There was little pain. His blade and the mail absorbed the worst of the damage. The wound was not mortal, but deep enough to weaken him from blood loss if he did not finish this, and now.
Keeping his own body between the warrior and Karl, he went on the offensive with a series of lightning stabs and swings. The fighter was good, almost as skilled as Brandr’s father, the only man he had never been able to best during training. Calling on the memory of a maneuver his sire had once used to defeat him, he abandoned finesse. Dropping his axe, and with a two-handed grip on Frækn’s hilt, he bludgeoned the other’s shield, driving the man back to gain the distance he needed, and keep him on the defensive.
Then he hopped backwards on one foot. In a pretense of stumbling over Karl, he feigned a loss of balance, letting go of his sword. He threw out his empty hand as if to stop his fall, but as he did so, he grabbed a fistful of dirt and tiny stones. The hearth companion launched toward him, coming in fast. Brandr pitched the mix into his eyes. The man howled and made an instinctive, vicious swipe with his weapon before sprinting away in the roiling mist.
Mighty hammer of Thorr!
He huffed a hard, deep breath. A hair closer and he would have been eviscerated. As it was, the wound to his side burned like the flames of Ragnarók. He knew by the growing wet patch seeping down his thigh that it bled freely.
He retrieved his weapons, and felt his face settle into grim lines as voices speaking the Saxon dialect crawled through the soft white clouds surrounding them. Two men, even three he could deal with, but he feared the number of warriors now descending upon their position was more than he could best.
Karl agreed. “Brandr,” he whispered, “I am a hindrance. Leave me, or Father will lose us both.”
“You may imagine, brother, but it will never be.”
The mists around them parted in violent whorls as two more shadowy figures leapt into view from different directions, but one of them Brandr instinctively recognized. Only one man of his acquaintance bore a frame like the giants of old. He wore no helm and carried no shield, but he brandished a great bearded axe.
“Playing instead of fleeing, are we?” Sindre’s voice boomed like thunder on the horizon, unconcerned how far it carried. “I would join the game, but those of us who can still move are preparing to launch. They await us, and it would be discourteous to disappoint them. We may enjoy ourselves another day.” His whole face was alive with glee as he faced the now wary Saxon who silently circled, waiting for his comrades to arrive. “Go on ahead! I will deal with this whelp.”
“Do not linger, Sindre,” Karl ordered as he scrambled up on one foot with Brandr’s help. “Even you cannot defeat an army.”
“Fear not, lads, I will be right behind you.”
“See that you are,” Brandr said. Leaving behind the clash of weapons, he and Karl raced with as much speed as possible toward the beach. Surely, it was not far now. It seemed as if he had been running and fighting for days, though it was still early morn.
By the time Sindre caught up, Brandr was nearly dragging a slumping Karl. He stopped. His brother’s head hung low over his chest and his breathing was labored.
“Pick up the pace, lads,” Sindre said. “Our hosts are many. They want to join the fun, but I do not think we three together are a match for them.” He abruptly went still, staring at Brandr. “You are hurt. How badly?”
Brandr gritted his teeth and forced himself to straighten. “Not enough to hold us up.”
Sindre searched his face and nodded. He wrapped a massive arm around Karl. Brandr suddenly felt like he was tied to a dragon as they fairly flew down a gentle incline. Up ahead, the faint slap of waves sounded against a shoreline of pebble-strewn sand. The low murmur of familiar speech lured them on with the promise that the ships—and a degree of safety in which Karl’s wound could be treated—were at hand. But even as relief flooded his soul, Karl went utterly slack between them, his dead weight dragging. They stopped, but shouts, too close for comfort, drew a backward glance from Brandr and Sindre both.
Brandr met his uncle’s gaze. Before Sindre could protest, he shoved his brother into his arms and stepped away. “The enemy is too close and the beach too far. We will not make it if we stay together. I cannot carry him. Go! Get him home to Father.”
