The Lords of the North (37 page)

in the half-light for his men were carrying flaming torches. Ragnar had ordered his
attackers to carry the fire so that the defenders would watch him instead of guarding
Dunholm's rear. So fire and steel were coming to Dunholm, but the defenders were jeering
Ragnar's men as they struggled up the slippery track. They jeered because they knew their
walls were high and the attackers few, but the sceadugengan were already behind them and
none of them had noticed us, and my fears of the cold dawn began to ebb away. I touched the
hammer amulet and said a silent thank-you to Thor.

We were just yards from the ash tree that grew a few paces from the door to Kjartan's hall.
The sapling had been planted as a symbol of Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life about which fate
writhes, though this tree looked sickly, scarce more than a sapling that struggled to find
space for its roots in Dunholm's thin soil. The sentry glanced at us once, noticed nothing
odd about our appearance, then turned and looked across Dunholm's flat summit towards the
gatehouse. Men were crowded on the gatehouse rampart, while other warriors stood on the
wall's fighting platforms built to left and right. A large group of mounted men waited
behind the gate, doubtless ready to pursue the beaten attackers when they were repulsed
from the palisade. I tried to count the defenders, but they were too many, so I looked to the
right and saw a stout ladder climbing to the fighting platform on the western stretch of
ramparts. That, I thought, is where we should go. Climb that ladder, capture the western wall
and we could let Ragnar inside and so revenge his father and free Thyra and astonish all
Northumbria.

I grinned, suddenly elated at the realisation that we were inside Dunholm. I thought
of Hild and imagined her praying in her simple chapel with the beggars already huddled
outside her nunnery's gate. Alfred would be working, ruining his eyes by reading
manuscripts in the dawn's thin light. Men would be stirring on every fortification in
Britain, yawning and stretching. Oxen were being harnessed. Hounds would be excited,
knowing a day's hunting was ahead, and here we were, inside Kjartan's stronghold and no one
suspected our presence. We were wet, we were cold,

we were stiff and we were outnumbered by at least twenty to one, but the gods were with us
and I knew we were going to win and I felt a sudden exultation. The battle-joy was coming
and I knew the skalds would have a great feat to celebrate.

Or perhaps the skalds would be making a lament. For then, quite suddenly, everything
went disastrously wrong.

The sentry beneath the ash tree turned and spoke to us. 'They're wasting their time,' he
said, obviously referring to Ragnar's forces. The sentry had no suspicions, he even
yawned as we approached him, but then something alarmed him. Perhaps it was Steapa, for there
could surely be no man in Dunholm who was as tall as the West Saxon. Whatever, the man
suddenly realised we were strangers and he reacted quickly by backing away and drawing
his sword. He was about to yell a warning when Steapa hurled his spear that struck hard in the
sentry's right shoulder, pitching him backwards and Rypere followed fast, running his spear
into the man's belly with such force that he pinned the man to the feeble ash tree. Rypere
silenced him with his sword, and just as that blood flowed, two men appeared around the corner
of the smaller hall to our left and they immediately began shouting that enemies were in
the compound. One turned and ran, the other drew his sword, and that was a mistake for Finan
feinted low with his spear and the man lowered his blade to parry and the spear flashed up to
take him in the soft flesh beneath his jaw. The man's mouth bubbled blood onto his beard as
Finan stepped close and brought his short-sword up into the man's belly.

Two more corpses. It was raining harder again, the drops hammering onto the mud to
dilute the fresh blood and I wondered if we had time to dash across the wide open space to
reach the rampart ladder, and just then, to make things worse, the door to Kjartan's hall
opened and three men jostled in the doorway and I shouted at Steapa to drive them back. He
used his axe, killing the first with an upwards blow of ghastly efficiency and thrusting
the gutted man back into the second who took the axe-head straight in the face, then Steapa
kicked the two men aside to pursue the third who was now inside the hall. I sent Clapa to help
Steapa. 'And get him out of there fast,' I told Clapa because the horsemen by the gate had
heard the commotion now and they could see the dead men and see our drawn swords and they were
already turning their horses. And I knew then that we had lost. Everything had depended on
surprise, and now that we had been discovered we had no chance of reaching the northern
wall. The men on the fighting platforms had turned to watch us and some had been ordered off
the ramparts and they were making a shield wall just behind the gate. The horsemen, there
were about thirty riders, were spurring towards us. Not only had we failed, but I knew we
would be lucky to survive. 'Back,' I shouted, 'back!' All we could hope now was to retreat
into the narrow alleys and somehow hold the horsemen off and reach the well gate. Gisela
must be rescued and then there would be a frantic retreat downhill in front of a vengeful
pursuit. Maybe, I thought, we could cross the river. If we could just wade through the swollen
Wiire we might be safe from pursuit, but it was a tremulous hope at best. 'Steapa!' I
shouted, 'Steapa! Clapa!' and the two came from the hall, Steapa with a blood-soaked axe.
'Stay together,' I shouted. The horsemen were coming fast, but we ran back towards the
stables and the horsemen seemed wary of the dark, shadowed spaces between the buildings for
they reined in beside the ash tree with its dead man still pinned to the trunk and I thought
their caution would let us survive just long enough to get outside the fortress. Hope
revived, not of victory, but of life, and then I heard the noise.

