Return of the Ravens (Ulfrik Ormsson's Saga Book 6) (13 page)

Yet at the eastern gates they found them hanging open and a small group of men entering on horseback. They both stepped off the road, but when Runa recognized the front rider as he dismounted, she put her hand to her mouth.

"Aren has returned," Groa said. "Was he supposed to?"

Runa shook her head and met her son while other men handled the horses. Something weighed on his mind, apparent to Runa from the slouch in his stance and cool reaction. They hugged, and over Aren's shoulder she saw Soren waiting on his cart.

"I did not expect you to meet me at the gate," Aren said as he pulled back from her. His eyes darted from Runa to her travel pack, then Groa, and his expression changed to shock. "What are you doing?"

Pulling him close as if to embrace him again, she whispered into his ear. "I've had all I can take. We are leaving while Konal is away. I wanted to keep you at Eyrafell with Hakon, but now you are here."

"You mustn't go," he said, grabbing her by both shoulders. "Endure Konal a while longer."

"What? Of all people, I thought you wanted to leave the most? You're not telling me something. I see it in your eyes."

She squeezed his shoulders and waited. He noticed her bruised face and turned aside in disgust.

"Gods, that is Konal's work?"

"Things are going to get worse," she said. "There's something you don't understand. Your return has fouled my plans, but Konal will be gone at least another day. We need to get to Einar before he is back."

"So, something I don't understand but you can't tell me more? I just have to trust you?" Aren raised his brow and Runa felt her cheeks warm in embarrassment. His smile was more of a wince as he brushed the hair from her bruised face. "You can't leave now. Everyone will see you leave, and travel at night is dangerous."

"We're going on Soren's cart, and he has a lantern. Only to the nearest farm and then on to Eyrafell in the morning." Aren was already shaking his head.

"Look around you," he said. "Every man is watching us. For tonight, at least, you must remain. All I ask is you stay a while longer."

"I'm telling you, I don't know what your father will do when he returns."

"Don't call him that," he snapped. If they had remained unnoticed, now they had everyone studying them. Runa pulled back and Aren straightened himself. "I will protect you from whatever he will do to you. He will have to kill me to harm you. I swear it."

Runa's breath grew short and her lip began to tremble. "My dear son, you can't be with me always."

He took Runa's hands, and folded them in his own. "Tonight your plans are done. I have sworn a solemn oath to not reveal what I know, but I can tell you it will change your life. Just trust me, and within the week you will know everything."

She had never seen him so earnest, and her chances for escape had been foiled by his arrival. Too many eyes were upon her and Groa now. She nodded, then pointed with her chin at Soren. "Groa, tell him to wait on your plans. I'm sorry."

Aren's square face was bright with happiness. "Konal will not hurt you again, and life is going to get better. I swear it upon my life."

"Do not make such oaths lightly," she said with a frown. "The gods may force you to make good upon it. Now take yourself to the hall with Groa. I have a small matter to attend to before joining you. And don't give me that look. I'm not sneaking away."

Waiting for them to leave, she withdrew the pouch of gems from her skirts. She did not know what secrets Aren held, but he was so convinced that she believed him. Since his youth, Aren always knew more than anyone. His mind was greater and deeper than any man's she had ever known, and he was still only fourteen years old. If he believed her life would change, he was likely right. She had to return the gems to hiding, since she did not know when she would have another chance. If Konal found his hole empty, she would be in dire trouble.

At the well she leaned in and realized the stone was gone. It only just occurred to her now and panic filled her. He would know she had been here. She began to search for other stones, finding nothing suitable in the dirt beside the well. She leaned in again to search for another loose stone to replace the one she had dropped. When she slid back out of the well, she turned to face three men ringing her. She squealed in fright.

"What are you doing?" She summoned her best angry voice while slipping the pouch back into her skirt.

"Konal said to watch for anyone around the well. And look who we found."

"I am the jarl's wife! You'll all stand aside and leave me alone."

