CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The crash of shield on shield boomed like two ship hulls colliding. Yngvar screamed his rage and deflected a spear off his shield rim. He thrust between the spaces of the shield wall with his short sword, felt the blade bend, then ultimately break through to soft flesh. A scream in front of him and then something heavy landing on his shield was all to mark the enemy's passing.
Immediately as the shield walls joined, the stench of blood and urine mingled with dirt. Yngvar had barely begun to fight, but hot sweat rolled on his face. His neck throbbed with the exhilaration.
"Push through the fuckers!" he screamed. "Stamp their faces into the mud!"
Bjorn wielded his ax with strength and precision. He used the hooked edge to yank down the shield of his foe, then stabbed out like a spear to drive the other end's point into the neck of his victim. He cleared two enemies from the line with his workman-like pace.
A spear slashed Yngvar's cheek. Had he not glanced at Bjorn, it would have skewered his eyes. The fiery burn of the gash only infuriated him more. He was aware of wide, white eyes staring back at him. But he rammed his shield into that face then hacked away someone's exposed arm. The hand fell off still with the spear in it.
Then he was stepping through the enemies to face the gates.
They had rolled through these enemies, leaving a twitching pile of dead and dying along with stubs of legs and hands. Some of his own were in that tidemark of death. But he had no time to worry for them.
Sigvald's men scattered, and some of Yngvar's crew wanted to chase them.
"Hold here, unless you want to die!" he shouted. "Get the gates open. Now!"
He wiped blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. Beyond the walls, dozens of low horns sounded and the wild shouts of anxious men rose up. The ground shook as they stamped, anticipating their rampage through this once impervious fort.
Alasdair and three other men struggled to lift out the bar. Yngvar's skin tingled as the bar thumped to the side. He joined the men dragging the gates open.
As the gates slid across the dirt path, Yngvar glanced out over the side. Waiting beyond the gates, out of bow range, were Waldhar's Saxons.
How he had summoned so many so quickly, Yngvar was not certain. The system of bonfires had to be the most effective warning ever devised. For here were ranks of wild-eyed fighting men raising their swords and axes and stamping the earth. When the gate opened, Yngvar called out.
"Waldhar, bring your men inside and join the battle!"
Battle horns filled the predawn air with mournful notes. Then the horde charged.
Yngvar and his crew fell aside as the Saxons charged the gate. Sigvald's groggy response had been too slow and too sporadic to prevent this. Only now were ranks of men piling into the streets. The terrified screams of women and children also mingled with the calls of warriors.
"Where's Thorfast?" Yngvar asked to no one in particular. He realized he had lost sight of his friend in the battle. Hopefully Thorfast had stayed at the back of the line. When no one answered, he jumped toward the pile of dead and dying at the gate. This pile would shortly be trampled under frenzied Saxon boots.
Thorfast lay crumpled on the path, doubled up over his wound. Yngvar crouched beside him.
"What happened? Did the stitches open again?"
Thorfast didn't answer, but Yngvar saw the blood running fresh over his sides and onto his back. He looked out the gate. The Saxons pounded toward the entrance. He glanced toward the center of the fort. Sigvald's men were pulling into a shield wall, lowering their spears.
"I hope this doesn't make it worse," Yngvar said. He discarded his short sword and shield, then scooped Thorfast off the ground.
A spear flung past him, hurled with an indistinct curse from Sigvald's line. But he stood with Thorfast in his arms.
More spears and more curses sped toward him. It was a waste of weapons, but he was the closest enemy for Sigvald's wrath. He stumbled along with Thorfast, exposed to the spears.
Then Bjorn and Alasdair both joined him, carrying shields they interposed between them and the enemy. He heard the thud and clang as he carried Thorfast into the cover of the walls. The Saxons burst through at that instant, and Sigvald's warriors had new enemies to fight.
Yngvar was oblivious to it all. "I think his stitches ripped. Let's have a look."
"That's a mess," Bjorn said, looking over his shoulder. "Thorfast, what did you do?"
Thorfast's face was taut with pain and glistening with sweat. His eyes were squeezed shut and teeth grit, but he tried to answer Bjorn.
