Norseman Raider (The Norseman Chronicles Book 4)

by Jason Born

  The king gritted his bared teeth. I felt truly stout of heart at that moment. I was ready to follow him, damn the costs. Godfrey turned to face the front again. He took one step forward when I saw his head snap back. An arrow glanced off his helmet and shot past me to finish its course. The king shook his head to recover his senses. He blinked to clear the spider webs.

  We heard a high pitched scream from behind and we all turned to see what made the noise, though I think in our hearts we knew. Aoife was lying on her back with the arrow jutting from her belly. Her mouth was gaping as she belted a constant shriek. One hand tore at the shaft of the missile. Another was balled into a fist, beating the sloppy red earth. The men in the rear of our round shield wall stepped gingerly backward. One of them stepped on her pounding arm, pinning it to the ground. He paid no attention since he’d been stepping on bodies and their parts all morning. I ran to the girl and jerked her out by her ankle.

  Pulling her writhing form into my arms, I awaited her malicious slap for treating her so roughly. It came not.

  “Sword,” she rasped, holding up a trembling arm. I could see the print of the man’s boot on her skin. “Sword,” Aoife coughed.

  I screamed at her. “You’re not so close to death that you need a blade. Valhalla is closed to you right now.”

  Despite my protest, I complied with her wishes. I reached to the dirt and grabbed a dead man’s blade. I set the grip into her small hand which firmed at the mere touch. Aoife smiled with eyes closed. The grin fled as she began coughing blood. My lower lip quivered. Tears came and began washing away the crimson splattered across my cheeks. Aoife’s hand tightened on the sword even while she convulsed. She gave two grunts and then exhaled for one long, last time.

  The girl I cradled was dead.

  My confidence ebbed.

  . . .

  More arrows slapped the shields of the leading edge of our mass of men. Spears, too, danced in the morning air. Both types of missiles leapt over our front ranks. They killed the unfortunate men who advanced blindly backward up the hill as they themselves did their best to chop down the last of the newcomers. While cradling Aoife’s lifeless form, I peered ahead to see from where the new deadly menace came.

  The morning became more dreadful. Maredubb had found the right moment. The gate clattered open. He and his men poured through and down the hill, sending their rain of steel as envoys ahead of them. The negotiations were short as the sharp tips pierced our rugged diplomats.

  Godfrey and Killian were already at their places in the front of the shield wall. All talk of retreat was forgotten. It was time to avenge our newly fallen. I think both men were inspired by Aoife’s sacrifice. The courage she demonstrated in life didn’t flee with her death. No. It sprang from her soul into all of us. It rejuvenated us. The time had come for action. The king called, “Charge! Keep tight and run up the hill! Stay strong. Cut them!” He pushed forward, Gudruna at his side. The rest of the men surged behind them. Even the men at the back of the circular shield wall turned and ran, abandoning the few newcomers who yet lived. The greater threat was Maredubb’s army. It was up, not down.

  I joined them, for I had no choice. I would have preferred to carry Aoife’s body to the river. There I would have spent a full day constructing a small longboat for the girl. Such vessels were fit only for warriors. She was one. I would have liked to set her in the ship with weapons. I would have shoved it from the shore already alight. The flames would have consumed her craft and body even before I stopped crying. All of that would have been a fitting way for her to be sent to Valhalla. I could do none of it.

  Before going to my place in the line, I gently set Aoife’s body across the back of a large dead man. There was no time for more tears, though I had them and they flowed mightily. They clouded my vision. I wiped them away. Snot clogged the moustache of my beard. Aoife’s straw-like hair was more disheveled than usual. I pinched a lock and set it behind her ear. Even a few of the newcomer brigands stopped their fighting and watched. They had known the precocious girl, too. They’d liked her. Everyone did, except those she meant to kill. I simultaneously laughed and cried at the thought of the little beast acting as a ravaging pirate. My throat swelled so that I felt like I was trying to swallow an entire apple. I gave Aoife a soft pat to her forehead. It was still warm. More tears came.

  “She’s gone, Halldorr,” said one of the newcomers with surprising tenderness. He was nothing but a dishonorable traitor. In a flash I slipped my saex out and into his thigh. I quickly killed the other two onlookers. They fell like flower petals decorating Aoife’s resting place. After one last look at the little demon who had been more alive than any of us, I hoisted my shield and ran to my rightful place.

