Sword Brothers (41 page)

"That was a long time ago," Ulfrik said. He studied Mord, watching for him to signal his intent. While Ulfrik might be slowed by old injuries, he was still sharp with battle-sense. Mord, however, seemed to have lost most of his skill. It made their match-up roughly equal to Ulfrik's mind. He only needed a moment's distraction to draw his weapon.

"I never wanted this," Mord said, his horribly aged face wrinkling in disgust. "My father pushed me to it. Said I deserved it and you did not. He made me hate you, made me want to kill you."

"Well, your father is long dead," Ulfrik said, slowly lowering his hands. "You are no longer beholden to him. Leave that all in the past, and put down your spear. There is always time to do the right thing."

"Is there? Not for me. I lost everything. I lost myself." Mord's eyes welled with tears and Ulfrik noticed that both of them were filmed with the beginnings of the cataracts his father had in his old age. Mord was going blind, and much earlier than his father had. "But look at you. You're a great jarl now. How is it you did not lose all as well?"

"That is Fate," Ulfrik said. His hands lowered toward his weapons. If Mord were going blind, he only needed to disarm him to strike him dead. If Aren returned in time, he would have no worries. "I have been reduced to nothing many times in my life. If I can tell you anything, it's that you can begin again. Put down the spear, Mord, and step into a new life. It's what you want."

"How would you know what I want?" Tears flowed freely now and it was as if their touch upon his cheeks woke him up. He blinked and straightened himself. "You're delaying me. You think help is coming."

"I will need no help if you would only accept your life can be different today."

Aren and Leif appeared as blurs in the distance. Ulfrik's own eyes were no longer sharp enough to tell. A wisp of a smile came to his lips, but then Mord roared.

"You killed my father, you whoreson! Die!"

The spear plunged into his guts. A hot pain rammed through his core and his vision hazed. He looked down and the head of the spear was gone. Dark blood bubbled up around the shaft protruding from his body and drizzled onto his feet.

His staff fell from his hand and he blinked. Mord stood with teeth clenched, staring in disbelief. His hands were white-knuckled on the spear.

Ulfrik marveled that he still lived. His heartbeat filled his ears and his face grew hot with rage. Power flowed into his old limbs and he grabbed the spear shaft with one hand and pulled himself closer to Mord.

With his right hand he drew his sax.

His teeth were clenched. Blood filled his mouth with the taste of copper. He spit the gore into Mord's stunned face.

"Vengeance at last, you coward!"

Ulfrik plunged the sax into Mord's heart. He felt it sawing on bone, plowing into his black heart and rupturing it. Brilliant red blood sprayed from his wound and he released the spear, both hands clawing at the sax. Mord's arterial spray dashed red onto Ulfrik's face as both staggered away from each other. The weight of the spear in Ulfrik's gut dragged him down, but he would not fall until he watched Mord die.

Mord collapsed, blood pumping furiously into the grass, his eyes wide. "You ... killed me. Father said ... you would."

Then his eyes rolled back and his head fell to the side.

Ulfrik thought to laugh but only spit blood from his mouth. Next he knew he was staring up as if looking through water. Two faces hovered over him and he felt a tugging at his stomach. The screaming was a faint echo and Ulfrik realized he was dying. Mord's blood was cooling on his face, and he grabbed the hilt of his dagger wishing he had a sword instead.

"My enemy's blood upon my face," Ulfrik whispered. Aren said something, but he did not understand it. "This is good."

Then Ulfrik knew no more.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Aren washed the blood from his hands and face, staring at the ribbons of red floating in the bowl. That was his father's blood, and he could not think of anything else. A servant snatched the red-stained rags beside him and set a fresh cloth for him. He let the water drip from his face into the bowl, watching the reflected candle light ripple on the surface. The hall was a tumult of activity, even hours after the attack it seemed as if he had just rushed inside with his father dying in his arms. Hirdmen and servants alike rushed about on tasks Aren did not understand. How could any of this be saving his father's life?

