Return of the Ravens (Ulfrik Ormsson's Saga Book 6)

by Jerry Autieri

  Grimnr's tongue probed his cheek as he stared at Ulfrik. The silence grew, but neither man backed away. Grimnr shrugged.

  "All true. An extra set of wise old eyes is always valuable. Be ready to leave tomorrow."

  Slapping Ulfrik on the shoulder, Grimnr left him. Ulfrik leaned over the barrel, his mouth dry. In the dark water his reflection wavered like a fleeting ghost. He had to rescue Vilhjalmer before the battle, or only a future of landless poverty awaited him. He kicked the barrel, swirling his reflection into a scattering of meaningless color.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Ulfrik knew the meeting ground well. He had fought dozens of battles with the Franks over this stretch of plains, from skirmishes to clashes of shield walls that watered the earth with blood. Once again, men would stand shield to shield, braced rank upon rank for the enemy charge, and spend their lives for an empty plain. Flesh would be laid out for the ravens, and soon white bones would dot the green grass. With each step he took over this ground, he imagined the face of a fallen sword brother beneath his foot. All across this rocky, rolling stretch a man's ghost haunted the spot he exhaled a final breath.

  Within another week, if the Franks had their way, the plains would have a host of Northman ghosts to add to its inhabitants.

  The Franks rode horses, twenty well-armored men with a surfeit of weapons surrounding the bulk of Count Amand. Grimnr and his small retinue followed on foot. The count employed Grimnr and his loose army of Northmen, but Ulfrik surmised he did not enjoy their company. Amand's disgusted glances revealed a haughty disdain common among the noble Franks. Such an attitude was not unwarranted, Ulfrik thought, for when not fighting amongst themselves they proved redoubtable enemies. The count, however, did not exhibit much to justify his arrogance other than a fine swooping mustache and a glittering gold cross at his chest. He was gray and soft, unlikely to have ever fought a real battle. Ulfrik wished for a chance to knock him from his horse and introduce him to the mud.

  The midday sun hid behind dark clouds, a bad sign that Grimnr brooded upon for the entire morning. "Something'll go wrong with Mord. I feel it," he had said that morning, and repeated the same dirge for most of the trek to the meeting place. The brooding did not fit Ulfrik's expectation of Grimnr, but his furrowed brow did not release even as they closed the final distance to Mord.

  Ulfrik could not see Mord and his men when the leading Franks called a halt. Despite all that depended on the outcome of today's meeting, Ulfrik still anticipated seeing how Mord had changed over the years. Mord, Gunther One-Eye's only son, had been sent to foster with him during the siege of Paris. He had proved an able man and fast learner. They had grown in friendship after Mord completed his fosterage, and Ulfrik counted him a worthy successor to his father's legacy.

  "Grimnr, we need you up front," called one of the Franks. He stomped forward to join with other Franks, every motion like a petulant child about to throw a tantrum.

  "Does he always take signs so seriously?" Ulfrik took the moment to ask Vigrid, who was also selected to be part of Grimnr's personal guards.

  "Two things Grimnr respects are signs from the gods and a strong enemy."

  "But dark clouds are common enough."

  Vigrid shook his head. "Not on the day of an important undertaking, and not when they come from the south and head for the north. That is a bad sign."

  "Maybe in his village," Ulfrik said. "I've never heard of such a thing."

  They waited for the initial meetings to complete, then were led to the center field. Franks had started construction of a pavilion, little more than five poles to stretch out a white and blue striped cloth against the intermittent sunlight. As they pulled the ropes tight and spiked them into the muddy ground, Ulfrik stepped to the side to seek Mord.

  He stood at the fore of his twenty warriors, all in dark furs and well-worn chain shirts. Their eyes glared out from beneath plain iron helmets with wide nose guards. Their hostility was written in their postures, and hands rested on weapons and flexed as if ready to draw. Mord himself had not changed much over the years. He was never a tall man, nothing like his father, but he filled out his armor with a strong body. He still wore his blond beard short, but his hair had grown longer, a splash of yellow flowing over powerful shoulders. When his eyes met Ulfrik's they seemed clouded with thought until they widened in recognition.

