Return of the Ravens (Ulfrik Ormsson's Saga Book 6) (23 page)

Ulfrik collapsed forward and landed facedown in the mud.

"You could have stepped out of that," Narfi yelled at him. "I almost killed you!"

"I really don't feel well."

He remained in the mud, the cold damp seeping between his mail. At last Narfi squatted beside him, his voice softer. "Maybe you should save yourself for the battle. Here, give me your arm."

Again Narfi assisted him to his feet, and Ulfrik kept his head lowered as he felt other eyes upon him. "Thanks, I'll be fine with some rest. Besides, I've got to get the mud out of these links or all my mail will be rust come the real fight."

Hobbling off toward a barracks house, he ignored the men watching him. He understood their fear, knowing in two day's time they would be fighting shoulder to shoulder with him and their lives depended on each man being his strongest. If Ulfar the White was not ready to fight, then he would be a burden at best and a threat at worst.

Outside the barracks, Ulfrik found the barrels for cleaning mail. When a man wore his armor all day, the constant movement caused enough abrasion between links to work out rust. Now that his armor was plugged with mud, no normal wear would sufficiently clean it. He would have to spend the majority of the day getting it back in shape. In one barrel was stored rainwater for rinsing off the dirt, and another barrel was half filled with coarse sand. After drying the mail he would seal it in the sand barrel and roll it around the field for an hour until the sand worked off rust and absorbed moisture between the links. Finally he would wax the armor to protect it from new rust.

After he pulled off his mail and straightened his clothes, he leaned on the water barrel. The thought of fighting Einar made him weak. He could think of no way out of the battle, which added nothing to his cause but increased his risk. After being caught in Amand's fortress, another absence would be conspicuous enough for Grimnr to send men after him.

"Don't vomit in the water." As if summoned by the thought of him, Grimnr appeared behind Ulfrik. The tall man padded up behind him as silent as a wolf on the prowl. Ulfrik whirled to find him at arm's length, his long braid falling out of a dented helmet and his wide shoulders pulling his mail shirt tight across his chest.

"I'm sorry about practice. Just not feeling well."

"I saw Narfi flatten you. Very unlike what I've seen so far." He leaned next to the barrel beside Ulfrik and folded his arms to watch the others practice in the distance.

"Good thing Narfi can handle his ax, or I'd be in two pieces."

"Only the most skilled warriors belong in my hird." They both fell into silence as they observed the sparring practice, the distant clangs and shouts carrying over the field. Behind them, dirty tents trembled with the morning breeze. Grimnr shifted and spoke again. "Get your rest, Ulfar. You only need enough practice to learn how to fight with this crew, and the battle is at least a week away yet. We have to settle the details with Mord."

The mention of Mord made Ulfrik stand straighter. "You're going to use his son against him?"

Grimnr nodded. "Like I said, Count Amand has held the boy prisoner long enough without making a demand. If he keeps waiting Mord will just have another son and forget this one." He laughed and Ulfrik forced himself to match it. "We go tomorrow to plan the attack. Three jarls form the bulwark of Hrolf the Strider's defense. Einar Snorrason, Mord Guntherson, and Ull the Strong. Behind these three the defense weakens, except to the north where Hrolf has concentrated strength against threats there. We will entice these jarls to battle with Mord's aid, then be certain he takes the center line. Mord will betray his fellows when we attack, holding back his men to let us crush the separated forces of Einar and Ull. The bulwark will be smashed open and we can march straight to Rouen and kick that giant troll back to Norway."

The description gave Ulfrik an ache in his stomach. "Will Mord be willing to become an oath-breaker to Hrolf, and will his men follow him?"

"I don't know," Grimnr said, squinting into the distance. "He seems prepared to do anything to regain his son. This meeting will tell us much, and whether we can trust him."

"What if he doesn't bend? What of his son?"

"Count Amand wants to keep the boy. Maybe he's sad he only has daughters wasting away in Paris. I think Amand will keep him to check Mord. I'd counsel him to ransom the boy for gold enough to buy more warriors, then we'd keep Mord in check permanently after we cut off his head."