He wiped his face and sat on a bench out of the way of traffic. The hall was gloomy now that the sun had fallen below the horizon. Gunnar had just burst through the doors, which still hung open and unguarded. Such a grand hall, filled with captured standards and prizes of battle, had now become a gray smear to Aren. He had let his father be murdered, right before his own eyes. The vision of Mord running him through was as vivid as if he had just witnessed it. Mord had pushed through his father as if he were no more than a cloth sack. The bloody tip of the spear caught the sun as it popped out his father's back. He closed his eyes as if it would prevent him from witnessing the horror again, but it did not. In his mind's eye his father crumbled to the ground with a moan and he felt the hopelessness once again.

"You better come to his bed." Aren opened his eyes to find Hakon standing over him. His fine white shirt was speckled with blood and his face had red smears where he had touched his face with bloodied hands. "He was just holding on until Gunnar arrived."

Even with the magnificently sized room his father had built for himself, it was still filled with people. Gunnar knelt at the bedside like a Christian at prayer. Ulfrik's grandchildren huddled with their mothers, both Elke and Morgan holding them away from the bedside. Servants and healers moved among them, but now they carried baskets of gory bandages or basins full of blood-fouled water. Their lowered heads told Aren all he needed to know. The room stank of sweat and blood and oil lamps shed a flickering yellow light. Hakon put his cold hand on Aren's shoulder and guided him to the bedside. No one but the women wept, yet Aren felt like joining them.

His father glistened with sweat from the effort of staying alive. His shirt had been cut away to treat his wound, and the stump of the spear shaft still remained protruding from his body. They had been able to cut the spear down to relieve stress on the injury, but none dared pull it out. If anyone had, Ulfrik would die instantly. So now the shaft was packed with bloody bandages to slow the bleeding. It seemed to have stopped, but his father continued to weaken.

"Is he awake?" Aren asked. Gunnar kept his head bowed, but Hakon nodded in answer.

Ulfrik's right hand gripped a magnificent sword placed beside him in his bed. It was a long, thin blade of gleaming iron. The hilt was plain but a green gem winked from the pommel of the sword. Aren let his eyes skip over it, for it meant his father was prepared to leave this world for Odin's feasting hall.

"Why do I hear weeping?" Ulfrik's voice was weak and far older than only just this morning. It reminded him of his father's real age, which he had never shown until he had been injured in battle. No one knew his exact years, but he had to be more than sixty. Even at the edge of death, he seemed far stronger and younger than the few others who had lived so long.

No one answered Ulfrik, and his eyes fluttered open as he appeared to genuinely expect an answer. Gunnar sat up now, placing his hand over Ulfrik's. "Save your strength."

Ulfrik's chuckle was strained with a cough. "For what? Even weaklings spend no effort in dying. It's the easiest thing I'll ever do. But there is still weeping? I'll not hear it. No tears for me. I am happy today."

Aren swallowed hard and rubbed his face, then he approached his father's bedside. "Dying is hard for the rest of us. We are not ready to let you go."

"Why? I have lived my life. I have entertained the gods for the last time. Now they grant me a final boon, to die surrounded by my family." He broke into a fit of coughing and blood flecked his beard as he did. A servant leaned in and wiped it away, but Ulfrik turned his head.

"Father, don't force yourself," Hakon said, gently pulling the servant away.

Ulfrik raised his left hand and grabbed Hakon's shirt. "Listen to me. I have only so many breaths left and will not spend them to argue. Hakon is jarl, has been for a while. But with my death, let there be no confusion I expect him to rule. Gunnar, you have your lands and your ships. Aren, I will never see those grandchildren, but I'll not relieve you of the responsibility. Your children are coming too late in life, so be quick."

He flashed bloody smile, and Aren struggled to match it. "I will, Father."

"We'll lock him up with his woman until she gives him a son," Hakon said. Aren knew his smile was forced as well. The only one showing his true feeling was Gunnar, who now let his tears flow openly.

"You are a hero, Father," Gunnar said. "Your name and glory will live on forever."

"I do not think so, not if Hrolf has his way. That is my one regret." Ulfrik's hand fell from Hakon's shirt. Aren held his breath, believing his father had died. Yet his chest still rose and fell. After a few moments, he spoke again.

