"They killed the horses," he said. "They're throwing them down the cliff."
The second horse landed on the deck, and now he did not doubt that ship was sinking. It was already listing to one side and the crew was jumping away to the rocks or into the water.
Nothing else fell from the cliff. Yngvar saw the men leaping and waving their hands, but could not hear their victorious shouts.
"Stop!" Bjorn screamed at the distant scene. "Don't kill any more horses!"
Thorfast turned on him. "Those horses gave us a chance again."
Bjorn's face was red. "Horses aren't like people. They don't deserve a death like that."
He was oblivious to the astonished faces surrounding him as he stepped out of the bow and back toward the prow. He readied his ax, taking imaginary swings at enemies.
"I'm pretty sure he's eaten horseflesh like the rest of us," Thorfast whispered.
"It's nerves before battle," Yngvar said. "We all have our ways. Bjorn's thoughts get confused. You joke overmuch. I--well, I don't know what I do."
"You stare at men like they are ghosts to be walked through. You fight the battle in your mind before the first spear is thrown. That's why we're following you." Thorfast patted him on the shoulder. "And while this quiet moment between friends is touching, I believe a blood-mad lunatic is pulling his ship up right behind us. I think he wants our heads."
Turning around, the lead ship was now upon them. Its oars withdrew into its hull, like a monstrous turtle pulling into its shell. The dragon head upon the prow snarled as the dark ship slid closer, a bristling patch of shining spears lining the rails.
"Take in the sail," Ander shouted. Across the choppy water, the enemy ship did the same. Boarding hooks spun and flung out as the ships drew side by side. Erik did not want to destroy his own ship, and so seemed to be taking care to approach carefully.
Erik Blood-Axe towered at the front of his men, his golden hair and rigid face flecked with dried blood. His chain armor gleamed. As his fur cloak fluttered behind him, he stood high on the rail as the ships joined together. He was too distant for a spear and neither side had archers, or else Erik would have fallen dead for his bravado.
"You would steal my ship," his voice boomed across the water. "That takes some balls. Too bad I'm going make you eat them before I flay you alive. Who leads this doomed crew, so I know whom to personally kill?"
The hooks bit into the rail wood. Erik's crew hauled the ships closer, groaning as the waves rocked them back.
Yngvar stepped forward, lowering his unadorned wooden shield so Erik could plainly see him.
"You tried it once before, you coward, and failed." He drew Gut-Ripper then pointed it at Erik, the green pommel gem winking lustily in the thin light. "Today you die by my hand."
The storm that crossed Erik's face could've blown their ships to the roof of the world. He snarled and raised his ax. "Kill them! Kill every last man!"
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Erik's men jumped screaming across the gap between ships, not waiting for the final tie-off to bring both together. They were as a wave of axes, swords, and spears behind a wall of round, brightly painted shields. The scars of battle were clear upon them. Some shields were already cracked or chipped, others bore remnants of arrow shafts. The enemy thumped to the deck to be opposed by Yngvar and his men. One fool barely cleared the rail, and Yngvar rammed him overboard with his shield.
The war cries from both sides threatened to deafen Yngvar as he continued his challenge of Erik. "Come to me, coward. Or do you only fight men who are bound?"
Erik glowered at him, but despite his rage he was patiently guiding his men where to attack. None of his orders were audible, and Yngvar's hands grew cold thinking Erik could actually have a plan. He wanted him raging mad and out of his senses.
As if in answer to that, Bjorn gave a roar like a wounded bear. He was a year younger than Yngvar, but he stood taller and was far stronger. He stood out from his companions by a head or more. Long-hafted ax poised overhead, the worst possible way to grip an ax in battle, he charged at the enemy just gaining the deck. Yngvar did not want to see his cousin impaled on enemy spears, but his reckless charge made it seem he wished to die.
Bjorn screamed and swept his ax low. The first enemy to face him tried to drop his shield, but was too slow. His left leg sheared away below the knee and he collapsed like a felled tree. Bjorn's red blade now arced up, hacking away the exposed shield arm of the next man in line. The enemy made no sound, but blinked as his shield clattered to the deck with his forearm still laced through the straps. Finally, Bjorn's ax collided with a third enemy's head. Yngvar didn't even see how, but the blade struck from under the chin and broke through to the man's nose. This one fell back screaming into his companions.
