He slid ever closer to the door, when a female servant popped out of it. She nearly collided with him, clipping his face with an empty cask on her shoulder. She caught up short with a gasp and bowed in apology. "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me."
"It's nothing," Yngvar said, turning away. The servant continued to stare at him, the cask now sitting in the grass at her feet. It seemed she expected more out of him. Yngvar's mind raced. Did she recognize he was a different guard? Did she expect his wrath? He shooed her away. "Hurry on with your work. I don't want those sweaty bastards blaming me when their ale is delayed. It's bad enough I'm stuck outside."
The woman smiled. She was young with smooth skin and full lips. Her eyes were tired and her hair hung limp beneath her head cover. She bowed again and resumed her task. Once she returned inside, Yngvar felt his knees go weak. He shared a relieved glance with Bjorn.
They stood guard a while longer. To Yngvar it seemed hours before the wild laughter subsided and one voice rose above the others. It was King Gorm addressing his gathering. The pretty servant now stood outside the doors, out of the way of her king but blocking Yngvar from getting closer. She smiled at him, then leaned against the wall while she waited.
Yngvar was as close as he dared get. The servant slid down to sit in the grass and closed her eyes. Yngvar was grateful for that much. He could hear Gorm speaking but was not sure of what he said. He leaned closer to the door, now over the head of the servant. She did not move, seeming only to care for this moment of peace. Holding himself over her, Yngvar could hear Gorm's words clearly.
He could see nothing but shadows on the rear wall from this angle. But Gorm's voice was unmistakable. It seemed another man spoke after him, and then all was drowned out with cheering. Yngvar waited until Gorm regained control of his audience.
"Before we reclaim what is rightfully ours, that miserable puppy Hakon must be killed. He hides himself deep behind his own men in walled fortresses like a coward."
You mean like you do yourself? Yngvar thought. He shook his head in disgust.
"He is suspicious and shrewd, despite his young age. He also surrounds himself with capable men. But of these men, many are Christians. There is the weakness I will use to undo him. He fostered in Wessex under Christian kings who weakened his mind to their influence. I have arranged to send a priest from Wessex to young King Hakon's service. Since he struggles to force his religion upon his own subjects, he welcomes these foreign priests with outstretched arms. Well, this will be no priest, my friends. He will be Hakon's killer, who will be allowed close enough to those opened arms to drive a dagger through Hakon's chest. When he dies, his land will be in chaos. We will seize that moment to strike and gain victory."
The hall erupted into cheers. Yngvar slipped back, staring at Bjorn. "Did you hear that?"
"A false priest," Bjorn said. "But when?"
Yngvar shook his head. He started to lean closer, but the serving girl had been roused by the cheering. She now stood again at the door, directly in Yngvar's way. With her blocking and the chatter of the crowd, the rest of Gorm's words were lost to him. He was missing key information, and he had to get closer. He tugged at the servant's sleeve. She turned around, a bright smile on her face.
"Listen, girl, We're thirsty out here. Sounds like they're all having fun inside, while we got shut out in the cold. Couldn't you bring us a horn of ale?"
Her smile fell along with her gaze. "We're not supposed to bring ale to the guards."
"Just a half horn. Nothing to get us drunk, but enough to warm our noses and wet our throats. You can do that for us." Yngvar gave a smile he hoped would be as winning as Thorfast's. The girl met his eyes and smiled. She gave a short nod, then slipped back into the hall.
He wasted no time, but pushed up to the edge of the door. He fought the urge to peer inside. He imagined Brandr standing on the opposite side, exposing him before everyone. Gorm continued speaking, but the voices of his audience confused his message. Yngvar leaned closer.
Then someone exited the hall.
It was not the servant but a full-grown man. Yngvar staggered back and the man gave a shout of surprise.
"Hey, aren't you supposed to be watching outside and not inside?" the man yelled. He had continued to force his way out of the door, now standing before Yngvar and Bjorn.
He stood a head taller than Yngvar. His golden hair was neatly oiled and his beard trimmed and combed. Gold armbands glittered on both biceps as the man put his fists on his hips.