  Ulfrik worried Mord had not been told of his return from supposed death, but from the swiftness of his recovery Ulfrik assumed he knew. Mord's eyes glided off him with no more curiosity than if he had seen a deer wander across the background.

  As Count Amand and his captain fussed over proper seating and Mord's crew snickered at them, Ulfrik studied how to best pass his message to Mord. When all were finally called to their positions, Ulfrik again met Mord's eyes. He raised his brows at Mord and inclined his head slightly. He then shifted his eyes to one of Mord's men, hoping that he understood that man would receive his message. Mord gave no reaction, but instead took a stool set out beside Count Amand.

  The meeting started with Count Amand delivering a windy speech about cooperation and the benefits of joining Frankia. The words tumbled through Ulfrik's ears without leaving a mark. He positioned himself at the back of Grimnr's guard, letting the three other men stand before him. Vigrid had offered him his spot beside Grimnr, but he refused. He now waited, staring at Grimnr's thick braid wagging from beneath his helmet. He chimed in whenever Count Amand prompted him, but his role at this point was otherwise unimportant. No tactics were discussed, which would be Grimnr's place.

  Ulfrik began slipping back toward Mord's line. More words slithered out of Amand's mouth, but Ulfrik only made a pretense of listening. His head was filled with his own message, which had to be delivered with the sharpness and precision of a master archer's arrow. He slid ever closer to the edge of his own side like ice melting on a cool spring day. Mord ignored him, but he could not resist glancing at him enough for Amand to absently follow it back to Ulfrik.

  "What if Einar and Ull won't play along?" Mord's statement was as clear as a spear hurled at Ulfrik's feet. His emphasis on that question was subtle and his glance at Ulfrik fleeting, but the message was clear. Einar and Ull would not be blindsided. Knowing this thawed the ice around Ulfrik's heart, yet he still had to get his news into Mord's ears. A considerably harder task when not being permitted to speak.

  "If you expect your son returned, then you will make them comply," Count Amand said with a dismissive flip of his hand. "Grimnr can advise you on ways to convince them. He has a way with words your kind understands."

  Ulfrik took a larger step toward his target.

  "How do I know my son is alive?" Mord asked. "You should have taken him to me as proof."

  Another step closer.

  "You have my solemn word before God that your son is in perfect health. My priest cares for both his body and spirit, and I daresay he is enjoying his time in my home."

  A final step and the man at the end of Mord's line looked askance at Ulfrik.

  "Words to your god mean nothing to me." Mord spit on the ground. "Without proof my son lives, you'll get nothing from me. Don't you know how this works?"

  Count Amand gave Grimnr a withering look, then turned to Mord. "I thought your people put great stock in personal oaths. As one warrior to another, I am being honest with you."

  Ulfrik nodded to Mord's man, a solid fellow with dark skin and his front teeth missing. His voice was a harsh whisper. "Hey, are you the one they say lost his teeth trying to fuck a horse?"

  "What?" The man's face twisted into a scowl and his fists balled.

  "Horse kicked you in the face, did it? And here you thought animals would be easier than women. I bet that was a shock."

  "You dog shit!"

  Flinging himself at the man before he could draw his weapon, Ulfrik plowed him backward. He followed up with a punch to the man's gut, hoping to wind him. Breath like stale cheese expelled into Ulfrik's face, but he shoved the man onto
the ground and followed atop him. He sought to turn the brawl into a wrestling match.

  Men from both sides skittered aside and began to shout. Ulfrik gave the man an opening to recover, and then he wrapped the man in a headlock. Sliding to the mud beside him, he hissed into the man's ear. "I have a message for Mord. You must pass it to him in secret after this meeting."

  The man elbowed him and growled. Ulfrik tightened his lock and shook him. "Eskil and all his men are dead. Send help to get the son out."

  It was all he could say before others crowded them and began to pull them apart. He released the man, his eyes wide with shock and his hair wild and twisted from the fight. Ulfrik glared at him and nodded. The man blinked but nodded as well, kicking back.

