Shield of Lies

by Jerry Autieri

  Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Author's Note

  Shield of Lies

  Ulfrik Ormsson’s Saga Book Four

  Jerry Autieri

  © 2014 Jerry Autieri

  All Rights Reserved

  Prologue

  Frankia, September 892 C.E.

  The Frankish warrior dashed for the tree line, legs pumping over the knee-high grass, eyes white with terror and a scarlet stripe of blood peeling from beneath his conical helmet. Bloodless fingers gripped his sword as its red blade waved like a branch in the wind. Four gray-fletched arrows sprouted from the teardrop-shaped shield strapped to his other arm, and one shook loose as he fled. Flushed cheeks bulged with his panting, and he dared a glance over his shoulder.

  Throst had anticipated the moment of inattention and sprang from behind one of the thin poplar trees speckled before the waiting forest. His round shield collided with the fleeing warrior's face. He screamed and slammed backward into the grass. Without hesitation, Throst's blade hewed down and opened the Frank's belly in a spray of gore. A drop of hot, salty blood flecked into Throst's smiling mouth as he admired his work. This had been his fourth kill of the battle, a total to rival any veteran.

  The moment died. Two more fleeing Franks converged on him, and these red-faced bastards were roaring their anger at Throst. He understood the Frankish curses hurled at him, though the lead man spit out more of a snarl. "Northman horse-fucker!"

  Training carried Throst out of the arc of the strike aimed at his head, his reaction honed to a killing edge from constant drill. The brutish Frank slid past him with a cry as Throst raised his shield for the follow-up attack of the second warrior. The blow shuddered through his shield, numbing his arm, but Throst laughed. He was already striking down, one dexterous jab that pierced the naked calf of the second man. He grunted as he crumpled, and Throst yanked his sword free with a lace of blood following it.

  The first attacker howled as he whirled, but the edge of Throst's shield was already spinning back into his face. Fear and anger ruled the Frank, making his movements clumsy and predictable. His nose bridge cracked under the rim of the shield, blinding and knocking him back. Throst spun and buried his sword into the Frank's side, who caved to his knees with eyes wide and mouth hanging open. He expelled a wet gasp as Throst followed him down, careful not to bend or break his sword as the enemy's corpse clasped it like a jealous lover. After the Frank collapsed to his face in the grass, he braced the corpse and dragged free the sword.

  Fearing more attacks, he ranged around with his red-dewed weapon but met no threat. The retreating Franks had scattered, their shapes mere bluish outlines of men dashing for the cover of trees with Northmen lumbering after them. Then he spotted the undulating motion in the grass and remembered the second Frank.

  He was crawling away, dragging his ruined leg behind. He had abandoned his sword, having snapped it when he fell. Throst shook his head and stopped the Frank by stamping on the ravaged calf. It slipped like a gutted fish beneath his foot, and the Frank shrieked in agony. Throst stepped harder, enjoying the power, then kicked the man onto his back. The Frank was not much older than himself, maybe nineteen or twenty winters. His teary eyes entreated Throst, and his words were no longer so bold.

  "Mercy, I beg mercy. My father will pay you ransom. Please."

  Throst stabbed him in the guts like a needle through sailcloth. The Frank curled up on the blade with a low growl of agony. He would die, but slowly and in terrible suffering. Throst twisted his sword, worrying the hole wider and filling the Frank's cupped hands with dark blood as he tried to stem the flow. With a cruel yank, he tore out the blade, then knelt beside the moaning Frank. He used the enemy's surcoat to wipe his sword clean, watching the Frank gargle and spit blood as his life drained into the grass.

  "Well done. Three at once. Guess you really were training all this time."

  The voice was rich with phlegm and the incoherency of ale. Throst's father staggered out of his hiding place behind a tree. His mail shirt and sword were battle-ready but not battle-worn. Drunk as he was, he walked steadily to Throst's side with an approving smile.

  "Course, no one's gonna believe you did it alone. So that's why I'm here."

  His father began plunging his sword into the corpses Throst had made, kneeling so the blood would splash over him. He paused to vomit, more from his drink rather than the grizzly work. Throst looked away to the main battle lines.

  Ulfrik Ormsson's green standard flew high at the tidemark of bodies. The Frankish warlord, Clovis, had been defeated, and while Throst and his father had hid at the outskirts of the battle, they would share in its glory. Throst regretted he did not have a chance to test himself in the shieldwall. Ulfrik did not know his name, but he would if he had witnessed Throst's mastery of sword and shield.

  Farther down the action, he saw women and children stripping dead Franks of their valuables before the men returned to claim their share. Some were Franks and others Northmen, but all were despairing and poor camp-followers. He stared at the women as his father finished disguising his cowardice with enemy blood. Throst's own woman was among them, and he saw her hefting an armload of weapons and other valuables.

  "What's that?" his father asked as he came to his side. He followed Throst's stare, then placed an arm on his shoulder. "Your girl? Ain't never going to bring her home to your Ma? She wants you to marry better than a camp-follower."

  "She's not a camp-follower." Throst shoved his father's freshly blooded hand from his shoulder. "She's here because I told her to follow."

