Ulfrik raised his brow at the comment, and the sword blade tipped—barely perceptible but enough to indicate Thrand had found his opening.
"He was jealous of the silver I received from you. Always cursing your name, lord, and calling you a miser. Said you were a terrible jarl and a fake. He wanted to be paid like a hero, but didn't ever do anything for it. I tried to correct him many times."
"All that anger, and yet I never saw it." Ulfrik's voice sounded unconvinced, and the blade remained pointed at him.
"Only when he drank, lord. And then only around me. After yesterday's attack, he blamed you for leading us into death. Swore he'd make you pay for it. That's what he said."
"And he was drunk today?"
"Must be, lord."
"But not you?"
"No more than usual, lord."
Staring past the tip of the blade, Ulfrik's face remained impassive. If he did not convince Ulfrik, he might be forced to fight. He regretted keeping his hands out, since he could not reach his own sax in time to strike.
"Where would he get those thoughts, Thrand? Why would a man who sought to serve me become bitter enough to seek my death? Who taught him to hate me?"
Tears came with sudden and frightening ease. His breath grew hot and the wetness flowed over his cheeks into his beard. Thrand did not understand their origin, maybe for his brother, his failure, the fear of death, or even Kolbyr's murder. However they came, they were a blessing. He flung himself to the ground, balling up as if in pain and wailing and intent on riding the sorrow until Ulfrik was convinced of his sincerity.
"It was me, lord. Forgive me, but it was me!" He spasmed with sobs, and he found he could not stop. Something dammed up had broken free and he shuddered with cries like a little girl. His words were barely coherent. "W-when I am drunk ... I ... my words are evil. My mind burns with anger. I miss my brother, my only family. I blamed you, lord. It was wrong! My drunk raving, it poisoned him against you. Forgive me!"
Waves of sorrow crashed through him, and he sprawled out in his pitiful state for longer than he knew. Soon, he marshaled himself and he felt Ulfrik's boot prodding him.
"Get up and stop weeping."
Having never experienced such a powerful emotion, he lay drained, stirring only when Ulfrik's foot kicked him more forcefully. He sat up again, his face wet with tears, snot, and mud. Dead leaves clung to his hair and beard, and he batted them out with a trembling hand.
"Help me get him out of his mail." Ulfrik had already flipped Kolbyr and was hoisting the mail hauberk over the corpse's head. The scene sobered him. He had wiped the bloodied sax on Kolbyr's cloak and sheathed it.
If I struck now, I could surprise him, he thought. A solid thrust to his gut and he'd be finished. It's possible; he's not a god.
"Get up and help me," he repeated, glancing at him.
Thrand's hand itched for the hilt of the sax hanging at his side. His own bloodied blade lay partially covered by forest debris only an arm's length away.
Flipping belt straps aside, Ulfrik began to work the mail up Kolbyr's body, being careful not to tangle the chain links.
Thrand's arm stretched for the sword.
Ulfrik stood and dropped Kolbyr. "Your sword?"
The two men stared at each other, and Thrand could not read Ulfrik's face. He had no expression: no anger, fear, confusion, nothing. Such blankness was more frightening than anything else.
"Yes, my sword is in the mud, lord. Rust, I don't want it to rust."
"It won't rust so fast. Help me with the mail first."
He was relieved at being caught; now he had an excuse to assuage any shame for not carrying through. He joined Ulfrik in removing Kolbyr's mail.
"What about his body?" Thrand refused to look at Kolbyr's face, though he imagined his clear dead eyes staring at him.
"Food for the ravens." He snapped off Kolbyr's purse, his silver Thor's hammer, and took his weapons, tossing them into a pile next to the folded mail.
"So you're leaving him here?"
"Gods, man! You are drunk. I've got unburied men piled at the foot of that Frankish tower. You think I'd spare a moment to honor a man who tried to murder me? I curse his soul to Nifleheim. Now, you can serve me by carrying all of this back."
Thrand regarded the pile, more than both his arms could handle. Ulfrik kicked Kolbyr's corpse, and his head lolled to the side. The dead eyes locked with Thrand's and he jumped in shock. Ulfrik laughed, and pushed him at the pile.