"It doesn't matter," Yngvar said. "We'll get you fixed up again. But not while the battle rages."
Yngvar pulled off his cloak and threw it to Alasdair. "Cut it into strips, but give me a good square to cover this wound."
He used his dagger to cut away the shirt, and it did seem the stitches had broken and the wound reopened. When Alasdair had finished cutting, Yngvar put a thick pad of wool over the injury then tied it down with strips of his cloak. His own cheek wound dripped blood over Thorfast as he hissed and groaned with the pain.
The rest of the battle was short, or at least Yngvar thought it so. Saxons streamed into the fort in what seemed like a river of warriors. Once the gates had been opened, Sigvald's men had no hope. Their only mercy was Waldhar and Lopt's desire to take the fort undamaged. So no fires were set, which could have chased both attackers and defenders into the open. Yngvar wondered why Sigvald himself did not do as much when the battle turned against him.
Horns sounded the end of the fighting, but the screams of frightened villagers and the moans of the grievously wounded continued. Yngvar and his crew had waited by the gates, prepared to flee if Sigvald won. He had even made a stretcher from spear hafts to carry Thorfast. Yet by midmorning when the last sounds of battle had long faded, Lopt sent a runner to summon Yngvar to the hall.
The streets stank of blood. Distant, shrill screams followed as they crisscrossed narrow roads to the mead hall. A woman's white leg lay across the threshold of a home they passed, the rest of her corpse hidden in the morning shadows. Yngvar turned away. Such was the way of these battles. He wished no one but the real warriors would be hurt, but it was not realistic. Women and children would fight for their homes, and die for them as well.
At the mead hall, dozens of warriors knelt in the grass, heads bowed in shame. One balding man's head gleamed in the sun, his chain shirt torn at the shoulder and a gash on his scalp ran blood into the grass like water from a bucket. None of his companions seemed much better. Villagers, rotund mothers, elderly grandfathers, young sisters and brothers alike, had been herded into another group opposite the warriors. Both groups were surrounded by spearmen.
"Looks like Sigvald won't be collecting a bounty," Bjorn said.
On a pole outside the entrance to the mead hall, the heads of Sigvald, his mother, and four other of his bodyguards overlooked the captives with expressions of eternal horror. The seidkona was especially frightening, for even in death her eyes seemed to pierce Yngvar's thoughts.
Inside the hall, where all the doors were thrown open, the walls echoed with the hoots and songs of victorious warriors. The malty scent of beer flowed out the door, as the victors had tapped the casks they had captured. Lopt's crazy victory dance was clear above all others. He cavorted around Sigvald's chair on the high stage like it was his bonfire. He drew up short when Yngvar entered. He extended his arms like greeting a long-lost brother.
"There they are!" he shouted, his stone-eye obvious even across the murky hall. "Here are the men we owe for this glorious day!"
One burly Saxon with a golden mustache that reached to his chest held a cask aloft so that men drank direct from the tap. They paused to stare at Yngvar and his crew. Bjorn and Grettir carried Thorfast on his stretcher. A few other of his men had arrived with help from their companions, having taken spear wounds to their thighs or calves.
Waldhar had been seated on the chair, an
d Yngvar had not noticed until he stood. The sudden materialization of the Saxon chief made him step back in surprise. He had a drinking horn that sloshed frothy beer as he raised it high.
"You were true to your word! And the boy too! How many years did we eye this fort and yet he walked through its walls like a ghost."
The warriors cavorting in the hall cheered them. Yngvar smiled, noting that despite the festive mood the floor was covered in thickening blood and the walls were splattered from a great massacre. A foot still in its boot had fallen from the high stage beneath Lopt. Only an hour ago this place had been a hall of unspeakable terror and death as victorious Saxons carved up any resistance. Now it was again alive with celebration. Battlefields were ironic places where victors danced and the defeated bled out at their feet.
"Thorfast needs help," Bjorn said, ignoring the ceremony. He tugged the stretcher closer, Grettir stumbling behind him. The Saxons watched with hooded eyes as Bjorn placed the stretcher on the table. Thorfast bent a knee then moaned, clutching his stomach.
