Banners of the Northmen

by Jerry Autieri

  Driving Ingrid's head down, she brought up her knee. Bone crunched and blood sprayed as Ingrid's nose flattened under the blow. Halla screamed and fought to free herself. Still pinned between the two men, Runa grabbed Ingrid by the hair.

  "Here's my judgment for you. You will speak no more lies and break no more oaths. I will have your tongue cut out."

  "No," she protested through the blood and snot leaking over her mouth. "You can't do that."

  "I have men who will do it for me." She whirled to Halla, who shuddered with a mixture of fear and anger. "And you are so innocent? You are the wife of my brother, and yet you allowed your mother to send men to rape me and kill my son? I should throw you from a cliff."

  Halla began to shake her head, and the defiant gesture inflamed Runa. Seizing her chin to stop the shaking, she pulled Halla's face closer. "You are the real curse, not Toki. If I truly thought my husband and brother dead, then your life would end today. So thank them for it when you see them again. You will remain my hostage, since even without a tongue your black-hearted mother might still contrive a way to threaten me."

  Facing Konal and Kell, both regarded her with passionless faces. She expected something from Konal, either revulsion or approval, but found only bland patience. She waved her hand dismissively.

  "Make sure Ingrid survives the removal of her tongue. Halla returns with us. Everything in this hall, from the servants to the thatch on the roof is for you and your men to take."

  She exited as the men began to laugh and tear apart the hall for whatever they could find. She heard Halla screaming, but nothing from Ingrid. Outside, the air felt fresh and cool. The blood on her hand had caked and started to flake. More men waited outside. Looking past them to the ships in the distance, she thought of Gunnar waiting for her to return. She began to stride confidently toward the shore.

  Only once she had passed all of Konal's men did she let the tears escape. She did not understand them, and did not welcome them. She was the jarl now, and treachery had to be dealt with violence. She feared her violence had not been enough, and would one day cost her more than she had gained.

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  July 13, 886 CE

  Ulfrik surveyed the battlefield. The piles of bodies were mostly Danes, arrows lining their corpses like feathered spines. A light rain fell from the dark sky, plinking into puddles of muddy water and blood. The cheers of the tower's defenders were like the thunder of the storm that threatened to worsen. He spit onto the grass, a foamy mass of saliva and blood. His face still burned where the Frankish spear had raked it.

  Men slogged back from the northern tower to retire to their trenches. Banners were limp and sodden in the light but steady rain. Humbert's cloak hung in defeat overhead. Mord had driven the banner pole into the earth, which now grew muddy and caused the pole to list.

  "Take the banner down," he said to Mord. "I don't want it to fall into the mud. See to the wounded."

  "Not many survived the arrow storm," he said while dragging the pole out of the mud. Einar and several others ambled up, blood and dirt on their faces. "Either you lived or died in that."

  "More reinforcements for the Franks," said one of the onlookers. "And more of our own leaving every day."

  "Only the worthless fled, and the strong have remained. Never worry, for once we get the Franks to grips, we will slay them to a man." Ulfrik offered courage to his men, who smiled weakly or not at all.

  "Ulfrik, come to Hrolf's quarters." Gunther One-Eye's gravelly voice carried across the short stretch of field. He waved toward the quarters, which Hrolf had built for himself and his bodyguards. Only a temporary abode, it was made from the same rough-hewn logs as the other barracks. The pale yellow wood stood out against the black line of trees behind it.

  Waving back, he gestured Mord and Einar to follow. As they crossed the field, men bore their injured companions toward the tents where women tended them. Two men carried another with an arrow in his eye, and amazingly the victim still lived—cursing every god he could name.

  "He should be thanking the gods," Mord said. "A man can do well with one eye."

  Ulfrik chuckled as they continued past. "I know the man you speak of, but I think he sees with three eyes instead of one."

  He gave Mord a knowing look. He frowned in confusion, shaking his head.

  "I don't know why your father sent you to spy on me, but I hope you have entertained him with good stories. The days have been long and boring."

  "Why would you accuse me of spying, Lord Ulfrik?"

  "Because it's true." Both he and Einar laughed, while Mord fell quiet.

