Sword Brothers

by Jerry Autieri

  "Stop waving that shit excuse for a weapon at me. Do you want to get hurt?" He spoke in Frankish, and the man stared back at him with wide eyes. Gunnar rolled his own and drew closer. The man still did not move. Gunnar's ax flashed as it struck out, hooking the blade and yanking it out of the farmer's hand. It clattered to the wood floor and bent. The women screamed again, but Gunnar laughed and kicked the ruined blade away.

  "Did you steal that from a grave? Never mind. Where is Father Lambert?"

  His men dragged the benches aside to allow more of Gunnar's crew to force into the church. The two men with the rakes stood protectively before the women and children while the disarmed man trembled, staring at Gunnar like he was a wolf.

  "All right, do you have a priest here?" Gunnar asked. He used his ax head to hook the disarmed man's shirt and pulled him closer. "If you don't answer, you're no use to me. So speak or die."

  "I am the priest you seek."

  Gunnar tore his ax from the farmer's shirt and looked back behind the altar where a middle-aged man in black robes stood with his arms folded. He was thin and wrinkled, but his hair and eyes were nearly as dark as Gunnar's. His left eye twitched rapidly, making it hard for Gunnar to focus on anything else. He wore no riches, only a simple wooden cross hung from his neck. Behind him, a larger wooden cross adorned the stone wall of this plain church.

  "You're not Father Lambert. Where is he?"

  The priest stood straighter. "I do not know of a Father Lambert. This has always been my church."

  Gunnar sighed and slumped his shoulders. "This is the game we're going to play, then? You've been told to hide him from me, and you'll pretend not to know anything about him. I'll start killing these good people until you can't bear the guilt anymore, and then you'll finally tell me. So why not just tell me now?"

  The women screamed and even the men flinched at Gunnar's threat. The priest's mouth dropped open and he slowly shook his head. "I really have never heard of Father Lambert."

  "Let's just check your honesty."

  Bekan and Vigfus each grabbed the armed men and Gunnar hooked the last one with his ax. He did not want to kill these innocents, so he raised a brow to the priest. "Last chance to save someone's husband?"

  "Father Lambert has not returned." One of the women blurted. She was weed thin, twisted from labor and browned from the sun. Her blue eyes burned out from her muddy face. "He went to found a church but never came back."

  Gunnar smiled. "Thank you. See how easy that was? Now we just have to talk to the priest for a few more details."

  The priest wavered as if about to pass out. Bekan forced through the crowd and seized the priest by his throat, then dragged him to Gunnar.

  "Since you're a liar, we're doing this the hard way."

  "I didn't lie. I've always been a priest here."

  Gunnar punched the priest in the stomach, doubling him over. "Put his right arm over the altar," he said. "Hold back the others. Gut them if they resist."

  The priest struggled as Bekan pulled his arm out and Vigfus pressed his face into the altar. Gunnar leaned beside him and showed him his stump.

  "Some Frankish prick cut this off when I was just a boy. My sword hand. But see, it never stopped me from doing as I wished, and I've been killing Franks ever since. But since we're at peace, or so our leaders tell us, I'll give you one last chance. Tell me where I can find Father Lambert and you keep your right hand. Is that so hard?"

  "I don't know where he is. He didn't tell me anything. Just left and never came back." The words rushed out in a bubbling torrent. Gunnar shook his head.

  "Wrong answer." He raised his ax and slammed it down on the priest's forearm. It sunk deep into the bone but did not cut off the limb. The priest shrieked as did nearly everyone inside the church. Gunnar ducked his head at the screaming, grimacing as if he had been struck himself.

  "You might be able to save that hand if you'd just be honest and give up Father Lambert. Where is he?"

  The priest sobbed, echoed by the women and children watching in terror. Gunnar lifted the priest's face with the bloody ax head.

  "They took him to Rouen. That's all I know."

  "Did he have both legs?"

  The priest continued to sob.

  "Did he have both legs?" Gunnar put the ax blade into the cut on the priest's forearm and pressed. The priest thrashed and screamed, but Vigfus smashed him into stillness.

  "His leg was hurt. I never saw him. You must believe me."

