Banners of the Northmen

by Jerry Autieri

  The catapult on the opposite bank snapped forward, launching a dead cow over the walls. Ulfrik could not help laughing at the ridiculous shape of a cow flying through the air, something he never expected possible. After all these idle months, catapult ammunition had been depleted and now only shot carcasses or trash. Two of the remaining three had broken beyond repair, and the strange olive-skinned men who mastered them had either died or fled. Only one remained with a lonely crew who barely knew their machine. In the mist beyond, the silhouette of the mired siege tower threatened to fall over. Men gambled on the day it would crash in final defeat.

  Ships without crews drifted at anchor along the Seine. They tugged at their ropes, as if wanting to flee the city and sail north again. The others gathered next to him.

  "How many of those ships have been emptied of their crews?" Toki asked.

  "Dozens of ships have been orphaned," Mord answered. He kicked a rock out of the mud, then tossed it at Paris. "Hundreds died on those walls, and others have disappeared into the countryside. We might soon have only ghosts to sail those ships."

  "The new men mix well with ours," Ulfrik said, aiming for a more positive conversation. "They're eager to prove themselves, and get rich."

  "No one came here for any other purpose." Toki stood aside Ulfrik and Mord, all three men squinting at the gray tableau before them. "Raiding hasn't been too much profit, not with all the nearby churches sacked."

  "We'll have to take them farther afield to fresh lands," Ulfrik said. "They've fought well enough beside our Nye Grenner men. A few I've been glad to see leave us, but most are good men. It's a shame to waste them sitting in trenches and staring at walls that never change."

  "Lord Ulfrik," Mord said. "My father believes these Franks cannot last much longer and their will to fight is thin. Their emperor is in a far off land I've never heard of before, and he cannot protect them."

  "Humbert claimed the Christian god protects this city, and I wonder if it's true." Ulfrik glanced at both men, whose frowns deepened."Maybe our gods cannot fight the Christian god in his lands. If Ander were alive, I'd ask him to cast his rune sticks and tell us."

  The sober thought silenced the group. Ulfrik bit his lip, wishing he could find a way through the walls. The bridges and their towers had halted all progress. Any attempt to move past them, even on foot, was impossible. Days earlier, Sigfrid had filled the shallows by the southern tower with debris and felled trees and tried to march men past it. Arrows and fire rebuffed them, and the garbage now clung to the pilings of the wooden bridge. As long as the bridges held, Paris could not be bypassed or surrounded. With only two hundred men to defend it, Paris could not stand if surrounded by all the Danes at once.

  "Curse those bridges," Ulfrik muttered.

  "Maybe ghost crews could sail ghost ships over the bridges," Mord said with a laugh. "It might be the only way to get through them."

  "Ghost ships ..." The words slipped from Ulfrik's mouth as a plan formed in a flash. It was daring plan, and a bold plan, entertainment for the gods, and it was bobbing on the waters before him every day since they had dug into their trenches. "Mord, that is what we are going to use. Ghost ships!"

  "I told you not to eat the eels from this river. They're no good for your head." Toki guffawed but Mord understood immediately.

  "The abandoned ships, your want to use them to defeat the bridges."

  Ulfrik was already stomping through the mud to find Hrolf. "We're going to send those ships up the river and through the wooden bridge. It's coming down before this day is over."

  Heart racing, he had found a way through this stalemate. His thoughts turned to family, Runa, I might yet be home by summer!

  K

  "You are either a brave man or a fool." Hrolf looped his arm around Ulfrik's shoulders as they stood facing the river, far downstream from Paris. "But if this succeeds, your name will live forever."

  "It is my desire and plan that more than my name lives on."

  Hrolf laughed, but Ulfrik studied the three ships lashed together in the middle of the river. Ghost ships was the name Mord gave them that morning, a fitting description. The men who had widowed these ships would now take revenge on the city, if only as ghosts sailing with Ulfrik. Behind him, scores of men came to watch the start of the spectacle. Many more had gathered closer to the wooden bridge, ready to follow on the collision of the ships with the bridge. Loud voices proclaimed victory and celebrated the vengeance awaiting them in Paris. Ulfrik shared their lusts, but did not share their confidence in utter victory.