Laugh now, he thought as he gathered the mail hauberk and weapons. Tonight I will be gone with your slave and enjoying your treasure. Maybe I'll buy an army to carve that smirk off your face.
Stumbling through the woods as Ulfrik walked behind, Thrand consoled himself with thoughts of vengeance.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ulfrik emerged from the woods to chaos. Men streamed toward the tower and the war machines lobbed rocks at the walls of Paris or the tower itself. War cries and weapons banged on shields combined with the crack of bowstrings and the snap of the catapults. Banners bobbed and spun above the heads of the Danes. Thrand looked back at him, his bloodied face pale and frightened.
"They started without us," Ulfrik said. He suspected Thrand might not be as innocent as his tears made him seem. However, with the battle started, he set aside his doubts. "Where did Hrolf say to meet?"
"He was just shouting for someone to find you, and I volunteered to go." Thrand's eyes were wide with terror, and he kept glancing at the distant tower.
Scanning the banners at the fore of the attack, none were familiar. As he worked back, he located the three jarls stationed at the rear, Sigrid, Knut, and Hrolf. Pushing past Thrand, he went to gather his crew and join Hrolf's standard. He collided with men rushing to the attack, shoving horizontally through to the shore. His men were already gathered beneath his banner, waiting at the riverbank. Einar held it in Toki's stead. As he approached, Snorri noticed him first.
"You've already been to the battle? It just began." Snorri's eyes darted past him to Thrand and his brow furrowed.
"No time to explain. Thrand, drop your burden here. Snorri, how many men are fit for battle?"
"Enough," Snorri answered, but he butted against him and whispered. "What has happened?"
"Later. Focus on the battle." Ulfrik saw the worry in his friend's face, and reassured him with a thump on the shield. Men needed confidence and belief in order to march into battle, especially after a defeat. He refused to shake the men's morale with news of betrayals. He stood before them, arms folded across his chest. Grim faces looked back at him. Behind them on the Seine, ships glided past with their crews of archers.
"Do you men still serve me? Do you still believe in victory?" Exchanging glances, they nodded and then voices joined. Soon they roared back their belief, and Ulfrik smiled. "Good! For I believe in victory and glory. But most of all, I believe in honor. And there is no higher honor than to bravely serve our oath-holders. No matter your fate today, you will be heroes in Valhalla. If I join you there, I will be glad. Someone give me a shield and follow me!"
With cheers and shouts, they fell in with him as he merged into the tide flowing toward the tower, keeping Hrolf's dragon standard in view. Before them, the siege tower began rolling ahead. He doubled their speed, fearful Hrolf would follow the tower. However, he soon brought his force alongside Hrolf's. The giant jarl and Gunther were conferring beneath his standard, and Ulfrik lined up his men then joined them.
"You're covered in blood." Hrolf glanced up and down his length, but then turned to observe the siege tower trundling toward the Franks. Ulfrik's face must have registered his surprise at the casual dismissal, for Gunther laughed.
"Worried we thought you ran?" Gunther's mood had recovered from the morning and he waved Ulfrik closer. "To be honest, I thought about it myself."
All around them Hrolf's warriors formed into loose ranks. Their faces were grave and their voices remarkably silent. To the front, helmets and weapons spun off sta
rs of sunlight as Danes converged on the Franks. Black clouds of arrows wove over the heads of the men, shot from the rear ranks or from the top of the tower. Death screams and war cries flowed back to them, weak and pitiful beneath the arrow-storm.
"I was delayed," Ulfrik finally explained. "Why are we not at the fore of the attack?"
"Because we were there yesterday and learned a good lesson, don't you think?"
"We're allowing others a chance at glory." Hrolf remained observing the progress of the siege tower. "The crafty Franks built another two levels overnight. Now our tower and ladders are too short. A perfect opportunity for men craving glory."
Looking again, Ulfrik saw the hastily constructed fortifications crowning the tower. "How did I not see it?"
"The real question is how the Franks built it so fast." Hrolf placed his hands on his hips, the sleeves of his mail glittering. "No matter. Our war machines will dismantle it."
