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

by Jerry Autieri

  “What is the meaning of this?” Audhild’s face, already red, now shaded into the color of a bruise. Ulfrik used the moment to draw closer to her, moving deliberately so as not to provoke a shot at himself. Lini and the others fell in behind, sticking close as if following him into a haunted tunnel. The bowman placed another arrow to the string and looked expectantly at Gudrod. Ulfrik recognized the man as Eskil, one of the few bow hunters in the village. He judged him an average shot, but at this range Ulfrik imagined even blind Eldrid could hit her target. Gudrod extended his hand to prevent another shot, lifting it barely off his thigh as if the gesture was too taxing.

  “I have the same question for you,” Gudrod said. He sidestepped down the crest and his men followed. Bresi Black-Eyes stood at his right. He smirked at Ulfrik and patted his sheathed sword. Eldrid followed, lowering her staff and being forced to diminish her glorious arrival by prodding a path down the slope unaided.

  “You know the will of the people,” Audhild said, stepping back as the dark crowd converged on her. “I came here about the curse.”

  Eldrid wailed again, placing both hands on her head as if in great pain. Ulfrik cringed at the performance. Only days ago she had revealed great remorse at living her life as something she was not. Yet today she acted no less mad than before. Maybe it had only been a moment of sunshine in the hurricane of Eldrid’s madness. He had no time to ponder or care. She raised her staff again and pointed a bony finger at Audhild.

  “The curse is a lie,” she said. “Only I may speak with the gods of this land. The curse is mine! I have called it down upon the unfaithful and disloyal.”

  Audhild growled again and twisted her stance as if to hurl herself at Eldrid, who remained with her arms held high as if touching the spirits of the air. Gudrod, Bresi, and the others had gathered around them now. Ulfrik glanced at Lini, who stood shaking his head in confusion. His grip on the spear had slackened.

  “Audhild, you have led the people of this community astray,” Gudrod said. “Your actions have angered the gods. The people are clear on this. A woman is not a leader, and so they have asked me to assume the responsibility.”

  She did not move or cry out, merely flicking her eyes toward Gudrod as if he had only been a passing wind. Gudrod stared at her, and his gaze drifted to the knife in her hand. He nudged Bresi, who stepped forward and drew his sword.

  “I have foretold this in a dream,” Eldrid said, as if the rasping of Bresi’s sword had been a cue. “The world is not balanced and must be set right. A man shall lead us, and the gift of the gods must be given over to me. Ulfrik must be mine.”

  “And you,” said Gudrod, pointing with his sword at Audhild, “belong with me now.”

  His mouth opened to spew more drivel, but Audhild screamed and raised her knife. She pitched herself at Eldrid, blade flashing overhead.

  The gods awaited their gift of blood.

  Chapter 45

  A distant rumble of thunder accented Audhild’s charge. It was a sign of the gods watching, Ulfrik was certain. He was not flat-footed as all the others, having expected violence from the onset. A knife in the hands of a madwoman would soon come to rest in someone’s neck. Audhild’s feet crunched on the gravelly dirt and alerted Eldrid. She danced backward but stumbled.

  At his left, Ulfrik found Lini staring slack-jawed after Audhild. Without a second thought, Ulfrik snatched the spear and raised it overhead. He hated to surrender the weapon so soon after claiming it, but Gudrod had one supreme advantage that had to be neutralized.

  Lini yelped in protest, but was powerless to do anything more. As Audhild scrabbled after her sister, Gudrod’s sword still pointed to where she had stood. The rest of his men stood like children awaiting instructions for a new chore. Eskil kept an arrow resting on his bow but pointed at the ground.

  The spear sailed out of Ulfrik’s hand. After days of rest and eating his fill of Lini’s provisions, he had regained some of his strength. His eyesight had never fully recovered after his fall from the tower, but today his aim was true. The spear traversed a short arc, its heavy shaft not crafted for distance. Its blade split Eskil’s breastbone and plunged into the soft flesh. It sank through his body, piercing out his back. A red line of blood sprouted from the entry wound, but his flesh sucked at the shaft to prevent heavy bleeding. Eskil’s eyes widened and he dropped his bow. He brushed the shaft with one hand as if to prove it existed, then collapsed onto his back.