What captured Yngvar's attention was the cold, predatory gaze of this man. He was hungry and bloodthirsty, and vaguely familiar. From the gold that shined not only at his arms but also his fingers and neck, Yngvar knew he was no common warrior.
"I asked you a question, fool. Do you have a tongue to answer me with?"
The man's face contorted with rage. He had seen this before, this combination of anger and joy at being angry. Whoever he was, he was exulting in intimidating what he saw as two hapless guards. He snarled, revealing white teeth.
Yngvar recognized that sneer and his blood flowed cold.
"Do you know who I am?" the man asked, his voice a rough shout. "Your silence insults royalty, you bastard. I am Gamle Eriksson!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Gamle Eriksson stood within sword's reach of Yngvar. Bright light spilling from the open door gleamed over his gold-clad arms and filled the hollows of his face with dark shadow. His resemblance to both Erik and Gunnhild was strong. He had Erik's masculine features, Gunnhild's sharp and cunning eyes, and a feral anger all his own. He dropped a strong hand to his sword, which hung at his waist. He was probably the only man in the hall to carry one this night, being grandson to the king.
His eyes narrowed and he looked over Yngvar from foot to crown. "What's this? Are you wearing your father's mail, boy? Can't find something that fits you?"
Gamle stood right before Yngvar. One quick strike to his throat and the man who had put a ruinous bounty on Yngvar's head would be no more. He could see the veins pulsing behind Gamle's well-groomed beard. How easy to cut them. Never would he have such a chance again.
"You mute bastard," Gamle shouted. Now shadows from within the hall began to jostle on the wall Yngvar could see from outside. Gamle's yelling had attracted others.
Yngvar grabbed for his sword. Gamle was terrifyingly swift. His own blade rang free of its sheath and it flashed yellow light.
But he did not strike home. Thorfast had approached from behind, grabbing Gamle's sword arm and wrenching it back.
"Help me!" Gamle shouted. "Enemies surround the hall!"
"Kill him!" Yngvar shouted, but his own blade caught as he tried to draw it.
Bjorn jabbed with his spear, but in the same moment Thorfast levered Gamle back and dragged him to the ground. Instead, Bjorn's spear nearly caught Thorfast's face.
The doorway darkened now. Men were shouting.
"Forget him!" Yngvar called. "Run!"
Guards charged out from both ends of the mead hall. Their spears were lowered and their backs hunched. Yngvar forgot his own spear in the commotion, but Bjorn still carried his. As the first guard stepped into their path, he let the spear fly. It took him low in the stomach and he crashed to the ground with a scream. Yngvar danced around the other guard, his sword now cleared of its sheath. He easily parried the guard's spear as he flew past him.
Running down the slope, Yngvar nearly fell. The weight of a mail shirt on his shoulders was little comfort now. He had lost his helmet in the dash to the bottom of the hill, and he felt the cold air touch the sweat on his brow.
A horn sounded from the hall, and a brief glance behind showed all the doors now open with golden light and shadowed warriors streaming out of it.
Alasdair and Thorfast were right behind. Yngvar led them to the same fence where they had hidden earlier. He was already out of breath.
"We've got to get out of this mail," Bjorn said. He was already trying to shrug his off, pulling the s
hirt up with no care to save it from becoming tangled.
"Gorm will send a man to kill King Hakon. He will be disguised as a priest from Wessex. When he's dead, the invasion will start. I don't know when the false priest will arrive, but it must be soon."
Horns around Jelling answered the one sounded from the hall. Men were running down the hill, and Yngvar had only a moment left before they were caught.
"We'll split up. One of us must get through to the ship. If we cannot all meet up in time, then the rest must be left behind. King Hakon must get the message, and the crew has earned their reward. Let's pray Fate has better plans for us."
The others made to protest, but shouts were much closer now. If they were to hide in Jelling until finding a way out, they could not remain together. Yngvar met Bjorn's and Thorfast's eyes and shared a curt nod before each scattered in another direction. Bjorn had shed his mail, leaving it crumpled on the ground like a snake leaves its old skin. He had no time to do the same.