  Men idled outside the hall, chatting in low voices, heads pulled down against the stiffening rain. Gunther waited his turn to enter. The doorway was small and the quarters were not meant to house large groups. Ulfrik approached his old friend.

  "You look too fresh to have done any fighting. Were you pissing yourself at the back of the line?" Ulfrik clapped Gunther's back, who laughed at the joke.

  "And someone improved your looks." Gunther pointed inside. "Turns out that was no ordinary reinforcement breaking through. We've got a prisoner and he's talking. That was Odo himself returning to Paris."

  "He was not already in Paris?" Gunther shrugged.

  Each jarl was admitted, but could only take one man. Ulfrik tapped Einar and Mord waited outside. Escaping the drumming rain was a relief, and the snapping hearth fire created a warm dryness in the room. Hrolf sat on a chair looking awkward in what had been built for a shorter man. Two spearmen in full mail flanked him. Ulfrik noted they looked dry and comfortable, while the assembled jarls and their men were sodden and miserable.

  The smoke hole was not wide enough, and white haze filled the room as it backed up at the ceiling. Ulfrik and several others coughed. He was about to complain when Hrolf stood.

  "Our prisoner has been willing to talk." Ulfrik noted the splotches of blood around Hrolf's knees and boots.

  "I bet he's not talking anymore," he whispered to Einar. The comment, which Ulfrik had thought inaudible to others, drew Hrolf's smile.

  "He will be sacrificed to the gods at dawn tomorrow. I've got everything I need to know from him, and all are bad tidings."

  A murmur circulated through the group, though Ulfrik merely folded his arms and waited. He wondered how this situation could worsen.

  "Odo had slipped our lines months ago, and sought aid from his Emperor, Charles the Fat. He has returned successful. Charles is bringing his army from the south, and his brother Henry of Saxony is closing from the east."

  Hrolf studied the faces of his assembled men, his eyes flinty and jaw set. When he met Ulfrik's, he nodded.

  "We will be outnumbered and surrounded if this happens."

  "Then we should meet the fat king's army before he arrives and crush him. We'll take his kingdom," said one of the jarls. A few voices added agreement, but Ulfrik remained mute. The idea of leaving Paris to attack the emperor was foolish, and Hrolf would know it.

  "A fine idea, friend, but the emperor's army is three times the size of ours at its peak. Besides, we are here to sack Paris or force a tribute of silver. I've no plans to rule Frankia, for now, at least."

  His comment drew the intended laughter, though it was short-lived and uninspired.

  "We should make one final attempt on Paris," Ulfrik stated. "Either we break through now or we go home."

  Hrolf closed his eyes and silently nodded his agreement. Gunther slapped Ulfrik's back, adding his own encouragement to the idea. Soon all in the room had resolved to make one final push.

  "I will have the siege tower repaired." Hrolf joined with the rest of his jarls, moving among them to stop by Ulfrik's side. "Ladders will be built to new heights, and we will be ready for their tricks this time. Before help can reach them, Paris will be a pile of rubble and we will be away."

  "How long do we have before the Franks arrive in force?" Ulfrik asked, anxious to have a point in time that he could focus on returnin
g to his family.

  "Maybe a month before their emperor arrives, and sooner if he hurries. We can ill afford a delaying attack, but I may send men after Henry of Saxony."

  "I will lead the attack," Ulfrik heard Einar suck his breath. Ulfrik's other concern was the lack of plunder and failure to find riches. A rich lord would be a fine ransom.

  "Let me consider your offer," Hrolf touched Ulfrik's shoulder, and returned to his chair. Other jarls scowled at Ulfrik, but he ignored them. If they were dull witted and slow, it was not his concern.

  Hrolf continued at length on details of their strengths and his plans for the final assault. Ulfrik listened and nodded at the right moments, but his mind traveled back home. Snorri and Toki would have arrived by now, bringing Runa hope as well as protection. He had drilled Runa in basic sword techniques, enough to surprise an unwary man attempting to harm her or their sons. However, it could never be enough in the face of a real attack.

