"Which is why he is never going to take us home," Thorfast said. "He won't have to fear your father if he never gets near him again, does he?"
"He swore before all his crew. If he breaks his oath, so will his men. He's not such a great leader that they'll stay with him if he is faithless."
Bjorn grumbled and spit into the sand. "This is giving me a headache. He's got us standing around doing nothing for days, while he's probably in a warm hall and having fun."
Yngvar closed his eyes. "When he returns, I'm going to demand he take us home."
"Remember, he doesn't have a time he must take us back before," Thorfast said.
"I'm giving him one, or he and I will fight again."
Both Bjorn and Thorfast exchanged glances. He knew they didn't believe he could best a seasoned warrior. Who knew the future? Bregthor was older and more experienced, but was also arrogant and evil. Yngvar was certain justice would carry him to victory. The gods loved to bring men high only to cast them down. That was their plan for Bregthor, Yngvar was certain. Let him have his ship, raid like a sea king, kill women and children like a beast. Then they would let Yngvar carve out his heart and crush it over his face.
"I'm serious," he said. "He meets my demands or I will kill him in single combat."
"Master," the voice was thin in the blustery wind. Yngvar stepped back from the hull to see his slave leaning on the rail. His face was pale and pure, and his short, coppery hair stood up with the wind. He pointed up the slope. "There are men coming."
From his lower vantage, Yngvar saw nothing at first. Yet in a moment a dark line of bobbing heads appeared above the grass on the horizon. A distant cry seemed to follow them as well. In a blink, Yngvar realized these men were running. Not as in a charge, but as in fear.
"They're being pursued," Yngvar said. "That's Bregthor and the others."
The mob of nearly twenty men ran as if the wolf Fenrir himself was chasing them. As they crested the rise, one man stumbled from the group while the rest wheeled their arms for balance coming down the other side.
Both Thorfast and Bjorn stared with their mouths open. Yngvar, too, wondered what could cause them so much fear. Yet the cause did not matter. They had to escape whatever pursued them.
"Everyone, we've got to get this ship launched," he said. He looked up at his slave. "Get down here and help push."
The ship was beached well, dragged ashore by ten men with ropes to aid them. The surf had eroded enough of the path back to the water to make it easier to relaunch the ship. But not with three men and a slave as the sole crew.
They grunted and pushed, and to everyone's surprise the ship began to slide. But it was not moving fast enough. Yngvar's shoulder pressed against the cold, hard prow as he strained. The calls behind them grew louder, both the shouts of fear from Bregthor's men and a crazed knell from whatever pursued them.
"We can't do this," Thorfast said through clenched teeth. "It's too big and too far from the water for just the three of us."
Yngvar realized he had wasted precious moments. Both Bjorn and Thorfast were wide-eyed with panic. The young slave continued to push when all had stopped. The woman tethered to the mast leaned over the rails, laughing and crying tears of joy.
Not a good sign.
Yngvar turned to see Bregthor's men stumbling their way down the slope. They had traveled the clear path up, and so had picked the same route to return. Behind them were about an equal number of men in pursuit, though in the lead were a half-dozen men on small ponies. They wore furs but nothing else, their white flesh stark against the gray of the sky. Patterns in blue paint adorned their bodies, and their swords flashed overhead.
"Forget relaunching the ship," Yngvar said. "Bregthor's men will smash it back into the sea. We've got to draw away the ponies and hope others will follow."
Thorfast cocked his brow and narrowed his opposite eye. "When did you learn magic?"
Yngvar did not explain. He grabbed the young slave and hauled him up on the deck. "There's a horn on the mast. Bring it to me. Also gather as many spears and helmets as you can carry. Hurry."
"What are we doing?" Bjorn asked, his face now bright with anticipation.
"You're the strongest of all of us," Yngvar said. "Get one of the bows strung and kill the ponies as they come after us. Don't worry for the warriors. Kill their mounts."
Bjorn nodded and climbed back on deck. Yngvar grabbed the horn from his slave, and Thorfast took four spears and two leather helmets.
