Norseman Raider (The Norseman Chronicles Book 4) (33 page)

Godfrey fought against a farmer who wielded a hoe.  The king’s sword snapped the implement and hewed
the man’s arm in one motion.  His was a beautiful blade doing what the Franks had designed it to do.  The sword killed.  The +ULFBERHT+ rang and sang while it did so.  The king hummed a tune that followed the melody spun by the blade.  He was giddy in his piratical element.

Gudruna found a man with a narrow, rectangular shield.  He held a long spear and laughed when he faced his small, female opponent.  It seemed that he was right to scoff because with one shove of his shield boss, the
petite woman fell backward onto her rump.  No amount of skill with a blade could counteract mass and momentum.

She bent her knees and planted her feet.  But her feet were walking on the back of her skirts.  Gudruna fell on her back again.  The man with the narrow shield carefully stepped forward.  He was no fool.  He hid behind the shield and held the spear pointed at Gudruna’s armored heart.

Gudruna was the wiser.  She flipped the front of her skirts up.  The attacker’s eyes dropped to the naked crux between her legs.  When those eyes again locked with Gudruna’s, the queen’s sword had cleaved out a wedge in his leg.  Two more vicious hacks from the queen tipped the man over.

Meanwhile,
Killian ran up behind the king to protect his flank.  The small priest faced two men who ran from the village that surrounded the towering stone monastery at the center.  One of these men appeared to be a soldier.  He wore mail, a helmet, and carried a spear with a sharp, steel point that had recently had a new edge drawn on.  This man was younger and faster than Killian.  The spear flicked. Killian fell back, clutching his arm that now ran red.  Only his thick, coarse priestly robe prevented the spear from reaching the bone.

The second man, clearly a butcher, for he was already covered in blood from his head to his boots before the battle had begun, wielded a fat knife, a tool of his trade.  The weapon was about the length of my saex.  The butcher scurried over top the priest, clamped a hand on his neck, and raised the tool.  I dimly recalled the spear in my own hand.  Without worrying about who else might be running between us, I cocked my arm, stepped, and released.  The butcher’s side was pierced.  His grip on the priest’s neck and his knife relaxed.  He collapsed on Killian.

Gudruna had recovered and ran in.  She hauled the dying butcher off the priest while simultaneously defending against the soldier.  Killian helped push the bloody butcher.  He used the bottom of his war boot and kicked the soldier’s knee.  The man howled.  His scream was answered with Gudruna’s short sword in the eye.  Killian kicked him again so that the soldier tipped backward, off the blade, sending what was left of his eyeball flying and a spray of crimson into the afternoon air.

More soldiers now poured from the town.  Godfrey had said nothing of a garrison being stationed on Lismore.  He should have known, for it was where he’d raided many times before.  It was where his men had been hanged.  It was where he’d killed the abbot on Christmas.
  Never once did he mention a fort or a quartering of infantry.  Even the Dal Riatans could learn, I suppose.

One
of Godfrey’s crewmen died from a hurled javelin.  Well, the man didn’t die immediately.  Rarely do men die instantly in battle.  The missile pierced deeply into our comrade’s thigh.  He folded in half and slumped.  He yet sat upright, teetering for many strange moments.  The man studied the javelin’s shaft as if it wasn’t jutting from his bleeding leg.  Then he watched the battle roil around him.  He didn’t show fear.  That is, until he felt the pain.  Once the wave of intense throbbing finally hit the surprised warrior, he threw up his salted fish and ale.  His fingers feverishly tore at his ripped trousers.  His hands began to shake when he tightly wrapped them around the javelin and pulled.  The narrow head sprung free.  The wound wasn’t wide, but it was nearly through the width of his thigh.  Blood pooled on the grass.  He struggled to get up, just once.  It was almost over.  Our man fell back down, groaning.  Only then did he know his fate.  His eyes scanned the earth, looking for his weapon.  He found the butcher’s knife.  It would do.  The dying man clutched the handle and tipped back fully onto the grass.  As I ran by him I saw the mixture of emotions on his face.  Anger showed in the corners of his mouth.  Defiance was expressed in the corners of his eyes.  Disbelief and fear haunted his countenance, though I would never say so to a fellow warrior.  He pulled the knife to his chest and passed into Odin’s hall.