  "I do believe you. One last question. Who took him?"

  "Men from the archbishop." The priest's words were punctuated with sobs. "That's all I know. They gave me charge of this church and said he would not return and never to speak of him again."

  Gunnar nodded and Bekan awaited a sign to release him. "You've told me what I must know."

  Vigfus released the priest and he collapsed in tears. Gunnar nodded to his men to begin stripping any valuables, then he waited outside. Bekan joined him. Both stared at the closed door, listening to the shouting and smashing beyond.

  "Father Lambert has slipped our grasp, and now we've sacked a church on Hrolf's land." Gunnar rubbed his face. "This is not good."

  "What should we do?" Bekan asked.

  "Burn the church and village. Then we track down anyone who might've fled and kill them. After that, we'll have to return home. To do more will only invite disaster."

  Gunnar ran his hand through his hair and turned aside from the church. If anyone lived to identify him, he had just killed his father.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Mord approached Hrolf's great hall beneath a sky of patchwork clouds that threatened rain. In the distance, thunder rumbled and he took it for a good sign. The wind gusted, blowing his hair across his face and ruining the careful combing his wife, Fara, had done for him before answering Hrolf's summons. A new green cloak set with a gold pin fluttered from his shoulder as he greeted the guards at the doors. A cold drop of rain struck his cheek.

  "You should be expecting me," Mord said. Chest puffed out, he presented his sword and daggers to the guards. "I was told to come in haste."

  "Jarl Hrolf awaits you inside." The guards swung open the doors to the blackness beyond. For the first time in years he was entering not as a failure or disappointment, but as a man of regard. Fara had already learned he would be named to Ulfrik's lost property after concessions to the Church. She had worked her way into the good graces of Poppa, Hrolf's wife, and used her friendship for both gossip and influence. Now Mord stepped across the threshold, placing feet on the wooden floor of the front room, and he did so with confidence.

  Passing through to the main hall where the floor became pounded dirt covered in straw, he found it well lit with oil lamps and hearth fire. The heat threatened to overwhelm him in his new cloak, but he ignored it as he crossed the open hall to his jarl. His father already sat beneath the high seat, for now that Hrolf was a count none could sit equally with him as in the old days. Hrolf lounged in his giant wooden chair, and his confessor hung in the shadows behind him, ready to serve. The confessor smiled peacefully at Mord. They had an understanding bonded with gold and favors, and Mord was grateful to see him in a fine mood.

  "Jarl Hrolf, how may I serve?" Mord said, as he knelt before him.

  "Stand. I wish to make this as quick as possible."

  Mord stood and found Hrolf frowning at him, which turned his hands to ice until he realized Hrolf was not mad at him. Ulfrik's rash behavior had fouled his temper and having to confront anything about it made him surly, or so Mord believed.

  "You know Ulfrik Ormsson has been stripped of his lands and declared outlaw."

  "So I have heard, Lord."

  "Please, your nose is so deep in this shit it's a wonder you don't stink of it yourself."

  Mord's stomach dropped and the icy feeling returned to his hands. He lowered his head to avoid the giant jarl's glare.

  "But I've not seen your hand in any of this. Your hatred for Ulfrik is wel
l known, to both him and me and anyone with eyes to see. So I'm certain you are delighted with his downfall. I will warn you to keep your celebrations to the privacy of your own hall. When word gets out, there will be unrest. I'm expecting you, as the son of the man who has mentored me my whole life, to do everything to bring peace. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Lord."

  Hrolf's frown deepened and he stood. "Lands held by Ulfrik and Gunnar the Black will soon be vacated. I am awarding you both of these territories. You may collect taxes, raise warriors from the people, and rule in my name until such a time as I withdraw that right from you. The Church must be paid for their loss, and so it will come from the land in the form of churches to be constructed. Ulfrik will be made to pay for those costs before he is released, but you will be responsible to ensure those churches are built and that they prosper. Do you understand?"

  Mord swooned with the success. He had just been awarded the best lands beyond Hrolf's own personal holdings. "It will be an honor, Lord."

