Sword Brothers

by Jerry Autieri

  "And what of Gyrn?" Ulfrik asked. "How have you kept this from him?"

  "We met in secret the night before my plans launched," Aren said, his hand balling into a tight fist. "Told him he had fulfilled his purpose, then cut his throat ear to ear. Gils helped me dispose of the body and it will never be found."

  Ulfrik realized his mouth had dropped open. "You are a changed man after all."

  "We must act fast, for soon Gyrn will miss his next report and Mord and Gunther will realize what happened."

  The hall grew silent and Ulfrik retreated into thought. His sons and hirdmen looked to him, but his mind was already turning over new plans. He now had a formidable army led by men he had already trusted with his life too many times to count. He could not ask these men to destroy their futures to aid his revenge, but he could not insult them by sending them away.

  "What are the details of these men? How many and where are they now?"

  Aren placed his mug at the center of the table, then he gathered other mugs and arranged them around it. "This is Mord's hall, and your old friends have camped in these three places, all to the northeast. They've left a corridor open here for the Franks to return home without running into them. Einar will gather his own men after collecting his son-in-law's, then they will move to the Seine and keep a path open for you to cross. Altogether, the jarls have three hundred men and Einar will add another two hundred. With what remains of your army, you will have seven to eight hundred warriors, enough to crush Mord and threaten Hrolf."

  Ulfrik closed his eyes and imagined the forces at his disposal. He heard the men around him murmur with hopeful voices. Such numbers were a true army capable of handling Mord and forcing concessions from Hrolf. Yet they would all have to return home after the battles, and he would have no lasting surety of anything he extracted from Hrolf. Nor was the size of his army a true threat to Rouen. He had to take his revenge and then assure himself Hrolf would not move against him.

  The plan emerged out of the darkness of his mind, and he knew it was his best choice. It had bounced around his thoughts throughout the summer, half-formed and vague, but now all the parts fit into place. He opened his eyes and slapped the table. "I know what to do!"

  "Kill Mord and send his head to Hrolf?" Gunnar asked, drawing chuckles from the others.

  "Mord will die, make no mistake, but Aren has given me enough leverage so that I can have more than revenge." He let the words quiet the hall, and he regarded them all with a sly smile. "It will take all of you, and others too. But when I am done, both Mord and Gunther will be dead and Hrolf will have nothing to say for it. He will be at my mercy."

  Faces shifted from interested to astonished. Even Aren blinked at his father. "We have a strong core force, but not enough to topple Hrolf."

  "We don't need to topple him." Ulfrik stood up and rearranged the mugs Aren had laid out. "Gunnar and Oskar, you join with Ull, Ragnar, and Hafgrim. They attack this way." Ulfrik shifted mugs to indicate the direction of attack. "You attack this way, and crush Mord between you. Make his death miserable, for I will not be there to do it myself. Hakon, you will take my men and meet Einar at the Seine crossing. Your task will be to draw Hrolf to battle. Demand Hrolf meet you and burn every farm and church you find until he answers. You will not fight him, nor will he fight you. I will tell you what to say during the parley before battle and it will stop the fight if Hrolf has any sense."

  The men in the hall stared at him as if he had gone mad. Perhaps he had, but his heart felt light and beat with new purpose.

  "Where will you be?" Gunnar asked.

  "Finn and Aren, you will come with me. I will need help from Elke and Brandr, but that is all. We go to kill Gunther One-Eye and win peace between us and Hrolf."

  No one spoke, until Finn cleared his throat and grabbed his mug back from the center of the table. "Well, let's drink to success."

  Ulfrik roared laughter and the other followed, everyone grabbing a mug and raising it high.

  No more setbacks, Ulfrik thought to himself. I either win all or I die.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Gunnar did not like Jarl Oskar. He decided this the moment his father left on his mysterious quest to avenge himself on Gunther One-Eye. Jarl Oskar sprung up like a weasel from its den, seeking easy prey. As they retraced the disastrous path of the prior attack, they found the detritus of battle: broken shields, abandoned weapons, snapped branches and rusty stains. Oskar marched his men right over these as if the warning contained within this wreckage had no bearing on him.