It was the sound of hounds baying. The horsemen had not stopped for fear of attacking us,
but because Kjartan had released is dogs and I stared, appalled, as the hounds poured around
the Side of the smaller hall and came towards us. How many? Fifty? east fifty. They were
impossible to count. A huntsman drove them on with yelping shouts and they were more like
wolves than hounds. They were rough-pelted, huge, howling, and I involuntarily stepped
backwards. This was the hellish pack of the wild hunt, the ghost-hounds that harry the
darkness and pursue their prey across the shadow world when night falls. There was no time now
to reach the gate. The hounds would surround us, they would drag us down, they would savage us,
and I thought this must be my punishment for killing the defenceless Brother Jaenberht in
Cetreht, and I felt the cold, unmanning shudder of abject fear. Die well, I told myself,
die well, but how could one die well beneath the teeth of hounds? Our mail coats would slow
their savagery for a moment, but not for long. And the hounds could smell our fear. They
wanted blood and they came in a howling scrabble of mud and fangs, and I lowered
Serpent-Breath to take the first snarling bitch in the face and just then a new voice called to
them.

It was the voice of a huntress. It called clear and loud, saying no words, just chanting a
weird, shrieking call that pierced the morning like a sounding horn, and the hounds stopped
abruptly, twisted about and whined in distress. The closest was just three or four paces from
me, a bitch with a mud-clotted pelt, and she writhed and howled as the unseen huntress called
again. There was something sad in that wordless call that was a wavering, dying shriek, and
the bitch whined in sympathy. The huntsman who had released the hounds tried to whip them
back towards us, but again the weird, ululating voice came clear through the rain, but
sharper this time, as if the huntress were yelping in sudden anger, and three of the hounds
leaped at the huntsman. He screamed, then was overwhelmed by a mass of pelts and teeth. The
riders spurred at the dogs to drive them off the dying man, but the huntress was making a wild
screeching now that drove the whole pack towards the horses, and the morning was filled with
the seethe of rain and the unearthly cries and the howl of hounds, and the horsemen turned in
panic and spurred back towards the gatehouse. The huntress called again, gentler now, and the
hounds obediently milled around the feeble ash tree, letting the riders go. I had just
stared. I still stared. The hounds were crouching, teeth bared, watching the door of Kjartan's
hall and it was there that the huntress appeared. She stepped over the gutted corpse Steapa
had left in the doorway and she crooned at the hounds and they flattened themselves as she
stared at us.

It was Thyra.

I did not recognise her at first. It had been years since I saw Ragnar's sister, and I
only remembered her as a fair child, happy and healthy, with her sensible mind set on
marrying her Danish warrior. Then her father's hall had been burned, her Danish warrior
was killed and she had been taken by Kjartan and given to Sven. Now I saw her again and she
had become a thing from a nightmare.

She wore a long cloak of deerskin, held by a bone brooch at her throat, but beneath the
cloak she was naked. As she walked among the hounds the cloak kept being dragged away from her
body that was painfully thin and foully dirty. Her legs and arms were covered with scars as
though someone had slashed her repeatedly with a knife, and where there were no scars there
were sores. Her golden hair was lank, matted and greasy, and she had woven strands of dead ivy
into the tangle. The ivy hung about her shoulders. Finan, seeing her, made the sign of the
cross. Steapa did the same and I clutched at my hammer amulet. Thyra's curled fingernails
were as long as a gelder's knives, and she waved those sorceress's hands in the air and
suddenly screamed at the hounds who whined and writhed as if in pain. She glanced towards us
and I saw her mad eyes and I felt a pulse of fear because she was suddenly crouching and
pointing directly at me, and those eyes were bright as lightning and filled with hate.
'Ragnar!' she shouted, 'Ragnar!' The name sounded like a curse and the hounds twisted to
stare where she pointed and I knew they would leap at me as soon as Thyra spoke again.