  "Does whatever you tell her? Now that's a good girl. Not like your Ma. Gotta hit her a few times before she listens."

  As they watched, a group of Ulfrik's men were walking fast toward the scavengers. In a blink, Throst's woman disappeared from sight, drawing a surprised laugh from his father.

  "There's a useful trick. Where'd the lass go?"

  "She's like a fox in tall grass," Throst said, a touch of pride in his voice.

  His father remained quiet as they observed Ulfrik's men dragging the women from their gathe
red treasures. The silence grew strong, and Throst turned to his father. His brow wrinkled in thought. Throst tapped his arm to rouse him, but he did not take his eyes from the field.

  "You should have your girl come to Ravndal and serve Jarl Ulfrik. A talent like hers shouldn't be wasted on picking junk from a battlefield. She'd do anything you tell her to do?"

  "She'd fall on a sword if I asked."

  His father grunted with satisfaction. "That's a good girl. Keep her that way. Keep her close to the jarl and to you, but tell no one. We'll learn things, useful things."

  Throst smiled at the idea. The Frank he had left to bleed had still not passed into death. He let out a low groan, and Throst stepped beside him. The pasty white face met his, and thick blood flowed over the Frank's lips. He mouthed a plea for death.

  Turning away, he left the Frank suffering in the bloody muck.

  Chapter 1

  Frankia, November 892 C.E.

  It was a day made for death. A day schemed by the gods and Fates, and none of the people gathered at the hanging tree heard the gods' laughter. None saw the black thread pulled into the weave of their lives.

  Ulfrik positioned his eldest son, Gunnar, at his right and mounted the lichen spattered rock that the gods had long ago set beside the hanging tree. The rock served as a natural platform from which to address the bloodthirsty throng. Over the contorted faces of warriors, old women, and children, he gazed at the black shape of Ravndal perched atop a hill taller than any other in the valley. The demands for justice echoed across the fields to Ravndal's stockade walls. The gods had made this place for hanging, and Ulfrik had strung plenty from the hoary elm during his years. Nothing had ever come from a hanging but justice and a swinging corpse left for ravens and wolves. His judgment was swift and final.

  An old woman, stooped and toothless, eyes creased from years laboring under the sun, raised a gnarled fist and shouted for blood. Others swarmed forward with her, a maniacal chorus fevered with killing lust. Ulfrik nodded and warned them back with raised hands. He glanced down at Gunnar, who remained with arms folded and face impassive. He then scanned the ring of spearmen keeping the crowd at bay, found Einar staring at him expectantly, and gave the order to him.

  "Bring forward the accused that he may face justice for his crimes."

  The crowd ejected a ragged man held between two of Ulfrik's armored hirdmen. Coarse hair sprouted from the tears in his shirt, which was spattered with rust colored stains. The man's family followed behind: a son barely in full beard and a pinch-faced wife towing a girl so nondescript Ulfrik mistook her for a child's doll. Their clothing matched the sky for its sodden dreariness. The accused man was shoved onto his knees before the rock. His head sagged, displaying pink skin beneath a thin net of hair. The entire clan was grimy, shiftless rabble hardly worth the time spent on this show of power.

  "As Jarl of Ravndal," Ulfrik intoned, his commanding voice bringing quiet to the gathered crowd, "I have summoned the community to pass sentence on this man. Where is his accuser?"

  A second group emerged from the crowd: a young woman and her two daughters huddled together as if in a storm at sea. All three combined were hardly the size of one healthy woman. The man at Ulfrik's feet tried to stand when she approached, but his guards shoved him down. The mother's face was swollen and the muddy tracks of tears showed on her cheeks. She pointed at the man on the ground. "I am Sigrid Thorkelsdottir and I accuse Gudmund of murdering my husband, Agnar Erlandson."

  Cries for justice renewed and consumed the rest of Sigrid's testimony. Ulfrik acted as though he heard, though the facts of Gudmund's night of drunken madness were common knowledge. He was caught staggering down the boards of the main road with a bloodied knife. His clothes were stained with Agnar's blood. Ulfrik raised his arms for quiet, continuing once he received it.

  "Here is my judgment in the murder of Agnar. No fewer than six men have sworn witness to Gudmund's crime. None have stood in Gudmund's defense."

  "Not so, Lord Ulfrik!" The son threw himself against the hirdmen baring him with a spear. "My father was at home that night. I swear it. He shared a drink with me, then went to bed."

  "It's true, Lord," Gudmund added, his face bright. "I had too much to drink and I don't remember nothing. Someone's trying to blame me, is all. She did it, killed her own husband and took advantage of me while I was drunk. That's the truth of it."

  The spearmen shoved back against the enraged crowd. Rotten cabbages and onions catapulted from the crowd to fall among Gudmund and his family. Ulfrik glanced at Gunnar, whose calm seemed shaken by the raw aggression of the crowd.

  "I demand order," he roared. "Silence!"

  Ulfrik's war-voice struck men with awe on the field of battle, and used on his own people it cowed them into submission. He glowered at the crowd, finally settling upon Gudmund with a sneer.