  "Didn't he learn anything from the last attack?" Gunnar asked Bekan, his standard bearer and second in command. "Why do these southern jarls believe the approach to every battle is a charge?"

  "They're simple-minded," Bekan said. "And they only raid Frankish farms or each other's flocks. Doesn't take much planning to do that."

  "He won't listen to me. Look at him striding into the woods like there couldn't possibly be sentries watching for us."

  Bekan shrugged and Gunnar grumbled. He had his men at his back, which were half the number of Oskar's. By numbers alone Oskar was the dominant force, and he was excited for Ulfrik's plans and the promise of help from legendary jarls like Ull the Strong and Hafgrim Hard-Striker. They had relied on Aren's man, Gils, to send word ahead to these jarls, but they could not be certain of the timing. If they struck too early, they could be broken again.

  The afternoon sun filtered between the trees, setting the forest alight in a patchwork of yellow and green. Birds rushed to higher branches or took to the sky, crying out as they flew. It would be a sign to both Mord and the other jarls of their approach, and was another reason for Oskar to slow down. Gunnar inhaled, smelling the earthy scent of rotting underbrush and pine, but he missed a key odor.

  "No hearth smoke on the breeze," he said to Bekan, who also sniffed.

  "The wind is not strong enough to blow it so far."

  "No," Gunnar disagreed. "We are not far. Look around you, and see the signs of our flight and enemy pursuit strongest here." He picked up a broken limb with a patch of torn blue cloth hanging from it. "We had not scattered yet, and so we are close to the clearing. Oskar will reach it first. If there is no hearth smoke, they are waiting for us. They should be readying cooking fires for the evening meal."

  Pulling up short, Gunnar decided Oskar should march wholeheartedly to his death. The big-eyed jarl cut an imposing figure, dressed in his mail coat and brandishing his flashing sword. His graying hair flowed out from beneath his helmet to lift in the breeze. He disappeared from view as he entered the clearing.

  "It is shameful to cower in the rear while Oskar charges toward glory." Bekan's words were flat to Gunnar's ears. He studied the scene before him.

  "There is a difference between fool-hardiness and glory, and our friend Oskar cannot find it." He tugged the strap tighter on his arm, drawing his custom shield firmly onto the stump of his right hand. He then pulled his ax from his belt and jumped the handle in his hand, warming his grip to it. Without his shield and ax, he was a handicapped man unable to defend himself, but with them he was a force of destruction. Unlike any other shield, his was rimmed with iron instead of leather. His ax was for hooking and holding his enemies, and he used his shield to bludgeon his foes to the ground where they readily died. It was heavier than any shield and in a long fight grew wearisome to bear, especially if it caught enemy arrows. But right now it was light on his arm.

  The sounds of blaring horns echoed, and across the distance others matched. Gunnar's heart leapt at the far off note. "The others are here. Let's go!"

  He jumped through the rough ground, avoiding the roots and rocks that had tripped him in retreat the last time he was at this battlefield. He emerged from the woods to find Mord's warriors lined up beside the hall in a long shieldwall. Oskar's men had not yet charged it, being outnumbered still.

  At the center of the line, unlike last time, was a standard of a wolf's head with bloody fangs. Mord would fight beneat
h that standard, and Oskar was already blocking Gunnar's path to it.

  "Charge!" Gunnar shouted to Oskar's men, yet they remained at a distance and taunted their enemy. Both sides had flung spears already evidenced by the crisscross of shafts in the space between them. Yet they did not budge.

  "Mord's life belongs to me," Gunnar shouted. "Now let's get this fight started."

  Nearly eighty warriors at Gunnar's back roared battle cries and charged. Again in the distance he heard horns blaring but did not see his allies emerging across the field. Mord's line stepped back as Gunnar charged, normally a weak action to take when faced with an onrushing army. Yet Gunnar was hitting Mord's line on the flank, since Oskar blocked the front.

  The familiar thunder sounded again and Gunnar felt as if a hot rock dropped into his belly. Frankish cavalry in a thin column of two abreast burst from behind Mord's hall. They galloped between the gap in Oskar's and Mord's lines, their brilliant colors a smear atop their swift horses. Oskar's line flinched away but Gunnar had no more time to see if they broke.