The deck around Bjorn was clear, but he did not intend to stay out of the press. He sought new enemies.
"Everyone," Yngvar yelled. "Follow Bjorn!"
His men shouted encouragement as his cousin hacked his way through enemies clamoring to stop his ax. Shields cracked, limbs flew, and blood sprayed. Throughout it all, Bjorn howled and roared his fury.
Now Erik had leapt from his place to face Yngvar himself. Erik's men gave him a wide berth, understanding he meant to fight Yngvar alone.
The world narrowed down to this single spot on the deck. Erik's ax was low at his side, and his shield of red and white guarded him well. His eyes flared with hate, peering from beneath his helmet and over the rim of his shield.
"You're older," Yngvar said. "You're slower. And you're dead."
He struck with speed that surprised himself. Gut-Ripper slid beneath Erik's shield, but he quickly knocked the blade down. Erik was too close for his ax to be of any use, and so he shoved Yngvar. His strength was such that Yngvar could not resist and so stumbled back, his own shield held against the blow he expected.
Recovering his stance, he braced but no blow fell across his shield. He slid toward Erik's shield side, hoping to avoid an attack while he repositioned for his own. Erik circled him cautiously. He did not waste his strength on a strike that would've gained him little. It was a wise choice. Sweat already poured down Yngvar's brows as he circled around their patch of deck. He was dimly aware of the chaos around him, but remained focused on Erik.
"Come on, old man," he said. "You think to cut off my balls? We'll see who will be gelded."
Erik narrowed his eyes. He was neither old nor easily goaded. He kept straight on with Yngvar, never letting him get on his shield side. For his part, Yngvar wanted to pin his shield arm and stab beneath it with his short sword. The stout blade would eviscerate Erik, even through his chain shirt. But Erik had more experience, and Yngvar's sweat came in part from realizing he faced a man with patience and hatred in equal measure.
He feinted quick jabs that Erik lazily struck aside. His face never changed from the rigid lines of anger and concentration. His glare transfixed Yngvar like a spear through his heart.
Suddenly Erik was closer. His ax flicked out, hooking Yngvar's shield and yanking it down.
The rim of Erik's shield slammed into Yngvar's nose bridge. It did not break, but white streaks of pain filled his vision and he fell back. Another tug and his shield stripped from his arm. He had lost his grip in the sudden flash of agony.
When his teary vision restored, Erik smiled at him across the deck. Yngvar felt cold air on his arm where his shield had been.
"Not just for cracking skulls," Erik said, adjusting his grip on his ax. "You should see your face, young warrior. You realize now I'm playing with you. But this battle needs me and I tire of you. You were a boring opponent. A man of no consequence. It is an insult to kill you, but I do as I must."
"Does it bother you that you can't satisfy her?" Yngvar put both hands to Gut-Ripper. He could not recover his shield without losing his head. "Perhaps your son will look like me. I lay with her enough that she must be full with my child now."
It was Erik's tender spot. He roared a
nd struck for Yngvar in a savage blow.
He dove to the deck. Erik's ax swiped above his scalp, shaving hairs from his head. The world slowed to nothing.
Gut-Ripper punched forward.
The blade drove through Erik's right calf, piercing the thick ball of muscle and sawing against the bone.
The former king of Norway screamed and fell across Yngvar's body.
His moment to kill Erik was now, but Gut-Ripper was stuck in Erik's leg. It broke from his grasp.
Men surrounded them now. Blood from someone drizzled hot across the back of Yngvar's neck. The weight of Erik's body lifted from him.
Yngvar scrambled away in time for the enemy blade to stick into the blood-slick deck.
He kept rolling, then sprung to his feet. He had no weapon. Two men carried Erik between them as he screamed in horrific pain. Gut-Ripper remained in his leg, it's green pommel gem blazing in the wan light as if it were a cat's eye at night. A third man, the one who had tried to kill Yngvar, walked backward to defend Erik with his shield. They carried him to their ship.
All around, the enemies were breaking for their ship. Erik had fallen and they had been broken.
