"Every morning I find men sleeping at the bottom of these trenches, and I get less patient each time I find one. You put us all in danger. Now, get out of that trench. For good or for ill, your duty here is done. Tomorrow, you'll give me a better effort or I'll have your eyelids cut off. Understood?"
The man nodded and struggled out of his trench. Ulfrik scowled at him, watching him stumble away as if the Franks pursued him. These new men lacked discipline and feared no consequences. With Hrolf and Gunther away, taking most of the other jarls, too few men in authority remained to enforce discipline. If the Franks pushed on him now, he feared a total collapse.
Turning to find another trench to sweep, a distant light flared. His stomach burned with immediate recognition.
Metal in sunlight.
Another spark, and he located what he feared. To the east, atop the hill where the Franks claimed one of their little gods, Saint Denys, had died, came flashes of mail and weapons in the morning sun.
Between the autumn-thinned treetops, Ulfrik saw the hill crawling with flashing iron. It would not be Hrolf, who was approaching from the west.
A single bell began to toll inside the walls of Paris. Figures on the eastern battlements clumped together, straining like Ulfrik to glimpse that distant hill. Unlike him, they began to cheer, thin voices rising into the clear morning air. Another bell began to chime, and soon another.
Ulfrik swallowed. He did not need his forward scouts to return with their reports. He knew already.
The Holy Roman Emperor, Charles the Fat, had finally come with his army.
And Ulfrik stood alone with half of the Danes to face him.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Every bell in Paris clanged and the walls bristled with the dark shapes of men shouting victory and defiance. The flashing iron on the far hill flowed like a river of melting snow, disappearing into the trees.
Ulfrik tightened the strap of his baldric, adjusting his sword on his hip. His arm looped through an iron-rimmed shield. His mail hauberk weighed on his shoulders and his helmet pressed into his hair. Though his heart pounded, he stood beneath his heavily sagging banner of red as if he had nothing more pressing than a review of his troops. Mord, also dressed in war gear, bore the standards next to him, proud and fearless.
"Still no scouts have reported?" Einar asked as he tightened his belt and shouldered his ax.
"You've been with me the whole time, and have you seen any?" Ulfrik observed his men forming into neat columns, their discipline impressive. "Either run off or the Franks killed them. Doesn't matter now. If Hrolf is where scouts last saw him, we've time to join before the Franks reach us."
The camp had responded with unexpected efficiency. Belongings and booty were gathered, war gear donned, ships abandoned, and marching ranks formed within the hour of Ulfrik's alarm. Whatever Charles planned, he was slow in execution. Ulfrik's leaders knew the plan: to locate Hrolf and his men then fight the Frankish army head-on.
At last, a fight he could understand. A fight for glory and honor. Even if he died, it would be as a man and warrior, and not a mash of blood and bone at the foot of a tower.
He raised a horn and blasted an extended note, then shouted the command to march. In reaction, the jeers from Paris grew louder.
The first leg of the retreat into the western woods proceeded in good order. Ulfrik marched at the head, with petty jarls and chieftains leading their columns. Ulfrik never had a true count of the men under his banner, but estimated close to three hundred warriors. They strode the paths through the trees and pushed for the fields where he expected Hrolf to arrive.
As the woods thinned, Ulfrik summoned his scouts, young and small men suited to stealth. Dispatching them ahead, he slowed the march. Several of his leaders complained, but he ignored them. Soon the scouts scurried back through the woods.
"Franks! Scores of them coming through the trees opposite." The breathless scout stumbled to Ulfrik, who caught him.
"Any signs of a battle? Has Hrolf come this way?"
"Not that we could tell, lord."
The column crunched to a halt, and Ulfrik drew his leaders to him, sharing the news.
"We have to out-pace the Frankish scouts. I want men clearing our flanks as the main column pushes west. Beyond this stand of trees is another field, and Hrolf will certainly be there."
"And if he's not?" asked a gray-bearded veteran, his face sharing the same scowls of all the other leaders.
"Then we keep moving west."
"We shouldn't flee. We're not women; we're warriors. We fight no matter the odds!" The veteran and the others agreed, snarling and glaring at the edge of the woods where Franks awaited.
