Descendants of the Wolf (Descendants Saga Book 1)

by Jerry Autieri

  "Worms that you are," he said. "Won't even give us a good battle. Do you prefer to die as women?"

  Grettir looked directly up at Yngvar. He thought his bowels would open up, such was his fear of being discovered. But the giant enemy was fortunately more interested in the chest.

  "You want us to believe this is all your treasure? Ha! We are not so foolish to think a village of this size is not richer than this." The man nodded toward the chest, and two of his companions approached it. "Still, it is a wise offering. Check the hall, make sure there are no surprises."

  Commands dispatched, the enemy split up to check the hall and surrounding buildings while a core force remained with Grettir. That had been arrogant, Yngvar thought as they divided themselves. Had Grettir's men been desperate, even unarmed they could have seized the attack. Yet it also showed the enemy believed they had defeated their opposition.

  Yngvar could not see where Ander and the others had gone, nor did he dare adjust himself. The enemy were right below and any movement would alert them. He had to trust Ander and the rest were in position now. The screams of girls from the hall told Yngvar that Alasdair remained hidden. Poor Grettir and his companions blanched at the shouts, and the enemies laughed at him.

  "We'll be enjoying their company tonight. So get used to that sound."

  The enemy regathered, each one confirming they had found nothing. Grettir again looked up at Yngvar as if pleading for him to spring the trap. But the enemy needed to be more off balance still.

  "Open this chest," the strong leader said. When no one had a key, he began to batter the lock with his ax. Finally it broke open and they gathered around to stare at Kar's treasure.

  Yngvar inhaled, drawing the pine scents to his lungs, loosing needles into his hair and shirt, then let out a bellow that would have shaken snow from the mountaintops.

  "Attack!"

  He drew Gut-Ripper and leapt out of the tree. He plunged down on the rearmost man, slamming him to the ground. A quick stab directly into the enemy's side and the chain links crunched. Blood flowed and the enemy screamed. Yngvar leapt at the next man, his face alight with glee.

  Everyone turned on him. Twenty shadowed, angry faces. Their weapons were ready and Yngvar finally realized he was alone against them.

  But Grettir and his men reached to their backs, pulling daggers and charging the enemy.

  A sword too long for this close combat shot up against Yngvar, who turned it aside with his stouter blade. He used his free hand to punch the assailant in his face. His hand flashed with pain as it rammed into cheekbone.

  Suddenly others came streaming around the building. At the front Bjorn was red-faced and sprinting with an ax held high. The rest trailed his charge.

  "Behind us," the enemy leader shouted, and any man who still faced Grettir had now whirled about.

  Bjorn slammed his ax down on an enemy shield, destroying it with a single blow and sprawling the man on his back. Yngvar laughed, then saw Alasdair fumbling out of the front door with a sheaf of spears. He looked like an old woman carrying a bunch of firewood too large to handle.

  The melee was short and fierce. Once Yngvar's crew joined and Grettir's men retrieved spears, the killing began in earnest. Completely surprised and surrounded, each enemy warrior looked to himself. It was an error remedied too late. The leader could not call his men to shield wall, and so they fought in small pockets.

  Gut-Ripper was red, and Yngvar danced away from anyone who had a better reach. Instead, he fell on enemies already tangling with another and used his short blade to finish them.

  He leapt over a dead foe, intent on aiding Thorfast who backed away from a flurry of strikes by a larger opponent.

  But the man on the ground was not dead.

  He grabbed Yngvar's leg and sent him sprawling.

  Gut-Ripper bounced out of his grip. The man on the ground, his face nothing but bright red blood that flowed out of his cut scalp, wasted no time in plunging his dagger at Yngvar's exposed gut.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Yngvar twisted away from the dagger, sitting up to grab the weapon with both hands. The blade scored his side, dragging hot fire across his flesh. His attacker was a nightmare enemy, a red skull of flowing blood. His beard was sopping with gore, lying flat over his neck. The man roared in fury, the whites of his eyes standing out in the glistening red of his face. His breath stank of blood as he roared. He tried to drive deeper, letting go of Yngvar's leg to use both hands on his dagger.

