he had for a friend, and he hesitated to call him one.

  Despite the planning, the villagers were confused and scattered. Ulfrik shouted commands in the loud, arresting voice he reserved for his trained hirdmen. It succeeded in drawing order out of panic. Non-combatants scrambled off to their posts while the fighters assembled in the field. Eldrid vanished, as expected, and Audhild led her women with their straw men underarm. Ulfrik formed his ranks wide and shallow, more concerned for being overlapped than broken open. Once satisfied at the order, he took his place at the center. Lini stood directly behind him, and at his sides were the strongest men he had. He would have preferred Gunnar and Einar flanking him, but no such talented warriors stood with him this day.

  “Do not fear death,” he shouted to his rows of men. “To die in battle is to join the heroes in Valhalla. But if you remember what I have taught and do as I have planned, then we cannot fail. The gods are with us.”

  A cheer went up in time to meet Valagnar’s men tromping into the field. Their haughty cries dwindled as they saw the front ranks of mail-clad warriors with freshly painted shields rimmed in iron. Ulfrik and his men carried old, leather-edged shields from Frankia that would not hold long in battle. The grim faces of the enemy stared out beneath iron helmets and not a one gave any hint of fear.

  A man vomited in the rear rank, and others cursed him or joined him in retching. Fear haunted every shield wall, no matter how brave the men, and some prevailed against it while others failed. Ulfrik ignored his fear. Conversely, his pulse quickened and he felt light with anticipation. He would have to restrain his battle lust or risk undoing his own careful plans.

  “This is your last chance,” Valagnar shouted across the field, grass waving before him like a hand shooing away flies. “Give up the murderer and spare your people suffering.”

  “Crawl back to Reykjaholt,” Ulfrik answered, “or fight if you can find the stones for it.”

  Now began the hesitant period before the clash. Insults hurled like spears between the groups, each side hoping to goad the other into moving first. Ulfrik had no interest in charging from his position, and restrained any man who seemed ready to pounce. Fortunately, not many were brave enough. Archers were needed to prod Valagnar, but the bows were set elsewhere. They held until the cursing became uninspired.

  At last Valagnar raised his shield and trod forward.

  “Brace for them.” Ulfrik raised his own shield, hearing the satisfying clack of the front rank locking shields. Behind him Lini pressed his shield into the small of Ulfrik’s back. Despite his grand appearance, Valagnar lacked tactical acumen. He charged in a flat line, rather than a swine head formation that would easily break the thin defense. Ulfrik felt a hint of disappointment, having hoped for a more challenging opponent.

  At spear-throwing distance, Valagnar and his men roared and ducked behind their shields. Ulfrik widened his stance, pulling behind his own shield.

  Feet thudded across the grass, shaking the ground.

  The clash was as hard and satisfying as he remembered it.

  Shield slammed into shield with a thunderclap of violence. Men cursed and screamed. Ulfrik’s heels drove back, piling up cold mud at his feet. Pain lanced through his leg and he feared he had been stabbed, then realized it was the protest of his old broken thigh. The skid back caught as Lini remembered to shove back. Ulfrik’s sword was an awkward length for a tight shield wall, but he thrust it beneath his shield. The enemy in front of him cried out, but a sword licked back at him. A nick on his forearm was the worst of it, and the burn of the cut flared Ulfrik’s anger.

  The battle-song was on him now, a tuneless melody of death shrieks, war cries, slamming shields, and clashing blades. All the fury dammed in his heart burst from the edge of his sword and flowed bright red. He shoved into the swell of bodies, coppery blood filling his mouth and the piss-stench of fear invading his nostrils. The dense heat of the fighters smothered him. He laughed. A head appeared above his shield. He slammed his shield into the shocked face, erasing it to reveal another equally horrified. He slashed this one, spinning the helmet around on the man’s head as he fell with a red line carved across his eyes.

  He stumbled on bodies. A spear pierced the meat of his thigh. It felt no worse than a bee sting though a hunk of flesh flapped over the running blood.

  Deep into the ranks, he realized too late he had pushed the center of his lines deep into Valagnar’s men. His wings were not as successful, lagging behind and threatening to leave Ulfrik surrounded.

  Retreat was harder than pushing forward. His own men mindlessly shoved forward, their fear robbing their sense. Ulfrik shrunk behind his shield as swords shuddered on the wood. A triangle of splinters flew into his fac
e and his arm went numb as the enemy hammered at his defense.

  “Fall back,” Ulfrik screamed over his shoulder. “I’m surrounded.”

  All resistance at his back fell away and he nearly stumbled. He yanked his shield close as he tripped, and it saved him from being speared as one leaf-shaped blade turned at the edge of his shield.

  His men were fleeing.

  Regaining himself, Ulfrik joined them. At least the majority were fleeing in the correct direction, though some headed into the village.

  With a final slash, he disengaged from the enemy and followed behind his men. Smoke already climbed into the sky, premature but not glaringly obvious to men intent on pursuit. He heard the enemy howl with delight then smiled.

  The scattered group of his men fled with genuine terror. Most had never witnessed battle, and a pile of guts that used to be a drinking companion was enough to make cowards of strong men. He only hoped they would stop and reform as he had planned and not continue running.

  Gudrod and Bresi floated into view. Ulfrik searched for Lini but he was alone. So this is how fate wove this thread? he thought. Let’s be done with you two now. I’m in a killing mood.

  Yet neither Gudrod nor Bresi shared his battle lust. Gudrod, already battered earlier, was splattered in gore and where his flesh showed it was the color of ash. Bresi stared through Ulfrik, his black-ringed eyes threatening to explode from their sockets. As Ulfrik roared at them, shield up and sword low for a ripping cut to the gut, they broke from their fugue and fled. Bresi had dropped his sword and held his shield only because the straps had caught on his arm.

  Now Ulfrik came to the defile which was filling with smoke from the fires built into the ditches. A stitch in his side slowed him, and he stole a glance back as a chance to catch his breath. Valagnar was leading his men for him, his face wild with anger.

  A vengeful enemy, he thought. Thank the gods.