He ran for the darkness, not knowing where to go or where to hide. Alasdair was at his side, and he shoved him aside.
"You have the best chance to escape," he whispered as strongly as he could. "Do not follow me. Hide and get back to the ship. Wait for us if you must, but don't delay. Get back to King Hakon with the news and claim his reward. You've earned it."
"But lord--"
"If I'm your lord, then obey me!"
Alasdair's clear face bunched up in a mixture of frustration and anger. But he stepped back, bowed, then fled into the dark between buildings. It was like watching him step out of the world. Yngvar wished he could do the same.
He stood against a wall, his sword still drawn. He carefully slid it back into the sheath, the drag of metal on the edge of the scabbard sounding as loud as a shout. The darkness was thick on this starless night. He felt confident he could hide well enough, but escape in the morning would be impossible. The gates would all be closed until they were captured. But a place as large as Jelling would have to open its gates at some point. Unless besieged, no town would remain shuttered against the outside world for long. So he expected the eastern gate facing the fjord would be the likeliest place to find a way out.
Pushing deeper into shadows, he found the path ahead so dark that he could not run. At least here he removed his mail shirt, letting it crunch to the ground in a stiff pile of twisted and ruined links. He felt along a wall, then decided to crouch here in the blackness was good enough. He came to what seemed like a cart, and he slid between it and the wall of whatever building was at his back. He felt like a child at a game of hide-and-seek.
His heartbeat seemed as loud as hammering a shield. He dabbed sweat from his eyes. Somewhere in this town Bjorn and Thorfast were doing the same. He had no fear for Alasdair. He was like a ghost. In the distance a horn sounded, making Yngvar flinch. What did it mean? Had Thorfast been caught? His pale hair was like a beacon in the dark. If anyone was the complete opposite of Alasdair it would be him. He squeezed his eyes shut. If he worried for everyone, he would get himself caught and be in no place to aid anyone.
The luxury of worrying for others did not last. Soon he heard low voices from his left. A globe of yellow light showed at the end of the long darkness, illuminating the hand that held it up and the heads of at least three men that walked beneath it.
Yngvar's first instinct was to run. But that would surely give him away. Instead, he slipped a hand to his dagger and felt reassured at the leather-wrapped hilt sticking to his palm. He only had to get away, not kill three men. The dagger was perfect for it.
"It's really dark down there," said one low voice. "Shouldn't we look?"
"We can be looking all night and not find nothing," answered another, gruffer voice. "But might as well check."
The globe of light bobbed closer and it lowered. They were shoving the flames into the darkness, forcing it to reveal what it hid.
Yngvar pulled his legs under himself, readying to spring away. The cart before him was reassuring, but he had no idea how well it would conceal him. Everything was vague in the darkness, except the three men methodically sweeping away shadow. Then they stopped.
"What's that?" one asked.
"A pile of nails?" answered the other. "No, it's a mail coat!"
The three figures not only stopped approaching, they seemed to stop breathing. Yngvar instinctively held his breath, too. Now he realized how stupid he had been. He left evidence of his presence so readily available that a blind man couldn't fail to find him.
The figures started to move once more, stopping only once they reached the pile of ruined mail. Their torch popped and sputtered over the pile as three heads looked down. If Yngvar would run, now had to be the moment. Did he trust this hiding spot enough?
He fled.
Someone behind shouted after him. He did not look back, but ran until he came to the edge of the wall and followed it around the corner. He scrambled down the opposite side of the same building. A horn blared from the other side.
Fear defeated reason. He had no place better to flee to. His pursuers would be directly behind, and he had no idea where to go.
Only the pursuers were not directly behind. Two of them had run around the other side of the building, anticipating his direction and cutting him off.
The light from their torch bounced off their drawn swords. The third man would be rushing him from behind soon enough. Yngvar looked to either side but found only deeper shadows, indicating walls of buildings. He was on a side street.
"Give up," said the gruff voice. "Ain't no good running. You're a rat in a trap, you know."