  Men who had completed loading barrels of oil on the ships now pulled away in small, flat-bottomed boats. Wind bent the tops of distant trees, their bare branches like skeletal hands pointing towards Paris.

  "It is time," Ulfrik said to Hrolf. Gunther stood at his right, his single eye squinting at him.

  "Your son wanted to join me, but I forbade it. Then he told me he could swim, and that might be useful."

  Gunther nodded, but did not reply. Hrolf guided Ulfrik by his arm. "Go to meet Sigfrid before you begin. He will steal your glory if this scheme works, but scorn you if it fails. You are certain of your plan?"

  Ulfrik glanced at Mord who waited with Toki and Snorri by the small boat that would ferry them to the ships. "I am. But Sigfrid has been as useful as a twig in a sword fight. Everyone will know what I did for this siege before the sun sets."

  Hrolf hissed but kept a smile as they neared Sigfrid and his circle of jarls and hirdmen. "Be more respectful of Sigfrid, even if you're not off the mark. Don't bring me troubles, Ulfrik."

  "Another great plan from your clever man!" Sigfrid wore his mail and sword, a shield slung cross his back and a dented helmet tucked under arm. His clear eyes gleamed with excitement as he strode forward to clasp Ulfrik's arm. "You are a brave one too. If you succeed, I will cover your arms in gold bands."

  Not even meeting Ulfrik's eyes, he turned to the gathered crowd and sought their admiration for generosity. The sycophantic group cheered or stomped their feet.

  "You are a generous lord," Ulfrik said, inclining his head.

  "I am here to offer you my aid," he said with a sudden and feigned gravity.

  By drowning in your armor? he thought, and the vision of Sigfrid toppling from the ship in his armor made him smile. "Granting me three ships is aid enough."

  Sigfrid had claimed all the widowed ships that he could, which Ulfrik heard had caused friction with Hrolf. Few things were more valuable than a good ship. Sigfrid hugged Ulfrik, then pushed him toward the others as the crowd shouted encouragement.

  "You are all brave men," he said when they arrived at the banks. Toki had already boarded the boat, and stood when Sigfrid addressed them. "Destroy that bridge, and show these Franks they are not so cunning as they think."

  Ulfrik sat with his three companions as Sigfrid and another man helped launch their boat. Toki began to row as they slipped into deeper waters, and the crowd at the river bank began to move upstream for a better view of the attack.

  "Sigfrid will cover my arms in gold bands if we succeed."

  Snorri rolled his eyes and Toki chuckled. Mord spit into the river, a sour twist on his face. "Aye, and then he'll cut them off your dead body when no one suspects. My father doesn't trust him, at least where gold is concerned."

  Ulfrik raised his brow at Mord, but then they arrived at the ships. They were not high-sided ships which was likely why Sigfrid parted with them. Once on the deck of the first ship, Ulfrik patted the rails. "Unless the wind gusts, these ships aren't going to be strong enough to take down the bridge."

  "Aren't we supposed to burn it down?" Toki asked as he and the others worked to set the sail.

  "I wanted bigger ships to burn longer and brighter, and do more structural damage." Running his hand along the rail, he walked to the stern and placed the rudder into the water. "But it seems Sigfrid wants all the best ships and all of Paris."

  "Typical of his kind," Snorri said. "And the rest of us
suffer for his gain."

  The gods blessed Ulfrik's gambit with an advantageous wind. The sail of the first ship filled and already it struggled against the current. They spread out to the other ships, and once all sails had been hoisted, the vessels strained to race forward in the wind. They tied the tillers in place, bound their small boat for their escape, and each man took position on a ship with Ulfrik and Toki together. Their knives ready to cut free from the anchor stones. All three looked to Ulfrik for the signal. He cast one glance at the gray walls of Paris, seeking for another sign of the gods' favor. Nothing but smoke and gray skies lifted above it. Spitting on the deck, he raised his arm. "Cut us free!"