The men parted, smiling after her as she strode through them.

She had to flee now, or face the unthinkable at Konal's hands.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Ulfrik arrived at the border after dawn when the sky was the color of dying lavender. He emerged from the tree line, heavy pine scents clinging to him as he crossed the fields toward the stockade walls of the enemy camp. These were not built up on dirt mounds, but simple stockade fences demarcating lines that could not be crossed. "You can walk up to the fences," a local farmer had told him. "If you meet one of ours you can trade news, if you meet a Frank you can trade silver to walk away unharmed."

The Franks had pushed their borders beyond the Oise River and crushed the Northmen to the corridor around the Seine River, then shoved them west toward distant Rouen. This land had been watered with the blood of both Frank and Northmen too many times to count. Ulfrik guessed if he could part the stand of trees on the horizon he would see the smudged outline of his old enemy Clovis's fortress. He smiled without humor, certain Clovis's ghost laughed at him from whatever sad place Christians went after death. He would delight at seeing the land Ulfrik had annexed returned to his countrymen again.

The grass should be stained forever red, but the thick summer green carpet swished beneath his feet as he approached the first haphazard rows of fences. He could smell the mucky scents of the Seine beyond them. Inhaling deep, he let out his breath slowly and checked that his sword was loose in its sheath before making his final approach. Dark figures lurked between the tall fences, and from the cut of their cloaks and the round shields some of them leaned upon, he guessed them to be his own kind.

At a spear's throw away, the men revealed themselves, seven all wearing simple wool shirts of white or gray and cloaks of deep blue or green now fouled with mud and other stains. They wore swords at their hips and a sax, the short thrusting sword for close fighting, hung at their laps. They ambled out with a carelessness so false Ulfrik suspected a trap. He paused and let his hand drop by his sword hilt, then he unslung the battered old shield at his back. It was painted in halves of black and yellow and was splintered and chipped from heavy use. Gunther had found it for him along with assorted other well-worn war gear to support his new persona.

The man in the lead saw Ulfrik's precaution and threw his head back in a laugh that sounded like a walrus. He wore a dented helmet but otherwise nothing more for defense. His hair was the color of straw and the same consistency, blowing out from under his helmet in clumps. An otherwise handsome face had been marred with pox scars, and a scraggly beard wagged as he laughed.

"I'm here to join Count Amand's forces," Ulfrik said. He set his hand on his hips and disregarded the leader recovering from his laughter. "Do any of you fools know where I can swear my oath?"

The men exchanged glances then stepped toward him, rolling their shoulders and necks. Ulfrik flicked his eyes between them but did not move. A crow cried overhead as if warning Ulfrik away from danger, but he paid it no mind. The gods send what signs they would, he had a task that unfortunately placed him in the path of fools.

"Hold on, this is too good," said the pox-scarred man. "Some old man strolls out of the forest with a broken shield and piss-stained pants then expects to present himself to the count." He scanned Ulfrik and recoiled as if he has sniffed spoiled milk. "Do you even know what you're doing?"

"I know I'm wasting my morning entertaining some goat-turd and his dog-fucking friends. If your man back there cracks his knuckles again, I think he'll break his hand. Then how will he stroke your cock?"

Ulfrik stood as if he had just remarked on the weather rather than inciting seven men to murder.

The pox-scarred man glared as did his followers, and his eyes narrowed. His hand came to rest on his sword hilt and he began to circle Ulfrik. "Those are some bold words from one old man. Do you imagine yourself a real killer, taking on all seven of us?"

"I was imagining myself talking to someone smarter. If you are the kind of men Count Amand employs, then maybe I was wrong coming here. You fools look like the kind to cut your own fingers off sharpening your swords. I suppose I'll be leaving."

"Not after those words," said the leader. He stood before Ulfrik, and an odor like a midden pit assailed his nostrils. The man leaned in closer. "What's your name? I'd like to know who I'm beating into the ground."

