The Storm God's Gift (Ulfrik Ormsson's Saga Book 5)

by Jerry Autieri

  In the defile, smoke rolled and turned the sunlight brown. Men were coughing and staggering. Ulfrik skidded on the loose rock of the defile floor, then stopped.

  “Form up! Archers! Hurry! Where are the reinforcements?”

  The first of Valagnar’s men ran shrieking into the smoke. Shadows of others loomed through the black cloud.

  He turned back and now his men were pulling into ranks. Lini shouted at them, pulling them tight, and a few others aided him. Behind the small group, Audhild’s women added their straw dummies. Through the eye-watering smoke they looked genuine enough with fur caps and old shirts for clothing and driftwood for spear shafts. Now he had replacements for the dozen men that continued through the defile to loop around and cut off Valgnar’s escape.

  Valagnar’s men rushed in, whooping in victory. The archers on the defile, seven of the best hunters in the village, shot into the enemy. They had lined up their arrows in the dirt, and sent one after the next without pause.

  The first line of enemies toppled with arrows shivering in their bodies. The next line hid behind shields, but caused those behind to collide with them. Ulfrik sought Valagnar and found him sheltering a fallen warrior beneath his shield.

  He charged.

  Valagnar leapt up in time to block the strike, though Ulfrik had not wanted the blow to land true. His plan had reached its end and was flawless. The smoke started to lift, carried away by a sudden wind that swept out the defile like a servant cleaning a hall. He occupied Valagnar with a follow-up strike and then a sweep of his feet to unbalance him.

  Cries came up behind Valagnar’s men, and a horn blew. The tears in Ulfrik’s eyes were not from smoke alone. He saw the fear in Valagnar’s face at realizing he was trapped. For all he knew fresh men assaulted his rear and Ulfrik’s force still arrayed before him.

  “You’ve no way out but death,” Ulfrik shouted over the crash of battle. “Yield or die.”

  “I’ll die,” Valagnar stabbed, but Ulfrik easily batted aside the strike.

  “Your son might live if you yield. Yield to me and I guarantee you mercy. Will you make your wife a childless widow?”

  He had only guessed the man Valagnar stood over was his son, for little else but injured kin could give a man pause on the battlefield. Valagnar tossed his sword into the dirt. “I yield.”

  He immediately went to the man at his feet and began to stanch the flow of blood. An arrow jutted beneath the collarbone and over the lungs, likely a fatal shot.

  Raising his sword overhead, Ulfrik summoned his strength and called for his men to stop. Valagnar’s men, bewildered at the sudden mass of enemy and the capitulation of their leader, first lowered their weapons then dropped them.

  A shout of victory went up from Ulfrik’s people, the sound of it warming his face with pride. He stood over Valagnar, certain to claim him a hostage.

  The final part of his plan needed Valagnar’s help.

  Home might not be so far away now.

  Chapter 34

  Ulfrik rode on the backs of jubilant men beneath a swath of stars. The bonfire roared at the center of the field, the flames fed with the debris of battle, and men and women danced around it. He could not meet another’s eye without being toasted, nor could he take one step away from the celebration before a drunken reveler dragged him back to the fire. As the revelers lowered him to the ground, Ulfrik’s legs wobbled in pain, though he had drunk enough to not experience it sharply. They slapped his back and named him a hero.

  He staggered away, bumping from one merry group to another, receiving a hearty thump and thanks at each stop. He was like a pine cone kicked from tree to tree across the forest floor, finally coming to rest at the edge of the celebration. Gudrod and Bresi gathered their own crowds, doubtlessly inflating their heroism to those naive enough to believe. Once the battle ended, Eldrid had sprouted up like a weed after a summer rain. She gathered praise for her foresight in giving Ulfrik command. Perhaps the highest praise he had received all night came in the form of a word of thanks from Eldrid’s thin lips. He had accepted it in quiet surprise.

  Of all the revelers, Audhild’s mood was strangest. She held herself apart from others, but looked on like a girl hoping to be invited to dance. Her face and clothes were still smeared with soot and dirt. She did not look at Ulfrik, but he caught her scowling when she must have thought him unaware. At last with a moment’s peace, he decided to approach her.

