Banners of the Northmen

by Jerry Autieri

  They slowed their approach as they closed on the unflinching line of defenders. A wry smile came to Runa's lips when she realized she could not identify Skard. For a man who had terrorized her home for years, his face remained unknown.

  "Looks like maybe twenty-five to thirty spearmen." Konal offered his estimate as they halted. The defenders were like a flock of geese in an open field. "Almost three of ours to one on them."

  Kell grunted and ordered both wings of their loose formation to break off the flanks and begin encircling Skard's troops. A ripple of spears and gleams of helmets turning to monitor the attackers were all the reactions from the defenders. They remained unmoved.

  "If you want to let them know who you are, do it now." Konal prodded Runa with the side of his shield, then pointed with his chin to the front of the line. "You'll be safe. They're not set up for archers and no one can hide in a field like this."

  At last her enemies were gathered into a cluster to be smashed. She had never expected to be the one to do it, standing on the ground where Ulfrik should have stood. She drew her breath, then stepped forward from the line, watching Konal's men complete their envelopment. These were men who knew their deaths had come.

  "Skard, you maggot! Nye Grenner has come to burn you out of your holes and lay open your bones. Your war with us has led you all to this doom. What do you say to this?"

  Laughter erupted from the surrounded men, and Runa's heart chilled. A half dozen turned and revealed their backsides while others shouted curses. One figure detached from the mass of gray mail and round wood shields. He was indistinguishable from the others beyond the red and white paint on his shield. Those had been Hardar's colors, and identified him as Skard.

  "Nye Grenner's bitch has come? Are you a gift to us, that we can each take a turn with you?"

  "Surrender now, and your men will have mercy from me."

  "My men would rather have you ride them." More laughter flowed, as if the ring of armed invaders around them were only a fanciful dream.

  "You had your chance." Skard grabbed his crotch and Runa turned in disgust. Konal's smile showed behind the cheek plates of his helmet.

  "Not the reaction you had imagined, I guess. Can we kill these fools and be done?"

  Falling in with him, drawing her shield up and sliding her sword from its sheath, she spoke through clenched teeth. "Let's dance in their blood."

  Konal and Kell bellowed across the short expanse. All levity from Skard's men vanished, and they roared back. Then the charge launched.

  The men behind Runa shoved her forward, one of their shields pushing into her back. Galvanized, she sprinted with speed that astonished her. She felt outside of herself, as if watching another woman running in a pack of wild men. Her face was twisted into an ugly snarl, mimicking the wolf whose pelt wrapped her body. Curly hair flowed over her shoulders and her body bounced and snapped as it pounded toward the wall of shields and lowered spears.

  She snapped back into herself.

  The collision sounded like a village of houses collapsing at once. Her shield slammed into an enemy's, bouncing her back into her own man, who in turn rammed her forward again. All her training had not prepared her this, feeling like a child's doll flopping between the two shields. Konal had warned her of it, but she had discounted it as an attempt to dissuade her.

  Completely pinned, she could only let momentum carry her forward as men grunted, screamed, and cursed. The smell of stale beer and coppery blood bloomed in her nose. The air was hot and foul at the center of the press. A frightful snap of pain in her back flashed white across her vision.

  Then she stumbled into the cool, fresh air, tripping over a man lying on his back.

  A hand seized her leg, and she slashed it with her sword. Release and warm blood poured over her leg. Kicking to her feet, the man below had lost three fingers to her strike. She drove her sword into his neck, and he flailed in his death throes.

  Freed, she assessed the result of the charge. They had flowed through the line, trampling Skard's pitiful resistance. No organized defense remained, only men fighting in scattered clusters.

  Training took over and her shield raised to block a strike to her head. The blow was undisciplined, she had already stepped away and now folded up the attacker's sword arm with her shield. He was no taller than Runa and no match for her training. Her sword slid into his gut and pulled away bloody. He crumpled with a whimper.