  "Good, your good relationship with the Church is why I am granting this to you. None of my other jarls have done as well embracing the change as you have. We need a strong relationship with them if we are to grow successful and bring the native Franks firmly under my rule. Churches are what the people want and my penance for all the churches I've burned in my day. So we build churches and cultivate good relations, then one day we are both looking at better lands farther east."

  He gave Mord a small smile. Hrolf's ambitions were boundless. Already a year into the peace and he was considering his next moves into the Frankish nobility. "I will do all that I can to strengthen those ties."

  Again Hrolf's confessor gave a small smile, but Mord averted his eyes. He had donated much gold for him to whisper good words on his behalf, and it had all been repaid today. Now the confessor would be expecting another reward for closing the bargain. Mord would be glad to pay it.

  "Your former lands will be absorbed into my own for now. I need you focused on settling Ulfrik's people and not having to contend with your old holding."

  Mord tried to hide the disappointment, and lowered his head with a nod of understanding.

  "Good, then I am done here. You may visit with your father, if you wish. I have other matters needing my attention."

  All stepped aside as Hrolf strode from his hall, the confessor scuttling behind him with a final wink at Mord before leaving. Now only his father remained behind. He rushed over to him, his heart beating with joy.

  "We've done it," he whispered. "Can you believe it?"

  His father's milky white eye fixed on him as he stood. Age and sickness had robbed him of strength and speed, so he struggled up with great effort. Once at his full height, he scowled and slapped Mord across the face.

  Stomach tight with anger and his face stinging, Mord touched his cheek. "What was that for?"

  "Ulfrik was banished and he'll be allowed to take whatever men will follow him. Do you know how many that will be?" Mord shook his head. "All of them except the ones not worth having. He's a warlord, a gold-giver, and a beast of the shield wall. Men follow glory even into exile. So what is there to celebrate?"

  "But all these years, we've waited for him to make this mistake. He can't escape from this now. I've got everything you've wanted me to have."

  Gunther violently shook his head and held up his gnarled hand. "You have the land. You are still not Hrolf's right hand. Did you not hear what he said? He barely trusts you. He would not even allow you to keep your old lands. That's an insult."

  Mord knew it was true, but had not wanted to believe it. "But I've been awarded the best part of his territory."

  "And Ulfrik will return for revenge. He will give you no rest, no enjoyment, no success while he lives."

  "He brought this on himself. Why would he suspect me?"

  "Oh, let my old, weak mind think of how that could be?" Gunther tapped his cheek with his finger in mockery of deep thought. "Think on this, you fool. Whose man shot his son in the face only a year ago, in what looked like an attempt on his life? He was just short of accusing you then, but thought better of it. Let's not stop there, though. Who has opposed him at every turn, and tried to make him appear foolish before others? Who is inheriting his wealth now that he is gone? Do you think he is stupid? Never underestimate that man. I did, and he came back from the dead. He will find out that you've been agitating for this. He will find out we sent Father Lambert to cause trouble with his son."

  "But he made the decision to kill the bishop."

  "Fine luck for us, but we put him in harm's way and we are doing everything we can to ensure he meets a bad end. If left alive he will hound you until one of you is dead. If the two of you ever cross swords, he will win."

  "Father, he's getting old."

  "He will win!" Gunther's shout echoed through the hall. "The gods favor him. Even now, I don't know why, they granted him a second chance. He killed a bishop, Hrolf's relation no less, and he's going to live. If it were you or I we'd have been dead a week ago."

  Mord fell into a sulky silence, turning aside from his father's blind stare. How Ulfrik could ever connect him to his current misfortunes was a mystery to him. Yet he could not deny Ulfrik's luck. "What do you suggest I do?"

  "What do you think?" Gunther hissed. "Remove him from the game board. Your work is hard enough without Ulfrik attacking from behind. He climbed too high for his station, overtook you and me, and now has finally earned his punishment. But it's not enough. You have to make sure he is dead."

  "Once he is released from Hrolf's protection, he will be an outlaw," Mord said, staring up at Hrolf's banner of yellow lions on a red flag. It hung from the rafters and swayed lazily as air rose toward the smoke hole above. "I will have him ambushed and killed. But his sons remain a problem. Getting all of them will be difficult."