The words went straight to Loki's ears, and the trickster god of mischief delighted in them.
An explosion as deafening as a clap of thunder rolled over Ulfrik, and one of the catapults flipped forward. The arm splintered and cracked while the body of the machine lurched into the air, wheels spinning off into the crowds and the high tension rope lashing the catapult crew. The rock it was launching skittered off at a wild angle, plunking into a ship passing beneath the normal arc of the shot. The crewmen splashed out of their ship as the vessel broke and sunk as if the thumb of a god had pushed it underwater.
Men screamed as the explosive power sprawled them to the ground and the uncoiling rope tore open men's flesh like a honed blade. The wheels landed among archers, scattering most and crushing others. The broken catapult landed atop another just as it launched its rock. The arm snapped off and the machine tipped to its side. In an instant two of the five catapults were destroyed and the crews of the others had fled. The remaining arms stood half-raised, dumbfounded giants staring at the river.
"Too much tension," Hrolf remarked, never having flinched at the spectacle. Ulfrik and everyone around him had instinctively cowered at the violence, and only now recovered. "I can't work those machines, but even I know you mustn't wind them too tight. It's just like working the rigging of a ship. Tie off too tight and you're bound to break a rope."
Ulfrik exchanged amazed smiles with Gunther, who elbowed him and chuckled. "If he's not worried then I'm not worried. And we've still got three left, plus the siege tower."
However, the tower now leaned at a steep angle and progress had halted. Men surrounded it, milling and crawling over each other to get the tower into motion. Ulfrik watched in silence, his brows tight and his temples throbbing. Nothing budged the tower, its wheels fallen into a steep ditch. His eyes flicked from the tower to the desperate men on the walls whose ladders held in places and fell away in others. Men tumbled from the heights, the dark shapes of their flailing bodies clear against gray stone background. He could not watch them hit the ground, but his mind echoed with the sickening sounds of bodies rupturing like broken barrels. Rubbing his face, he doubted he could witness that terror again.
"We're going in." Hrolf announced the decision, not turning from the disaster unfolding before him. "They'll never clear the siege tower in time to be useful. Knut's men will lead a battering ram. Let's help him try the tower gates."
Returning to his own crew, they looked expectantly at him. When he explained their orders, some faces showed relief and some fear. Ulfrik bridled his own terror, forcing himself to stand straighter and appear firmer than he felt. A veteran of scores of battles, he had never experienced such a horrific chance of an ignominious death. As he led his square of men to join Hrolf's right wing, he thought of Runa and Gunnar. If they had ever angered him, ever showed him a displeased face, he could not remember it now. He only saw them in happiness and safety. He would carry them in his heart to the tower, and resolve to survive for them. Gold and glory would be meaningless as a lump of broken flesh beneath a Frankish tower. He would live, and return to them with all he promised and more.
Closing in on the tower, the shrill sounds and putrid smells of death drew over Ulfrik. Overall the Danes attacked like voracious wolves, but groups of men fled white-eyed and screaming. Hrolf cursed them as they shoved past, and other men tripped or hindered them. Ulfrik ignored them, trying to deny he would soon be following their path.
The battering ram was nothing more than a huge log chained inside a housing of wood that was topped with a slanted roof. Water-soaked hides lined the sides and protected the men carrying the housing on their shoulders. At least twenty men manned each side and Ulfrik envied the protection they received. His job was to wait for a breach and exploit it, which meant standing beneath falling rocks and arrows while waiting for his chance.
Hrolf halted his line and raised shields. Ulfrik, bearing a new and wider shield, ordered his men lock shields. Snorri leaned down next to him.
"We're going to stand here and be shot? This is madness!"
Ulfrik's answer disappeared beneath a booming thud. The battering ram crew shouted in unison, swinging the enormous timber a second time. His shield shuddered as arrows rained down, but wide and thick wood held better than his normal shield. Huddling beneath it, he shouted comfort to his men.
"Only a few more hits and the gates are coming down. Hold steady."
A grating crash followed the next boom, and a cheer went up at the top of the tower. Daring to peek through a gap in the shield wall, Ulfrik's hands went cold at what he saw.