I'm Uhtred!' I called to her, 'Uhtred!' I took off my helmet so she could see my face. I'm
Uhtred!'

'Uhtred?' she asked, still looking at me, and in that brief moment she looked sane, even
confused. 'Uhtred,' she said again, this time as if she were trying to remember the name, but
the tone turned

the hounds away from us and then Thyra screamed. It was not a scream at the hounds, but a
wailing, howling screech aimed at the clouds, and suddenly she turned her fury on the dogs.
She stooped and clutched handfuls of mud that she hurled at them. She still used no words, but
spoke some tongue that the hounds understood and they obeyed her, streaming across Dunholm's
rocky summit to attack the newly made shield wall behind the gate. Thyra followed them,
calling to them, spitting and shuddering, filling the hell pack with frenzy, and the fear
that had rooted me to the cold ground passed and I shouted at my men to go with her.

They were terrible things, those hounds. They were beasts from the world's chaos, trained
only to kill, and Thyra drove them on with her high, wailing cries, and the shield wall broke
long before the dogs arrived. The men ran, scattering across Dunholm's wide summit and the
dogs followed them. A handful, braver than the rest, stayed at the gate and that was where I
now wanted to go. The gate!' I shouted at Thyra, Thyra! Take them to the gate!' She began to
make a barking sound, shrill and quick, and the hounds obeyed her by running towards the
gatehouse. I have seen other hunters direct hounds as deftly as a horseman guides a
stallion with knees and reins, but it is not a skill I have ever learned. Thyra had it.

Kjartan's men guarding the gate died hard. The dogs swarmed over them, teeth ripping, and I
heard screams. I had still not seen Kjartan or Sven, but nor did I look for them. I only
wanted to reach the big gate and open it for Ragnar, and so we followed the hounds, but then
one of the horsemen recovered his wits and shouted at the frightened men to circle behind
us. The horseman was a big man, his mail half covered by a dirty white cloak. His helmet had
gilt-bronze eyeholes that hid his face, but I was certain it was Kjartan. He spurred his
stallion and a score of men followed him, but Thyra howled some short, falling cadences, and a
score of hounds turned to head the horsemen off. One rider, desperate to avoid the beasts,
turned his horse too quickly and it fell, sprawling and kicking in the mud and a half-dozen
hounds attacked the

fallen beast's belly while others leaped across to savage the unsaddled rider. I heard
the man wail and saw a dog stagger away with a leg broken by a flailing hoof. The horse was
screaming. I kept running through the streaming rain and saw a spear come flashing down from
the ramparts. The men on the gatehouse roof were trying to stop us with their spears. They
hurled them at the pack which still tore at the fallen shield wall remnant, but there were too
many hounds. We were close to the gate now, only twenty or thirty paces away. Thyra and her
hounds had brought us safe across Dunholm's summit, and the enemy was in utter confusion,
but then the white-cloaked horseman, beard thick beneath his armoured eyes, dismounted and
shouted at his men to slaughter the dogs.

They made a shield wall and charged. They held their shields low to fend off the dogs and used
spears and swords to kill them. 'Steapa!' I shouted, and he understood what was wanted and
bellowed at the other men to go with him. He and Clapa were first among the dogs and I saw
Steapa's axe thud down into a helmeted face as Thyra hurled the dogs at the new shield wall.
Men were clambering down from the fighting platforms to join the wild fight and I knew we had
to move fast before Kjartan's men slaughtered the pack and then came to slaughter us. I saw a
hound leap high and sink its teeth into a man's face, and the man screamed and the dog howled
with a sword in its belly, and Thyra was screeching at the hounds and Steapa was holding the
centre of the enemy shield wall, but it was lengthening as men joined its flanks and in a
heartbeat or two the wings of the wall would fold about men and dogs and cut them down. So I ran
for the gatehouse archway. That archway was undefended on the ground, but the warriors on
the rampart above still had spears. All I had was the dead man's shield and I prayed it was a
good one. I hoisted it over my helmet, sheathed Serpent-Breath, and ran.