Every moment he delayed was another moment his enemies could build up their trap. He had to run, to find cover again.
"You're never getting out of here," the gruff voice said. "So why make it harder on yourself? When the sun comes up you're as good as caught."
He drew his sword and charged the two men. They had no shields but were confident in their mail. Yngvar did not strike to kill, but instead struck for the torch one man held aloft. Had this been any other kind of fight, Yngvar would've struck the man's exposed ribs. Now the torch cracked into pieces, and the flaming tip spun down to land on its bearer's face. The man screamed and fell away in terror.
Yngvar felt a slash narrowly miss his head. These fools were striking for the dramatic kill, aiming for his head when they should've concentrated on the mass of his torso. He skipped past them as the torch sputtered out in the dirt.
Fleeing through the darkness, he stumbled in a rut and crashed to his side. He heard pursuers and shoved back to his feet. The complete black of the night offered no landmarks to follow and he did not know Jelling like the natives. But he was getting away.
Until he barreled headlong into other figures in the dark.
The soft flesh gave way and a voice shouted in surprise and pain. Yngvar collapsed back, landing on his backside. Then a flurry of voices shouted at once and a torch appeared out of nowhere. Its light was like a lightning bolt from Thor, accusing him of failure.
Somehow he had collided with a half-dozen men, and they ringed him now. The man he had struck was also on the ground, his helmet knocked over his eyes.
He was captured. Two spears angled down at him, and shadowy, angry faces crowded him. Someone had the presence of mind to step on his sword hand, crushing it to the dirt.
Yngvar let his head fall back. The spear points were cold on his belly. He stared up at the black night sky and surrendered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Yngvar had been stripped to his waist and had his boots removed, all precautions against hiding weapons. He was on his hands and knees in Gorm's hall. The heat from the low-burning hearth was amplified by the crowd of warriors pressing around him. Everything smelled of mead and sweat, but on the floor Yngvar also suffered the sharp scents of urine and rotted straw. A stray bit of straw clung to his beard as he hung his head.
He had not been beaten or otherwise mistreated. Of course, that
was just because Gorm needed to find out what he was doing when he fled. After Gorm was satisfied he had learned enough, Yngvar expected torture and eventual death. Gamle, of course, wanted to enact his revenge.
"The king asked you a question," said a voice.
Yngvar did not recognize the man, but he recognized the stab of pain at his back. Spears prodded him. Yngvar had been so absorbed in his own thinking he did not remember the question. He simply shook his head, which earned him a kick to his ribs that laid him out on his side.
Laughter followed. Yngvar stared up at the sneering face of Gamle Eriksson. Behind him a more pensive Gorm the Old sat on his high seat, face held in the palm of his hand as if bored. More enthusiastic warriors hovered around their king, eager to deliver a beating even if he seemed disinclined.
"Why did you draw your weapon on my grandson?" Gorm the Old asked again. "And who were the others?"
Yngvar did not know if any of the others had been caught. It occurred to him as he lay on his side with his ribs throbbing that they had not coordinated a story. If he told Gorm they were spying on him, then he would seek out the rest of the crew until he was certain all were dead. If he told Gorm a different story, he may or may not go after the others. But if their stories did not match, then all would suffer.
Another kick reminded him this was the second time Gorm had asked a question. A third time would end with Yngvar's broken ribs.
"I am here to kill Gamle," Yngvar said. "You know who I am now, don't you? I knew Gamle would be here and so I planned an ambush. He just surprised me when he stepped outside all of a sudden."
Yngvar gambled. There was truth to his words in some regard. If the others were caught, it would make a feasible lie. If they had already been caught and admitted something else, he was also about to find out.
"Kill me?" Gamle said, putting his hands to his chest in mock surprise. "Why would you wish me ill?"
"The scars on my back don't give me away?" Yngvar raised his eyes to Gamle's. The smoldering hate was plain to see, and he looked so much like this mother, Gunnhild, that Yngvar had to look aside.
Odin's Ravens (Descendants Saga Book 2) Page 19