  Still no one acted. Audhild and Eldrid wrestled on the ground, a reenactment of Audhild’s murderous rage of their youth. Gudrod’s sword was finally lowering as he realized his ranged advantage had just been eliminated.

  Ulfrik sprinted forward, aiming to hit Gudrod under his arm.

  Bresi intercepted, knocking Ulfrik aside with his own body though he carried an unsheathed sword. Ulfrik stumbled away but caught his balance. Gudrod remained with his mouth agape as Bresi followed up.

  He hefted his sword as if preparing to split a log. To Ulfrik it presented a target wide and slow enough that he could have sat down to adjust his boots before striking. Instead, he lunged forward and drove his elbow into Bresi’s gut. He heard Bresi expel all his air as he drove his elbow just beneath the ribcage. He followed up with a knee to the crotch and Bresi crumpled. Ulfrik’s hands swept up to wrestle with the sword.

  They were both on the ground now. Ulfrik dug his nails into Bresi’s flesh as he clawed for the sword. The longer he wrestled the stronger his battle madness grew. A red halo ringed his vision, and Bresi’s straining face was inches from his. He bit down on Bresi’s nose, biting off the tip. He howled in pain and his grip on the sword failed. Ulfrik spit the salty, coppery tasting bit of flesh into Bresi’s face, then lurched up with the sword in hand.

  Looking around, a brawl had erupted and combatants had paired off. Lini now had only a dagger and circled Gudrod. The two workers swung their heavy tongs at their assailants, who even with the advantage of swords could not get inside their opponents’ defenses. He heard Eldrid screeching but had no time to see what happened. Bresi was thrashing beneath him.

  “Thanks for the weapon,” Ulfrik said, Bresi’s blood smeared over his lips and beard. “We won’t be meeting again. You’re headed to Nifelheim.”

  He punched the blade into Bresi’s stomach with no more thought than one had for skewering a rat. Giving the blade a twist made Bresi scream in pain and eject a stream of gore from his mouth. Yanking out the sword, he hacked it across Bresi’s neck and spared him further suffering.

  Thunder answered in the distance. The gods delighted in the blood and wanted more.

  Now Lini knelt atop the grate, holding his side as bright red streams flowed over his hands. Gudrod drew his sword back to drive it through Lini’s face.

  In two bounds Ulfrik collided with Gudrod and slammed him to the ground. Both of them held on to their weapons, but neither was positioned to take advantage. Ulfrik rolled off and got to his feet. He turned in time to dodge one of Gudrod’s men. One of the workers was facedown in the dirt and Ulfrik had inherited his opponent. Now that he had regained his stance, he crouched and studied the man. He couldn’t recall his name, but did not want to. He was a dead man.

  “Do you know what you’re doing with that sword?” The man gripped it with both hands, pointing it accusingly at Ulfrik’s face. “You’re holding it too high. You know what can happen if you hold it like that?”

  Ulfrik lunged and feinted high. It was poor form and any swordsman of experience would have sidestepped it. His enemy, however, was a fool and followed the feint. His right leg stepped back and exposed his left thigh. Ulfrik chopped down and carved open the man’s inner thigh. He groaned and crumbled as his leg gave way. His pants blackened with a prodigious flow of blood. Ulfrik skipped past him without looking back. Such a cut to the thigh left a man counting his heartbeats on one hand.

  In the flash of violence the scene had shifted again. Lini curled on the ground and the last worker knelt over him, whispering in
his ear. The last of Gudrod’s men sprawled out next to them, his sword lost and face obscured with blood.

  Gudrod fled back up the slope.

  Scurrying to Lini’s side, Ulfrik leaned in to see his ashen face and eyes wide with shock. “Am I dying?”

  The wound in his side hid beneath Lini’s hands but the blood seeping through his fingers suggested a grave injury. “You’ll be fine,” Ulfrik said, then patted Lini’s head. It was all the comfort he had time to offer.

  Audhild and Eldrid had rolled in a frenzy of kicks and bites. Audhild bled from a rake across her face as she straddled her sister. Her dress had ridden above her waist and deep gashes showed on the sides of her thighs. Eldrid, now pinned beneath her sister, had lost her blindfold. A flap of skin over her forehead poured blood down her face painting her with a mask of red. She was clawing at Audhild’s face with one hand and holding her knife at bay with the other. Both of their dresses were smeared with red handprints.