Karl, still conscious, muttered in protest, but did not lift his head. The merriment was wiped from Sindre’s eyes like the wash of waves over sand. Resignation shadowed his expression. “If you survive, lad, hold on. Do not yield hope. I will return, and find you.”
“Já, we will,” Karl said.
“Nei, do not return. I will catch up if I can, or fight my way clear and make my way home overland once you are away. Go!”
He whirled and plowed into the chill vapors. He had taken but a handful of steps before he literally collided with the first of the oncoming warriors. They were many, and closer than he had thought. The fog had distorted their proximity.
The resultant skirmish was fierce. Frustration compounded by icy rage catapulted him into nigh berserkr frenzy. Valhöll loomed. He welcomed it. Let the Valkyrjur come! In the flash of a heartbeat, he forgot the pain of his wound and the weakness brought on by blood loss, forgot even his name and why he fought. He knew naught but the swing of Frækn and the flash of his axe. He evened the odds against him as one by one, his enemies fell.
He came to himself only when there was no one left to fight. He struggled to draw breath, and blinked at the sticky moisture sliding into his eyes as he sought to orient himself. Around him lay only the dead, shadows in the mist. Some distance beyond, in the direction from which they had come, men still battled. The shouting had ceased, and there came to his ears only the clash of weaponry, but he could feel the focused intensity of those who warred so silently. Yriclea’s defenders fought the Saxon intruders.
All to the good. Let them kill each other.
The thought heartened him and he turned away, intent on reaching the beach. It might still be possible to catch up to the others before they left. The cacophony behind him faded toward the village, growing distant. His ears picked up the faint shrieks of women but that, too, died away as he lurched forward, hoping his efforts had gained his men the escape time they needed.
He had not so far to go as he had thought. Again, the fog distorted distance. He passed between the mist-shadowed cliffs, loped across the beach and splashed into the gentle surf.
The drekars were gone.
Ruthlessly, he crushed despair.
To his right, a dark lump slumped upon the sand. Beyond it was Yriclea’s small dock. Its outlines were blurred in the fog, but on it, he spied a bundle.
He angled toward the lump and bent to investigate. At his feet was a dead hearth companion. The others must have either surprised him here, or he attacked as they approached and died for his efforts.
The bundle on the dock turned out to be his húdfat, a water skin, a tightly capped horn of bjórr—which elicited an appreciative grin—and an extra fur. Prominent on top of the outer flap of the sleep sack was Karl’s silver pendant, on which his name was incised in runes, encircling the hammer of Thorr.
They had not forgotten him, and the pendant meant Karl still lived when Sindre got him this far.
He faced the sea and stared into the shifting moisture, but naught was visible. Here, at water’s edge, the fog was not so thick and he could see some distance onto the waves, but not far enough. Giving thanks to Odinn and Thorr for the safety of the men, he was about to return to the cliff top when more shouts, as of distress, came to his hearing, but these came from out on the water. His heart clenched. He waded farther into the surf, trying to make sense of the cries.
Abruptly, as if the gods favored his sight, the fog separated in a nearly straight swathe ahead of him. Outlined under blue sky he viewed a sight he had seen but once before and had hoped never to see again.
How did the portents go so wrong? Did the runes lie, or did the seer misread them?
The S
tethi, one of their three drekars, was sinking. Already, its proud dragon prow lifted high above the waves, while its stern gunwale barely cleared the surface. He started to run before he remembered he was thigh deep in surf. He came to a splashing halt. They were too far away. He could not help, but he could see men swimming from the Stethi to be pulled from the sea by those in the Andskoti. He watched the doomed ship, but saw no more men dive from it. He could but hope all had made it off and were now safe in the other vessels. If great Odinn had not utterly withdrawn his favor, both of the surviving ships would soon be off. The order to set oars came, clear and welcome, to his ears. The drekars pulled away.
Muscles tense, teeth clenched and his fist so tightly clamped over Karl’s pendant the edges cut into his skin, he willed them to row faster.