The Franks had dropped timbers fashioned into a fork shape from the tower. The massive fork pinned the battering ram log to the ground, ripping the housing from the bearers. Death followed.
Gray-fletched arrows laced into the men and they crumbled in a screaming, bloody heap. Even more horrible, streaming tongues of fire poured from the top of the tower. The infernal mixture of oil and wax drizzled in burning ribbons onto the men at the base of the tower. In an instant, men danced in fiery pools, spinning and waving their arms as they burned. One man had lost his helmet and fire splashed onto his head, removing his hair and face down to the bone. Engulfed in flames, men threw themselves into the Seine, preferring to drown rather than burn.
"Back!" Hrolf gave the order and Ulfrik repeated it. They backed up behind their shields, arrows pelting them in retreat. They stumbled over bodies or into ruts and ditches, but at a safe distance they turned and ran. Behind him the Franks sang in victory as all but the most tenacious or crazed Danes fled.
Many continued to run in horror. Ulfrik joined with him, allowing his men to melt away in the disordered retreat. Snorri had stayed with him, and his breath was heavy and labored.
"I don't think I can do that again." Sweat poured over his heavy face, and his gray hair was matted to his brow.
"Nor I. This is work for a madman."
"We won't attack the tower again, at least not while they're so fresh." Hrolf rose his full height, a head taller than anyone near him. He squinted at the tower, shadowing his eyes with his hand as men fled around him. "If they want to remain in behind their walls, then so be it. We will surround the city and starve them out. I can be patient, particularly when the vengeance will be sweet."
Ulfrik felt his stomach drop. A siege of such a vast fortress would last much longer than winter. Again he summoned memories of Runa and his boys, and closed his eyes, whispering to himself. "Be safe, my family. I will return to you soon, I swear."
He opened his eyes again, and Paris and its walls spread out before him larger than anything he could have ever imagined.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
The milling confusion covered Thrand's escape. Men worried for their own lives, plodding forward with eyes open but seeing nothing. The flow of people traveled both toward and away from the tower. He allowed his pace to flag until he fell to the back of Ulfrik's line, and then melted into the flow heading toward the camps and ships.
His first difficulty lay in contacting Humbert whil
e the wounded surrounded him in the ships. He planned to cut Humbert free, flee with him, then seek the treasure. Most of the wounded would be in no condition to prevent it.
Behind him sounds of battle shook the earth. Men swarmed at his sides, shoving past him in their panic to escape death. The tide of cowards delivered him to Ulfrik's ships, both decks covered with sail cloth to shelter the wounded. At this distance, the battle faded and terror ebbed away. Wounded men who could stand strained to view the carnage, their faces impassive but their eyes unable to watch for long. All around them broken bits of war gear poked above the grass. Shields bristling with arrows, bent swords, dented helmets, shattered spears. Defeat dragged back by haggard men.
The scene renewed Thrand's desire to escape. This was not his battle, and Paris was not his goal. A fortune in gold waited for him, and now only a few steps separated him from it. A new life awaited, one of wealth and the glory it could buy.
Women flitted about the scene, tending the wounded and receiving fresh casualties from the battle. At Ulfrik's ship, a woman emerged from beneath the sail cover. Her head cover fell as she exited and she scrambled to catch it. Losing her balance, she plunged into the water.
Thrand leapt to her as she thrashed in the shallow water. Hoisting her up, the woman sputtered and flapped her arms.
"Are you hurt, girl?" Thrand helped her from the shallows, and the girl nodded as she gasped.
"I can't swim." She looked at him and smiled. "I don't know what I would've done."
"The water is not deep; just stand up."
Her face reddened and she squeezed the water out of her skirt. Thrand noted the whiteness of her leg, and nearly forgot his true purpose. "Do you know the men on this ship?"
She blushed deeper, and Thrand realized he had stumbled upon Toki's secret lover. A smile creased his face. "Is Toki aboard, or anyone else? I am one of Ulfrik's crew and I have an urgent message for him."
"He is sleeping now; his wounds make him groggy. There is a slave aboard. The rest are on the other ship."
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