"He is the one I had mentioned," Yngvar said, now joining Thorfast at the table. "If you feel any gratitude to us, then help him."
Lopt jumped from the stage with more energy than a man his age should have. His good eye was wild with glee, but his stone eye seemed more sober and appraising. It seemed he used the stone eye to regard Thorfast.
"Our families are right behind us, just waiting for the signal to enter." Lopt adjusted Thorfast's bandage. "I will ensure he gets my best healer. She has saved men with worse wounds."
"It's all we can ask," Yngvar said.
"Is that all you would ask?" Waldhar said, his smile untouched by Thorfast's suffering. "This is a major victory for us. Would you not share in some of the spoils?"
"Of course," he said. "We had not discussed as much. But for my men, there are blood prices to be paid and silver for those who have fought well."
Waldhar slapped his back. "Then we shall give you that much."
"I also want to remain here while my friend heals," Yngvar said. Bjorn was staring worriedly at Thorfast, who still closed his eyes against the pain.
"I'd have you stay nowhere else," Lopt said, looking to Waldhar for agreement. The Saxon nodded and punched his father-in-law's shoulder.
"What about the captives?" Yngvar asked. "What is your plan?"
"Did you want any as slaves?" Lopt asked. "A pretty girl caught your eye? She might be a bit over-used by now, but I can arrange for her."
Yngvar waved his hand. "No slaves for me. I want to be certain you will silence Sigvald's men."
Lopt paused as if confused, then smiled. "Ah, your secret. Of course you don't want any to live. Well, men's lives have a value. While I'll probably kill any old or seriously injured, I might like to sell off the healthy ones."
Yngvar bit his lip. "I'm unsure of who knows my real name. Of the ones you are keeping, I must learn what they know."
Lopt and Waldhar looked at each other, then Lopt shrugged. "You can question them. But if you want to do more, then we have to discuss buying them from me. I cannot sell them with their tongues cut out. At least not easily."
Jumping back up on the stage, Lopt renewed his dancing and the men began singing again. Thorfast at last moved his hands from his stomach to cover his ears. He managed to squeeze out a curse, "Damn Saxon singing's like walrus mating."
As the day progressed, Yngvar and his crew moved back to their original barracks. True to his word, Lopt sent a man skilled in healing arts to attend Thorfast. The healer sucked his teeth at the poor dressing, immediately discarding the foul-smelling rag for clean linen bandages. They left Thorfast in the skilled care of the healer, instead venturing outside to watch the Saxons run wild through the street. He assumed Lopt's men were mingled within their number, but they were so few this was essentially a Saxon victory.
"Seems dangerous staying on with these Saxons," Bjorn said, folding his arms and watching two men carrying chests down the road. "What's keeping them from turning on us?"
"I doubt they're all pure Saxon," Yngvar said. "This is border country, and I'm sure there's a blend of all sorts in Waldhar's host. But no doubt things are going to become dangerous before long. Some other Danish jarl is going to learn what happened here and it won't be long before they're fighting to retake this fort."
Bjorn grunted. Yngvar was unable to tell if he welcomed the fight or thought it as troublesome as he himself did. Being captured as an enemy was not King Hakon's plan for them. So now he had to become something else and turn this dilemma into an advantage before the Danes counterattacked.
He caught Bjorn's eyes and motioned him closer. Of his other crew, he gathered Alasdair and three others to walk with him. The rest looked on curiously.
At the back of the barracks where shade cast the alley into darkness, Yngvar huddled with his companions and spoke in a low voice. "We've gained an ally in Waldhar and Lopt, which is the exact opposite of what King Hakon entrusted us to do. So we've got to undo this situation. We could simply ask to leave and start over. But Waldhar and Lopt both know our secrets, and I fear leaving that knowledge with them. If we ever do get close enough to Gorm, they could ruin it for us. So we'll have to ensure their silence."
"But they're taking care of Thorfast," Bjorn said, worry causing his voice to rise.
"He's like a brother to me, too," Yngvar said, harsher than he wanted. "I'll not let him come to any more harm. But we have to think of our mission as well as our own lives. Can we help him if we're all rounded up as enemies of the Danish king?"
