Sword Brothers

by Jerry Autieri

  "He didn't expect to win," Ragnar said. "He has probably fled to his wife's family."

  Gunnar flipped over a table with a roar. No one approached him as his mind buzzed with a hundred murderous thoughts. How had Mord managed to escape? Not even a slave had been left behind. He kicked benches and flung wooden plates. Men abandoned him to his rage, but soon he heard Bekan calling his name. He whirled on his friend, but stopped when he saw Bekan's face. "They've found Mord?"

  "No, but very close. His second was wounded in battle. I thought you might want to speak with him."

  They rushed outside, and before the hall doors Mord's second, Magnus the Stone, hung between two men. His right leg had been hewed at the knee, turning it into a bloody mess bent at the wrong angle. He bowed his head and Gunnar suddenly felt much better. He smiled and stalked over to Magnus. The jarls and their hirdmen looked on impassively.

  He lifted Magnus's head with the blade of his bloody ax. The old warrior stared through him. "So you're the one who shot my brother in the face trying to kill my father. You would do such a shameful, cowardly thing in service to a man who would abandon you to your enemies? Let me teach you to regret your choices."

  Gunnar stamped on Magnus's wound, who fell from between the two men holding him up. He screamed as Gunnar ground his heel into the shattered knee.

  "Where did Mord go?"

  "I don't know."

  "That's the wrong answer." Gunnar glanced at Bekan, who knew this drill well. He pinned Magnus down while Gunnar adjusted his grip on his ax handle. "Say farewell to your sword hand."

  The blade slammed down, but it was dull and only stuck in Magnus's wrist bone. The old warrior howled in agony as Gunnar wrestled the blade free and chopped again. It took four gory strikes to break through the bone and remove the hand. By this time, Magnus was delirious with pain.

  "Tell me where Mord and his wife went, or I'll use this dull ax to cut off your head. Cooperate and I'll have a fresh blade readied to make it easier." Gunnar retrieved the hand, its flesh now bloody gray. He slapped Magnus's face with it. "You deserve a lot more suffering for what you did to my family. But I am generous today, as well as tired. Speak."

  "The lady Fara went back to her family. Mord may follow. I don't know. We weren't supposed to lose."

  "Then why clear out the hall?"

  "She didn't want to be close to the fighting. Took everything and left."

  Gunnar knelt beside Magnus, who now lay facedown in the grass, and pulled up his head. "I will have a fresh blade prepared for your beheading, but before that you'll suffer well."

  He stood, tossed the ax aside, and wiped the gore from his face. He looked to Bekan. "Find a tree and hang him. Make sure he takes a long time to choke to death. Then keep my word and find a good blade to sever his head. We'll set it on a spear along with the heads of every dead enemy we pick off this battlefield. I want this land to stink of death and be smothered in flies and crows. Let them know Gunnar the Black has come to avenge his family."

  Bekan nodded as if the command were not unusual, though Ull, Ragnar, and Oskar regarded him with raised brows.

  "They don't call me black just for the color of my hair, but for the flocks of crows that follow my path." Gunnar's quip drew an evil smile from Ull and Ragnar, and both nodded appreciatively. Oskar remained with his brow raised, and Gunnar pointed at him.

  "Get me thirty good men. I know where they are taking Mord, and I mean to see him dead. We don't have far to go, but must hurry."

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Ulfrik's hands trembled and were cold. He sat in the audience hall inside the palace that Hrolf called home when he stayed at Rouen rather than his traditional hall. The floors were covered in wood planks that servants had scrubbed smooth, and the exterior walls were of fitted stone and mortar that crumbled into piles at the corners. Rectangles set high on the walls provided light, and Ulfrik had noticed a sparrow's nest in one of them. The whole place smelled faintly of dust, and beyond the stone walls in the courtyard a dog barked. All the hallmarks of a lazy morning in a sleepy palace belied the upcoming tumult.

  Three tables were arranged around each wall save the one where the double doors were set. Benches were placed between table and wall, so that no guest would have his back to another. Ulfrik liked that idea, and felt that men would enjoy their feasts more if all could see each other as well as their host. At the head table, he sat with Aren at his right and Finn on his left. Elke and Brandr cowered at the far end of the bench, and clung to each other as if weathering a storm.