  Gunther snorted. "The sons can be dealt with in time. Gunnar is too wild to be a serious threat, and he might scatter to where he has better luck. The middle child, Hakon, poses the bigger threat. He is steady and men like him, but he is not the force of battle that his father is. Kill him and you will remove the biggest threat to your peace. The youngest one was a strange child I never knew well. It is said he is weak, not of Ulfrik's blood. He is friends with Vilhjalmer, but I would not fear him. Kill the two oldest sons and you shall have peace when Ulfrik is dead."

  Mord sat on a bench that had been cleared to the side of the hall. "Now I only have to find the men to do the job."

  "Plenty of men have no love for Ulfrik. You don't rise so high without making enemies. For the right rewards they will do all you ask." Gunther now faced him; even though blind, he apparently could still see shadow. "You've made a good start, now finish it. Hrolf will need you to hold together, and in that you can be the hero you should have always been. Then with the land and Hrolf's favor, you will make our family a power to be remembered. You just need sons, and lots of them. That will be your greatest task after Ulfrik is gone."

  "Do not worry for it, Father. Fara will give me sons or I will find another woman that can. For now, let me concentrate on removing Ulfrik from the board. I know who I can use for this purpose."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The trader's ship glided alongside the docks under the assured guidance of an old professional. Aren stood in the prow with his three guards, veterans of long service with gold armbands and faded scars as proof of their bravery. As the trader's crew moored the ship, Gunnar scanned the bustling dock for any familiar faces and saw none. Slaves and freemen alike labored with bales, crates, casks, and barrels. Being the first great city along the Seine, Rouen's docks were constantly filled with traders moving wares in and out of Frankia. A cluster of masts pointed at a gray sky and the thick scents of river mud and fish filled the air. Aren heard the gangplank drop to the dock, and so turned to his guards.

  "You three must wait aboard the ship for me. I've paid the trader until tomorrow at noon, and I am certain he will linger no more th
an that." Aren searched their faces, and they all gave him a firm nod. "If I am not back before that time, you must leave without me. Return to Hakon and tell him I have been captured. Let no one come after me, for that will be expected. If I'm captured I will find my own way out."

  The three guards exchanged glances. The leader, Gils, a brown-haired man with a shock of gray in his neatly trimmed beard, put a knobby hand on Aren's shoulder. "You are braver than men give you credit for. We will wait, and wish you luck on your task."

  He entrusted his sword to Gils, for weapons were not allowed in the city except for Hrolf's men. Besides, he was no great fighter and he preferred to use his wits to win his battles. He mounted the gangplank, his guards slapping his back in encouragement, then left the docks toward the main city of Rouen.

  If Paris was grander than this, he could not imagine what it would be like. Rouen always amazed Aren. The area surrounding the river docks was all ramshackle buildings with faded signs, broken barrels, and rusting debris. Racks of fish dried in the sun, adding to the aroma already filling the air. Laborers and fishermen in drab clothes traveled along rutted and meandering tracks, each lost in their own business. Yet beyond this drudgery was the excitement of the walled city of Rouen. He moved quickly among the low town people, squeezing past carts piled with goods and through crowds of merchants haggling over prices. He chased a goose that had wandered into his path, until he finally arrived at the gates.

  Now he only had to find Vilhjalmer. Over the years they had developed means of contacting each other when Hrolf's only and most precious son wanted to be free of his minders. Aren gambled that Vilhjalmer had been excluded from anything related to his father. He was no longer a young boy, but a man of eighteen years, and if he chose to oppose his father's decisions, his words would carry much weight. If Vilhjalmer was in the dark, then their old ploys would succeed.

  Paying his gate tax and providing an excuse for business beyond the walls, he entered into the shadow of the gate along with dozens of others traversing both directions. He kept his head down and found the palace where Vilhjalmer resided. He had used to stay in Churches, but now as the son of a count he had access to better living quarters. The stone building towered above him, not as grand as the cathedrals the Christians built but close to it in scale. The guards outside stood four at each entrance, but Aren ignored them and proceeded to the servant's entrance on the side where only two guards sat on stools in the shade. One was chatting with a bashful young servant girl while the other idly cleaned his fingernails with a dagger.