Sword Brothers (36 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Gunnar stabbed the horn of his ax-head into the eye of the Frank, smashing his enemy's head into blood-slicked grass. He ground it in the socket, dragging on bone and delighting in the scream of pain. Metal clanged and wooden shields thudded; men screeched in pain and death. Gunnar choked on the stench of spilled guts and dead horses. He straddled his enemy, bashing his head for good measure with the gory edge of his shield. An iron strip had bent up, becoming a wicked spike that tore the Frank's skin. When Gunnar finally shoved off the corpse, the face was little more than red meat on bone.

Blood drizzled from his nose and flowed into his mouth, and he spit bloody phlegm onto the ground. His face throbbed and eyes watered. His nose had been broken despite the face guard of his helmet. He blinked through the swelling flesh cutting down his vision. Deciding his vision was too restricted, he tossed his helmet into the grass. The battle flowed against him, all his men brawling with Franks either mounted or otherwise, and Oskar's warriors flowing away toward the woods.

Mord's standard had lowered and now wavered as it bounced through the press of men surrounding it. Mord, if he stood with his banner, was retreating.

Gunnar bellowed his fury, then ran toward the banner. Today was the day of his death, but he would not go until Mord Guntherson lay dead beside him as well. He swore it to himself. With every footfall he repeated his oath. "Mord dies today."

Oskar's men blocked the path to the front of the line where Mord's banner struggled to flee. Gunnar hooked men by their collars, his bloody ax dripping a gory warning for them to part. "Get out of my way! I've got to reach Mord!"

Pulling men out of line invited them to continue to fall back. Gunnar no longer cared what happened. Aren's promises of help had proved false. He had trusted his brother, seeing a different man from the hesitant boy that had left them only last summer. Yet in the end it had been misplaced. Whatever loyalty Aren thought to command from others had been a delusion. These men would not risk so much for so little in return. What good is gratitude when it has cost you all your wealth and fame?

He reached the front at last, but the space he found was vacated by a man collapsing with a sword stuck through his neck. Gunnar had no footing amid the sea of red-faced madmen attempting to break each other's resistance.

Gunnar did not function in a shield wall's front rank. His right-hand shield made him unable to fit with his sword brothers. So his presence disrupted the line and forced a wider gap than was needed. His very act of pushing into Mord's line weakened his own. He let his shield lead him, and used his ax like a hook to yank away striking weapons. He thought he saw Mord's treacherous face beneath his wolf head banner.

"Mord Guntherson, you gutless pig! Fight me! I am Gunnar the Black and I challenge you!"

A challenge had to be answered or else the man who cowered from it would forever live in shame. Mord apparently decided his life had been one long shame and to shirk the challenge offered no more shame than he already bore. His standard continued to float away like driftwood from the hand of a drowning man.

"Fight me, you whoreson! Raven-starver coward!"

Gunnar slammed his shield into the line and hacked like cutting through underbrush. Combatants from both sides flowed into the gap. Seven positions down the row Oskar called for his men to push harder. "They're nearly broken, boys! Crush them!"

The wedge Gunnar drove into the opposing shield wall penetrated the rear ranks and the resistance ebbed. A spear point sliced the outside of his left calf and drew a line of burning pain. Gunnar howled, hooked the spear, and tore it aside, then shoved deeper into the ranks until he broke through the rear. His companions cheered, but Gunnar was all grim determination. Mord's standard dropped lower and Gunnar lost sight of it.

Once in the clearing, he spotted Mord fleeing with a group of men. The line he had shoved through now broke into clusters of individual combats, and the rear ranks now followed their leader in retreat. Gunnar did not warn Mord, but charged him with shield forward and ax poised for a chop to the neck.

His vision blurred from both fury and sweat dripping into his eyes. His racing pulse and thundering footfalls sent quakes of pain through his broken nose. Mord continued to flee, unaware of approaching death.

Gunnar's ax blade flashed.

Mord's hirdman shouted a warning and he spun with his shield raised.