Aoife tugged on the bit of my mail that hung below my belt.  “To the king, idiot!”

I looked in the direction she pointed.  Leif and Randulfr were there.  They were fighting directly into a pack of the enemy.  In the center of the enemy was Godfrey.  He’d cleared out a circle with his shield and sword.

I shoved Aoife to the ground in order to rush to the king, and to protect her from the melee that would follow.

With my shield raised, I ran headlong into the outskirts of the clump of enemy swordsmen.  Two of their men fell over from the force of my blow.  Randulfr dispatched them both before they could rejoin their brethren.

Gudruna snuck in behind me.  She stabbed with that short sword with remarkable efficiency.  Time and again her thin arm snuck under my raised sword and protected my side.

Godfrey smacked a man across his face with the edge of his shield.  Teeth flew.  One of them bounced off my check.

I spat in the face of my opponent.  He did the same to me.  My blood burned with fierce anger.
  I pulled out my father’s saex.  With my shoulder, I repeatedly heaved up and into my shield until one of my thrusts forced his war bark up.  I rammed the small blade into his belly.  He wore leather mail.  It was surprisingly strong, for I felt my momentum check.  It infuriated me all the more.  I used the whole of my arm, body, and legs to drive the short sword through the armor and into his flesh.  He melted.

More of Godfrey’s crew came to our aid.  They added force to our push.  Slowly, methodically we slaughtered the Dal Riatans. 
We caught the bloodlust.  We felled them like trees being harvested for the longboats.  They crashed into one another.  They formed a corpse street.  I stepped on them.  We slipped, but the might and support of the partial shield wall kept us upright.  At last my shield boss met Godfrey’s.

The king’s eyes widened.  At first they gave his characteristic sparkle.  He even opened his mouth to say something sarcastic, something funny.  The king was
doing what the old gods had created his family to do.  His new Christian God seemed to merely tolerate his actions in Midgard.  “Good of you to arrive, Halldorr!”  A rock smashed into his cheek.

We looked toward the village.  What was left of the town’s men had reorganized.  They’d looted ours and the dead soldiers’ weapons.  Some had gathered helmets.

Gudruna pushed past me.  She screamed, light shield lofted, weapon raised.  Alone, the queen ran straight toward the newly assembled enemy.

The joy left Godfrey’s face.  He frowned
, instantly recognizing her voice. “Kill them!  Protect the queen!”  He pointed his dripping sword.  I could just see the unmistakable ‘+UL’ near the guard.  The rest of the manufacturer’s name was blanketed with Dal Riatan blood.

Our hearts swelled to protect the one
grown woman among us.  Our bloodlust was in full lather.  We allowed it to run.  By now though, we’d assembled properly and didn’t sprint like the wild men of Ireland’s inland regions.  Only a handful of the other ships’ men had arrived.  It was more than enough.

Gudruna was already fighting against three men, parrying their blows deftly when we arrived. 
Leif snatched the queen from her suicide run.  She was roughly tossed behind us as we advanced.  We hemmed the last of the town’s defenders in between two shield walls, ours and the one from the newly arrived ships.  We closed in a frighteningly controlled manner, shields locked, swords and spears bristling.

The townsmen rethought their position. 
Their faces showed fear, without a cut, their blood drained, their hearts sank.  They looked over their shoulders at their families and monks who fled in the opposite direction.  Spears and shields crashed to the ground.  Metal clanged.  The defenders went to their knees and held their hands up behind their heads.  I heard them try to use Latin to speak to us, which Killian had said was a universal language.  I understood not their words, but their meaning was plain enough.  They wanted to surrender.

Next to me, Godfrey
cursed.  He looked back at his queen and growled.  The king panted and for a moment, I swear to you, it appeared that he was coming to his senses.  His mind was taking control of his body after the bloodletting.  Godfrey was angry at his queen, yes, but most of us had survived.

Then King Godfrey
peered through the town and saw a lone tree that sat in a vast pasture north of town.  There he saw the last of his men who’d been executed a year earlier.  The man’s body, weather beaten and animal eaten, still rocked in the breeze at the end of a fraying rope.  The rest of his crew from the previous raid was still piled high in the sheep dung heap.  The king rubbed his cheek where the stone had hit earlier.  He winced.  His palm came away red.  Godfrey’s face contorted.  It showed rage.