"You three brothers must work together to keep what I have built. The world is cruel and many will try to steal what is yours. Be wary of those closest to you, and do not tolerate jealousy. Remain strong, my sons. I've shown you how to live life, and now I show you how to die. I go with sword in hand and my foeman's blood on my face."

Tears blurred Aren's vision and he wiped his cheeks with the back of his wrist. Both Gunnar and Hakon had bowed their heads. His father coughed, then lay still. His eyes searched a place no one could see. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

He smiled.

"So many friends ... Runa ..."

And he fell still.

Ulfrik Ormsson had passed from the world.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

The night was deep blue and scores of torches winked in the dark, sparkling off the flowing waters of the Seine River. The funeral ship sat high on a stand constructed for this occasion, a giant silhouette against the moonlit evening. The crowd murmured in a hush, quiet for its large size. Gunnar drew his brothers away from the crowds gathered to send his father to his final rest. He put an arm on each of them and met their eyes. They both looked like great lords, dressed in shining mail and glittering gold. Aren and Hakon stared expectantly at him.

"The night is finally at hand," he said. "Something has weighed upon me that I must confess to you both."

Hakon and Aren shared a glance, then Aren licked his lips. "As do I."

"Me as well," Hakon said.

"Well, a night for truth then. No better way to honor our father." Gunnar chewed his lip and considered his brothers. He had kept this inside long enough. "I wanted to tell you both that I take responsibility for Father's death. I was given the task of killing Mord and I failed. Why I did not behead him as I planned, I cannot say. Had I not been so lazy, Father would be alive. I accept your scorn and blame."

"No," Aren said. "I am at fault. I accompanied him the day he was killed. Had I not left his side, or reacted faster to what I saw, he would still live. It is me above all that deserves blame."

Hakon laughed. "Are we going to argue who is to blame? For I would confess the same sin. I had heard complaints of banditry that I did not pursue. A stolen hen. A prowler around barns. Of course it was Mord, and had I only investigated as I should have then he would've been caught. I carry the blame."

"So we are united in guilt," Gunnar said. "But I feel no better for sharing it with you."

They stood quietly, Gunnar unsure of what to say next. He felt his brothers deserved more from him as the oldest, yet he had no words and only rage. His father had been torn from the world by the man Gunnar was to have killed. He would never forgive himself. He rubbed the stump of his right arm as he lingered in shameful silence until the giant shadow of Einar approached them.

"Are you three ready? It is time to send your father on his final voyage." Einar's eyes shined with points of orange light reflected from the bobbing torches surrounding them. "What is this? You must not show such long faces to your men. Let your father's passing be one of dignity and honor."

"It is hard to hold up my head when I feel nothing but shame," Aren said, blushing.

Einar clipped Aren's shoulder with a gentle punch. "I loved your father as much as my own. He was a glorious leader and a legend in battle. He was still fighting when most men are bent over their drinking mugs and complaining of times long past. I will miss him as keenly as you do. But now is not the time for sad faces, and truth be said there will never be such a time. He goes to the feasting hall, Valhalla, and meets with all the fallen heroes this night. We are all good men, and shall join him there before long. So tend to your people, and show a proud face. There is much to be proud of. And there is much to be done now that he has died. You three must hold together what his sword and blood forged. If you must fret on something, then let it be that."

Gunnar felt the sting of Einar's words. He was first to raise his head. "Let us send off our father."

They went to the funeral ship. Gunnar nodded to Morgan and all his children, each holding a flaming brand. Elke stood nearby as well, her baby cradled in her arms. Beside her Finn held both sword and the battle standard of black elk antlers on a green flag. Stretched out along the shore were hundreds of hirdmen, farmers, and others who had come to honor Ulfrik's passage into the otherworld.

Stairs were set against the hull of the ship, and Gunnar took a torch from a hirdman and mounted to the deck. His father's corpse, blue in the moonlight, lay stretched out on a bed set where the mast would have stood. He wore new-made clothes and his hands were folded over the sword with the green gemstone in its pommel. Stacked all around him were treasures great and small, as well as kegs of ale, piles of horseflesh, wheels of cheese, and racks of salted fish. His mail coat and helmet were set beside him. He had all that a hero required to journey into the worlds of the dead.