Aren nearly fainted when Ulfrik pulled down his hood and got into the guard's face. "Is this close enough? Do you want to know who I really am?"
By all the gods, his father was going to announce himself. Aren's heart raced so hard he became faint. This was just the sort of madness that always filled his father's stories. He would probably grab the guard's sword and gut him with it. Aren searched for escape routes.
"In fact, I do. Who are you to stand in my face?"
"I am Jarl Ulfar the White, and I am here with a gift for Hrolf the Strider, one that you are despoiling in your thoughts."
"Never heard of you."
Now the two other guards joined their companion, forming a rough triangle around them. Ulfrik lifted his cloak to reveal his gold armbands. Aren's eyes felt ready to burst out of his skull.
"Know I've been awarded these by Hrolf himself. I stood with him beneath the walls of Paris back when you fools were sucking your mother's tits. I'm not surprised you've never heard of me, since Hrolf would only put his stupidest men to guarding the docks."
The guard bristled but seemed to hesitate. Aren saw how they began to doubt themselves, the way they touched their beards and noses, and pointed their bodies away from his father. "If you are so grand, then why only two guards and a child?"
"Use what brains of yours that aren't soaked with ale to think it through." Ulfrik grabbed the guard by his arm, and for a moment Aren believed they would all draw weapons. But Aren recognized how this gesture transferred control to his father. "Look at this beautiful woman. Hrolf is married to a Frank, is he not? Should this gift be given to him openly or more discreetly?"
The first guard shifted uneasily in his father's grip, but the second one had his own questions. "Why were we not warned of your coming? Anyone seeking an audience with Hrolf has to notify the guard."
Ulfrik shook his head. "Lad, you are only trying to do your duty. I understand that, but just think for a moment on all I just said. This beautiful woman is not my wife, but in fact destined to serve our jarl. First he would appreciate some time with her, but I'm certain his shrew of a wife will have much to say. So instead we must do this quietly and with care. Since you fools have now involved yourself in this, you may as well come with us to the palace."
Aren's pounding heart subsided as the guards stared at each other and slowly nodded. Only one chose to accompany them. His father gave Aren a wink and their new escort began clearing a way for all of them. Once they were halfway to the palace, Aren whispered to his father, "Are you going to change any more of our plans today?"
Ulfrik smiled and shook his head. "Only when the gods throw obstacles in our path."
Now Aren pulled his hood over his head as the guard took them to Fulbert, who sat at his traditional post at the servant's entrance. He stumbled over himself to appear more alert than he had been, but their dock guard took no notice. He explained their need and waited for Fulbert's answer.
Fulbert examined Elke like a hen for sale at market, then nodded. "I know what to do from here."
Finally rid of their dock guard escort, Aren breathed easier. He averted his face from Fulbert, who had once given him away to Gunther One-Eye's men. He had probably never realized what he had done, but Aren could not chance the guard's loyalty. His father spoke the words Aren had taught him. "A visitor for the young master. I've brought this one to his door. Saves him some time, eh? You'll be kind enough to tell him Ulfar the White sends his regards. Here's payment for your troubles."
Fulbert hissed at him. "Don't flash your gold, you oaf. Just set the pouch on my stool. I'll have to check her for hidden weapons."
Elke stepped back and put her delicate hand to her neck, but Fulbert just waved it down. "It's a precaution. Your man knows the right words, but I've not seen him before. Just roll up your sleeves and show me your boots."
Satisfied, he guided Elke toward the door. "All right, be gone with the rest of you."
Elke disappeared inside, and Aren thought she seemed too wide-eyed and excited. "You are certain she can be trusted to remember the message?" he asked as they walked out of Fulbert's hearing.
"She is just young and excited to be able to repay me for rescuing her. She will remember my message to Vilhjalmer. It is simple enough."
Aren shrugged. "Hakon seems quite taken with her. Do you think they will marry? He is long overdue to find a wife."
"As are you. Your mother would've liked more grandchildren."
His father's quip embarrassed him, and they walked in silence to the tavern where he and Vilhjalmer traditionally met. Inside they ordered ale and began their long wait. Ulfrik searched the dark room, nodding appreciatively. The sweet scent of burning wood mixed with the stale scents of spilled drink. "So this is where you two got up to mischief?"