Godfrey
called out to us.  “Finish the defenders.  If they wish to die without a sword in their hands, so be it.  We’ll take what’s left of their families as plunder.”

Killian, with his arm wrapped in a hastily applied bandage, ran in front of us.  “Godfrey, don’t do this.  The men we slaughtered on the beach at Watchet were soldiers.  And English,” added the Irish priest.  “These men are protecting their lives and families.  They are Christian brothers like you and me.  Don’t do this.  You’ve won.  You’ve taken the stronghold of the island.
  Don’t let your revenge go too far.”

“Halldorr,” shouted King Godfrey.

“Lord!” I answered.

Godfrey scowled at the queen.  He looked again at his dead men from last year. 
“Escort the priest out of my way.”

I frowned at Killian and reached for his shoulder.  The
priest wasn’t going to be able stop the butchering.  He was stopping the battle thrill I momentarily felt, however.  I suppose Godfrey was doing that too.  I grabbed Killian’s vestment and jerked him back through the lines and held him there.  Side-by-side, we watched all that unfolded next.

When it was done
I realized that I had released the priest, who stood quietly next to me.  Gudruna had moved next to us.  My eyes burned.  I hadn’t blinked all the while during Godfrey’s murder of the town’s would-be protectors.  I squeezed them shut and open.  Someone’s blood oozed into them, burning them more.  I wiped it away with a dirty paw.

Killian spoke softly.  “Hubris and anger usually get a man killed quickly.  Sometimes a king can delay such retribution, but it comes.  It comes.”

I met the priest’s eyes, saying nothing in return.  “I’ve broken many vows to serve King Godfrey,” said Killian.  “At first I thought it was best to placate him.  It would allow me to come close and show him my faith, its quiet power, its justice, its mercy.  He is to be a Christian, after all, so how much work would I have to do?  That’s what I thought.  But instead of him drawing closer to Christ, I faded with him.  My natural tendencies for adventure were exploited by the evil one, by Godfrey.  We didn’t improve in our walk.  We didn’t progress like the pilgrims we are to be.  The king and I have both gone backwards to act more like your ancestors.  I’m a Christian in faith, but a pagan in deeds.”  His shoulders and head slumped.

The first of the fires began to catch.  All around
, men looted.  They pulled what they could from houses and shops and from the monastery.  Most of the richest wealth had been taken in previous raids, but there was always more hidden.  There wouldn’t be after this strandhogg.  The men were thorough.  Holes were dug in floors.  Cracks were searched, crevices scoured.  The booty was piled in the green grass that was temporarily colored red.

The priest
silently stepped away.  He bent to pick up his sword and after cleaning it off, carefully slid it home.  Killian disappeared over the lip of the ravine and climbed down to the ships.  I wondered if I would ever see him again.

“He’ll be back,” said Gudruna, reading my thoughts.  “In mind and spirit, Killian loves the shield wall.  The king has told me as much.”

“The king also told you to mind the house while he was gone,” barked Godfrey as he strode past us to pay his respects to the bodies left from last year’s slaughter.

. . .

“Divide the bounty up among the crews,” the king said to us.

The priest’s attitude had infected me.  I decided I didn’t want any of the wealth taken after murdering those men for no reason.  I was angry with myself for not stopping it.  Yet, I was even angrier with myself for having such thoughts.  Those were not the ideals of my people.  My people lived for war.  Our men wanted to populate the great halls of the gods.  How else would we do that but with slaughter and battle?  I sat stewing.  It was to be the first time my soul experienced the inner turmoil that the Christian faith demanded.  In so many ways it was more difficult, much more of a challenge than the simple, outright cleaving of your opponent.  I kept these thoughts to myself.

Randulfr dragged a captive into the circle of light formed by the campfire. The man, his arms bound around a stick behind his back, was the abbot who had taken the place of the one Godfrey killed the previous year.  His face was bruised.  Two trails of blood snaked their way down in front of his ear from a wound somewhere amidst his short hair.  I was struck by his lack of fear.