  He tried to yank his leg back, but the attacker flopped onto his leg to pin him as they both struggled with the gleaming knife. Its tip dripped Yngvar's blood as it shook between them.

  Then a spear lanced across Yngvar's shoulder and drove into the eye of his attacker. The shaft plowed deep, making the lone eye of the red-skulled man nearly pop from its socket as he screamed in agony. Both hands grabbed the spear, but he flopped to the side and groaned his final breath.

  "Dear God, I've killed a man." Alasdair stood over Yngvar, a spear in both his white-knuckled hands. His face was splattered with blood, but where the skin showed it had turned to ash and his lips were white. He started to tremble. "Will I go to hell for this?"

  "If you do, it's not because you killed a man," Yngvar said, pulling his leg from beneath the dead man. "It'll be for saving my life."

  The tremendous noise of combat--the screams of agony and fear, the clank of iron, the thud of butting shields--all of it had subsided. Bodies were scattered everywhere over the grass. A body hung over Kar's chest, blood running down its side. It was as if the man sought to carry away the treasure into death. Spears lay broken on the ground. Shields were scattered like old plates. A helmet sat in the grass, blinking with sunlight striking off its curves.

  "We've won!" Bjorn shouted, followed by an animal scream. He hefted his blood ax into the air with one hand, and in the other he lifted an enemy head that drizzled blood over his naked chest. Somehow, he had lost his shirt.

  Cheers went up from Grettir and his men. Yngvar leapt to his feet, looking to where Thorfast had been. An enemy was facedown in the dirt, but Thorfast was gone. His heart pounded as he ran to where they had been fighting. Nothing of his friend's possessions had fallen here.

  "I'm fine," Thorfast said. "Thanks for your concern."

  Thorfast was splattered with blood, but otherwise unharmed. He frowned down at Yngvar's abdomen. "Is that serious? Your guts aren't going to pop out, are they?"

  Yngvar shook his head, then gave Thorfast a slap on his shoulder. He had to count the dead and the living.

  He combed the small battlefield. He found Grettir sitting dazed on the grass, a gash on his nose that leaked dark blood. Yngvar patted his head as he moved on. It seemed he had taken the worst injury of all his men. Ander Red-Scar met him, his face flush with the rush of battle.

  "That was a trick worthy of your ancestors," he said. "They really thought the day had been won without blood, and look how they paid for it."

  Yngvar's chest warmed at the compliment. "I'm glad it succeeded. But there are ten more men on that ship, maybe more."

  His men were rousing from the stunned moments after a victory, where the defeated lay gasping in the dirt and the victors staggered in disbelief at their own fortunes. But until the ship departed or was captured, they were still not safe. He called them together.

  "Bring me one survivor, if any. The rest--" he paused to survey the dead strewn at his feet. He curled his lip at them. They were raiders and had earned their graves. "The rest, you will cut off their heads and carry them down to the beach. Show their companions what fate awaits them here. Either they bring battle or leave us."

  "Lord," Alasdair said, standing beside Yngvar and still clutching his spear as if it could never again be wrested from his hands. Yngvar was not sure if he was being addressed or Alasdair had invoked his god.

  "It is grizzly work. You'll need a strong stomach for it. But we need to frighten the enemy from our shores." Yngvar scanned the
men, finding many who would not look at him. Ander nodded. Bjorn was already at the task, hauling a corpse into position for a chop of his ax. Others joined.

  Yngvar turned aside. The sickening chop of metal on flesh and bone curdled his stomach. He was glad such noises never reached his ears in battle.

  "Your prisoner," Thorfast said, appearing with two other men who dragged an enemy between them. It was their leader. His chain shirt had been pierced at the chest, and the blade had stabbed deep. His breath was ragged and wheezing loudly. No doubt, his lung had been punctured, and if he did not bleed to death first he would eventually drown in his own blood.

  "Are you part of Erik Blood-Axe's fleet?" Yngvar asked without preamble. He drew Gut-Ripper and touched the point to the man's neck.

  His bravado was gone and his head hung to his chest as he remained suspended between the others. Yet he refused to answer.