"Fight where victory has a chance. We're outnumbered by their forward patrols, let alone their main army. You've all seen the iron slithering down that hill. Unless it's a ruse, the emperor's army is upon us."
Men flushed in anger, cursed, and growled, but they resumed their march. A detachment of scouts traveled the flanks as the main column laced through the woods as fast as the uneven ground allowed. They stumbled and tripped, but stifled their curses and kept as much silence as an army in mail armor could achieve. Birds scattered ahead of them, betraying their direction but proving no enemies hid along their path.
Scouts from their left flank soon returned with wide eyes and pale faces. "More Franks! They're encircling us."
Ulfrik did not stop, but cursed. "They're funneling us to the ground they have chosen for battle. Curse them to a dog's death. How did they encircle us unnoticed?"
No one replied, as the answer shamed them all. The Franks had been enveloping them while they had grown idle over the long summer of inaction. Had Ulfrik not spotted the movements of the main force, they might have been swallowed like a snake devouring a rat.
Forward scouts returned with better news. Hrolf and his army had formed a shield wall in the field where Ulfrik predicted he would be. The Franks' hesitation to attack Hrolf would give Ulfrik a chance to combine their forces. He redoubled the march, and soon emerged at the edge of the field.
Hrolf's forces were a black clump of glinting mail in a wide field of brown and green grass. Gray trees ringed the clearing, and birds exploded randomly from the red and gold leaves. The Franks were encircling them. The men were unworried, raised their spears and shouted in celebration. Some of Ulfrik's own began to charge from the woods.
"Get your men in line!" Ulfrik commanded. "It could be a trap! Archers in the woods! Quickly, get them back here."
The reasonable leaders immediately grasped the danger and reined in their men. Many still did not heed warnings, impetuously dashing for Hrolf's lines. They arrived without incident, and Ulfrik sighed his relief.
"We have those fools to thank for testing the way. Still, I want shields up all around in case the Franks are smart. They might be waiting for our main body to step into their sight. Careful, we go now."
Under shields, the bulk of the men jogged out of the woods to link with Hrolf and his men. The Franks never fired a shot, if they even had position to do so. Despite the relief, Ulfrik doubted the poor tactical sense the Franks displayed. Would they actually surrender their advantages so easily? Did a greater trap await them?
"Glad you could reach us. Now that you're here, I am assured victory. Stand with me!" Hrolf stood erect at the dead center of his block of warriors. His helmet and mail were no longer gleaming, but stained and dull from weeks on raid. His face creased in a smile behind his cheek plates as Ulfrik arrived before him, with Mord bearing his standard at his left and Einar towering at his right side, where Snorri would have stood in days past.
"There are hundreds of Franks in the woods," he indicated the two points his scouts had located. "So far as I can tell, they're herding us like sheep. Why they did not keep us separated and cut us down is a mystery."
Hrolf laughed, a gusty and careless laugh that infected the men around him. "Franks build strong walls, but that's it. For all the fame of their weap
ons, they truly don't know how to use them. This King Charles, as I hear it, is a fool. I wonder if the Franks will even ransom him after we capture that bastard today."
"So you know it's the king?"
"We nabbed a few scouts and cut that information out of them. We're surrounded, and I believe they are leading cavalry to us. Good for us, since the horses are bigger targets than men. Easy shooting."
Ulfrik examined Hrolf's face, a placid smile fixed upon it as he scanned the trees. He searched for any sign of fear, a quivering lip, jittering eyelid, a tic of a cheek. Hrolf was as at ease, every line of his body defining confidence in his victory. For his own part, Ulfrik doubted the logic of waiting in an open field for archers and cavalry to destroy them.
"Mord, you stand with me. Einar, line the best warriors with us and the rest integrate with the others."
The new arrivals ordered themselves and waited. Hundreds of men stood in near silence, defiant and bold. Ulfrik took heart from the massive block of fighting strength at his back. Ahead, he watched the Franks flit between trees as if they searched for positions in an elaborate dance. After standing long enough for feet to grow sore, Gunther One-Eye stretched in an exaggerated yawn then shouted. "Anyone who needs sleep can get it now. The Franks need more time to learn which end of the spear to point at us."