With a dull roar that echoed across the water, the Stethi canted to port. Seawater poured over the side, drowning the stern deck and rowing-places. Moments later, with a final rolling hiss and a wild froth of water and wispy fog, the stern tail slithered into the realm of Ægir, followed rapidly by the prow. He could swear the eye of the drake flashed in rage before it winked out. The mast disappeared in a bubbling spume.
His gaze returned to the Andskoti and the Hauss, the ship he had commanded. Tiny figures moved among those who rowed. His shoulders slumped as he whispered a fare-you-well.
As suddenly at it had streamed apart, the fog rolled back to obscure his sight and they were gone. Almost, he cried out to them not to leave him behind, but he ruthlessly squashed the notion. He could hear them no longer, but even if he could, he would not risk a shout that could draw unwanted attention.
He did not know how long he stood, staring into the nothingness, his heart heavy. It was a very, very long way home.
With a deep sigh of finality, he splashed ashore. Raising the hems of his ring-shirt and under-tunic, he twisted slightly to look at his wound. A little longer than the length of his palm, it still bled. The flesh around it was already darkening, but as he had thought, it was not a fatal cut. He would get to the relative safety of the trees on the cliff top and wrap it. Slipping Karl’s pendant around his neck, he tucked it, alongside his own silver and bronze wolf’s head medallion, beneath his ring-shirt, next to his heart. Then he bent to the húdfat at his feet, unloosed the ties and unrolled it. Stored inside, along with his fire-striker and striking stone, an oiled cloak and one change of clothing, and his packet of personal grooming items, they had left him food, weapon oil, and a hefty bag of silver dirhams—knowing Karl, probably most of what they had onboard the Andskotti. Riches, indeed! With care and luck, he could survive for months with these things.
He threw one last glance in the direction of the drekars. They were away, yet he was alone as never before, in an unfamiliar and hostile land, with naught but his weapons and the contents of his húdfat. Even the faint sounds of battle up at the settlement had ceased. The rage and hope that had strengthened him drained away, leaving him exhausted and feeling feeble as a child. Breath-stealing pain throbbed through his side and head. The shifting, shadowy white moisture engulfed him in desolate silence. Shouldering the provisions, he turned to climb back up the slope to seek the safety of the forest, but the mist distorted everything and disoriented him.
He blinked and rubbed his eyes. Only moments earlier, he had caught a glimpse of the sky, blue and clear through the fog. He wondered how clouds could have rolled in so swiftly to obscure the light, for though it was still morn, it was growing dark.
It seemed to take day-marks to thread his way among the fishing boats, hauled up onto the sand. As he clambered around fallen rubble at the base of the cliff, he trailed the fingers of his right hand along the rock face. It was his only means of making sure he moved in the right direction. He reached level ground and turned east, but stopped to take stock of his situation, for confusion blanketed his thoughts. He knew it was still morn. Why then did the day grow black as if night approached?
He swiped the back of his hand across his forehead and it came away glistening red. He blinked at evidence of a wound he had not been aware of receiving. No wonder his head hurt. From below on his right came the soft susurration of waves lapping the beach. That meant the shadowed tree line was in front of him.
Já, the trees. That was where he meant to go. He took several steps, then frowned as his feet refused to keep moving. The mists closed over him, and the mystifying darkness engulfed him as he tumbled forward.
CHAPTER TWO
“Ho! Awaken, little Músa! We should be on our way, and I have no wish to carry you the distance to Ljotness. The scavengers gather, and we would be better to leave them to their feast.”
Brandr woke to the blithe voice of his uncle. Someone, presumably that same relative, shook his shoulder. He forced his eyes open, but the light of evening dazzled him and stabbed shards of pain into his skull. He closed them again. He felt as if his bones would shatter if he moved.
“Up, Brandr, no more sleep!”
Odinn One-Eye!