  All three men sawed furiously until the ropes snapped. Snorri's ship, which towed their escape boat, lurched forward and the other ships jerked in response. Ulfrik grabbed the rail, then Toki's rope snapped away. The extra force broke Mord's middle ship free and he stumbled backwards and landed on the deck. The ships moved as one, and all laughed at Mord's fall.

  The wind on Ulfrik's face made him miss the open sea. Sailing on a river, even one as wide as the Seine, was a pale comparison. For a short time, they only had to make minor adjustments as the bridge came into view. Its low profile of interlaced supports and beams was a formidable barrier. But it was wood, and therefore vulnerable.

  "Set this ship afire," he said.

  "We are not close enough yet."

  "If it is not well aflame by the time it strikes the bridge, the Franks might douse the fire. You've seen their tricks."

  The ships sliced across the waters, sails fat and masts creaking. Already Franks were scurrying along the tops of Paris's walls. Men filed onto the bridge.

  Toki dug into a bag containing touchwood and striking steel, while Ulfrik used a hand ax to smash open kegs of oil. Both Mord and Snorri followed, and began splashing oil on the decks.

  Toki was already crossing to Mord's ship. Ulfrik bounded after him. Holding a smoldering strip of the velvety touchwood, he tore off a piece and flung it into the oil. Fire caught in a breathless rush as Ulfrik landed on the deck. Streamers of flame sprouted wherever oil had splashed, running up the mast and rigging. The bridge was still distant, but archers were attempting to fire on them. The wind frustrated their shots, slapping the arrows into the water prematurely. Soon the range would close and the three ships would be strafed stem to stern.

  They all backed into Snorri's ship, who had already let himself down into the escape boat. Toki repeated his steps, throwing a bit of smoldering touchwood strip into the oil. The first ship blazed like a god of fire, black smoke flowing off it in wind-flattened clouds.

  "The last one and then over the side," Ulfrik said. Through the smoke he saw archers lining up their bows, pointed at the decks. Toki straddled the rail, prepared to start the fire and drop into Snorri's boat. Mord hurried toward him.

  Then fire bloomed everywhere.

  Toki screamed, ribbons of fire on his arm, and he fell overboard. Mord disappeared behind a wall of flame.

  Ulfrik's hands and pants had been splashed with oil.

  The world slowed. His thoughts were measured, too calm to be any use. The wind blew a spark to this ship. How could I have been so stupid? And I've made myself a torch with this oil.

  As slow as if it were all a dream, black shafts arced down and sank into the burning deck. Flames ringed him, and his pants were on fire. He was alone on the ship. It was as though he had endless time to contemplate the situation. Looking up, the burning sail threatened to enfold him in fire as it sagged and snapped from the spar.

  I'd rather drown than burn. I wish I had learned to swim. Though he ran for the bow where no fire had yet bit the wood, it felt as if he walked. The dive into the water took long enough for him to remember Runa, his boys, all of his life. Even his mother, a face long forgotten, came to his thoughts.

  As cold and dark water enveloped him, turning the world to blurry darkness and muffled noises of cracking wood, time snapped back to reality. Panic seized him and he nearly opened his mouth to scream.

  He scrabbled at the water as if he could climb out of it, but his hands found nothing to grab. He was going to drown, his body drawn down into the river muck to rot at the foot of the walls of Paris.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Thrand's head lolled in the darkness. Weak from scant food and drink, he lacked strength to hold up his head. The cell smelled of his waste, and in the dark he often rolled through it or placed his hand in it. Lice and fleas devoured his flesh. Loneliness and silence devoured his heart. He saw a guard once daily, or so he assumed, but it was only to have food shoved through the bottom of the door. Hard bread and gritty water were all he received, and he supplemented with cockroaches or rats if he could catch them. He feared rats would soon nibble at his feet, and then his face. He often awoke from dreams where rats tore his flesh with sharp yellow teeth.

  Kolbyr began to visit him, sitting in the darkness in silence until Thrand begged him to leave. He could not see him, but knew it was him from the ragged gasping and scent of blood. Other times, someone sat beside him in the darkness. Whoever it was listened to Thrand speak until the figure stood and disappeared. These must have been ghosts of former prisoners. At first he complained to the ghosts for his treatment, but their silence defeated him. As weeks passed, he began to explain why he betrayed Ulfrik and even sought to kill him. Yet the spirits reminded him that much of his memories were not true. Ulfrik had not mistreated him, but carried him when others might have let him drown in mead. Many long arguments with the ghosts ended with Thrand unable to remember what had driven his spite. Was it truly drink? The ghosts never answered and Kolbyr only wheezed and bled in the impenetrable dark.