Yngvar's heart leapt. "Don't let them flee! Erik is wounded. Kill him! The bounty!"
Bjorn was standing on something, as he was waist high over the press of battle. He was like a red demon and his ax harvested blood and flesh all around him. Corpses and arms still gripping their weapons littered the deck. Thorfast's white hair was clear in the dark melee, and he fought next to Bjorn.
It was victory.
Until a half-dozen torches spun over the battle and landed in the hold.
For an instant, Yngvar did not understand. Then the casks there caught flame.
A ball of fire whooshed into the air around the mast. The kegs apparently were full of oil and not well sealed. Erik's men must have known this and so sabotaged their own ship.
Flames spread to the sail and mast in the high wind. A wall of fire extended between Yngvar, who had rolled to the opposite side of the deck, and the rest of the battle. It was like a blazing curtain.
Before he could do more, a black shape leapt through the fire. The hulking brute's cloak smoldered, making him seem like a fire giant that had just crawled from a volcano.
The enemy roared and sloughed the burning cloak. He carried a two-handed ax.
His clear eyes gleamed with madness.
Hrut shrieked and raised his ax, as enraged as Bjorn was on the other side of the fire.
Yngvar had no weapon. His feet slick with blood and sea water, he slipped as he dodged Hrut's strike. Crashing to the deck, he turned in time to see the flattened, bruised nose in the face of his worst nightmare bearing down on him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Yngvar rolled away from Hrut's maniacal strike. The ax crashed into the deck, splitting the boards like kindling wood. A weapon. He had no weapon, and Hrut allowed him no time to seek one.
The giant roared and charged again. Yngvar dove to the side and tried to grab Hrut's legs. He jumped out of Yngvar's grip.
Across the fire, now spread everywhere with the high wind, he saw men carrying the row boat to the side of the ship. Erik's own ship had cut off and was already pulling away. They risked fire jumping to them. Already glowing sparks were flitting on the wind.
"I'm going to kill you," Hrut screamed as he struck again.
Well, of course that was obvious. Yngvar skittered back, now too close to the fire that it blazed against him. Hrut did not need any goading to go mad with rage. He had run straight off that cliff into a world of blind madness long ago.
The swipes came ragged and one after the next. Hrut was as strong as a horse and as tireless as a plow ox. If one strike even clipped Yngvar, he would lose a limb to it.
"Your jarl has abandoned you," Yngvar shouted as he stumbled back. Again, more fire sent him nearly running back into Hrut. "Save yourself."
"You fucking dog-shit! You must die!"
It was like a slow dance between roaring fire and the whistling crack of Hrut's ax. Despite the danger, he felt a cool flow to this duel. His men were leaping overboard. He glimpsed Thorfast's white hair as he stared across the flames. He raised his sword, then slipped overboard. Yngvar hoped it was into the rowboat below.
Someone screamed his name. Young Alasdair was being bodily heaved overboard. Yngvar couldn't see who did it.
The ax clipped his shoulder, neatly cutting the cloth but not scratching his skin. How had he pulled back in time? Were the gods with him?
Hrut's raving was incoherent amid the roar of fire and the screams of men. The ship groaned and creaked. Smoke stung his eyes and filled his nose with an acrid scent of oil. Through the gray smoke, Erik's ship slipped ahead. The bastard had gotten away. Yngvar hoped Gut-Ripper infected him with bending sickness. That was a horrific death, and Erik deserved it.
The smoldering cloak was at Yngvar's feet.
Hrut glistened with sweat and blood. Yngvar suddenly realized the giant enemy's chain shirt was torn at his abdomen and the waist of his pants were stained dark with blood. So Hrut had been wounded, perhaps mortally, and so cared only to take Yngvar with him to the feasting hall.
"You stupid brute," Yngvar said. He ducked in time with another strike. For all his experience, Hrut was like a child with a toy ax. Yngvar snatched up the burning cloak. It singed his hands, but he handled it gingerly.
He sprung up and flung it over Hrut's face.
It covered him, smoke flowing out from all over. Hrut reeled back in horror, snatching with one hand to knock it off.
Yngvar barreled into him. His face crushed against the hot links of chain mail, gouging his cheek.
His right hand punched into the hole in the mail, and he drove it through into the puncture wound.