  The warm feeling of success vanished back into cold fear when Ulfrik looked up. Franks and Northmen were fighting, and not just with fists. Count Amand had retreated behind a wall of Frankish guards. Grimnr and Mord were peeling apart combatants. Men slugged each other and others crossed swords. Grimnr howled like the wolf he resembled, calling for peace. For all his size, Mord demonstrated his strength tearing men from battle. In the confusion, Ulfrik again looked to the man he had targeted.

  "You must get that message through." The man stood and again nodded.

  The brawl ended when Grimnr and Mord had settled the last stubborn few. When all was done, one of Grimnr's guards lay dead. Ulfrik had not even learned the man's name. A dagger stuck out of his belly and blood flowed in a red stream into the grass.

  "I knew this would be a bloody day," Grimnr said through clenched teeth. "Look at this. Mord, you give me the bastard who did this to my man or it's you who'll answer."

  Mord bristled, scowled at Ulfrik, then wheeled on his men. They lined up like naughty children and he pulled their hands out one at a time until a thin, copper-haired man turned up a bloody palm. Mord yanked him out of line and thrust him at Grimnr.

  "Blood for blood." Grimnr pulled his sax from its sheath, and before the copper-haired man could protest, the blade rammed into his gut. He moaned and crumpled to the ground, Grimnr tearing his short sword from the body. He pointed the bloodied blade at the line of Mord's men, his face dark red and deep-lined with hate. He walked down the row toward Ulfrik, stopping just before him.

  "You filth aren't worth the life of one of my camp whores."

  Without warning, he plunged the gory sword into another man's throat.

  A dark-skinned man with his front teeth missing.

  "That evens it up," Grimnr said as the man to whom Ulfrik had delivered his message gurgled his final breath through his punctured throat.

  Roars on both sides went up, weapons flew from sheaths, and shields faced enemies. Mord shouted for peace at his own men and Count Amand was forced to stand before his Franks and stand them down. The flare of anger lasted only moments, but to Ulfrik it felt as if a decade had passed. He fixed on the man at his feet, his blood dark and thick beneath his head.

  When all had stood down, Mord approached Grimnr in barely controlled rage. "This one started the fight." He thrust a finger at Ulfrik. "You should give him to me, and then we'll call this done."

  "I'll give you back your life, little man, for insulting me with your threat."

  More explosive cursing ensued, but Mord and Grimnr stared each other down until Count Amand intervened. "Enough, Grimnr, we've done enough damage for one day. Take your dead and let us be gone."

  Amand turned to Mord, his flowing mustache wagging as he spoke. "If you want to see your son alive, then comply with my plans. I'll give you another week to make your decision, but if you insist on being difficult then I will send one part of your son home for every day you delay until I have only his head to cut off."

  Before they broke off, Ulfrik tried to catch Mord's eyes but he had turned aside without a word.

  Grimnr's omen had been right. He left the dead man in the grass.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Konal awoke facedown on the high table and those of his guard that had not drunk with him were arrayed before him. Their faces were stern in the thin light of the morning falling through the smoke hole.

  "Ten men from Hrolf's hall have arrived, and they have a message for you."

  Konal thought his guard had repeated that same sentence at least twice but could not be certain. He struggled to see him clearly through blurry vision. His head hurt and eyes throbbed. His thin voice was even more strained and ragged after days of constant drinking. "What's the message?"

  His guards shifted their weight, a few shook their heads. The lead man chewed his lip before answering. "I think they want to speak to you directly. Do you need a moment to prepare?"

  "Prepare what?"

  Someone in the shadows snickered, and Konal stared into the blank corners of his hall. "Something funny? I'm dying of thirst. Someone get me water and send Hrolf's men inside. Why've you kept them waiting?"

  The guard bowed and left with the others. Konal waited for an old Frank slave to pour water into his mug, then gulped it down. Slamming it on the table, he pointed for a refill. This one he did not drink, but splashed on his face. Blowing away the water that ran into his mouth, his flesh prickled with cool air. When he opened his eyes, Hrolf's messengers were already filing into his hall after surrendering their weapons at the door. The low murmur of deep voices filled the hall as they clustered at the far end. Konal sat straighter and smoothed his beard, which dripped water onto his chest. A pungent odor hit his nose, and glancing at his feet he found a puddle of vomit.