  Time meant nothing now. He hung his head and drool seeped onto his chest as he waited for death. Humbert, or whatever his name was, had thrown him into this pit to die by slow starvation.

  The heavy sound of a wooden bar being drawn roused him. He thought food had already been delivered, but time made no more sense in the unremitting blackness. Yellow light flickered through the small window, and like a trained dog Thrand crawled forward to the door slot to receive his bread and water.

  He heard a strange sound, like metal tumbling, then another bar drawn. The door swept inward, batting Thrand away like a dried husk. The torchlight blazed and he threw his arms over his eyes. Franks began shouting at him, as at least two entered into the room. A sharp point jabbed his thigh and he cried out. Strong hands drew him up and yanked him out of the cell.

  A bag of scratchy cloth slipped over his head and his arms were yanked to his back and tied. More Frankish babble followed, and the point at his back prodded him forward. He stumbled until he crashed on a stone step, the pain in his knees jolting through him like darts. The Franks cursed and picked him up, a man on each side guiding him up the stairs.

  The air became fresher and cooler. Sounds of a tolling bell reached him as he struggled to keep pace with his captors. More Franks joined them, and they exchanged words before Thrand heard another door open. The light penetrating the sack was bright and yellow. His captors shoved him outside of a building. A bracing cold enveloped him and no air ever smelled or tasted so clean, even inside a dirty cloth bag. The bell tolled like thunder and foreign voices swarmed from all around.

  The men hustled him along, and Thrand sensed a crowd forming. Then curses came, followed by objects that struck Thrand by surprise. A woman's voice shouted tearful curses in his face, until his guards shoved her back. He endured the swears and projectiles, smiling. Anything was better than the dark cell of rats and ghosts.

  Entering another building, the angry cacophony muted as a door slammed behind. Many more Franks surrounded him, and a strong hand grasped his arm. A short walk delivered him to another room, where the hand forced him to his knees. A spear tip touched the dry skin of his neck.

  "I'm not going to move, I swear it." He doubted anyone understood, but hearing his own language, even from his own mouth, calm
ed him.

  The bag ripped away and cool air and strong light dazzled him. His eyes pulsed white, then adjusted. He sat on a floor of flagstone in a room with narrow windows up high, blue daylight pouring down. The place was as large as a hall, but decorated unlike anything he had ever seen. He only had a scant moment to take in the tapestries, candle stands, shields, and furniture lining the walls. The spear tip returned to his neck, and at the end of it was a leering Frank with curling blond hair and only three teeth in his mouth. He was dressed in mail, pierced and stained with blood and rust. He barked at him in his strange language.

  "He wants you to know death is only as far away as the point of his spear." The clear Norse echoed around the room, coming from directly ahead.

  Thrand peered into the shadows, seeing the forms of several men, one who was seated in a large chair of dark wood. His weak eyes adjusted and the forms became clearer.

  "You may stand and approach, but stop on my order." The words repeated in Frankish, and the toothless Frank retracted his spear enough for Thrand to rise. He stepped carefully until the seated man raised his hand to stop him.

  "Humbert!" Thrand could scarcely believe the transformation. They had traded bodies, it seemed. Thrand looked at his trembling, wasted arms and then at Humbert. He remained thin, but his face was full of vigor and his posture straight and strong. Dark circles ringed his eyes, but they flashed with intelligence and delight. His gray hair was neatly combed and his beard trimmed. He wore fine linen clothes and a golden cross. Tears welled in Thrand's eyes. "What have you done to me?"

  "No more than what you deserved, and probably less than that." Humbert stood, and the two armed men beside him straightened as he did. "For a long time I planned to let the rats take you. I still may, but it depends on what you say and what Brocard thinks." He pointed at the gap-toothed Frank, who smiled at the mention of his name.