  “You frown as if we had lost the battle.” She stood beside a bench dragged out of a nearby home. Ulfrik, his legs tired, sat next to her.

  “It is not right to celebrate when men have died.” Audhild lifted her chin and folded her arms, then looked down her nose at the celebration.

  “Men die in battle. Once a sword is drawn in anger, it is never put away unblooded. Besides, our dead are in the feasting hall now. The Valkyries have collected them from the field. They died as heroes.”

  “And some live as heroes.” Her brow raised, the white scar lifting with it. She still did not meet his eyes.

  Ulfrik chuckled. “You are unhappy that I have lived?”

  “Did I say that? You think yourself a hero?”

  “The people say I am. Do you?”

  She ignored the question and they both watched the villagers stumble through their dances and stutter through their songs. Lini danced with a tall, wide-hipped girl that made him seem no more than a stick. His lovesick smile drew out Ulfrik’s own smile.

  “We have captured a ship and more than twenty men.” Audhild spoke as if addressing no one, the firelight sparking in her eyes. Ulfrik could see the vein throbbing in her neck from the hard shadows of the fire. “I suppose you expect to claim it as part of your spoils.”

  “A ship without a crew is little use.”

  “But you’re a hero now. I’m sure some of our boys could be tempted to crew the ship. Then you sail off for home.”

  Ulfrik bowed his head as if the words stung him. In fact, he had considered the option but did not believe the villagers would support it.

  “You have no understanding of what a journey home would require,” he said. “It’s leagues of trackless ocean across some of the worst waters known. Boys alone cannot hope to prevail, not even seasoned crews. You don’t understand how fortunate we were during our journey here. That luck won’t repeat.”

  Her mouth twisted into a smile and she faced him at last. “I do understand our fortune. You were the wellspring of that blessing, as Eldrid prophesied. The gods meant us to be here.”

  A nearby group’s laughter overwhelmed them, drawing their attention. Ulfrik stared past them to the house used to imprison Valagnar and his men. Orange light rimmed the doorway where unlucky guards sat out the celebration. Inside Valagnar’s son was dying and Ulfrik’s plans were slipping away.

  “You only ever think of what was,” Audhild said, turning aside from the drunken laughter. “Why not about what can be?”

  “In fact, I have thought of little else since this morning. This battle has changed everything. There is purpose here for me. Now there is an enemy to defend against, and men who need my leadership. You cannot understand this, but a bond is forged between men who fight shoulder to shoulder. Today all of us were made brothers in war and blood. Can you not see it in the men? My home is long gone, and all believe I am dead. I can rebuild here.”

  His wife, Runa, had named him a terrible liar. He hoped these lies could pass with one who knew his heart a great deal less than his wife. He turned what he hoped were soulful and thoughtful eyes on Audhild. She regarded him with a puzzled look, a slender finger tapping her cheek. He let the words settle, expecting her to laugh. Instead she laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Such words are a victory that I can celebrate. Do you mean it?”

  “I swear it before the gods.” He hoped the gods were not listening. They had not heard him since coming to this place, and he prayed they would ignore him a while longer.

  Her hand lingered on his shoulder, an
d gently squeezed, nearly massaged. The smile that came to her face perplexed him. It was both coquettish and joyful, full of meaning that was misspent on him. “Then I am well satisfied with your answer. We should speak more of what this means.”

  “That we should,” he said, bereft of any guess as to what she intended. He was decades out of practice in guessing a woman’s heart. Runa was all he had to understand, and other women that he bedded while away at war had not been worth reading.

  She broke the moment by artlessly wiping the grime from her face, as if she only now realized her slovenly appearance. Ulfrik was spared further embarrassment when the stab wound on his thigh flared in sudden pain. He had leaned his elbow on it while sitting, and now jerked back with a hiss. Audhild immediately bent to it, checking the bandage over his ruined pant leg.

  “This is not properly washed. Have you learned nothing about caring for your battle wounds?” She shook her head, retying the bandage. “I’ll look at this later.”

  “Valagnar’s son was gravely wounded. I fear the boy will die without aid.”

  “Men die in battle, as you only just reminded me. What about our wounded?”