  "Hold fast and throw your spears," he shouted. Gunnar had no skill with a spear, so instead braced his shield for the oncoming rush. The horses screamed and their riders cursed, but their column broke apart as spears sailed overhead and sank into horseflesh.

  A giant chestnut crashed to its front knees before Gunnar, flinging its rider flying to their line. Gunnar stepped out of line to strike the struggling rider on the back of his head, his helmet lost in the fall. He collapsed flat into the grass with a heavy crack and the killing fire ignited in Gunnar's heart. The horsemen plowed into their shield wall where men had fallen or faltered, and soon the animal stench of horses pressed Gunnar from all sides.

  "Kill horses before riders," he shouted, then broke from his position beside Bekan to attack the first horse he found.

  The horses were wild-eyed and frightened, but their riders handled them with skill. The beasts snapped at enemies and kicked out. From experience, Gunnar knew to attack them from the side, where the horses could not easily strike and the riders were the only defense. He swung for the horse's neck, but it lurched forward. Instead he chopped the thigh of the Frank and the ax sank to the bone. The rider did not even yell, but wheeled his horse to slash down with his own sword.

  The shouts and screams were deafening, and the hideous squelch of hacking flesh surrounded him. Blood and musky horse spoor filled his nose. The rider's sword clanged on the boss of Gunnar's shield, sending a shiver to his shoulder. The Frank's horse nipped at Gunnar's face, barely missing him. He stepped back, expecting the horse to rear at him. His footing slipped on a dropped spear and in that instant he saw the Frank striking again.

  He stumbled beneath his shield and the Frank drove him down with his horse, the great beast not rearing but slamming Gunnar. He landed on his back and panic seized him. A man laid out in battle counted his life in heartbeats. Feet danced above his head and the rider's horse now reared up, its hooves dropping clods of earth as it prepared to stomp him into the grass.

  Rolling away, the horse came down hard. His shield had spun on his arm, but still held, and Gunnar now had his chance. The rider was already turning his mount, but Gunnar struck snake-swift. He hooked the rider's arm with the beard of his ax, then pulled down with all his strength. The rider tilted in his saddle but did not fall, so Gunnar pulled again as if hauling an anvil with one arm. The rider finally collapsed to the ground and his mount, now confused, kicked out at the closest person. The hapless victim was another dismounted Frank and the hooves struck him across the head and neck, crushing the enemy flat.

  Gunnar slammed the iron rimmed shield on the head of his enemy. The Frank, whose leg had nearly been severed without a cry, now screamed as the blow did not kill. Releasing his ax, Gunnar chopped down a final time on the Frank's neck and a satisfying rush of blood sprayed across the grass.

  The chaos of battle swirled, and Gunnar was ready to leap on his next enemy. They found him first, two Franks battering him back. Horses dashed about without riders, biting and kicking anyone they encountered. Gunnar stepped aside from the first sword, deflected the next one with his shield, then melted back to let his attackers pursue. The press behind him resisted him as good as any wall, and he found himself back to back with his men combating their own enemies. The Franks had compressed his force into a tight ball.

  The two Franks lashed at him together, and one point crunched against his mail shirt. A link snapped with a metallic ping, and hot pain bloomed beneath it, yet Gunnar again hooked the attacker's arm and yanked him forward. The startled Frank flew past Gunnar, who used the man's momentum against him while catching the other attack on his shield. With only one man for the moment, Gunnar now stood a chance. He hooked his ax over the rim of the Frank's shield and pulled down. This revealed an angry, blond man with a stream of blood flowing from his scalp. Gunnar barely heard the foeman's curse before he slammed the iron rim of his shield into the exposed attacker's face. He collapsed and Gunnar pummeled him flat with his shield edge until he lay still. He whirled for the return attack, but none came. The Frank had either died or been consumed into another struggle.

  Gunnar strained to see across the madness of the tiny world of his own combat. Spears, swords, and axes swam through a sea of helmets and horses and Gunnar saw nothing of Mord. His banner, however, rocked and shook as if in battle high above the fray. He screamed out, "He's mine! This is my revenge."