"I'm Ulfar the White," Ulfrik said. "I shall guess your name as Thor Shit-Stink."

The man stared with his mouth half open, and then a sly smile emerged. "Gunnvald Hrethelson is my name. You'll learn to respect it."

"My sympathy to Hrethel for the tragedy of his son's life. I'll respect whoever earns it, and right now you've done nothing for it. Now either allow me through or draw that sword of yours and let's have a go."

Gunnvald's smile widened, flattening his pox scars, and he brushed aside a lock of straw-like hair. "All right, you've made your insults, and I like them. I'd be willing to consider you for my crew."

Ulfrik had remained as still as a stone, careful to keep any expression of concern from his face, but his brows raised at Gunnvald's statement. "I came to promise my sword to Count Amand. I heard he's the power here."

"We Northmen don't kneel to him, you oaf. We are sworn to Grimnr the Mountain, and he's paid by Count Amand for his loyalty. Don't you know anything?"

"So show me to Grimnr."

"You'll serve on my crew. That'll be good enough."

Ulfrik stared at Gunnvald and wished he had been warned of this structure in advance. Gunnvald might not be a fool, but he was certainly unimportant and likely not close enough to Vilhjalmer to make serving him worthwhile. Still, he had only to find Eskil, and Gunnvald's low status might actually benefit that effort. With nothing important to do, no one would miss Ulfrik while searching for Eskil.

"All right," Ulfrik said. "But I expect an equal share in spoils and whatever this Grimnr the Mountain is handing out."

"Not so fast," Gunnvald said. "Before I take you on, I want to know what I'm getting. You look a little too old for fighting, and you have to pay for those insults, too."

Smiling shyly, Ulfrik rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, those were some of my better ones. Glad they hit you hard. Like this."

He slammed his elbow into Gunnvald's face, then followed up with a kick to his shins that toppled him. He charged over Gunnvald's sprawled out body and slammed into the man behind him. He was a head shorter than Ulfrik but wide and swarthy like an old mooring post set into a muddy bank. He broke as easily as one, falling onto his back with a shout of surprise.

The first man to react grabbed Ulfrik's cloak, which had flown up behind him. Having expected some form of trouble, Ulfrik had fastened it with a simple antler pin that broke away when pulled. He whirled on the man standing flat-footed with a handful of green cloak. Ulfrik's fist plowed into his jaw, snapping the man's head around and knocking spit out of his mouth. Following up with a sharp jab to the man's gut to expel the breath from his lungs, he collapsed.

Gunnvald was recovering, castling on hands and knees while cursing. Ulfrik whirled on two men who both sought to grapple him, but he leapt back out of their awkward grasping. He was laughing now. Even without his sword in hand, the battle lust he enjoyed in younger days was building in him again. Seven men to one were impossible odds, and he expected to be caught and beaten at any moment. Yet while it lasted his heart thrummed with battle song and he ached to draw his sword.

Another man got behind him and now Ulfrik was caught in a triangle of opponents closing on him. He bounced on the balls of his feet, raw-knuckled fists up. "All of you against me, is it? Need seven men to take on one old man?"

"Wait!"

The voice was deep and thick, and came from behind. When the two in front of him backed down, Ulfrik felt safe enough to turn. The man stood equal to Ulfrik in height but was nearly twice as wide. He had a protruding belly, a bald head fringed with long fly-away black hair, and fat, flat lips like a fish. He cracked the knuckles of his right hand.

"You had something to say about breaking my hand? I think you need to take back your words, or I'll stuff them back down your throat along with your teeth."

Ulfrik smiled. "All right, Fish Face, let's settle up, and then I can get on with kicking the rest of your friends back into the Seine."

The two squared off, and began to circle each other in a fighter's crouch. Gunnvald and his crew ringed them and chanted for their friend's victory. "Come on, Erp! Break the old man's back!" shouted one. "Break his arms like that last one you fought," cried another.