  “Ours either died or suffered lightly. Gudrod had it worst, and that was from me.”

  Her eyes narrowed and her coy smile vanished. “All of those bastards should die for what they did.”

  “They are hostages and honor demands we aid them as best we can. That means caring for their wounds. No one will ransom a dead son, and we’ll only make a more bitter enemy of them. Will you help?”

  Audhild stood, transformed into a petulant child with arms folded and head turned aside in disdain. “They should have thought more carefully before invading our land.”

  Too much was wrong with her sentiments for Ulfrik to address. He rubbed his face, then stood. When he reached to touch her arm, she flinched away. He stared at her, a backdrop of revelers dancing behind her. “Then I will go to do what I can.”

  Gudrod paused in his bragging to watch Ulfrik leaving. He turned aside as Ulfrik flashed a warning glare at him. Others followed his leaving like puppies unsure why the master no longer wanted to throw sticks. Even Eldrid, though blind, sensed a change in mood and turned generally to face him. He shivered at the thought of how she could see him. Whatever lies she told about the gods, her senses were unnatural.

  The guards at the building containing Valagnar’s crew pricked up at his arrival. Ulfrik asked he be let inside, and the guards lifted the two bolts that had been fastened to the doors when converting the building to a prison.

  “Will you be all right? Need us to stay with you?” asked one of the guards, a lanky man with a scabbed-over cut on his nose.

  “They are weaponless and I carry my sword. I fear nothing.” Ulfrik patted his hilt, enjoying wide-eyed admiration of the two guards. He also sought to exaggerate the myth of his fighting prowess. In reality, even with a sword he stood no chance against a roomful of unarmed men. One strong blow to the back of his head and he would be senseless and disarmed.

  Stepping inside he found all of Valagnar’s twenty-three men crammed around a hearth fire. The injured sat on the dirt floor or laid out on benches, red splotches bleeding through their bandages. Others stood as Ulfrik entered, all but one who remained on his knees by the fire and held the hand of a man laid out before it. It was Valagnar attending his son. The gray-fledged arrow protruded from beneath the left collar bone, buried a third of its length into the flesh. The son’s face shined with sweat, and his skin was ashen. He otherwise looked at peace, as if he had fallen asleep.

  The whites of the staring eyes were stark against the sooty faces regarding him. Only Valagnar did not raise his head, but remained focused on his son. “He has not awoken since taking the arrow. At least the gods were kind enough to grant him sleep before death.”

  “I have seen men recover from such a wound.” Ulfrik declined to mention he had only seen one survive out of the dozens with similar injuries.

  Valagnar’s smile was thin and defeated. “The arrow must be pushed through the body. To do so, his shoulder blade will have to broken, then the shaft must not snap or splinter inside. Even if I could do all of that now, I lack the tools. He will slowly bleed to death from the inside as I watch.”

  Ulfrik swallowed, unable to deny the truth. Valagnar stroked his son’s forehead, and Ulfrik felt a kindred twist of pain. His own son, Gunnar, had fought at his side and risked the same fate as Valagnar’s son. Ulfrik remembered the terrible sense of failure he experienced when Gunnar lost his hand to the Frankish warlord, Clovis. His own missing finger suddenly ached in ghostly, sympathetic pain.

  “I have come to discuss ransom,” Ulfrik said, casting his voice back at the doors in case the guards listened.

  Valagnar nodded. “The ship is my greatest treasure, but I have more. Send word to my wife and she will prepare whatever you ask. Gold, sheep, iron, wool, whatever other goods you seek. My men will have to speak for whatever they can pay, but I will buy their ransoms if able. I am not a poor man.”

  “Nor are you accustomed to losing a battle. I see it in your eyes.” Ulfrik entered deeper into the house, the musky scent of sweat mixed with the stale iron tang of blood. Checking the closed door, he knelt beside Valagnar. “You may yet have victory.”

  His eyes narrowing, Valagnar eased back from his son. “What are you suggesting?”

  Ulfrik licked his lips. “You were fooled into surrender. My straw warriors and the smoke made you believe you were surrounded. Had you pressed the fight, your victory was assured. These people you fought,” Ulfrik waved a dismissive hand at the door, “are farmers and former slaves. If they had to fight again, they would fail.”