  So many for something I must do alone, he thought.

  Aren sat quietly, eyes lowered to his hands folded on the table. His careful planning had freed Ulfrik to focus on revenge. Despite having sat for at least an hour in the room, Finn still drank in his surroundings with wide eyes and looking very much the boy he was in his heart. Were it not for his mastery of concealment and skill as a scout, they could not have made it across the Seine to Rouen. Elke stroked Brandr's curly gold hair. She had blossomed to her full beauty now, and Ulfrik felt foolish both for having had her in his bed and not doing more than he had. She was charming in her simple way, and her smile had so won over Vilhjalmer that he was ready to do anything to please her. Without her charms, the doors to Rouen's palace might yet remained closed.

  At last Ulfrik considered Brandr, the shy, broken child Gunnar had by another woman. With only Leif for a grandson and so young, Ulfrik was glad to find another of his blood in this world. He had studied the boy and wondered at the heart of this child. He had not wanted to leave his mother, but had been obedient to her wishes. Ulfrik now had to test that obedience to him.

  He extended an arm to Brandr, "Come here, lad."

  The boy reluctantly slid from Elke's arm and presented himself to Ulfrik. The boy faintly reminded Ulfrik of Gunnar, but he must look more like the mother than anyone else. That did not endear him to Ulfrik, though he was his blood. "Do you remember why I've taken you on this journey?"

  "Yes, Lord." Brandr's voice was small and he lowered his eyes.

  "You will be brave. I've no use for a frightened child, for they grow up to be frightened men. You are not frightened, are you?"

  "No, Lord."

  "That is good. There will be much to frighten you, but you must remember your blood. Who am I?"

  "You are Ulfrik Ormsson, Lord."

  "Is that all I am?"

  "No, Lord, you are a vengeful jarl and a nightmare to your enemies."

  Ulfrik laughed. "And your grandmother was named Runa the Bloody. She is why we are here today, and part of why you must do what I ask. Your father is Gunnar the Black, and not for his hair but for his vengeful heart. So with family names like that, you cannot just call yourself Brandr. What shall you call yourself?"

  The boy's eyes widened and a smile grew. He looked off to the side as considered. "They will call me Brandr the Brave, Lord."

  "A fine name, Brandr the Brave. Grow into that name and the skalds will add it to their songs of our family's deeds. Now sit with Elke, and be brave for what you are about to witness. It will be a terrible sight for even the strongest of hearts."

  His grandson retreated to Elke, who smiled and mouthed a word of thanks to him. Both Aren and Finn regarded Ulfrik with cool smiles. All of them needed to hear those words and be reminded to remain brave as they sat in the hall of their enemy. If Vilhjalmer suddenly changed his mind, they were all as good as dead in a room with only one set of doors.

  The silence dragged out until they heard voices at the door. Ulfrik's sword was already drawn and resting at his leg. He placed his shaking hand on the hilt and his breath grew ragged. The doors shook as someone stood before them and the voices grew louder. Both Aren and Finn picked up their weapons. The doors thumped opened. The darkness beyond yawned then Vilhjalmer entered, not even glancing at Ulfrik or the others lined against the far wall. He assisted a tall man inside, guiding him by the hand.

  Gunther One-Eye had aged far worse than Ul
frik had expected. Though he still stood tall, he had shrunk to little more than bones. Ulfrik remembered a hulking giant with a wolf pelt tossed over broad shoulders. He remembered a man who had drank with him, encouraged him, fought beside him, and had been his friend. The hateful thing framed in the doorway was not that man. His skin sagged, blotted with brown patches and moles. His hair had thinned and left him bald on top. A single eye glowed with the strange bluish light of a thick cataract. Gunther swept the room with a frown Ulfrik recognized from their long association.

  "What are we doing in this room?" Not even the voice remained the same. Gone was the sonorous, commanding voice of a warrior and jarl. In its place was the weary, suspicious voice of an old traitor. He sniffed the air. "Are we not alone?"

  "Come in, Grandfather," Vilhjalmer said. He gently tugged Gunther's hand and he hobbled inside.