The ax crashed home into Mord's shoulder the same moment his shield collided with Gunnar's arm. Mord's mail shirt crunched and snapped and the ax bit deep. Gunnar felt it shudder as the blade dug into the bone. Gunnar's arm went numb as Mord's shield slammed into his elbow and the ax haft slipped through his hand. Mord fell back, screaming in agony and the ax lodged in his shoulder.

The hirdmen now crowded Gunnar. Shoving him back with his shield and prodding him with his sword. The others grabbed Mord and carried him with Gunnar's ax still buried in his left shoulder. While Gunnar blocked his attackers' weak blows, he roared in frustration. "You can't escape! I'll kill you, goat-fucker! You killed my mother!"

Tears threatened to blind him. Mord's men carried him away while Gunnar tried to skirt the man left to delay him. Why Mord would flee confused Gunnar until he realized the sounds of battle were even fiercer behind Mord's line. He blocked another strike, the shield catching the blade with a dull bump, then looked to the east. At the edge of the tree line, formerly out of sight, were dozens of banners flying over the heads of raving Northmen engaged against more Franks. Here were Aren's allies, fighting their own battle against reinforcements that had never deployed against them. Mord had prepared the same trap again, but this time had not expected he was at the center of one himself.

Gunnar laughed as he watched the Franks scatter and fall, a crowd of Norse helmets and colorful shields rolling over them like a locust swarm. In his moments of inattention, the enemy he fought melted away. Gunnar turned back for Mord, began running yet did not know where his enemy had gone. As the Norse reinforcements swarmed across the battlefield, they sowed confusion and death. Mord disappeared into this crowd. For Gunnar to find him again would be like wading across the Seine and just as impossible. Mord had escaped. Gunnar's only consolation was he might have yet delivered him a lingering, mortal wound.

With the breaking of the better-trained Franks, the battle ended in a rout. Gunnar found a quiet patch of grass to sit and watch men flee or die. Years ago he would have sought wounded enemies to finish, cutting off their sword hands first. Yet today he was soul weary and injured. His nose continued to drizzle thick blood, and every beat of his heart hurt like a backhand slap to the face.

The ground was littered with dead bodies from both sides, corpses that sprouted bent swords, broken spear shafts, or ax hafts. Shields were scattered over the grass like colorful autumn leaves. Groups of men chased down stragglers, while others stooped over corpses to begin looting. Gunnar loosened the strap of his shield and let it slide off his arm. At last Bekan found him and he had with him two men who Gunnar instantly recognized. The first was Ull the Strong, a tall man with a build to match his name. His hair and skin had been pale since Gunnar was a child, but age had whitened his beard and thinned his hair. He glittered with gore. Next to him stood Ragnar Hard-Striker. He too was a strong man who stood with pride. His hair had also turned gray, but his green eyes were alight with the killing lust, making him appear much younger. A red scar crossed his cheek, and according to his father's stories, Ragnar was also missing his left ear, though his helmet covered it now.

"You came at last," Gunnar said as he struggled to his feet.

The two jarls laughed and Ull folded his massive arms. "What are you doing sitting in the grass when there's a hall to be sacked?"

"The fields are full of plunder," Ragnar added. "The Franks bring us good weapons and strong mail, though they seem not to know how to use these best."

The jarls laughed again and Bekan now examined Gunnar's face, pulling it side to side, exposing his teeth and peering inside his mouth. "You'll live, and you might actually look better after your nose heals. Last time it broke it turned out crooked. Maybe this'll knock it back in place."

Gunnar smiled, unable to laugh with the others. "Mord escaped. He took my ax with him, buried in his shoulder. But it was not the revenge I wanted."

"Mord's destroyed," Ull the Strong said. "Hafgrim is leading his men in pursuit. He'll probably catch him and drag him back. Mord's men can't get too far if they're carrying him in a mail shirt and an ax stuck in him. Too heavy and they're too tired."

"Fear gives men strength to flee," Gunnar said.

Ragnar blew a sigh through his heavy beard. "We can only see what Fate has planned. For now, though, that hall is quiet. Mord defended it personally, which means something of worth must be inside."

"His wife? Gold?" Bekan asked. Gunnar shrugged then waited as the jarls rounded up men to clear the hall. Other parties were kicking in the door of other distant buildings, but Gunnar heard none of the expected screams. Bekan soon presented him with a scavenged ax, one with blood still on the blade, then refit his shield to his arm.