  A foot landed in the small of her back, and she hurled forward, crashing on her shield. Again, all the times Ulfrik or Konal had knocked her flat served her now. Nimble without heavy armor, she rolled into the attacker's legs and tripped him. A stream of curses flowed as he tumbled over her, piling into the ground.

  Springing to her feet, another man had already driven a spear into her attacker's back. As Ulfrik had warned her, a man on the ground counted his life in breaths.

  Hours seemed to have passed, and she wondered why victory had not arrived. She saw Konal slicing open a man's throat while Kell stood beside him, dragging an attacker by his cloak to the ground. All the other men looked the same to her, and she assumed the prevailing ones were her own. It could not be otherwise, she thought.

  The red and white shield emerged from the drab scramble of fighting men. The sky had again darkened, dropping a flat light over the battlefield. Skard's face was more evil than she imagined: scarred, sharp angled, tight skinned, and thin lipped, and midnight black eyes buried under unruly brows. Blood had splattered the white side of his shield and dripped from his face.

  "Whore of Nye Grenner! You think yourself a shield maiden? I'll teach you what you are."

  Runa lunged at him, striking high but reversing toward his leg. He laughed, and she retracted her arm moments before he slashed at it. They circled amid others who danced the same mortal struggle. Someone bumped into her, and Skard shot out.

  She deflected with her sword, and rammed him with her shield. He slid back, cackling as if it was mere play. Her hand numbed from the strike on her blade, but she had bought space to recover.

  "Your little boy has joined the battle. Seems the whelp has a death wish."

  Her hands froze and her stomach lurched. Instinct overawed her training and she searched for Gunnar.

  In the next instant, she was looking at the sky. The pain throbbing in her gut informed her she had been kicked. Her sword hand flexed on empty air.

  A man on the ground counts life in breaths. She rolled to the side, then onto her knees and jumped to her feet. Skard had hacked the ground where she had fallen, but recovered swiftly.

  He placed his shield before him, the metal rim just below his chin so that his body was completely covered. His sword flashed low and to the side.

  "You have no sword, whore." He stepped toward her, his shield denying any chance to tackle him. "Whatever you think you've won today, you have lost your life. And no whore-bitch will go to Valhalla."

  Runa skipped forward, pulling her leg back, then kicked the bottom of Shard's shield with all her strength.

  Bolts of searing agony rode up her foot to as high as her knee.

  The top of the shield plowed into Skard's face with startling force, ramming his nose and sending him stumbling back. Screeching, Runa leapt onto him, tearing the sax at her lap from its scabbard.

  Dazed and pinned, Skard did not resist. Runa plunged the blade sideways into his gut, cutting through the links of his mail coat and then into his flesh. Withdrawing the sword, she screamed her anger as she stabbed the sax repeatedly into Skard's torso. He flexed, blood and foam erupting from his mouth, and his black eyes flickered then glazed.

  Convinced Skard's words had been a distraction, she allowed a moment to peel herself from his corpse and sit on the grass.

  But Skard had not lied.

  Gunnar huddled behind a shield three times too big for him, his pitiful blade lancing out at the legs of men still struggling around him. Others ignored him, but Runa screamed his name in horror.

  Sh
e launched to her feet, only to crumple as soon as she hit the earth. The kick had ruined her foot, which throbbed and swelled in its boot. Still, she scrabbled across the grass, witnessing Gunnar's blade slicing into the leg of an enemy.

  The wounded man howled, and having dispatched his attacker, turned his ire on Gunnar.

  In one hack, Gunnar's shield spun out of his grip and he tumbled into view. That he was a child appeared to stun the enemy, his next blow suspended overhead. Gunnar's face turned waxy white. Runa screamed his name, hand stretching to snatch him from beneath the sword.

  The enemy's shock dissipated and he renewed his strike.

  Konal plowed into the enemy, slamming him to the ground and running his blood-caked blade into his leg. Gunnar recovered, his sword ranging to fight off any attack. Konal scooped Gunnar into his shield, and he searched the battlefield.

  Tears sprung to Runa's eyes. She forgot the pain in her foot, and fought to stand. All around the battle tide ebbed. Konal appeared calmed, and Runa took it to mean victory.