  "I don't understand. I hear other people in the room." Gunther faced Vilhjalmer. If he were not blind, he would see the evil smile on Vilhjalmer's face.

  "You will understand in a moment," Vilhjalmer said, then lifted the bar into place across the doors.

  Ulfrik stood, sword in a cold hand, and cleared his throat. "Hail, Gunther One-Eye. Welcome to our final meeting."

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Mord drove his pack of thirty men as fast as they could march. The gentle slopes were as challenging as mountains to their battle-weary muscles. The bittersweet scent of burning farms and barns followed them as they cleared through the light woods and into the pastureland that had once been Gunnar's holdings. Rolling grasses now browning with the onset of winter spread before them, curled and dead leaves rolling like a tide. Throughout their chase they found signs of fleeing warriors everywhere. They glimpsed corpses in the underbrush, wounded men who had escaped but never found help. Even this far from the battle, a shield had been discarded. Its leather rim torn away and the wood splintered. Gunnar kicked it.

  "Mord's men came this way," he said, then spit on the shield. "I'd bet my reputation on it."

  "Then we should pause for a breath," Bekan said. He had insisted on accompanying Gunnar rather than remain behind butchering corpses, and Gunnar was grateful for a trusted face among strangers.

  "We can breathe while we walk. There's every chance Mord got away, and we can't risk it." The men with him gave him weary glares but followed as he pressed into the fields. Atop a rolling hill he looked down on what he expected to find.

  "Hrothgar's farm is no more, but a stone church is nearly finished." He pointed down the slope at the building of warm gray rock. It had no thatch yet, but it seemed the builders would have it completed before winter. Two wooden buildings with bright golden thatch roofs sat in easy reach of the church. There was no sign of life, no livestock or servant showed outside the buildings, nor did any birds sit on the roof.

  "Blood in the grass," Bekan said, kneeling to touch the droplets with his fingers. "You were right."

  "Of course I was right," he muttered. "Now that he's out of tricks, he'll be as predictable as the tides. Surround the buildings and if anyone comes out or struggles, kill them where they stand. I may have once ruled here, but there are no friends left in this land."

  They rushed down the slope, Gunnar experiencing a renewed vigor having trapped Mord in the only refuge he could find. Thirty men did not feel enough to surround both buildings, but he doubted Mord had taken more than a dozen during his escape. Gunnar stood before the largest of the two buildings, shield strapped on his arm and ax in his cold hand. Despite the jingle of their mail shirts and the murmur of voices as they surrounded the buildings, no one emerged. All eyes waited on Gunnar's signal, and he gave it as a nod to Bekan at the door.

  Bekan raised his foot and kicked on the door. It flung open and someone within screamed, man or woman Gunnar could not tell. He charged in with shield forward and ax raised. At the other building, men roared as they too burst through the doors.

  Inside the choking, trash scent of burning tallow candles assailed him. His eyes wrestled with the darkness, but shapes flashed before him and the unmistakable glint of iron struck for his exposed side. He turned aside, bounced the strike off his mail shirt, and cut down with his ax. The attacker grunted as Gunnar felt his blade sink into soft flesh, then the shape thumped to the floor. Bekan roared for the enemy to surrender, and to Gunnar's surprise they did. As his vision adjusted to the light he saw two men set their weapons down and back away.

  Now in the low candlelight of the windowless hall his sight came into focus. Two men already bandaged, one about his head and the other on his leg, stood back. Three other men lay side by side on the floor, their wounds more grievous. One had a stump of his left hand wrapped in bloody cloth. Gunnar grinned at that, but it fled him when he saw who stood at the rear with two women cowering with him.

  "Father Lambert!" Gunnar shouted. He stalked toward the priest, and the surrendering men parted for him. Stepping over the injured men, he pointed his bloodied ax at the priest's chest.

  "You snake! You returned after all to claim your prize." Father Lambert's pasty flesh turned whiter still as he stared down at the dripping ax poised over his heart. His mouth opened but he had no words. "Speechless, eh? Never expected to see me again, did you."