  If he could get the spear, Ulfrik imagined killing both of them in one blow. It would be a dark irony bound to delight the gods. He dashed for Eskil’s corpse, yanked on the spear but the flesh sucked against it. Watching Gudrod mount the top of the ridge, he abandoned the idea.

  Eldrid’s screech caught Ulfrik’s attention. Audhild sank her teeth into her wrist like a wolf biting down a deer’s throat. She tore sideways, ripping out flesh and breaking free of Eldrid’s grip. She did not hesitate.

  She slid Gudrod’s knife into Eldrid’s neck. Her screams gurgled with blood and frothy red bubbles poured from her mouth. Audhild laughed and stabbed again, slamming the knife into Eldrid’s right eye.

  Ulfrik wavered. Lost in her killing frenzy Audhild was easy prey, but he could not predict the villagers’ reactions. Gudrod, however, would muster anyone with a weapon. Besides, Gudrod now claimed to be in charge of the village. If he returned to his men in time, then Ulfrik was as good as dead.

  He glanced back. Lini and his companion huddled together, oblivious to the murder beside them. Audhild laughed as she plunged Gudrod’s knife into Eldrid’s corpse. The blade had become a red shard in her hand as it fell again and again into helpless flesh.

  “A gift of blood,” Ulfrik murmured. Thunder rolled and lightning flashed as the skies darkened. He darted up the slope to kill Gudrod.

  Chapter 46

  For all the time Ulfrik had spent staring at this landscape, it should have been more familiar. Yet he crested the rise of black rock then stumbled for direction. He circled around, finding the ocean at his back. He could not see the beach but heard the waves breaking on the surf. That reoriented him on directions and he faced east where the village must lie. The plain of grass was like a lumpy blanket of fuzzy wool, punctured with curled and cracked clumps of black rock. He had never ventured this far from the village, but sure enough, in the distance he saw the white plumes of smoke rising over thatched roofs. Beyond that were the woods of dwarf birch trees and the rugged mountains beyond.

  Gudrod had seemingly disappeared amid the flat terrain. Ulfrik jogged toward the village as no other destination made sense. He kept the sweeping mountain ranges at his left, their peaks lost in low clouds. The craggy earth brightened with lightning and several strides later the low rumble of thunder shook the earth. The gods demanded blood and were not sated. Ulfrik tightened his grip on his sword as he ran.

  His heart pounded in time with his legs. He increased his pace even though Gudrod was nowhere to be seen. Dodging through piles of rock and leaping ruts, he threaded a path for the village. No wonder people had only visited him once a day during his imprisonment. The journey from the village was not only long but also over treacherous footing.

  Like a ghost flickering into sight, Gudrod appeared ahead of him.

  Ulfrik gasped at the sudden appearance, then realized he had been at the bottom of a rise. Surprisingly, the coward had enough sense to rest in a low-lying area to avoid being spotted. Now he scrabbled up the opposite side, sliding down as loose rock gave way. Ulfrik redoubled his pace, though his legs burned and the old wounds began to flash white streaks of pain at each footfall.

  Gudrod mounted the rise and began waving at the village. A man waved in response. Gudrod did not glance back but began calling out, his voice weak in the distance. Ulfrik plunged into the dip where Gudrod had hid, and lost sight of him. With a curse against the pain in his legs, he leapt onto the steeper incline of the opposite side. When he scaled to the top, lightning flashed again.

  The man was gone, and Gudrod as well. Thunder followed, and it was the laughter of the gods mocking Ulfrik.

  “Gudrod!” he shouted the name as the wind picked up. “I’m coming, you fox-tailed coward!”

  Assuming Gudrod had fled into the village, Ulfrik paused to catch his breath. He leaned on his knees and waited for the stitch in his side to subside. Anger was no substitute for conditioning, and the years of poor food and worse treatment had degraded his stamina. He spit and wiped the sweat from his brow. His hands slipped on the sword hilt and he wished he had a sheath for it. He decided to approach the edge of the village to listen for signs of alarm, then he would loop north into the hills and aim for the birch trees. From there, he would seek the eastern coastline and follow it north to Valagnar’s home.