  He spotted her as she rose, and she smiled. His face exploded in fear.

  Cold agony bloomed at her back, and she collapsed forward. Her head bounced off a rock that jutted from the ground, then blackness filled her eyes and she knew no more.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  August 9, 886 CE

  "This is the last time I can sneak away before we make contact with Henry and his army." Einar searched the surrounding trees as he handed a sack of bread and venison to Thrand. "Now's the time to make good use of the sword I gave you. Also, here's a shield. Best I could do for you."

  Thrand's eyes filled with tears as Einar unslung the plain wooden shield from his back and dropped it to the dirt. His old friend had been true, providing provisions and gear to help him survive on his own. Now he offered Thrand the redemption he desperately sought, the redemption that haunted his sleep and stalked his waking hours. Spirits still followed him in the forest, whispering in his ears and demanding that he do something to make good the evil he had wrought.

  "You are a great man, Einar. Your heart is as strong as your body." Thrand scooped up the shield, lacing it through his arm.

  The two men stood deep in a forest, morning fog still rolling across the ground. Thrand had grown accustomed to the sounds and smells of the forest, whereas Einar seemed to jump at every cracking branch or blowing leaf. The morning promised a hot day ahead, and sweat beaded on Einar's uncovered head.

  "I'm a fool," he said. "Anyway, we are laying a trap for Henry's army. The path of their march will lead them past a wooded hill, where Ulfrik has concealed archers. They will drive Henry's army forward onto us, where we hide in the woods by the road. We've been studying their approach, and they’re not scouting ahead. They don't expect us this far out from Paris. They'll pay for that sloppiness."

  "Where will Ulfrik be? I want to fight at his side once more." Thrand did not know what he hoped to achieve, other than he craved the camaraderie of battle. If only for a short time, he would again belong with someone.

  "With the main force. You know his red banner." He gave Thrand a critical smirk. "I've got to return before I'm missed. Honestly, Lord Ulfrik is fussing over me like I am his child. This isn't my first battle."

  Thrand picked the bag of provisions from the grass. "Ulfrik is right to make you his second. If only I had chosen differently, I could've served under you."

  Einar grimaced, then shrugged. "Don't be stupid out there. You've not the gear to stand up front like you did before."

  Thrand watched Einar leave, the stubborn fog swirling and enveloping him. In moments only black trees and gray rocks peered above the milky haze.

  "I will stand with my lord," he said to the forest. "I've years of evil to make amends for, and I cannot do so hiding behind others."

  Ulfrik clung to the ground with two hundred other warriors. Cloaks of brown, green, and gray appeared as nothing more than lumps in the earth. Helmets and metal were smeared with mud. White eyes peered out from dirt-darkened faces, all of them scanning the track that wended through the forest. The scent of earth filled Ulfrik's nose, and the dampness wormed through the links of his mail to wet his shirt. He glanced at Einar to his right. Even buried under leaves his bulk was obvious.

  "Do you see anything?" Ulfrik hissed at Einar. "Your eyes are better than mine."

  "Not yet." Einar's voice barely concealed his irritation, and Ulfrik realized he had asked the question one too many times.

  Across the road, atop a tree-studded hill, his archers lurked in the underbrush. Fifty of them waited for the column of Franks to pass, and then would erupt from hiding to shove the Franks sideways into the forest and onto Ulfrik's waiting spears. A blind turn in the road provided excellent cover for his main force. He counted on surprise and confusion to make short work of the Franks. His reputation with Hrolf hung on the outcome of the attack. Hrolf had explicitly stated that a gift of Henry's head would help him overlook Ulfrik's indiscretions.

  "The Franks are near," Mord said from Ulfrik's left. He had buried Ulfrik's standard under leaves, and would raise it when the attack began. His hand already sought the pole in preparation of the charge.

  The marching of troops vibrated in the ground beneath Ulfrik's chest. He heard a stir of leaves like the wind rushing through the forest, but knew it was his men gathering their weapons for the attack. An ant crawled over Ulfrik's nose. He ignored it as the insect wandered over the crags and peaks of his face. The first of the Franks emerged into view, rounding the blind corner.