"You picked a terrible way to die," Yngvar hissed.
His hands were deep in hot guts, almost hot enough to burn. He grabbed something soft then yanked out.
Hrut fell back, his purple and gray intestines unraveling from beneath his mail shirt. Yngvar's hand was thick with blood and fluid. As he watched Hrut gurgle and collapse to his knees, trying to hold his guts back into his body, Yngvar vomited down his shirt. He staggered away, letting Hrut die out of sight.
He turned into flames. All sides were on fire and the deck was now closer to the water. Dying men groaned on the decks and some screamed as they caught fire. Yngvar's skin was taut with heat. The wind fanned these flames all over. He could either burn alive or drown.
A lick of fire made the choice for him. A burning rope broke and slapped across his back. It burned fiercely, and he ran for the rails.
The cold water was soothing. All sound became thick with echoes. The moaning of the dying ship was louder beneath the surface. Every snap and pop was dull thunder. Air rushed past his ears in a playful gurgle. He was weightless and refreshed. He had a lungful of air. He could enjoy the moments before terror and death.
He tried opening his eyes, but the salt water burned. He could see nothing but milky gray. Other things floated through the water with him, debris or dead bodies. He wasn't sure.
Now he felt arms welcoming him. Had Brandr, who died in the sea's cold embrace, and his Uncle Gunnar, who had been committed to the waves he rode in his youth, come for him? It made sense and it was good to be welcomed to death by family.
He was rising up as his lungs began to burn. They were taking him to Valhalla, or perhaps handing him up to Valkyries.
Breaking the surface, the surreal world of coldness and death shattered. Distant screams and closer shouts assailed him. He gasped reflexively, spluttering cold, salty water that was level with his chin.
"I have you, lord."
Yngvar blinked through the salt stinging his eyes. Alasdair struggled to hold him in the water. The poor boy seemed to be drowning himself. His eyes were bloodshot and wide with terror.
"Get him up here." It was Thorfast's desperate command. Strong hands latched onto Yngv
ar's shoulder and lifted him onto the side of the rowboat.
It rocked wildly, and though men seemed to have braced for it, everyone still shouted in terror. At last, they clawed him onto the tight boat, where he rested between Thorfast and Bjorn. Both were red-faced and dripping sweat.
The ship rocked again, and Alasdair slipped aboard. He spit sea water over the side as Ander held him by his waist. He had stripped off his shirt, so that orange flames of the burning ship reflected of his wet flesh.
"I guess you couldn't hear us?" Thorfast asked.
Yngvar shook his head. "Sorry, got distracted."
"We were telling you to wait for us," Bjorn said. "We were coming to meet you. But you seemed to want to fight that foe."
Yngvar smiled weakly. "I would not say I wanted to."
The rowboat was packed with survivors, but not all thirty men remained with him. He wasn't certain all of these men were those he had taken to battle. Losses in such a close fight were unavoidable. He hoped his men died in combat and were not currently burning in the wreck of Erik's high-sided ship.
Erik! He sat up, spotting the fallen king's dark ship racing toward the horizon.
"Be glad he doesn't come back to finish us," Ander said. "Until we get to land, we're helpless on this boat. Damn thing might capsize in a good wind."
"He's got Gut-Ripper stuck in his leg," Yngvar said. "I loved that sword."
No one spoke but paddled toward the shore. The battle was ended, and Erik had survived. Yngvar had not done what he had vowed to do.
But he had given Erik a memory he would never forget.
And he believed the gods had marked them to fight again. After all, he would have to retrieve his sword one day.
CHAPTER FORTY
Yngvar sat beneath the high table of Jarl Kar's hall. Thorfast was at his right and Bjorn was to his left. Opposite the table, Alasdair picked the bones of his meal for the last bit of flesh. Ander Red-Scar was already flushed and boasting loudly to the rest of the men at the table. The feast had only begun, but the story of Erik's defeat had to be told and retold to every man packed into the hall. Outside, warriors fresh from their so-called battle were eager to press inside to hear the tale. But Yngvar expected the casks of ale set out there would keep them waiting as long as needed. He was tired of retelling the story.
Descendants of the Wolf (Descendants Saga Book 1) Page 27