"Lord, your scars are going to make it hard for the Danish king or anyone else to not realize who we are." Alasdair stood at his side, his clear face staring up at him. "Now that we know Erik's bounty has spread this far, perhaps we should reconsider everything."
Yngvar shook his head and held up a hand. He was not even going to answer that concern with words. Instead, he waited for the men to refocus on him again.
"We have to help some of Sigvald's men escape. Not all of them know who we are, only that we had become prisoners of their jarl. Perhaps some don't know even that much. They must go and carry word to the nearby jarls of the Saxon attack. They must also tell them that Einar Magnusson and his crew are willing to open the gates for any Danish relief force. We are simple mercenaries who know the difference between winning a battle but losing a war. We want to be on the right side of the power in this land. That story can even be the reason Sigvald imprisoned us. It sets us up to be heroes to the Danes, and that's where we want to be."
"But Waldhar and Lopt will know the truth, lord," Alasdair said. "You can't mean to betray them so thoroughly as to kill them?"
Yngvar sighed. "It's not what I want either, but remember everyone in this land is an enemy of our king. Do not confuse their actions with kindness. If it suited them, we might all be dead by now--and may still end up that way."
Alasdair nodded, and Yngvar then broke up the group. "Inform the others," he said. "And Bjorn, Alasdair, and I will go find men to free."
It took most of the day to find suitable men with a light enough guard. Alasdair again proved adept at finding the best targets while appearing no more than an innocent and curious lad. By late night, Yngvar had arranged to snatch these men as they were being transferred to a building with other captives.
As the column marched past, Bjorn jumped the rearmost guard as they crossed the alley where he hid. Yngvar and Alasdair ran out and seized two men from the rear of the line. The third turned to them but did not follow. He was either too confused or timid, but kept following his line.
Bjorn stood over the dead guard. The two captured men stared wide-eyed, but Yngvar motioned them to silence. They then clung to the wall toward the only open gate where Saxons were still intermittently entering. They might continue all night, but before darkness the gates would close. Yngvar pointed at the gates, handed the men swords, daggers, and shields. He had skins of ale for them, but nothing more.
"You must warn the surrounding jarls. Tell them what happened here. Do you know who I am?" When neither man answered, Yngvar smiled. "I am Einar Magnusson. My crew and I came from Norway to sell our swords and are now trapped in this mess. We've made a deal with the Saxons, but we want to serve King Gorm. We'll open the gates for any attacking force. But you must tell them to hurry before we're uncovered. Now go, both of you."
The men nodded, and when it seemed no one watched, they bolted for the open gates.
They had made it away, and Yngvar felt the tension drain from his shoulders. Only two men to carry word. At least they were in home territory and so might successfully carry the message. He turned around.
And a Saxon stood facing them, a frown on his face and horn poised at his lips.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Yngvar threw his dagger with all his strength. The blade flashed in the evening light, whirling through the air.
The Saxon was about to sound his horn when the blade sunk into his left thigh. He faltered and screamed as the dagger landed with a meaty thump.
Bjorn's ax had the best reach, and he pounced with speed unexpected for his size and bulk. He hooked the Saxon's arm, pulling his horn down, then shoved the other hooked point into the Saxon's face. He stumbled back, and Yngvar was now atop him with his long sword drawn. Bjorn fell over the Saxon to clamp a hand over the bleeding face. Yngvar jabbed his throat to finish the hapless victim.
They stood still over the dead body. Just beyond this row of buildings, the main road out the gates was still active with people, all Waldhar's men. He expected another shout to follow, but nothing came. Eventually he let the tension drain from his shoulders.
"We're covered in fresh blood," Bjorn said, wicking the blood from his hand. "You had to cut his throat? Bastard's bleeding like a stuck pig."
"We had to kill him fast," Yngvar said. But he realized belatedly that they could've dragged the man off to kill him in secret.
"Lord, it's not like the streets are still not filled with puddles of blood. You do not look out of place." Alasdair crept to the edge of the buildings and looked out.
Odin's Ravens (Descendants Saga Book 2) Page 12