  The crowd of men walked with straight backs and eyes bright with purpose. Konal felt like crawling beneath his table in their presence. Even the lowliest of Hrolf's servants carried themselves like jarls, and his guards carried themselves like kings. The leader had a strong, weathered face, deeply lined, and a hooked nose with a red scar on its bridge. He bowed crisply, helmet tucked beneath his arm and clean blue cloak flipped over his shoulder. A silver pin glinted in the thin light of the hall.

  "Jarl Konal, I am Magnus the Stone, and I come with an urgent message from Jarl Hrolf."

  His eyes were a clear blue, a stark contrast to his dark hair. Konal envied his rugged looks, his own face a ravaged landscape of burn scars that no woman had dared overlook. Not even Runa could see past them now. She figured his heart was as scared and ruined as his face. His hand touched the jewels hanging at the pouch at his waist and he squeezed it. The contents were as hard as his own heart and no less cold.

  "Jarl Konal, are you feeling unwell?"

  Magnus came back into focus. He shook his head, hearing more snickers from the dark corners of his hall. "I think I'm still drunk. You and your men have traveled long, so be seated and refreshed."

  Magnus inclined his head with a feeble smile, but remained standing. The remainder of Hrolf's men settled on benches and waited to be served. Konal waved his servant toward the ale casks and the old slave began to fill mugs.

  "Your wife is currently a guest of my lord. I assume you know this."

  Heat flared in his belly and he scowled. "I know but don't understand why. She was summoned to attend a dying friend at Eyrafell. I sent her with three guards, and they returned to tell me she had slipped them while Einar detained them. All seemed rather strange to me. Has she offended Hrolf?"

  He knew full well what had happened, and knowing it had set him on his weeklong drinking binge. Snorri had alerted Runa to Ulfrik's return, and she sought protection with Hrolf.

  "I cannot speak to the reasons. Forgive me." Again Magnus bowed, and Konal smiled at his manners. It has been years since anyone had demonstrated manners before him. "Your wife is well but unhappy."

  The heat in his gut roared hot, and he leaned across the table as he spoke. "What is she unhappy about?"

  "She longs for her youngest son, Aren. Hrolf decided the boy should attend her while she relaxes at his hall."

  Konal slouched and let a breath escape. Suddenly aware of the dozens of eyes studying him, he sat up agai
n. "My son has already been away too long. I wish him to remain by my side. Send my regrets to Jarl Hrolf."

  "I'm afraid you will have to keep your regrets." Magnus's smile was as hard as rock. Now Konal understood his name. "Aren will accompany us, and in due time he will return with your wife."

  He found himself on his feet, his face hot and fists clenched. "Fuck Hrolf! Aren belongs here. Did Hrolf's instructions include killing me to take my son? If you hope to carry them out, then be ready to do just that."

  Konal's wretched, strained voice still managed to shock the hall. The visitors lowered their mugs and looked to Magnus, whose flinty eyes did not falter. Konal's men, the ones awake and not sunk in drunken slumber, recoiled from him.

  "Jarl Konal," Magnus said in a calm voice. "May I speak with you privately? There is more to my message and you may change your choice of words for Jarl Hrolf once you've heard it."

  The cool delivery mollified Konal, though he glared to ensure his own men did not think him weak. With a grunt he motioned Magnus toward a side door in the hall. Outside, the morning air smelled of earth, and people crisscrossed the center square about their morning chores. He watched a young woman straining to carry a bucket of water from the well, a puppy dancing around her feet. Did such pleasant scenes take place in his fort? He had stopped seeing them years ago.

  "Are we safe so close to the hall?" Magnus asked. Konal shook his head and they began to walk toward the center of the training field.

  "Unless Loki sends a raven to listen on us, we're safe from others out here." Konal rubbed his face, trying to force away the fog of ale that clung to him.

  "Jarl Konal, you and I have not met before, but I understand your situation quite clearly."