Ulfrik nodded and considered the situation. The time for feeling sick had passed him, and now he needed a new plan. Mord's best choice would be to play along and get Hrolf's son back. He could enlist Hrolf's authority if his own men bridled against the betrayal. He could also alert Einar and Ull to arrive under strength to prevent total destruction, but then risked not fulfilling his bargain and losing the chance at Vilhjalmer's return.

Worse still for Ulfrik, if Mord succeeded, he would have achieved nothing and be left to return to Runa with nothing more than what he carried on his back. He had to be the one to save Vilhjalmer and not Mord. Still, with Eskil dead, he was in a far more precarious position. He needed to get this message to Hrolf, and ask for more aid or at least cover for his escape with Vilhjalmer.

The only chance he had at getting his message out would be to pass it directly to Mord. He stood directly in front of Grimnr, who did not stir but merely let his eyes drift to meet Ulfrik's.

"I want to go with you on this meeting with Mord. I want to see him for myself, and get the measure of the man we're entrusting to deliver our victory."

Grimnr raised a brow. "I don't see why you need to know."

"This is not my first battle. I've years of experience, more than I'd like to admit. When you parley before the battle, you bring men with you to see the enemy up close and advise you. Why should this be any different? Besides, I don't need to drill with these men. I've fought beside enough strangers to learn how to adapt. Take me to the meeting for my experience and use me for more than just swinging a sword."

Grimnr's tongue probed his cheek as he stared at Ulfrik. The silence grew, but neither man backed away. Grimnr shrugged.

"All true. An extra set of wise old eyes is always valuable. Be ready to leave tomorrow."

Slapping Ulfrik on the shoulder, Grimnr left him. Ulfrik leaned over the barrel, his mouth dry. In the dark water his reflection wavered like a fleeting ghost. He had to rescue Vilhjalmer before the battle, or only a future of landless poverty awaited him. He kicked the barrel, swirling his reflection into a scattering of meaningless color.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Ulfrik knew the meeting ground well. He had fought dozens of battles with the Franks over this stretch of plains, from skirmishes to clashes of shield walls that watered the earth with blood. Once again, men would stand shield to shield, braced rank upon rank for the enemy charge, and spend their lives for an empty plain. Flesh would be laid out for the ravens, and soon white bones would dot the green grass. With each step he took over this ground, he imagined the face of a fallen sword brother beneath his foot. All across this rocky, rolling stretch a man's ghost haunted the spot he exhaled a final breath.

Within another week, if the Franks had their way, the plains would have a host of Northman ghosts to add to its inhabitants.

The Franks rode horses, twenty well-armored men with a surfeit of weapons surrounding the bulk of Count Amand. Grimnr and his small retinue followed on foot. The count employed Grimnr and his loose army of Northmen, but Ulfrik surmised he did not enjoy their company. Amand's disgusted glances revealed a haughty disdain common among the noble Franks. Such an attitude was not unwarranted, Ulfrik thought, for when not fighting amongst themselves they proved redoubtable enemies. The count, however, did not exhibit much to justify his arrogance other than a fine swooping mustache and a glittering gold cross at his chest. He was gray and soft, unlikely to have ever fought a real battle. Ulfrik wished for a chance to knock him from his horse and introduce him to the mud.

The midday sun hid behind dark clouds, a bad sign that Grimnr brooded upon for the entire morning. "Something'll go wrong with Mord. I feel it," he had said that morning, and repeated the same dirge for most of the trek to the meeting place. The brooding did not fit Ulfrik's expectation of Grimnr, but his furrowed brow did not release even as they closed the final distance to Mord.

Ulfrik could not see Mord and his men when the leading Franks called a halt. Despite all that depended on the outcome of today's meeting, Ulfrik still anticipated seeing how Mord had changed over the years. Mord, Gunther One-Eye's only son, had been sent to foster with him during the siege of Paris. He had proved an able man and fast learner. They had grown in friendship after Mord completed his fosterage, and Ulfrik counted him a worthy successor to his father's legacy.