  "You overestimate your position," Yngvar said. He slid the tip of his blade down to the man's chest wound and fit it into the puncture. The man gasped and flailed with the pain. "You are dead. You know this. I can send you to the feasting hall with honor." He twisted the blade slightly, so that the wound gaped open and a horrible sucking noise filled the air. "Or I can make you suffer and die like a pig. So just answer me."

  "Yes, the storm blew us off course." The man's voice was weak but surprisingly clear. He barely lifted his head, though.

  "Where is Erik? Why is he coming to this coast?"

  "I don't know where he is now. Some ships turned back when the storm came. We were to row all night and attack at dawn."

  "So the attack broke up, and you don't know where Erik went. What was his objective?"

  "I don't know." His voice was a bare whisper now and his head sunk lower. "The main attack was a feint. Erik was taking us elsewhere. I don't know more. South, we were to sail south. Now kill me. Torment me as you will, but this is all I know."

  "How many were to sail south?" Yngvar pressed the blade again but the enemy barely winced. He pushed deeper, finally eliciting a groan.

  "Five ships."

  Yngvar and Thorfast exchanged looks. This man had no more to offer, so Yngvar pulled Gut-Ripper from the wound. He looked at the two holding him erect.

  "Let him to the ground and put a sword in his hands." When they had done as asked, Yngvar laid the blade against the man's neck. He looked up now, his hazel eyes barely opened. A fierce light still glowed there and his red teeth were clenched in hate.

  "We will battle again in Valhalla." Yngvar sawed across the enemy's throat, then let him drop dead to the ground.

  The world seemed quieter. He did not know what to think at having killed a helpless man. Fortunately, the situation did not indulge him.

  "The ship has turned away," Bjorn said, happily trotting back from the shore. Had it been so long? Yngvar felt like his interrogation had been minutes, yet he confirmed Bjorn's words. The mast of the ship was clear above the trees and heading out to sea.

  "So Erik is feinting to the south," Yngvar said. "But why?"

  No one answered. They all stood around the dead enemy leader, his scarlet blood pooling beneath his face. He was not going to answer any more questions. Yet he had shared the limits of what he knew. Erik would not tell his common warriors his plans, at least not more than they needed to know.

  "Does trimming the great beard mean anything to anyone?" Thorfast's question shook Yngvar from his thoughts. He stared at Thorfast in confusion.

  "Did you get hit in the head?" Bjorn asked. "Why are you talking like that?"

  "No, I've been thinking since before the attack. Like Yngvar said, why is Erik throwing his resources at a battle he can't win. Now this one," Thorfast nudged the corpse of the enemy leader with his foot, "said the whole thing is a feint. Why?"

  "To draw away strength from where he intends to attack," Yngvar said. "But five ships, even filled to the gunwales, that's less than two hundred men. He's not even going to establish a winter camp here. Jarl Alrik must have three times that number under his banner."

  "So he doesn't plan to stay. He's here for some reason of his own. He was just driven out of these lands, right?" Thorfast scanned the growing circle of onlookers surrounding them.

  Now Grettir, no longer dazed and the cut on his nose crusted over, spit on the ground. "And glad to see him gone. He was hated by all."

  "Right, and some played a larger role in driving him out than others, is that not also right?" Thorfast asked.

  "Revenge," Yngvar said, feeling his neck hairs stand up. "He's doing all of this to extract revenge on someone instrumental in his downfall."

  Thorfast's white hair shimmered as he nodded. "And so I heard in my conversations with his men that he planned to make sure the great beard got trimmed before winter. I heard that more than once, and from his hirdmen. They laughed like men drunk on murder."

  "Jarl Ketil Ragnarsson rules the south," Grettir said. "He's halfway to the border of Agder. He has a magnificent beard, and he's quite proud of it. He also was an open enemy of Erik's when he was still king. He dealt him a hard blow before he fled, sinking one of his ships with a good amount of treasure upon it. I hear Jarl Ketil sent men who can swim into the fjord to retrieve all of it."

  "But why feint here?" Bjorn asked. "Makes no sense."