  "You will deny it to the end? Your hands are still flaked with Agnar's dried blood. You were seen entering his home, heard swearing to kill him for whatever insults you had imagined, and then captured not more than twenty paces from his front door. And your bloody footprints tracked back to his body. Gudmund, your guilt is witnessed by six sworn men. There is no more to be said."

  "No one saw him do it!" The son reached his arms over the hirdmen restraining him.

  "I saw him," Sigrid screamed. "I was in the bed when he attacked. He slashed my leg."

  "She's only a woman," the son countered. "It's not right that she give witness."

  "What is not right, Throst," Ulfrik growled, finally recollecting the name of Gudmund's son, "is the death of a husband and father for an argument that no one remembers the reason for starting. You've had your say; now I command your silence."

  Throst stepped back, a snarl on his lips. He fixed his eyes on Ulfrik, and to his shock the boy mouthed a curse at him before rejoining his cowering sister and mother. Ulfrik stared him down, but Gudmund awaited judgment and so turned to him.

  "You are guilty of murder. For this you must die and Agnar's blood price will be paid from your family's belongings. Do you have anything to say?"

  Gudmund shook his head. "Allow me to go to Valhalla, Lord. Strike off my head and kill me as a warrior."

  The request drew grumbles from the crowd. Even Gunnar dared a glance at Ulfrik for his reaction. He expected nothing less from this man who had served him more like a rat in larder than a warrior in a shieldwall.

  "You will die on the hanging tree and are condemned to Nifleheim. Your body will hang until it rots, as a warning to all who carry evil in their hearts. You are a shiftless murderer, Gudmund. Your family is banished from my lands, and I declare them outlaws once they've crossed beyond my borders. This is my judgment."

  "No," cried Throst. "You will pay for this!"

  The jubilation of the crowd swept over the threat, but Ulfrik marked it with a glare. He jumped off the rock without another thought for Throst and ordered Gudmund taken to the tree and his family held pending collection of the blood price. Einar, Ulfrik's capable second, oversaw the process of securing the rope and directing the men. The gathered crowd flung garbage at Gudmund, just as often hitting a hirdman.

  A husky voice over his shoulder whispered in his ear.

  "Should've killed the whole family, lad, at least the son for making that threat." Snorri appeared at his side, steadying himself on Ulfrik's shoulder. His leg had been speared in a battle with the Franks and, combined with his age, left him unsteady.

  "Sending them over the border to the Franks is the same. Besides, they've done nothing to deserve hanging. I'm glad enough to be rid of them."

  At last Gudmund stood beneath the noose with hands bound behind his back. The hirdman in the tree signaled the rope was secure, and two others raised him off the ground and looped the noose over his head.

  "Avenge me, Throst! I got a dog's death!"

  Einar checked Ulfrik for confirmation, which he provided with a slow nod. The men released Gudmund and stepped back.

  The c
rowd thrilled as Gudmund's weight snapped the noose tight around his neck. He thrashed and kicked, his eyes bulging as the rope strangled him. His body twirled and his head hung to the side. The tree limb sagged and creaked with the weight. More garbage struck him, each hit eliciting a collective jeer. Blood spluttered from his nose, splashing down his beard.

  Ulfrik watched, betraying nothing of his thoughts. In days past he merely had to dispense justice and be done. He would have pulled hard on Gudmund's legs to snap his neck and end his suffering. Today his followers would consider such action an insult and a sign of weakness. So he watched and hid his revulsion behind a blank expression. He glanced away to be certain Gunnar did not flinch or show any sign of emotion.

  At last Gudmund's struggles slowed to reflexive kicks. His tongue swelled and fell from his mouth, and in final humiliation his crotch bloomed with dark wetness as his bladder loosened in death.

  A keening wail went up from the back of the crowd. Ulfrik saw Gudmund's wife and family had been allowed to watch, and the wife had broken down at the moment of his death. Ulfrik's snarl enticed the guards responsible for the family to drag them away before anything else might happen.

  "It is done," Ulfrik said, then he addressed the crowd. "Murder is the worst crime a man can commit. All of you look on Gudmund's corpse and be reminded that my justice is sure and swift. By law our land is made and by lawlessness it is undone. I uphold the law fairly for every one of you. In turn, I expect your obedience to the laws of common good. Now return to your lives and let no one touch Gudmund's body while it hangs from this tree."

  The crowd milled and groused but eventually broke up under the firm guidance of Ulfrik's warriors. Clusters of townsfolk drifted toward Ravndal, while smaller groups headed into the surrounding farmland. Ulfrik rubbed his face and sighed, and when he dropped his hands, cool air bathed his face. Gunnar stood before him, skeptically watching Gudmund's corpse hanging still and silent from the black tree.

  "He wanted to die a warrior? When did he ever fight for us?" Gunnar turned to his father, eyebrow cocked.

  "Never, he hid from battle," Snorri answered for Ulfrik. "However he came among us, it's a good day now that he is gone. And what about you, Young Lord? When will you carry a sword to battle for us?"