"Grimnr, we need you up front," called one of the Franks. He stomped forward to join with other Franks, every motion like a petulant child about to throw a tantrum.

"Does he always take signs so seriously?" Ulfrik took the moment to ask Vigrid, who was also selected to be part of Grimnr's personal guards.

"Two things Grimnr respects are signs from the gods and a strong enemy."

"But dark clouds are common enough."

Vigrid shook his head. "Not on the day of an important undertaking, and not when they come from the south and head for the north. That is a bad sign."

"Maybe in his village," Ulfrik said. "I've never heard of such a thing."

They waited for the initial meetings to complete, then were led to the center field. Franks had started construction of a pavilion, little more than five poles to stretch out a white and blue striped cloth against the intermittent sunlight. As they pulled the ropes tight and spiked them into the muddy ground, Ulfrik stepped to the side to seek Mord.

He stood at the fore of his twenty warriors, all in dark furs and well-worn chain shirts. Their eyes glared out from beneath plain iron helmets with wide nose guards. Their hostility was written in their postures, and hands rested on weapons and flexed as if ready to draw. Mord himself had not changed much over the years. He was never a tall man, nothing like his father, but he filled out his armor with a strong body. He still wore his blond beard short, but his hair had grown longer, a splash of yellow flowing over powerful shoulders. When his eyes met Ulfrik's they seemed clouded with thought until they widened in recognition.

Ulfrik worried Mord had not been told of his return from supposed death, but from the swiftness of his recovery Ulfrik assumed he knew. Mord's eyes glided off him with no more curiosity than if he had seen a deer wander across the background.

As Count Amand and his captain fussed over proper seating and Mord's crew snickered at them, Ulfrik studied how to best pass his message to Mord. When all were finally called to their positions, Ulfrik again met Mord's eyes. He raised his brows at Mord and inclined his head slightly. He then shifted his eyes to one of Mord's men, hoping that he understood that man would receive his message. Mord gave no reaction, but instead took a stool set out beside Count Amand.

The meeting started with Count Amand delivering a windy speech about cooperation and the benefits of joining Frankia. The words tumbled through Ulfrik's ears without leaving a mark. He positioned himself at the back of Grimnr's guard, letting the three other men stand before him. Vigrid had offered him his spot beside Grimnr, but he refused. He now waited, staring at Grimnr's thick braid wagging from beneath his helmet. He chimed in whenever Count Amand prompted him, but his role at this point was otherwise unimportant. No tactics were discussed, which would be Grimnr's place.

Ulfrik began slipping back toward Mord's line. More words slithered out of Amand's mouth, but Ulfrik only made a pretense of listening. His head was filled with his own message, which had to be delivered with the sharpness and precision of a master archer's arrow. He slid ever closer to the edge of his own side like ice melting on a cool spring day. Mord ignored him, but he could not resist glancing at him enough for Amand to absently follow it back to Ulfrik.

"What if Einar and Ull won't play along?" Mord's statement was as clear as a spear hurled at Ulfrik's feet. His emphasis on that question was subtle and his glance at Ulfrik fleeting, but the message was clear. Einar and Ull would not be blindsided. Knowing this thawed the ice around Ulfrik's heart, yet he still had to get his news into Mord's ears. A considerably harder task when not being permitted to speak.

"If you expect your son returned, then you will make them comply," Count Amand said with a dismissive flip of his hand. "Grimnr can advise you on ways to convince them. He has a way with words your kind understands."

Ulfrik took a larger step toward his target.

"How do I know my son is alive?" Mord asked. "You should have taken him to me as proof."

Another step closer.

"You have my solemn word before God that your son is in perfect health. My priest cares for both his body and spirit, and I daresay he is enjoying his time in my home."

A final step and the man at the end of Mord's line looked askance at Ulfrik.