Laughter rippled through the front ranks. Ulfrik smiled at his friend down the line, who winked at him.
Ulfrik began to reply when the line tightened and Hrolf drew himself to his full height. Whirling about, he saw the Franks emerging from woods.
"Gods," Toki whispered. "We're doomed."
Rank after rank of soldiers flowed from the trees, encircling them in the field. The morning sun filled their grim faces with black shadow, rendering them in stern contrast to the gray trees behind. Spears parked at their shoulders, men raised their long tear-drop shaped shields, creating a shield wall more massive than any Ulfrik had ever seen. Lightly armored archers formed behind them and placed shafts across their bowstrings.
"Our glory will outshine any who've gone before us." Hrolf shielded his eyes against the eastern sun as he surveyed the serried ranks. "Odin will raise us above all his heroes, for surely none will have faced what we face today."
Ulfrik swallowed, glanced at Mord who had stifled his doubts and straightened his back. At last the Franks halted, and a horn sounded a long note as horses were led through the trees. Their riders had dismounted and guided the beasts, but now climbed onto their backs. Only one man rode, his strong white horse guided by two men. The massive rider was clad in sparkling mail, a conical helmet topped with a crown sitting crooked on his round head.
"Charles the Fat," Ulfrik said. "The Holy Roman Emperor comes to offer us his blood today. Lord Hrolf, it will be an honor to place his head at your feet."
He offered the words as encouragement to the men around him, and they rewarded him with boasts of their own. Soon, Hrolf had a dozen men clamoring to kill Charles and far more began to growl and curse at the surrounding Franks.
"We are the greatest heroes of all the ages," Hrolf shouted to his men. "No one will be prouder than me to feast with you in Valhalla. The Valkyries will bear us from this field, singing with joy for the death we will bring the Franks. For glorious battle!"
The men shouted and raised their weapons. The Franks responded with a ripple that traveled the ring like mead threatening to overflow a mug. Ulfrik raised his weapon and joined his companions, meeting Mord's eyes as he raised their standard alongside Hrolf's. "Our battles continue until the end of days, Ragnarok! We will fight together as brothers in Valhalla!"
Mord redoubled his roar, bucking Ulfrik with his shield in acknowledgment. Men began to pound weapons on shields and stamp their feet.
Ulfrik's father had been known as the Bellower, and the power of his shout had come through his blood to Ulfrik. His war shout defeated all those around him, drawing gleeful encouragement from Hrolf. A strong war shout can stop a man as good as a shield wall, Ulfrik recalled his father's wisdom. Never had the advice felt more appropriate.
The ground shook and the air vibrated with the curses and war cries flowing from the Danes. They drew themselves into a circle, lacing together round shields to offer no gap to the surrounding Franks. Spears lowered over the front ranks and men dared the enemy to charge.
The Franks hesitated, and Ulfrik saw enemy heads turning in confusion as they remained immobile.
Fed up with waiting, Ulfrik stepped out of the shield wall and threw his arms wide. "Fight us or go back to your mothers! Come, fight me! Anyone!"
Whether they understood his words, a gap in the Frankish lines opened. Horses cantered forward, bearing mailed riders with leaf-bladed spears aimed at the Danish lines.
Chastened, Ulfrik jumped back into the shield wall beside Hrolf. The Franks lined up their horses shoulder to shoulder.
Then a horn sounded.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
The mounted Franks lined up, their horses side-stepping and heads tossing, eyes white with fear. Ulfrik's shield dipped as he watched the warriors dismount and guide their horses away from the center. The huge shape of Charles's white horse emerged, men in yellow and blue surcoats surrounding him as his horse trotted forward.
The emperor drew in his mount, sitting back and staring at the line of Danes from the shadowed depths of his crowned helmet. Taking it as a challenge, Ulfrik pointed his sword at Charles and cursed him. "You come to fight, you fat bastard, then let me be the one to stick you!"