  . . .

  The last man from Dyflin fell choking on his own blood. Our Welsh soldiers were dying. The Manx toppled. Yet, we pushed with all our might up that hill. We actually made headway, for not all of Maredubb’s men could force their way through the narrow gate. Our tiny army’s progress had checked theirs. The men in the rear ranks of the enemy helplessly watched our two sides meld together into a writhing mass of flesh and steel.

  Horse Ketil pushed the chest of his charger into my shield. He swung down at me with intense vitriol lurking in each stroke. “I’ll repay you, fool! You used your fists. I’ll use this steel,” Ketil called. I leaned into the horse’s neck, using it as protection from his blows. It would only be a moment, I thought, before the frightened ass would run out of hate-fueled energy. I’d stab his leg then.

  Only he didn’t tire. Horse Ketil skillfully moved his horse from side to side, exposing me again and again. It was a repeat of the madness he’d unleashed when we took over the city of Aberffraw. Ketil used his sword as would a practiced warrior. He saw the surprise on my face. “A drunkard is what you see in me. Or, you see a man who pretends badly. I’ve found that being underestimated brings benefits.” His blade removed the last of my tattered cloak. “Kings say things in front of you they ought not, when they think you are drunk or just blustering power. In the process, I gain treasure for myself and my clan. I gain alliances. Man will be free.” He swung again. I dodged it, but fell backward into a bloody mess. “Maredubb thinks me a drunk, too! Soon Anglesey will be under my control.”

  Ketil prodded his horse forward to crush me with its marching hooves. Killian swung his sword. It severed Ketil’s leg and buried itself in the beast’s ribs. Out of instinct, Ketil made a broad retaliatory stroke with his blade. The tip splayed through Killian’s face. The priest, my first true Christian friend, fell into the heap of our men’s bodies. Ketil’s horse sensed his master’s distress, felt the steel lodged in its side, and bolted back toward the gate. It trampled dozens of the enemy.

  Godfrey looked down at Killian, his trusted advisor, friend, and priest. Killian peered back with death’s blank stare. The king suddenly had a renewed vigor, an otherworldly energy. Out of sheer will, Godfrey pushed ahead. He killed one, two, then three more of the enemy. The rest of us saw him. We were inspired. I know I was heartened by his prowess. I climbed to my feet and howled like Fenrir, the wolf of legend. Our shrinking band came together. We hacked and stepped. We cut and walked on a blanket of death. The corpses made us a path. We moved closer to the gate.

  “Thor’s beard!” screamed Godfrey as he cleaved another man.

  Maredubb was there now. He sat on his beautiful destrier. Its black coat was marred with red blood and brown dirt even though they’d been in the fight a short while. King Maredubb’s fancy leather boots were likewise covered. The ugly king was killing as efficiently as was ours. With two hands he brought a long handled war axe down at the head of Godfrey. The king held his blade aloft to block it. That would be the test of whether or not it was a true work of the famous Frankish craftsmen.

  The axe was halted in midair. The two kings shouted strings of curses at one another. Neither heard what the other said. They stood there, Maredubb’s different colored eyes angrily burning at Godfrey. />
  I again took heart. My king was nearly single-handedly climbing the hill. His blade was better than a work of art, it was magic. I knew it. Gudruna knew it. And Godfrey knew it.

  Maredubb didn’t know it. He simply picked up his giant axe again. He raised it with both hands above his head. King Maredubb leaned into his swing bringing every ounce of his strength, weight, and leverage with him. He could have split a bull in half with the force he put behind that blow. Godfrey defiantly stuck the sword in the axe’s path.

  The blade snapped in two. The +ULFBERHT+, as false as a made-up whore, shattered. It splintered like the massive whetstone of Hrungnir. The war axe continued falling as if it had felt no resistance. It crushed into the helmet of my king, creating a vast chasm on the crown. Godfrey’s arms went limp. He teetered. Some unnamed man in Maredubb’s army shoved a short sword into my king’s neck. Godfrey collapsed.