"I've always wanted to see this shield myself," Ull the Strong said. "I hoped to see you fight with your left hand. You should be proud that you learned to keep fighting. Losing a sword hand ends most men's fighting days."

Gunnar allowed Ull to examine the straps and the iron rim of his shield. They chatted about the details while thirty men surrounded the hall. Gunnar's parents had once lived there. Snorri died there. It seemed wrong to slam open the door and storm it with bloody weapons. "This was my father's home. Let me enter first."

The doors were not barred, and once inside Gunnar found a familiar scene. It was as if Mord had only lived in the hall on borrowed time, and now left everything as he had found it. Gunnar walked to the stain where the bishop had bled to death while other men checked out the rooms at the far end of the hall. Nothing was left behind, and anything of value cleared away.

"He didn't expect to win," Ragnar said. "He has probably fled to his wife's family."

Gunnar flipped over a table with a roar. No one approached him as his mind buzzed with a hundred murderous thoughts. How had Mord managed to escape? Not even a slave had been left behind. He kicked benches and flung wooden plates. Men abandoned him to his rage, but soon he heard Bekan calling his name. He whirled on his friend, but stopped when he saw Bekan's face. "They've found Mord?"

"No, but very close. His second was wounded in battle. I thought you might want to speak with him."

They rushed outside, and before the hall doors Mord's second, Magnus the Stone, hung between two men. His right leg had been hewed at the knee, turning it into a bloody mess bent at the wrong angle. He bowed his head and Gunnar suddenly felt much better. He smiled and stalked over to Magnus. The jarls and their hirdmen looked on impassively.

He lifted Magnus's head with the blade of his bloody ax. The old warrior stared through him. "So you're the one who shot my brother in the face trying to kill my father. You would do such a shameful, cowardly thing in service to a man who would abandon you to your enemies? Let me teach you to regret your choices."

Gunnar stamped on Magnus's wound, who fell from between the two men holding him up. He screamed as Gunnar ground his heel into the shattered knee.

"Where did Mord go?"

"I don't know."

"That's the wrong answer." Gunnar glanced at Bekan, who knew this drill well. He pinned Magnus down while Gunnar adjusted his grip on his ax handle. "Say farewell to your sword hand."

The blade slammed down, but it was dull and only stuck in Magnus's wrist bone. The old warrior howled in agony as Gunnar wrestled the blade free and chopped again. It took four gory strikes to break through the bone and remove the hand. By this time, Magnus was delirious with pain.

"Tell me where Mord and his wife went, or I'll use this dull ax to cut off your head. Cooperate and I'll have a fresh blade readied to make it easier." Gunnar retrieved the hand, its flesh now bloody gray. He slapped Magnus's face with it. "You deserve a lot more suffering for what you did to my family. But I am generous today, as well as tired. Speak."

"The lady Fara went back to her family. Mord may follow. I don't know. We weren't supposed to lose."

"Then why clear out the hall?"

"She didn't want to be close to the fighting. Took everything and left."

Gunnar knelt beside Magnus, who now lay facedown in the grass, and pulled up his head. "I will have a fresh blade prepared for your beheading, but before that you'll suffer well."

He stood, tossed the ax aside, and wiped the gore from his face. He looked to Bekan. "Find a tree and hang him. Make sure he takes a long time to choke to death. Then keep my word and find a good blade to sever his head. We'll set it on a spear along with the heads of every dead enemy we pick off this battlefield. I want this land to stink of death and be smothered in flies and crows. Let them know Gunnar the Black has come to avenge his family."

Bekan nodded as if the command were not unusual, though Ull, Ragnar, and Oskar regarded him with raised brows.

"They don't call me black just for the color of my hair, but for the flocks of crows that follow my path." Gunnar's quip drew an evil smile from Ull and Ragnar, and both nodded appreciatively. Oskar remained with his brow raised, and Gunnar pointed at him.

"Get me thirty good men. I know where they are taking Mord, and I mean to see him dead. We don't have far to go, but must hurry."