  Trying to shove through the combat, he met thick resistance. Bodies littered the ground, friend and foe intertwined like firewood stacked for winter. Blood slicked the grass and he skidded as he sought the edge of battle. More horns blared, but their notes remained distant and Gunnar was no longer certain of their direction through all the grinding noise of battle. A man with his face cut open from chin to eye fell on him, screaming and spraying blood over his chest. Gunnar shoved him back into a press of enemy, then forced through the opening to the edge of the battle. Horses galloped around the field, some with spears hanging from their bloodied flanks. Fleeing men from both sides ran off into the surrounding woods. The other jarls had not arrived as Aren had promised.

  He was trapped in a churning combat with Franks while Oskar and his men shoved against Mord's warriors. The back of Oskar's lines was breaking off and fleeing, like a honeycomb dissolving in a running stream. At first the edges broke, but soon all of it would wash away.

  The grunt behind him warned Gunnar to jump forward, and he felt the wind of a sword strike that would have lopped off his head. He turned to face a lithe Frank, his beautiful surcoat of blue and white now torn and splattered with blood. He carried no shield and wielded his blade with both hands.

  Gunnar dove into battle with him, realizing Aren's help was not coming and he would die unfulfilled on fields that had been stolen from his family. Fate had indeed planned a cruel end to his life.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  "Who is it I am to see?" Finn asked Aren for the third time since leaving the jetty and joining the flow of traffic heading into Rouen.

  "Fulbert is his name," Aren said. "I cannot guarantee his loyalty, but if you arrive with Elke and a bribe he should be wise enough to fetch Vilhjalmer."

  Aren's chest beat so hard he felt unable to breathe. The Rouen docks were as alive with trade as ever. The formerly bare-backed dock laborers of summer now wore drab woolen shirts, but they hauled what seemed the same crates and barrels and shouted the same uninspired curses at those in their paths. Dockside hawkers laid out their catches of stinking fish and wilting vegetables, but women still picked these over with discerning eyes and frowning expressions. Guards slumped into their cloaks, half awake on duty in a city that had brooked no threat in the decades since Hrolf arrived in Frankia.

  "Every city stinks like this," Ulfrik said, wrinkling his nose. Only his gray hair and the tip of his wagging beard hung out from the drawn hood of his green cloak. Aren thought his father had dressed plain enough to avoid notice, but he still stood
with pride uncommon for the low-born he was mimicking, and his movements were too confident. His father could never truly bend his back in shame. Such towering pride was what had made him great, but now also made him difficult to hide.

  "Father, you should stoop more and keep your head bowed. More like this." Aren demonstrated the look he wanted and received a thin smile from Elke and an outright laugh from Brandr. His face burned but he kept everyone moving through the crowds.

  "I'm doing well enough," Ulfrik announced. "Elke and Finn have all the hard work to do. We just get to sit and drink until Vilhjalmer shows himself."

  They filtered past the three guards who were clustered in conversation with a skinny woman. One saw Elke and immediately Aren saw the oncoming storm. The guard's face lit up and he was stumbling over himself to catch them.

  "Trouble has found us," he whispered. "I told Elke to cover up."

  The childish woman had insisted she had to be appealing to Vilhjalmer, and Aren had wondered if she was truly interested in helping them or more interested in impressing royalty. Now they were about to pay for her vanity.

  "Hold on," called the guard. "Where are you going?" Aren could not determine who the guard addressed, for he was fixated on Elke's form-hugging dress.

  "We are on business," Aren said, and held out a wood chip inscribed with Hrolf's mark. "And we've paid our dock fees. Here's our pass if you need to see it."

  The guard glanced at it but smiled at Elke, who returned a dumb smile. "I wasn't asking for the pass. What's your business here, and who is this fine lass?"

  "My wife," Ulfrik said, interposing himself between the guard and Elke. "So you'd do well to cease undressing her with your eyes."

  Aren's knees weakened when the guard broke into a gap-filled, yellow-toothed smile. "Well, old man, I was just asking a question, and you're a bit defensive. Maybe I need to take a closer look at you."