  Gudruna belched out a terrified wail. Her face, always beautiful and confident, bent into the faces of all her husband’s victims. She stopped fighting. It got her killed. A club beat her shoulder. Gudruna fell to a knee. The same club came down on the back of her helmeted head. Her neck snapped. The Queen of the Isles toppled dead onto her husband. The hand of her killer clasped on the gold amulet from Anglesey that Godfrey had given her. He tore it away and melted into the throng.

  Both armies paused. It was just a moment, I know. Maybe it was less than a heartbeat. It seemed to go on for hours as only the truly outrageous surprises in the middle of a battle can. Our hearts melted in that moment. My brothers – Danes, Norsemen, Greenlanders, Manx, and even Irish and Welsh – and I lost our will. The combined souls of the Dal Riatan and Maredubb’s armies swelled.

  “Slaughter them!” called Maredubb.

  They did.

  . . .

  We broke. Our asses faced the fort’s defenders and we ran down the hill. As any of you who have had the fortune to participate in a great war know, turning your back to flee invites even more carnage than what you were trying to escape in the first place. But for a fleeting pulse, it feels like you are doing something to remedy the situation.

  Until the pursuers lock in their aim.

  The rear ranks of Maredubb’s army forced their way out. They wanted a part in the victory. They knocked down the front ranks and heaved spears into the sky. One after another arced over the killing field. They slammed into the backs of terrified warriors.

  I thundered to a halt at Aoife’s body. My comrades ran into and around me. I looked at their faces. Gone was all bravado. Fled was all valor. They were replaced with the wide-eyed, vacant stare of fear. Seeing my friends thus made me ashamed for a heartbeat. Then I remembered that I would look the same to them. I bent down and scooped Aoife into my arms. An arrow grazed my shoulder, but I held on.

  I wanted to hug the little creature and forget the horrors of the day. I didn’t care if I would die with her, with Godfrey and the rest. You know I didn’t, however, for I lived to pen this tale. It wasn’t me who got me moving. Her peaceful face slapped me back to reality. From her next life, Aoife shouted at me. She tugged on my finger and kicked my shin. “Run, you fool! Run!”

  I did.

  We burst into the trees and down into the River Add. A few men went straight through into the unknown wilderness of Dal Riata. Several more turned right and ran into the thinning waters upstream. Calm-headed Leif gathered the rest of us together. “Lose your weight,” he said as he stripped himself of anything that wasn’t needed. His helmet, his mail, his jerkin, all of it splashed into the water. “You should leave her, Halldorr.”

  “I’ll not!” I yelled as I and the others dropped everything of excess weight into the flowing water.

  “He won’t,” said Randulfr. Godfrey’s lieutenant looked at me and gave a nod. He understood. Randulfr turned with a defiant gaze to Leif. “He won’t. I’ve had enough of your plans.”

  Leif threw up his hands in surrender. “Fine. Drop everything else. Hurry.” We finished the task. Each man kept a single weapon, mostly swords. I held onto my father’s saex. Aoife was balanced on my shoulder.

  We splashed downstream as fast as our lungs and legs would propel us. I looked around to see who made it that far. Tyrkr ran, drenched in blood, stone faced. Randulfr, Loki, and Brandr had survived that long. And there was Leif, of course, and Magnus. Four other Greenlanders trailed behind.

  The river went on a maniacally curving course. We made terrible time if we expected to ever make it to our ships, but after running at least an English mile we gave up. We fell to a halt. Each man except for me crashed into the Add, exhausted. I teetered on my feet, holding Aoife. We caught our breath and slowly gathered together. The others climbed to all fours. I rested one hand on my knee and for the first time felt the soothing coolness of the water rolling past my shins. We, survivors of the previous slaughter, locked eyes and knew that we were going to die.

  One-by-one we stood upright with weapons at the ready to meet whatever would come down the river or whatever might come pounding over the bank. We remained planted in the undulating waters for a long while.

  The shrill, wailing cry of a lapwing broke the silence.

  “They aren’t coming?” asked Brandr.

  None of us believed it so we waited.

  We again looked at one another. Without uttering a word we turned and slowly walked down the river toward our fleet.

  . . .

  “Do you smell that?” asked Leif.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Smoke,” said Tyrkr. He pointed high up through the treetops that extended up from the soggy banks of the Add.