  "If I'm not mistaken," Yngvar said. "I would call Jarl Alrik the hersir over the many jarls of this coast. But Jarl Ketil must be too far south to be called upon for this battle. Erik wants his way with Ketil and risks no pursuit or reprisal from his fellow jarls. He will storm Ketil's hall and trim his beard by taking his head. Erik could pay a man to poison Ketil's mead, but that would not be his way. He would want to feel Ketil's blood on his face. Plus making fools of his former jarls would please him. This is all for his pride and lost treasure."

  The thought of Erik so close, without a massive army to defend him, set Yngvar's pulse racing. He owed Erik revenge, both for his back and for attempting murder. Here too was a chance to gain fame and honor as the man who killed the hated Erik Blood-Axe. He would be famous throughout the world.

  He glanced at his companions, faces still flushed from battle and enemy blood still upon their flesh. He could not risk their lives for his own goals. That was how Erik himself behaved, and Yngvar would never put himself on footing with that scum. Yet the glory would be shared, and the rewards as well. A mighty reward would be given for Erik's head, he did not doubt.

  "We must warn Jarl Ketil," he said.

  The faces surrounding him all appeared astonished. Thorfast blinked rapidly, then looked down at the chest of Kar's treasures. Yngvar smiled.

  "Grettir, your lord's gold is a sore temptation," Yngvar said. "You have laid it at the feet of my men, who came north seeking riches such as these. Now we have them."

  Ander and the rest of crew stared with furrowed brows and folded arms. Yngvar, however, shook his head.

  "But I gave my word to aid you," Yngvar said. "And while I am no oath-holder of these men, I will not steal from you and I will ask my friends to follow my example. For there is greater treasure and glory in aiding Jarl Ketil. Think of what riches await us if we are the ones to bring down Erik. What would King Hakon pay for his brother's head?"

  Grettir swallowed, then spoke in a cracking voice. "It's well known Erik's bounty would be worthy of a king. I think that's one reason he wanted to clear the area. Look at how many answered Jarl Alrik's call. If they smelled him close by, none would give up their search for him."

  "And we are the only ones who know his true goals," Yngvar said. "I do smell gold--and blood."

  "Yet here is treasure easily taken," said Ander. Yngvar squared with him. He did not sense defiance from the older man, but instead recognized his leading Yngvar to fully convince the others.

  "Easy to take, and impossible to carry," Yngvar said. "There is one ship in the fjord and it is ours. Were it not beached it would be at the sea bottom by now. So where do we go with our stolen treasure that Jarl Kar c
annot find us? Do we hide in the mountains? Men cannot eat gold in the winter, nor any other time. What gain do we have in stealing this? But Erik is worth ten times whatever sits here, and it will be rightfully ours."

  Heads bobbed in agreement, and Ander gave a thin smile as he inclined his own.

  "Then we make haste for Jarl Ketil. We will need wagons and horses to carry all of us. Grettir, you will have to bury your jarl's treasure and then guide us. We will need every man here."

  "We're going as well?" His eyes were as wide and desperate as a fish thrashing on a dock.

  "You are, as will every man we can find between here and Jarl Ketil," he slapped the shaken man on his shoulder. "Certainly you do not want to remain behind as a coward? We are heroes riding to glory, and you should be among our number."

  Cheers went up, and Yngvar smiled as he imagined his revenge.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Yngvar bounced along in the wagon, standing behind the driver like he was sailing from the prow of a warship. But wagons were no warships. The lead wagon barely held a dozen men, and its gray wooden slats threatened to fly apart at every ditch or stone in the path. The horses could only be goaded to travel so fast and had to be rested and fed. Their feed consumed space in the wagon. It was a constant battle to push these animals, but the trails were not as well traveled.

  He glanced over his shoulder, where two more wagons each drawn by two horses carried the rest of the men. Grettir and the rest of Kar's men were in one wagon and another was filled with glory seekers picked up from settlements along the tracks. They had perhaps forty men now, a full ship's crew and then some. They bounced along the track, dappled light splattering over them as the column raced beneath branches full of yellow and red leaves. At times it seemed they would all shake out and scatter over the grass.

  "I hate wagons," Bjorn said, tucked into the corner beneath Yngvar. "My ass is battered just from sitting here."

  "But yet you can still complain," Thorfast said. "Nurse that anger for Erik."