"It was Vilhjalmer's idea, of course. I have no imagination for getting into trouble."
Ulfrik barked a laugh, then grew quiet and thoughtful. Finn sipped at his drink, swirling the liquid and humming a quiet tune. Brandr sat quietly staring at his hands. They had ordered a third ale by the time two guards entered the room, hands on sword hilts and their mail jingling. They stared at Ulfrik, and Aren's heart again leapt to his throat, but then they exited and Vilhjalmer swept inside. The tavern owner and the handful of other patrons fled the room like rats leaving a sinking ship.
Aren stood along with everyone else. Vilhjalmer's smile was wide and happy. He threw his arms wide and embraced Ulfrik first, patting him on the back. He then did the same for Finn and Aren. "Old friend, we've not seen each other since that misunderstanding with the guards. I see you've done well."
"I have survived, if that is what you call well."
Vilhjalmer laughed. "In these times, I certainly do call it so. Ah, but you selected a rare woman for me today. You always knew what I like best. This one I may keep close by."
"She's to be wed to my son, Hakon," Ulfrik said flatly. Aren detected the slight twitch in Vilhjalmer's otherwise unchanged demeanor.
"Ah, well, there are many beautiful women in the world, and I am sure to find another. But such a Frisian beauty! You mock me, then, with your choice of messenger. She will be well protected while we speak." Vilhjalmer now frowned and pointed at Brandr. "Who is this?"
"Gunnar's bastard son," Ulfrik said. "He's here to help me with what I've come to ask of you."
Now Vilhjalmer faced Ulfrik with narrowed eyes. "Coming here was bold, but I should have expected it. What would you ask of me that you risk so much? Have you remembered your oath to me?"
"I do not forget my oaths," Ulfrik said. "And I do not take risks lightly. You know what happened to my wife?"
Vilhjalmer's expression softened and he lowered his head. "She was a beautiful woman and a rare spirit. I was saddened to learn of her death."
"And you know how she died and who killed her?"
"I would make a poor count one day if I did not know all that happened in my lands. It was the plotting of Gunther One-Eye and Mord Guntherson that did this to you. Gunther has ever been jealous of your success and the lack of his son's. He thinks you've overstepped yourself."
"Maybe I have," Ulfrik said. "But that is not for Gunther to judge, but for the gods alone. My wife drowned in the open air, dead from a poisoned blade meant for my back. He maneuvered the Church into my path, and made certain I would lose everything. But it is not the first time he has tried this, is it? He was the silent hand that moved all the pieces against me, and sent me to meet death at the hands of Throst Shield-Biter."
"I was too young to remember," Vilhjalmer said, looking away. "But I have surmised as much."
"So I am here today to ask one thing of you, my oath-holder. Give me Gunther One-Eye."
Vilhjalmer raised his head and set his jaw. "That is too great a request. My father would never forgive me. He might even disown me or worse. Gunther is like a father to him."
Ulfrik smiled. "He's like a father to us all. Let me tell you how we will do this thing, and how you s
hall benefit. Sit and listen."
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Gunnar stabbed the horn of his ax-head into the eye of the Frank, smashing his enemy's head into blood-slicked grass. He ground it in the socket, dragging on bone and delighting in the scream of pain. Metal clanged and wooden shields thudded; men screeched in pain and death. Gunnar choked on the stench of spilled guts and dead horses. He straddled his enemy, bashing his head for good measure with the gory edge of his shield. An iron strip had bent up, becoming a wicked spike that tore the Frank's skin. When Gunnar finally shoved off the corpse, the face was little more than red meat on bone.
Blood drizzled from his nose and flowed into his mouth, and he spit bloody phlegm onto the ground. His face throbbed and eyes watered. His nose had been broken despite the face guard of his helmet. He blinked through the swelling flesh cutting down his vision. Deciding his vision was too restricted, he tossed his helmet into the grass. The battle flowed against him, all his men brawling with Franks either mounted or otherwise, and Oskar's warriors flowing away toward the woods.