"Run with me," Yngvar said. The beach sand offered slippery footing, but desperation drove him clear to the grass. Bregthor's men were turning on their pursuers, realizing they had no chance to escape. But they were undisciplined and panicked. Some of their number continued to flee.
"What is this?" Thorfast shouted from behind. "Where are we going?"
A sharp dip in the rolling slope was thankfully close. Yngvar praised Odin for its placement. Once behind it, he could barely see the fight over the top. He plunged the first spear in the rain-softened earth, blade up, and topped a helmet on it. He pointed Thorfast down the line of the ditch. "Do the same there. Keep your other spear ready for whomever comes."
He took his own cloak and pinned it to the top of another spear. The ruse would not fool a careful observation, but men in battle did not think. They reacted. Yngvar counted on it.
As soon as Thorfast set his spear, Yngvar sounded the horn. It was a clear, powerful note so loud to his own ears he guessed it could be heard at the top of the world.
"War cries," he said to Thorfast. He began to shout and raise his own spear over the top of the ditch. Thorfast did this same. If the horn had been powerful, the two of them sounded like children playing in a field. He blew the horn again.
The pounding of hooves responded.
"They're coming," he said, smiling at Thorfast. "They've taken the bait."
"Wonderful," Thorfast said while he thrust his spear overhead. "What now?"
He hadn't thought that far. He glanced back for Bjorn. Where was he? The ship seemed empty but for his slave and the woman bound to the mast.
The first pony flew over the ditch. It was a sandy brown projectile as it launched overhead. Yngvar had time only to note its wide, rolling eyes before throwing himself flat. The beast crashed behind them, screaming in pain as its bones broke. It had no rider.
"Come on," Yngvar said, dragging up from the mud. "We've drawn off some men. Now we've got to get back to the ship."
They sped across the muddy ditch the way they had come. Another pony mounted the crest, this one under control of its rider. He was nothing more than a dark figure in a shaggy fur hide. He held a flashing blade low in one hand, and the other hand gripped the mane of his mount. An arrow hung loose from his fur cloak.
The rider pointed at them and shouted in his strange language.
Yngvar spun, spear held level at his shoulder, then sent it flying. The spear caught the warrior in his torso, knocking him from his mount with a grunt of pain. Thorfast sped past him, bearing their last spear.
As they emerged from the cover of the ditch, Yngvar saw more of Bregthor's men streaming away and the enemy in retreat up the slope. It had been a short, decisive clash and the enemy had decided not to fight a desperate enemy. Perhaps his ruse had broken the enemies will to fight? A warm pride spread through his chest, but then he heard fast approaching hoofbeats.
The pony riders, two of them, were bearing down along the edge of the slope. Their riders held swords high and gave high-pitched war cries.
The ship was already sliding into the water, a dark cluster of men shoving it into the unfolding waves. Men clambered aboard, turning to pull up their companions.
Thorfast looked over his back, shouted, and redoubled his run. Yngvar turned to see both men nearly upon him.
Bjorn's bow hummed and an arrow hissed overhead. It grazed one of the men, and he yanked his pony hard to the side.
"The ponies!" Yngvar hoped Bjorn heard him. He crash
ed to his knees as the second rider swooped past him, sword whipping through the air beside Yngvar's head.
His heart thundered in his chest and the pony seemed to slow. Clods of dirt flung up from behind its hooves as it sped past him. The rider already raising his blade again to strike Thorfast. Bjorn placed another arrow on the bowstring.
The deflected rider had corrected himself and now bore down on Yngvar. The short sword at his waist, the sax his father had sent as a gift to Uncle Gunnar, drew easily into his hand.
He dove on his back beneath the pony. The stink of the animal covered him as it passed over him. A flare of white hot pain erupted on his left thigh.
Striking up, the fresh and sharp blade of his short sword eviscerated the pony. Hot blood rained over him, but the animal screamed and fell past him. The rider threw himself clear, landing in a heap.
Bjorn's bowstring snapped again. He struck the other rider's pony, but the animal was riderless now. Thorfast was circling the enemy clad only in furs and a loincloth. His spear kept the man at bay.