  He held his breath. All around mounds of leaf-shrouded warriors inched forward. The ant crawled through his beard and bit his cheek.

  Franks slouched in their mail hauberks, shouldering spears and axes, shuffled past him. They made dull conversation in bored voices, a rumbling murmur that ran through their column.

  Then the thrum of bows followed by shrieks of the injured.

  "Hold a moment," Ulfrik commanded, his voice barely louder than normal. "Let their backs turn to us."

  Swords hissed from sheaths and arrows slammed into upraised shields. A few shafts sprinkled to the edge of the woods, disturbing the remnants of the morning fog still clinging to the ground. Frankish leaders hollered orders at their men, and the column lined up to face the archers.

  "Now! For battle and glory!" Ulfrik sprung and two hundred men shed their camouflage in an explosion of leaves.

  They charged the rear lines, spears lowered or swords braced to drive through the backs of the unsuspecting Franks. Ulfrik bolted straight for the first man in his way, and cleaved the Frank at the shoulder hard enough to collapse the man to the ground. Mord followed at this left, the banner of Humbert's cloak swinging wildly overhead. Einar brought up his right, wielding a two-handed ax that chopped an unsuspecting Frank like firewood.

  The ambush had been expertly timed and the Frankish column broke and scattered. The archers abandoned their bows and joined the fray, trapping most of the enemy against Ulfrik's force. Screams of terror and curses flowed out of the cleft where the Franks staggered and died. Ulfrik's heart sang with the glory and freedom of battle. His charge carried him through the first man and into the fray. All around he had enemies to strike. Einar's massive ax hooked shields to drag them down and Ulfrik stabbed his blade into the gap. Franks gasped and perished. Mord showed himself as capable as Toki had been with the standard, planting it beside Ulfrik and destroying enemies who sought to batter it down.

  After months of inaction or uninspired raids against unworthy foes, Ulfrik was giddy with the thrill of a true battle. His blade flashed white as he slashed right, and his shield slammed left. He cut a swathe of victory through the ranks of the enemy, and Danes swarmed alongside him.

  "Kill the bastards," he screamed. "Their blood is ours to spill. For Odin and Thor! For battle eternal!"

  The killing song drove him like a madness. Franks scattered at his approach, tripping over one another to escape his wrath. He spit blood into the f
ace of one wide-eyed man and gutted him in the next moment.

  Then the thunder.

  Ulfrik tumbled back, the sky in his eyes. Dark shapes flying past. The copper taste of blood filling his mouth. Sounds were muffled and dull. He realized he had been hit in the head, and his helmet knocked away. Someone screamed his name as he felt the thunder throbbing in the earth.

  Cavalry.

  Out of nowhere horses crashed through Ulfrik's line and scattered the throng of defenders. His standard had fallen. He rolled to the side, away from the approaching sound of hoofs beating the ground. A spear lanced the ground where he had just sprawled out, and the horse and rider sprinted past him.

  On his feet, he had little time to consider. The riders rode beneath a standard of some strange beast. A regal man in shining mail and a casque embossed with a gold crown led the group of ten riders, undoubtedly Henry of Saxony. They were turning their horses on the road, hampered by the trees crowding them. They reached for fresh spears carried on the flanks of their mounts as they maneuvered for a second pass.

  Ulfrik had lost his sword, and so drew his sax. The short blade was worthless against mounted men, but he had nowhere to turn. Behind him a gap hung open where the cavalry had breached the line. Men were strewn on the ground, dead or dazed. He hoped the horses might trip on the bodies on their second pass.

  Henry shouted something in his language, hefted a spear, and kicked the horses to a run. Five went in front with five others behind. Their cloaks of blue or gray fluttered behind them as their horses kicked clods of dirt into the air. Ulfrik and a handful of bloodied men faced them.

  "Go on, you Frankish bastards!" he roared at them. "I'll take you and your ponies to the grave."