  “The fleet,” gasped Randulfr, plunging forward.

  Leif grabbed him by the shoulder. “If they’ve taken the main road and beaten us there, they’ll be watching the river. We’ll be ambushed from the side. We’ve no armor.”

  “So we let the fleet burn? How do we escape?” accused Brandr.

  “And I said I was tired of listening to you,” said Randulfr. He stuck a weak finger into Leif’s chest.

  “No,” said Leif, answering Brandr, but ignoring Randulfr. “Back into the swamps. It’s not far now.” He climbed out of the water on the northern bank, expecting us to follow.

  “I should command,” said Randulfr.

  “You’re right, you should,” I said, following after Leif. The Greenlanders and Tyrkr came along.

  Loki gave Randulfr an encouraging slap on his shoulder. “You should, but you don’t today. Leif’s got a way with planning. I suppose we ought to follow.” There was no time for further grumbling. The rest came – Randulfr, too.

  Soon we crouched in the thicket downstream from our boats. Raven’s Cross was ablaze. It sat right in the middle of the River Add where it had run aground. The men I’d left behind to free the ship were dead. That is, except the newcomers who now lounged along the river next to the captives we meant to sell in Dyflin. They were freed from their shackles. Maredubb and a score of mounted warriors were just riding up.

  “I’ve posted some men to intercept the bastards running down the river. They might already be dead,” bragged King Maredubb.

  The mast on Godfrey’s flagship crunched as it fell into the waters. Maredubb took note. “Ah, the upstart’s been paid back. It feels so good.” The Welsh king studied the rest of our armada that rested peacefully between us and him. A cool wind from the north shook our thicket. It also made the open portion of a hastily lowered sail snap on Charging Boar. Maredubb pointed. “Why does the rest of the fleet not burn?”

  The lead newcomer appeared confused, but did not move. His hands were securely fastened behind his head as he reclined. “I knew you’d want to burn Godfrey’s ship, but why burn a fine fleet that you can put to use, or sell?”

  Maredubb’s face flushed red. He spoke through clenched teeth. “Because a true king, one who is not a scoundrel like the Norsemen or Danes, isn’t a thief! I’ll not be called Maredubb the Scavenger! If I want an armada, I’ll build it m
yself. Now burn the floating logs of shit!”

  The lounging men slowly sat up. It wasn’t fast enough for the king.

  “Burn it now! Move, or you’ll be strapped to their masts and it will be your pyre.” If it was possible, the king’s face became redder. He pointed to the would-be slaves. “You, too!”

  All of them scrambled. Someone found a few suitable torches from the nearby woods. They walked them to Raven’s Cross to capture flames. They had to use their hands to shield their faces from the heat. The torches popped to life before their ends even touched the fire.

  “Leif?” asked Randulfr. “If I don’t hear a plan right now, I’m going to run out there and attack the goat turds.”

  The odds were fairly even, but we had no shields and no mail. Leif nodded. “My plan is simple. We edge toward this last ship in the line nearest us. We hope that we can get it pushed off and get enough rowing power to get away downstream.”

  “And abandon Charging Boar?” I asked stupidly. One of Aoife’s arms touched mine. Her body was already cool to the touch.

  Leif rightly didn’t bother to answer. He crouched and quietly shuffled toward the nearest ship. It was a tub-like knarr, not much different from Charging Boar, but it didn’t have a sail made by my loin’s desire, Freydis. I’d miss that ship and all she represented.

  “Not there,” barked Maredubb. “Can you not feel the wind? You’ll fight it all day and still the rest of the Viking fleet will sit there safely. Start with the northernmost boats and let the wind do the work.” The men who carried the burning limbs allowed their shoulders to slump and trudged along the river’s edge. They came directly to the ship we’d picked out.

  Leif held up a hand, paused, and changed directions. Like roped cows, we followed without objection. He snaked back into the swamp only briefly. Leif led us over fallen logs and under limbs until we looked through another set of thorns. We were directly adjacent to Charging Boar. Downriver the ship we’d just left already had flames lapping up the prow. Its baggage burned brightly. The wind was pushing sheets of flame toward the other ships. In moments every single ship of Godfrey’s short-term fleet would be on fire.