A rush of competing oaths and challenges followed Ulfrik's, and he shared a wry smile with Hrolf. He cared not whether Charles lived or died, but knew challenging the king would inspire the men around him. Outnumbered and surrounded, boldness made the best armor.
A man threw himself on all fours beneath Charles, and the emperor placed his ponderous weight on the man's back as he used him for a stepping stool to dismount. Two other servants assisted him to the ground, where he adjusted his helmet and checked his sword.
"What an oaf," Mord muttered. "Don't ride a horse to battle if you can't get off the damn beast without help."
"No one should ride a horse into battle. Can't be trusted." Ulfrik barely heard his own idle commentary, so focused was he on the unfolding events. Expecting a command for a charge, instead Charles gathered ten spearmen to him and strode out in front of his lines.
"He wants to tell us how he's going to kill us," Hrolf said, a grim smile on his face. "I've no ears for that shit. Let him stand out there like a fool."
The Danes in the front erupted in laughter. It infected the whole troop, who laughed and taunted to mask their fear. Ulfrik joined them. The king gave confused looks to the men beside him, enduring the mockery until he dispatched a single runner toward the Danish line.
"Let him come," Hrolf ordered, stopping several men who had raised throwing spears.
The man was not yet grown into a full beard, thin and pale, to Ulfrik's eyes little more than a boy in poorly fitted mail. Terror showed in his wide eyes and trembling lips as he scanned the shield wall facing him. He did not know where to look, and addressed the crowd in perfect Danish.
"My lord and emperor wishes to speak with the leader of this army. Meet him in the field, but bring no more than ten men."
His message delivered, he wavered as if not knowing what to do next. Hrolf stepped forward, glaring down at the messenger. "A fellow Dane on the losing side once more. Do yourself some good and join us before we hack you to scraps."
More laughter followed Hrolf's taunt, and the messenger stepped back. "Are you the leader? What is your name?"
"I am Hrolf the Strider and I am one of the leaders. Every man here is his own leader. Go ask your lord which one he wants to speak with."
"He wants to speak to the leader in charge of this army." He took three hesitant steps backward then turned to jog back to his lines. Ulfrik and all the Danes in the front ranks hurled insults after him.
"Ulfrik, Gunther
, you each take four men and join me. Let's tell the king we are proud to die as warriors and our only sorrow is that it will take all day for his boy soldiers to kill us, and only then if they don't run off first."
Tapping Einar and Mord, Ulfrik pulled in two others from the front ranks and fell in behind Hrolf. Gunther One-Eye smirked at him as they strode toward the enemy. "Maybe they plan to talk us to death instead of blooding their swords."
Ulfrik made to reply, but Hrolf held up his hand for silence as they closed the final distance. Now was the time for the war-face, the impassive, unflinching expression of indifference to death. No Frank would know what fears curled in their guts. Without bluster or curses to fill Ulfrik's mouth, his mind filled with images of Runa and his sons. He had only moments to think of them before the killing would start, and then under the weight of the Frankish numbers he would die with their memories in his heart.
The two lines regarded each other. Up close, Charles was a soft and fair-skinned man, thin-bearded and beady-eyed. Ulfrik counted the shrewd, calculating mind showing in his dark eyes as he swept his gaze across the men, settling on Hrolf. He let the two leaders stand off, and turned his attention to the opposing Franks. They were more encouraging. Their mail was in good repair, but dented and mended from long use. Their faces were flinty and deep-lined, scarred and creased from battles won and lost. They wore the war-face, too, and Ulfrik had to suppress a smile. At least he had worthy opponents to fight and would not cough out his life at the end of some half-man's spear.
"You are the one called Hrolf the Strider?" Charles's voice was rough and shrill, but Ulfrik heard the tiredness in it. Even as the Danish interpreter spoke his words, the emperor covered his yawn with a jewel-covered hand. Several of his guards flicked their eyes at him, though dared not face him.
"Without a doubt, you are Charles the Fat. I am glad you have spared your horse the agony of carrying your worthless body any farther. The beast will be glad to die today, I am sure."
Banners of the Northmen Page 29