  The priest still wore his hair short, but it had grown over the tops of his ears now. His melon-shaped head shook in answer to Gunnar's question.

  "Where's Mord? Is he in the other building?" Gunnar swept his shield arm over the injured men, who Bekan and others were already guarding. "These are his warriors."

  Father Lambert's eyes were fish-wide and a dark stain appeared at the front of his black robe. Gunnar gave a disgusted laugh. "You've pissed yourself! Oh, but you must know how I am going to hurt you, priest. We'll start with those two good legs of yours and work up to your lying tongue. Don't make me angrier than I need be or I'll get more creative. Where's Mord?"

  "He's dead." The answer came not from Father Lambert, but from one of the prisoners. Gunnar faced the man. He was fat but strong, curly brown hair stained red with his blood. The bandage on his forehead hung over eyes like a bear's.

  "Did you see him die?" Gunnar asked. "Be honest with me and you will live."

  The man raised a paw-like hand. "I swear it to you, Jarl Gunnar. He commanded us to take him here, but along the way he died. We could not carry him any longer. We were all hurt. We threw his body into a gully in the woods and covered him in branches. There is still much light left to this day. If you retrace our steps, you will find the body before the wolves get it tonight."

  Gunnar's ax lowered, and his body drained of fight. "Thrown in a ditch for scavengers to devour. A fitting end to a traitor."

  Bekan put his hand on Gunnar's shoulder, but he pulled away. He suddenly felt unable to stand and sat on a bench. "I killed him, I suppose. But there was no joy in it. He should've screamed more. Begged me to stop. Something."

  "Your father bade you kill him, and you did. That was your ax in his shoulder."

  "I will see his corpse myself. I will still have his head."

  The captive spoke up. "I can take you to the body. I remember the way."

  His companions hissed at him, the man with the wrap on his leg cursed him. "You traitor. You've no honor."

  "He's dead!"

  Gunnar silenced them by raising his ax. He now turned to Father Lambert. Tears streamed down the priest's eyes. Tormenting him felt meaningless now. He nodded to Bekan. "Let the priest witness the death of everyone you find here, destroy his church and burn his houses. Then cut off both his legs and hang him up to die. I will take five men and this prisoner to find Mord's corpse."

  Father Lambert screamed along with the women at his side. The prisoner with the leg wound tried to grab a weapon and was as swiftly struck down. Now two bodies lay bleeding over the dirt floor. Gunnar took the prisoner and his five men, then exited into daylight. The air was cool and fresh on his face, but his heart was heavy and black. The prisoner went in front and began gu
iding them.

  "If you are leading us into a trap, you will die before you can be saved," Gunnar warned.

  But the prisoner had been sincere. After a long search and doubling back, they came to a steep ledge where a stream flowed through below.

  "We threw him down there and fled," said the prisoner. "There is his corpse."

  Gunnar stared down from the ledge, which dropped twice his height. Mord lay on his back, foot in the stream, Gunnar's ax in his shoulder. His eyes were closed as if he were only sleeping beneath a blanket of pine branches covering up to his chest.

  "We could gain the stream farther west, then follow it down to the body," said one of his men. Gunnar shook his head.

  "The sun is already low in the sky and I have seen what I needed. That is Mord." He stared for a long time while his men waited. Mutilating the body was more effort than it was worth. Presenting the head to his father would have been a nice touch, but he did not know when they would next meet. Instead, rotting in mud while animals and worms gnawed Mord's corpse was just as fitting. So he pulled down his pants then urinated down onto the body. When finished, he turned to the prisoner.

  "You've earned your freedom," Gunnar said. "If you are caught again, I will not be so generous."

  "Thank you, Lord!" The man bowed and started to back away. The prisoner was already fleeing deeper into the woods when Gunnar recalled he meant to cut off the man's sword hand. He shook his head, then spit over the edge.

  "So ends Mord Guntherson's worthless life," he said, then looked north and wished his father's revenge tasted better than this bitter draught.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Gunther stiffened at Ulfrik's voice and his confused expression grew resolute. Ulfrik stepped from behind the table, his white knuckle grip tight on his sword hilt. The scent of dust hanging in the air filled his nose as he inhaled deeply then sighed.