Mord's standard had lowered and now wavered as it bounced through the press of men surrounding it. Mord, if he stood with his banner, was retreating.
Gunnar bellowed his fury, then ran toward the banner. Today was the day of his death, but he would not go until Mord Guntherson lay dead beside him as well. He swore it to himself. With every footfall he repeated his oath. "Mord dies today."
Oskar's men blocked the path to the front of the line where Mord's banner struggled to flee. Gunnar hooked men by their collars, his bloody ax dripping a gory warning for them to part. "Get out of my way! I've got to reach Mord!"
Pulling men out of line invited them to continue to fall back. Gunnar no longer cared what happened. Aren's promises of help had proved false. He had trusted his brother, seeing a different man from the hesitant boy that had left them only last summer. Yet in the end it had been misplaced. Whatever loyalty Aren thought to command from others had been a delusion. These men would not risk so much for so little in return. What good is gratitude when it has cost you all your wealth and fame?
He reached the front at last, but the space he found was vacated by a man collapsing with a sword stuck through his neck. Gunnar had no footing amid the sea of red-faced madmen attempting to break each other's resistance.
Gunnar did not function in a shield wall's front rank. His right-hand shield made him unable to fit with his sword brothers. So his presence disrupted the line and forced a wider gap than was needed. His very act of pushing into Mord's line weakened his own. He let his shield lead him, and used his ax like a hook to yank away striking weapons. He thought he saw Mord's treacherous face beneath his wolf head banner.
"Mord Guntherson, you gutless pig! Fight me! I am Gunnar the Black and I challenge you!"
A challenge had to be answered or else the man who cowered from it would forever live in shame. Mord apparently decided his life had been one long shame and to shirk the challenge offered no more shame than he already bore. His standard continued to float away like driftwood from the hand of a drowning man.
"Fight me, you whoreson! Raven-starver coward!"
Gunnar slammed his shield into the line and hacked like cutting through underbrush. Combatants from both sides flowed into the gap. Seven positions down the row Oskar called for his men to push harder. "They're nearly broken, boys! Crush them!"
The wedge Gunnar drove into the opposing shield wall penetrated the rear ranks and the resistance ebbed. A spear point sliced the outside of his left calf and drew a line of burning pain. Gunnar howled, hooked the spear, and tore it aside, then shoved deeper into the ranks until he broke through the rear. His companions cheered, but Gunnar was all grim determination. Mord's standard dropped lower and Gunnar lost sight of it.
Once in the clearing, he spotted Mord fleeing with a group of men. The line he had shoved through now broke into clusters of individual combats, and the rear ranks now followed their leader in retreat. Gunnar did not warn Mord, but charged him with shield forward and ax poised for a chop to the neck.
His vision blurred from both fury and sweat dripping into his eyes. His racing pulse and thundering footfalls sent quakes of pain through his broken nose. Mord continued to flee, unaware of approaching death.
Gunnar's ax blade flashed.
Mord's hirdman shouted a warning and he spun with his shield raised.
The ax crashed home into Mord's shoulder the same moment his shield collided with Gunnar's arm. Mord's mail shirt crunched and snapped and the ax bit deep. Gunnar felt it shudder as the blade dug into the bone. Gunnar's arm went numb as Mord's shield slammed into his elbow and the ax haft slipped through his hand. Mord fell back, screaming in agony and the ax lodged in his shoulder.
The hirdmen now crowded Gunnar. Shoving him back with his shield and prodding him with his sword. The others grabbed Mord and carried him with Gunnar's ax still buried in his left shoulder. While Gunnar blocked his attackers' weak blows, he roared in frustration. "You can't escape! I'll kill you, goat-fucker! You killed my mother!"
Tears threatened to blind him. Mord's men carried him away while Gunnar tried to skirt the man left to delay him. Why Mord would flee confused Gunnar until he realized the sounds of battle were even fiercer behind Mord's line. He blocked another strike, the shield catching the blade with a dull bump, then looked to the east. At the edge of the tree line, formerly out of sight, were dozens of banners flying over the heads of raving Northmen engaged against more Franks. Here were Aren's allies, fighting their own battle against reinforcements that had never deployed against them. Mord had prepared the same trap again, but this time had not expected he was at the center of one himself.