A groan tore its way from his gut as Sindre hauled him to his feet with less than gentle hands. The action reminded him sharply of that other wound in his side.
He hoped his uncle’s tender ministrations had not started it bleeding again. It would be a nuisance. He opened his mouth to curse him, but another bout of dizziness set him to swaying on unsteady limbs.
Wishing for a bowl of icy water to dunk his head, he made a face instead, contorting and stretching the muscles in an effort to banish the remnants of the mush that blanketed his thoughts. Something was wrong with his vision, too. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, trying to clear it, and looked around. Thorr’s chariot! It was not long till nightfall. He had collapsed in the open, only a few feet from the tree line, and had slept through the entire day. Ravens fluttered from branch to branch, their caws vying with the shrieks of gulls. Noisy miklimunnrs. Feckless they were, and fitting companions to Odinn, though maybe their presence was a sign the gods smiled upon him again after the defeat of the morn. He shrugged. He would take what he could get of their favor.
Still, even with Sindre’s presence at his side, he felt exposed. He was also hungry enough to eat a stag. The very thought of a haunch of roasted deer started the saliva flowing, easing his dry mouth—which meant he would certainly live. A dying man did not hunger.
“You are right, we should….” He stopped abruptly to stare at the grinning countenance of his uncle. The uncle who was supposed to have sailed with the others. The weight on his heart lightened.
Not alone.
He said the only thing he could think of. “What are you doing here?”
Sindre’s whiskers twitched. His smile widened and he chuckled. He grabbed a hank of Brandr’s hair and with an affectionate tug, shook his head back and forth a few times as if seeking to slosh his brain back into place. It did not help.
“I wondered when you would notice.” He used his forefinger to tap his head. “That insignificant bump on your skull rattled you more than it should have.” His tone was as irreverent as always, but in the ice blue gaze, lighter his own, that closely watched him, relief lingered. “You should have worn your helmet.”
Brandr scowled, then wished he had not. It hurt. “You never do.”
“Ah, but my head is harder than yours. How do you feel, lad?”
“I will live.” That his uncle had been concerned for his life meant the blow to the head must have been worse than he knew. Já. He should have worn his helmet instead of leaving it behind on the ship. At least he had worn his padded undertunic and mail, which had probably saved his life. Most of the others had left theirs on the drekars because of the warmth of the day.
“Have you food?” He looked down at himself. His sword lay at Sindre’s feet, but his mail and his axe were missing. “And where is my ring-shirt?”
His mail was the most valuable thing he owned, save for Frækn.
Sindre delved inside his tunic and brought out a packet that smelled o
f smoked fish. “Cheese, too,” he said, handing it over. He watched as Brandr devoured the fare. “I removed the ring-shirt so I could give that paltry scratch in your side some tender care. It is with our húdfats in a safe place, though my sleep sack was waterlogged from floating behind me as I swam ashore, and it dries in the sun. Can you walk without falling over your feet? We should search the settlement before we leave. It is a long way home and the war band might have left behind something useful.” His eyes lit. “Like hidden silver exposed by the fire.”
At his words, a puff of breeze from inland brushed by Brandr. It carried with it an acrid smell. He frowned again, only just noticing the pungent reek of death and burning that hung thick upon the air. The attacking war band had fired the village. He doubted there would be anything left to salvage, and said so.
“Good,” Sindre said. “You begin to think again. Follow me, Músa.” He started toward the village. “You should know. The Saxons finished their purpose here quickly, and left. I searched the dead. Eight among our men now reside in Valhóll. I gathered their bodies and made a proper funeral pyre.”
“It is good. They feast with Odinn. Who were they?”
Sindre named them off.
“Brave warriors, all.”
His uncle was right. His head was beginning to clear. He looked ahead, but there was naught of humanity in sight except for his uncle and the smoldering ruins. Twisting to glance at the sea behind them, he winced as the movement pulled at the muscles surrounding the wound on his side.
Why had Sindre not gone with the others?
Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) Page 2