  He listened at the village’s perimeter but heard nothing. Gudrod could just as easily be cowering rather than summoning aid. Ulfrik was content to let him go. Escape was more important than revenge. He renewed his jog north. He had not gone more than six strides before he heard something at his back.

  Throughout his years of battle, Ulfrik had witnessed the influence of gods and the Fates take a variety of forms. Winds batted arrows to the ground; enemy weapons bent and broke at key moments; warriors stumbled over fallen friends only to be saved from a killing ax blow; sunlight burst through clouds to blind a charging foe. A hundred times in a single battle Fate altered minor things to tremendous effect. Now was such a time.

  The crunching of foot on rock might have easily been lost beneath the sounds of his own running. Yet something made him check behind.

  Gudrod had reappeared and was charging with his sword held low.

  Ulfrik sidestepped but did not avoid the blade. It ripped a line across his stomach, tearing his brown shirt so that it fell open like a bloody mouth. He screamed and staggered back as Gudrod charged past him.

  “By the gods! Where did you come from?” Ulfrik instinctively clutched his wound and felt the warm wetness flowing from the burning cut though he refused to look down. It was not a serious wound or his guts would have been hanging on his lap.

  Gudrod regained himself with a curse and held his sword toward Ulfrik. Grass fell from his shoulders and blades of it clung to his hair and beard. Ulfrik narrowed his eyes in understanding.

  “You hid beneath your cloak in the grass hoping to ambush me,” he said as he twisted his grip tighter around the hilt of his sword. “I wouldn’t have expected it from you.”

  “Add it to the things you’ve underestimated about me,” Gudrod said. He widened his footing and put both hands to his sword. “You think yourself a hero of some saga? No one can best you in a fight? Look at you now, bleeding over your pants. You’ll die like any man.”

  “True, though you won’t be alive when that day comes.”

  Their swords clanged as both struck in unison. The edges grated as the blades sawed down to the crossguards, sparks leaping. They locked a hand’s breadth from each other, fierce eyes clashing. What Gudrod lacked in technique he bolstered with strength. Ulfrik shoved back but did not win the contest, and was forced to twist out of the lock. What Ulfrik lacked in strength he bolstered with experience. His blade spun beneath Gudrod’s arms but only succeed in nicking his ribs. It drew an angry cry but nothing worse.

  They pushed apart and circled once again. Thunder grumbled and a fat raindrop pelted Ulfrik’s neck, its cold wetness trickling down his back. “You won’t defeat me,” he said. “This is your last chance to run.�
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  “I’m done fearing you,” Gudrod said, then struck.

  He feinted low but Ulfrik read his true strike from his center of balance. He intended to cut up, and when he did Ulfrik hacked down on the unprotected arm.

  It was a satisfying chop into Gudrod’s exposed forearm. The meat of it parted and the blade sank to the bone, but did not pass through it. Blood welled up as Gudrod howled and dropped his sword. Ulfrik slipped aside and yanked his blade free, tearing a vicious scream from Gudrod who collapsed to the grass. Ulfrik spun to face him, but he huddled over his arm. His green cloak flowed over his body, demonstrating how he had evaded Ulfrik’s detection. The color was a near match to the grass. Now, however, he shuddered as he sobbed and blood glistened on the tall grasses around him.

  Ulfrik approached him with his sword out. “Die like a man. I’ve no guilt to run you through from behind, but if you expect to see the feasting hall then grab your sword and face me.”

  He waited but Gudrod only rocked over his partially severed arm. Lightning flashed, painting him with white highlights. Shouts came from the village, and Ulfrik decided he had no time to waste. He reversed his grip to plunge his sword through Gudrod’s back.

  Gudrod burst from beneath his cloak. He struck in a wide arc with his uninjured left hand. A sharp knife flashed in the wan light. Ulfrik kicked his left leg back in time, but the blade landed in the flesh of his opposite calf. It slipped into the smooth flesh below the bulge of calf muscle and passed out the other side. The fiery pain whirled up his leg as if he had stepped in a campfire. Unbalanced, his strike carried him forward and he crashed on his face. A rock drove into his cheek below his eye and he bit his lip to squirt blood onto his tongue.

  He dragged himself away from Gudrod, hearing his grunting as he struggled to his feet. Iron scratched across stone as Gudrod retrieved his sword.