  The two men stared at each other as the others tightened conspiratorially around them. Valagnar’s throat clicked as he swallowed hard. “What sort of game is this? You come to set ransom then seem to offer me battle again?”

  “Both true,” Ulfrik said. He struggled to keep his voice steady, conscious of how his overeager treatment of the traders had cost him his opportunity. “I have scant time to explain, as I’m sure Eldrid or Gudrod will burst in here any moment. Know this much about me. I set the trap that caught you, and I trained these fools to hold their shields together and flee on command. Without me to lead and organize, they become farmers and slaves once more. Their next best warrior is Gudrod, and he is not more than a ship-builder and coward. When I am gone, you will have no trouble reducing this village to cinders.”

  “Are you inviting me to kill you?” Valagnar chuckled, but a flicker of seriousness shined in his eyes. Yellow light danced along the lines of his face as he smiled.

  “This is no moment for boasting. I am as much a prisoner of these people as you and your men. The blind woman, Eldrid, is a witch and holds a spell over these people. They’ve taken me captive all for a mad dream she had. You are my way out of this madness. Tonight, I will free you from this prison, guide you to your ship—and you will take me. Once we are in Reykjaholt, you will lend a crew to sail me to Scotland and give me enough silver that I may buy passage home. That is the ransom for you and your men.”

  Valagnar snorted. “An impossible promise. You are but one man.”

  “A man who led you into defeat. All I’ve planned has led to this moment. If I say you will be free this night, then it will be so.”

  Dirty, hard faces looked to each other then to Valagnar, who turned back to his son. “Did you plan to move the injured? Many of my men cannot run.”

  “I will carry your son myself, if I must.” Ulfrik’s heart pounded, fearing the opening door in the next instant. “You must seize what chances Fate provides. If it is for your son to live, then he shall. If not, he will join the heroes in endless feasting and battle. He will not have died a coward.”

  Valagnar bit his lip then nodded. “Deliver us from this place and you shall have your crew and ship.”

  Ulfrik exhaled in relief, as if he had set down a burden of heavy rocks. He r
eached into both of his boots and drew out two knives. “I will bring other weapons when I return. Accept these as tokens of my good intentions.”

  Taking the knives, Valagnar thumbed the edge of one and passed the other to the man standing behind him. “And when will you return?”

  Ulfrik inhaled to answer, but a raised voice came from beyond the door, then it slammed open. Gudrod swept in, sword drawn.

  Chapter 35

  “What is this?” Gudrod ranged his sword at the gathered men. If the stink of ale did not give him away, the glowing red of his face showed his drunkenness. The blade trembled in his grip, the hearth light shimmering along its pitted length. His teeth were bared as fiercely as if he had caught Ulfrik in bed with his lover. The shadows of the firelight deepened the black pouches beneath his eyes and heightened the twist of his broken nose.

  Ulfrik’s stomach dropped. He had to distract Gudrod before he noticed the knives he had just provided Valagnar. He shot to his feet, Gudrod following him as intently as a cat does a wounded bird. With a firm hand he pushed the sword down. “Don’t charge a room with a drawn sword. You might hurt someone.”

  “That’s what swords are for,” he said, running his words together. His small eyes were lost to darkness, but Ulfrik noted the shift in his demeanor when Valagnar also stood and the other prisoners did not flinch. Gudrod lowered his sword against his leg. “Well, what are you doing in here?”

  “I came to see their condition. Some of them are dying for lack of aid. Hostages deserve better treatment, and dead hostages provide no ransom.”

  “Don’t expect me to weep for them. Got what they deserved, I say.”

  A small shift in the tension of the prisoners warned Ulfrik of impending violence. He had just stoked their hopes of escape and provided weapons. With Gudrod’s posturing he might goad them into a premature attack. Too many villagers were still active and many yet carried their weapons from the battle. Now was not the right time.

  Ulfrik shoved Gudrod back through the door, then turned a knowing glance to Valagnar as he followed. The jarl narrowed his eyes and gave a slight nod. Ulfrik turned and snapped at the two shocked guards. “Bar that door and keep a close eye. Our foolish ship-builder has aroused their anger.”