Gunnar laughed as he watched the Franks scatter and fall, a crowd of Norse helmets and colorful shields rolling over them like a locust swarm. In his moments of inattention, the enemy he fought melted away. Gunnar turned back for Mord, began running yet did not know where his enemy had gone. As the Norse reinforcements swarmed across the battlefield, they sowed confusion and death. Mord disappeared into this crowd. For Gunnar to find him again would be like wading across the Seine and just as impossible. Mord had escaped. Gunnar's only consolation was he might have yet delivered him a lingering, mortal wound.
With the breaking of the better-trained Franks, the battle ended in a rout. Gunnar found a quiet patch of grass to sit and watch men flee or die. Years ago he would have sought wounded enemies to finish, cutting off their sword hands first. Yet today he was soul weary and injured. His nose continued to drizzle thick blood, and every beat of his heart hurt like a backhand slap to the face.
The ground was littered with dead bodies from both sides, corpses that sprouted bent swords, broken spear shafts, or ax hafts. Shields were scattered over the grass like colorful autumn leaves. Groups of men chased down stragglers, while others stooped over corpses to begin looting. Gunnar loosened the strap of his shield and let it slide off his arm. At last Bekan found him and he had with him two men who Gunnar instantly recognized. The first was Ull the Strong, a tall man with a build to match his name. His hair and skin had been pale since Gunnar was a child, but age had whitened his beard and thinned his hair. He glittered with gore. Next to him stood Ragnar Hard-Striker. He too was a strong man who stood with pride. His hair had also turned gray, but his green eyes were alight with the killing lust, making him appear much younger. A red scar crossed his cheek, and according to his father's stories, Ragnar was also missing his left ear, though his helmet covered it now.
"You came at last," Gunnar said as he struggled to his feet.
The two jarls laughed and Ull folded his massive arms. "What are you doing sitting in the grass when there's a hall to be sacked?"
"The fields are full of plunder," Ragnar added. "The Franks bring us good weapons and strong mail, though they seem not to know how to use these best."
The jarls laughed again and Bekan now examined Gunnar's face, pulling it side to side, exposing his
teeth and peering inside his mouth. "You'll live, and you might actually look better after your nose heals. Last time it broke it turned out crooked. Maybe this'll knock it back in place."
Gunnar smiled, unable to laugh with the others. "Mord escaped. He took my ax with him, buried in his shoulder. But it was not the revenge I wanted."
"Mord's destroyed," Ull the Strong said. "Hafgrim is leading his men in pursuit. He'll probably catch him and drag him back. Mord's men can't get too far if they're carrying him in a mail shirt and an ax stuck in him. Too heavy and they're too tired."
"Fear gives men strength to flee," Gunnar said.
Ragnar blew a sigh through his heavy beard. "We can only see what Fate has planned. For now, though, that hall is quiet. Mord defended it personally, which means something of worth must be inside."
"His wife? Gold?" Bekan asked. Gunnar shrugged then waited as the jarls rounded up men to clear the hall. Other parties were kicking in the door of other distant buildings, but Gunnar heard none of the expected screams. Bekan soon presented him with a scavenged ax, one with blood still on the blade, then refit his shield to his arm.
"I've always wanted to see this shield myself," Ull the Strong said. "I hoped to see you fight with your left hand. You should be proud that you learned to keep fighting. Losing a sword hand ends most men's fighting days."
Gunnar allowed Ull to examine the straps and the iron rim of his shield. They chatted about the details while thirty men surrounded the hall. Gunnar's parents had once lived there. Snorri died there. It seemed wrong to slam open the door and storm it with bloody weapons. "This was my father's home. Let me enter first."
The doors were not barred, and once inside Gunnar found a familiar scene. It was as if Mord had only lived in the hall on borrowed time, and now left everything as he had found it. Gunnar walked to the stain where the bishop had bled to death while other men checked out the rooms at the far end of the hall. Nothing was left behind, and anything of value cleared away.
Sword Brothers Page 27