  He longed to feel Runa's warm skin under his hand, smell the sweet scent of her hair, and hear the gentle purr of her voice. He wanted to whisk Gunnar into his arms, and carry him on his shoulders as he did years ago, one final time before his son became too old for such frivolity. Hakon would be walking steadily now, and Ulfrik wondered if the boy remembered him. All those desires were so far away, and all that sat between fulfillment and him was Paris. All oaths would resolve when the walls fell.

  At last they were dismissed and Ulfrik wandered outside with the others, still lost in thought until Einar broke in.

  "Where did your heart go while Hrolf spoke? You were not in the room with us."

  He grinned. "It went home, Einar. If we breach these walls, then I can avenge Ander, claim the treasure we came seeking, and be clear to return home."

  Outside, the rain slapped Ulfrik's warm face like a cold hand. Mord, now pulled into his cowl, joined them. Completely bedraggled from standing in the rain, he smiled when he saw them.

  "All dried off? I've been thinking about what you said, Lord Ulfrik. My father never asked me to spy on you, I just assumed that was my role."

  "And have you done well in it?"

  "I have." Mord fell in with them as they rushed through the rain for their barracks. "But you've know it all along?"

  "Of course."

  "My father believes you will become a great jarl under Hrolf, and he wants to know what you stand for."

  "And make sure he's always on the winning side. He told me that himself."

  "True." They fell silent for the final distance over the muddy field, but as they arrived at the barracks, Mord spoke up again. "Hrolf has no plans to release you once this is done. My father has said so more than once. Do you know that?"

  Ulfrik did not answer. He did not want to consider what he had long suspected: even if Paris collapsed today, he might never return home again.

  Ulfrik watched from the rear ranks with Hrolf and his block of fighting men. After weeks of planning, building, and drilling, hundreds of Danes now scrabbled up the walls of the north tower. Less than half the force remained from eight months before, but the defenders were just as strong. Ulfrik glanced at Mord, who gripped Nye Grenner's standard with a white-knuckled hand. He saw his own worry slashed into the taut lines of his face.

  The attack was faltering.

  Ropes of fire poured down the tower walls, searing the men below and driving them into the river. Franks shoved away ladder crews, screaming Danes clinging like bugs on a falling branch. The mighty arrow storm from both sides thrummed in the air, shafts snapping on stone walls or clunking into wooden shields. Men cried out in death and fear, frustration and rage. Those who surmounted the top of the tower spent their lives at great cost, hurling Franks out of their defenses to shatter their bodies at the foot of the tower. The air tasted bitter with burnt flesh and spilled blood.

  Again the Franks defeated the battering ram, this time with fire arrows and burning pitch. Even after soaking the ram housing in water, it still burned. The iron doors had not even bent before the crew scattered.

  "Shall we bring up the attack?" asked an eager-eyed hirdman in Hrolf's command. "The men need inspiration."

  Hrolf growled but said nothing. Ulfrik shared his lord's black mood. Lives were being wasted on this tower assault, but there was no other entrance. To directly assail the walls of the city was even more dangerous, giving the defenders a wider berth to fire their bows. As it was, their arrows were deadly enough when shot from the limited space of the tower.

  Men streamed away from the tower, covered in blood and fear stretched tight on their faces. It was a scene so often repeated Ulfrik had no need to see it. He closed his eyes against the tide of the vanquished.

  Defeat.

  He would not be leading a force through the opened tower doors, to push inside and then across the bridge into Paris. Instead, he would wait patiently for Hrolf to admit defeat and conserve his fighting force for another day.

  "Sound the withdrawal," Hrolf said after too few men remained to sustain the attack. When his hirdman questioned him, he struck the poor fool in the jaw and screamed his order again. The first notes were weak, the man recovering from the staggering blow, but as his notes strengthened other horns joined. Soon, the riverbank reverberated with the sad call of retreat.

  Having never witnessed Hrolf striking his own, Ulfrik regarded his lord. His teeth gnashed in bitter determination, which Ulfrik took as a poor sign. Though he had promised one last attempt before departing Paris, Ulfrik was certain Hrolf would not back down. He would lead them all to their deaths before abandoning his ambition. In his heart, Hrolf was stubborn and driven, and he fostered heavy grudges. His fury was not typical of the Norse people; it was every bit as intense, but slower and steadier and capable of burning far past the point where another man's rage would extinguish.