Yngvar rolled onto his feet. The ship was headed to sea and the last men were leaping aboard.
"They're leaving us," he shouted. "Get back to the ship!"
Bjorn looked aside as the pony he shot ran in a circle then collapsed on its side. Thorfast jabbed with this spear, only to buy himself a glimpse over his shoulder.
Bregthor was abandoning them to the enemy.
The rider that Yngvar had just dismounted sprung to his feet, scrambling to recover his sword. Up the slope, the dark cluster of enemies had turned now. He heard their cries as they spotted three potential captives on the beach. They raised their weapons and charged.
The enemy dueling with Thorfast tried to grab the spear but missed. Bjorn had three arrows in the ground beside his foot.
They were trapped against the ocean as their enemies rushed down the slope, swords and spears raised for blood.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The ocean waves rolled out a droning beat against Yngvar's back. The dismounted rider had now retrieved his sword and danced it between them. He crouched low, blood streaming from his nose across his golden beard. He had a scar across his left cheek that enhanced his wicked smile. Yngvar, slathered in blood from the dead pony, stepped back and his left leg fired pain up to his hip. The pony had clipped his flesh, tearing away a hunk of it and his pants. Thankfully it had not broken his leg.
Thorfast and his attacker suddenly broke into a twirl of motion. When Thorfast struck, his enemy rushed inside the spear. None of them were especially practiced with a spear, and Thorfast's inadequacy was plain to everyone. Yngvar screamed, expecting his best friend to be gutted.
Then his own attacker leapt.
And he staggered back, a gray-feathered arrow vibrating in his chest as he collapsed.
Bjorn had two arrows left.
Thorfast remained standing. He had abandoned his spear and both hands were wrapped around his attacker's sword arm.
Both Yngvar and Bjorn barreled into the enemy at the same time. All of them collapsed into a pile, the enemy cursing and biting at them. The press of bodies on the surf smelled like ocean, sweat, and blood. Elbows rammed into ribs and faces. Nails dragged into bare skin. Bjorn finally hauled the enemy onto his back and slammed him into the sand.
Yngvar spun, his short sword still in hand, and rammed the blade into the attacker's inner thigh. He howled, and blood gushed into the sand. He did not die immediately, but such a wound was fatal. He turned back to Thorfast.
"Are you hurt?"
"You're kneeling on my arm."
Yngvar pulled Thorfast to his feet, then looked behind. The enemy's charge had slowed, but they were still approaching. Yngvar then turned to the sea. His heart flipped in his chest at what he saw.
"They're coming back for us!"
The ship lurched across the rolling waves, its sail now unfurled and fat. The ship glided at an angle, so that their few bowmen lined up on the rails.
"They can't risk the shallows," Yngvar said. "We'll have to wade out to them. Hurry."
The cold water slammed against their legs. When Yngvar's injured thigh submerged, fire crawled up his hip and around his back. He clenched his teeth.
Something splashed the water. He thought it might have been something he or the others dropped as they pushed against the tide. The muck beneath his feet slowed him as the water reached his waist. He held his short sword high, but his long sword was already wet. It would likely be ruined after this.
Another splash, and this time he heard the unmistakable hiss of an arrow.
Glancing back, the enemy had lined up along the beach. They raised their weapons and shouted challenges. Yngvar did not need to understand their language to hear the curses and insults shot at them. But none of them had bows.
The arrows came from their own ship.
"You can't reach them," shouted Bjorn, his voice booming across the waves. "Stop shooting."
Now in water up to his chest and walking on his toes, Yngvar feared he'd slip and drown. Some men were preparing ropes to throw to them. The waves bobbled the three of them like so many planks of wood.
A definite hiss and splash hit just before him. He saw the white trail of the shaft as it bent and turned in the water. Had the shot been a fraction higher, the arrow would've planted directly in his chest.
Bregthor stood with one foot on the rails, bow in hand and hesitating to draw again. Yet others were calling for the shooting to cease. Though they were separated by distance and the water, they both remained still and staring at each other. Yngvar was only being pulled from one enemy to the next.
He grabbed the rope the crewmen tossed a second time. He wound his arm into it, using the other to keep his sax clear of the water. Both Thorfast and Bjorn were already being dragged up the hull like two dead seals. Men reached down and hauled them aboard. Yngvar let them drag him across the current to bump softly against the hull. He struck his nose against the strakes as they pulled him up. Water drained away, pouring through his clothes and making him feel lighter with every pull on the rope. Finally warm hands grabbed him and dragged him onto the dry deck.
Cheers went up among the crew. Yngvar lay facing the gray sky, an ever-widening pool of chill water spreading beneath him.
"Master, you have been saved." His young slave appeared above him, bringing a dirty cloth to pat the water from his face.
Yngvar blinked at the boy. He could not be much younger than him, for he acted with the precision and decisiveness of a man, but he was so small as to seem almost childish. He lifted Yngvar's head and slipped the cloth beneath it.
"What is your name?" he asked. He had told himself he would not learn this slave's name. He had nothing to bring back to Kadlin, and a slave was hardly treasure worth delivering to the young woman of your desire. So he would sell the boy and give Kadlin the gold she deserved. Yet this slave had been so obedient and accepting of his lot. Yngvar had to learn his name.
"Alasdair," the slave said. Then others crowded in, pushing him back.
"That was some good work back there." Yngvar stared up at Ander Red-Scar, his eponymous scar wriggling as he smiled. "It was just enough to make them doubt our numbers. You gave us the break we needed to slip away."
"It was all of us that did it," Yngvar said. He sat up with Ander's help. The crew surrounded him, most of the men smiling but others appeared to offer a grudging acceptance and no more. Bregthor, Davin, and his attendant cronies returned to their duties as if nothing had happened. It was not quite half the crew now. Yngvar smiled. He had converted some to his side.
"Don't mind them," Ander said. "They're angered at having you three save their hides at every turn. Most of us are grateful you're with us."
"I suppose it was you few who forced Bregthor to return for us," Yngvar said. Ander nodded, but said nothing more.
Alasdair appeared through the small group surrounding Yngvar. He held the sax that Yngvar had dropped the moment he had bee
n safely aboard ship. When Bjorn saw it, he frowned and snatched it away.
"A slave don't carry a weapon." He turned to hand it to Yngvar, who took it gratefully. Blood had stained the grip and the blade had still got wet. He had to tend to it soon or it would rust. "Did you see what he did to that horse? Jumped under it and cut its belly open. Amazing!"
Ander and the others looked at him, brows raised and heads cocked. Ander shook his head. "I was too occupied fleeing for my life to see."
"It's how I hurt my leg," Yngvar said. "Lucky the beast didn't step on me directly or I'd probably be dead. And it was a pony, not a horse."
A murmur of agreement circulated, and Ander nodded to the sword. "The blade did not break or bend. That is a fine weapon. It should have a name."
Yngvar smiled at the thought of owning a named sword. Every hero carried a named sword, for their weapons were indestructible and magic. His was perhaps not magical, but it was special. He stared at the green pommel gem which glittered in the flat light. Suggestions were called out: Life-Drinker, Leg-Biter, Foe-Killer. They were good but common names. Nothing that spoke to what the sword meant.
"How about Pony-Bane," Thorfast suggested. Everyone, Yngvar included, laughed. Yet it did suggest the name to him. He held the sax so the point faced the sky and his shadow fell across the blade.
"It's a sax for close fighting, and I did get close to that pony's belly. I'll call it Gut-Ripper."
"A fine name!" Ander slapped Yngvar's back and Thorfast nodded at the better choice.
Amid the congratulations and expressions of gratitude, he saw Bregthor, Davin, and the rest of his dark crew scowling and sulking. Bregthor was at the tiller, guiding the ship out to sea so that the coast faded with every moment. Ander noted the looks and pulled Yngvar aside.
"We lost everything out there," he said. "All the treasure from the church, gone. Seems you got the most treasure with the slave you claimed."
Descendants of the Wolf (Descendants Saga Book 1) Page 12