  Ulfrik was tied to this man, who had tied himself to vanquishing Paris. All the while, the defeated army flowed around both of them.

  They stood in place, a block of discipline amid a chaos of disorder, each man looking ahead—fixing on nothing but their own thoughts. The Franks cheered, as usual lauding their gods Christ and Saint Denys. Ulfrik wondered if their other god, Saint Denys, was responsible for defying Odin and Thor. To Ulfrik's mind, the gods of the Norsemen had grown bored and abandoned them to the new gods.

  "Lord, they have shown a white sheet. What does it mean?" One of the hirdmen pointed at the tower, where a white flag fluttered in the wind while the Franks continued to cheer. Ulfrik did not understand the meaning.

  "They want to parley, or surrender." Hrolf's voice did not sound as if he believed they intended surrender. "It's a sign for a temporary peace, like our hazel branch. I will go to hear what they say."

  Hrolf took Ulfrik and Gunther along with ten other spearmen, each bearing the siege shields that to Ulfrik appeared more like hall doors. Not even the dirty Franks would attack under the sign of truce, but precaution was always prudent. A translator, a Dane who had long lived in Frankia, accompanied them. They had to step over bodies and slog through bloody pools. A hand grabbed Ulfrik's ankle, a weak and trembling grip of a man not yet dead. Pulling his foot away, he continued forward. Too many suffered like this man, and to save them all would take a half day of labor. Normally, the Franks allowed them to cart away the dead and injured as long as only small parties worked at it.

  Halting before the tower, puddles of flame still twisted at the base of the walls. Ulfrik averted his eyes from the smashed corpses, his stomach churning from memories of the sounds of shattering bodies. Gore sprayed the ground along with spent arrows, broken weapons, and blood-soaked clothing. Ulfrik kicked away a busted shield, and squinted up. The flag withdrew and a gray-haired man leaned over the edge, speaking perfect Norse.

  "Jarl Hrolf, why have you persisted in this foolish quest? Return to your ships and leave. God forbids you entrance to our city."

  "Humbert!" Ulfrik shouted before Hrolf could answer. "I'll pull apart every stone of your walls
to get you. I'll dance in your guts!"

  "Ah, my old master, Ulfrik. My name is Anscharic and you would do well to learn it. I am bishop now that poor brother Joscelin has passed on to our Lord in Heaven."

  "I'll call you a dead man. You killed my hirdman and friend." Ulfrik stepped forward, shaking his fist at the walls. Anscharic spoke to the men beside him, and laughter filtered down.

  "I've put a price on your life, Ulfrik. You will not live long."

  Ulfrik inhaled to roar back defiance, but Hrolf's long arm yanked him by the hood of his cloak. "Forget your grudges with the old man. Let me talk."

  Glaring at the shadowed faces laughing at him atop the tower, he reluctantly stepped back in line. Hrolf cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted.

  "Listen, fools, your king has not come and Henry has died on the way to save you. If your god loves your city so much, why has he delayed and killed those who seek to protect you?"

  The Franks disappeared back over the edge. Hrolf chuckled, then spoke to his men. "Their wondering if that news is true. I'm glad someone up there is translating for me."

  The Danes laughed, but Ulfrik glowered. At this moment, he would trade his life for a bow to shoot Anscharic off the walls.

  "Unless you called me here to surrender," Hrolf continued, "you waste your time. For seven hundred pounds of silver, I will be pleased to take my men away. Otherwise, you'd die happier if you jumped from this tower."

  Hrolf folded his arms, and the Franks continued to murmur. Their white flag withdrew, and Ulfrik along with the others raised shields expecting an ambush. Only Hrolf did not flinch. Soon, Anscharic leaned over the wall again.

  "God will have no mercy on you. Leave before you perish in the mud." Anscharic withdrew along with the defenders.

  Hrolf led his group back to the line, stepping over the dead as if they were nothing more than stones in his path. "If we can't defeat these walls, then we will starve them into submission. The Franks are not as confident as they want us to believe. The carry on about their god, but it is empty boasting. Their god is dead, and can't help them. Don't fret, in a few more months they will be starving and ready to open their gates."