If I struck now, I could surprise him, he thought. A solid thrust to his gut and he'd be finished. It's possible; he's not a god.
"Get up and help me," he repeated, glancing at him.
Thrand's hand itched for the hilt of the sax hanging at his side. His own bloodied blade lay partially covered by forest debris only an arm's length away.
Flipping belt straps aside, Ulfrik began to work the mail up Kolbyr's body, being careful not to tangle the chain links.
Thrand's arm stretched for the sword.
Ulfrik stood and dropped Kolbyr. "Your sword?"
The two men stared at each other, and Thrand could not read Ulfrik's face. He had no expression: no anger, fear, confusion, nothing. Such blankness was more frightening than anything else.
"Yes, my sword is in the mud, lord. Rust, I don't want it to rust."
"It won't rust so fast. Help me with the mail first."
He was relieved at being caught; now he had an excuse to assuage any shame for not carrying through. He joined Ulfrik in removing Kolbyr's mail.
"What about his body?" Thrand refused to look at Kolbyr's face, though he imagined his clear dead eyes staring at him.
"Food for the ravens." He snapped off Kolbyr's purse, his silver Thor's hammer, and took his weapons, tossing them into a pile next to the folded mail.
"So you're leaving him here?"
"Gods, man! You are drunk. I've got unburied men piled at the foot of that Frankish tower. You think I'd spare a moment to honor a man who tried to murder me? I curse his soul to Nifleheim. Now, you can serve me by carrying all of this back."
Thrand regarded the pile, more than both his arms could handle. Ulfrik kicked Kolbyr's corpse, and his head lolled to the side. The dead eyes locked with Thrand's and he jumped in shock. Ulfrik laughed, and pushed him at the pile.
Laugh now, he thought as he gathered the mail hauberk and weapons. Tonight I will be gone with your slave and enjoying your treasure. Maybe I'll buy an army to carve that smirk off your face.
Stumbling through the woods as Ulfrik walked behind, Thrand consoled himself with thoughts of vengeance.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ulfrik emerged from the woods to chaos. Men streamed toward the tower and the war machines lobbed rocks at the walls of Paris or the tower itself. War cries and weapons banged on shields combined with the crack of bowstrings and the snap of the catapults. Banners bobbed and spun above the heads of the Danes. Thrand looked back at him, his bloodied face pale and frightened.
"They started without us," Ulfrik said. He suspected Thrand might not be as innocent as his tears made him seem. However, with the battle started, he set aside his doubts. "Where did Hrolf say to meet?"
"He was just shouting for someone to find you, and I volunteered to go." Thrand's eyes were wide with terror, and he kept glancing at the distant tower.
Scanning the banners at the fore of the attack, none were familiar. As he worked back, he located the three jarls stationed at the rear, Sigrid, Knut, and Hrolf. Pushing past Thrand, he went to gather his crew and join Hrolf's standard. He collided with men rushing to the attack, shoving horizontally through to the shore. His men were already gathered beneath his banner, waiting at the riverbank. Einar held it in Toki's stead. As he approached, Snorri noticed him first.
"You've already been to the battle? It just began." Snorri's eyes darted past him to Thrand and his brow furrowed.
"No time to explain. Thrand, drop your burden here. Snorri, how many men are fit for battle?"
"Enough," Snorri answered, but he butted against him and whispered. "What has happened?"
"Later. Focus on the battle." Ulfrik saw the worry in his friend's face, and reassured him with a thump on the shield. Men needed confidence and belief in order to march into battle, especially after a defeat. He refused to shake the men's morale with news of betrayals. He stood before them, arms folded across his chest. Grim faces looked back at him. Behind them on the Seine, ships glided past with their crews of archers.
"Do you men still serve me? Do you still believe in victory?" Exchanging glances, they nodded and then voices joined. Soon they roared back their belief, and Ulfrik smiled. "Good! For I believe in victory and glory. But most of all, I believe in honor. And there is no higher honor than to bravely serve our oath-holders. No matter your fate today, you will be heroes in Valhalla. If I join you there, I will be glad. Someone give me a shield and follow me!"
With cheers and shouts, they fell in with him as he merged into the tide flowing toward the tower, keeping Hrolf's dragon standard in view. Before them, the siege tower began rolling ahead. He doubled their speed, fearful Hrolf would follow the tower. However, he soon brought his force alongside Hrolf's. The giant jarl and Gunther were conferring beneath his standard, and Ulfrik lined up his men then joined them.
"You're covered in blood." Hrolf glanced up and down his length, but then turned to observe the siege tower trundling toward the Franks. Ulfrik's face must have registered his surprise at the casual dismissal, for Gunther laughed.
"Worried we thought you ran?" Gunther's mood had recovered from the morning and he waved Ulfrik closer. "To be honest, I thought about it myself."
All around them Hrolf's warriors formed into loose ranks. Their faces were grave and their voices remarkably silent. To the front, helmets and weapons spun off stars of sunlight as Danes converged on the Franks. Black clouds of arrows wove over the heads of the men, shot from the rear ranks or from the top of the tower. Death screams and war cries flowed back to them, weak and pitiful beneath the arrow-storm.
"I was delayed," Ulfrik finally explained. "Why are we not at the fore of the attack?"
"Because we were there yesterday and learned a good lesson, don't you think?"
"We're allowing others a chance at glory." Hrolf remained observing the progress of the siege tower. "The crafty Franks built another two levels overnight. Now our tower and ladders are too short. A perfect opportunity for men craving glory."
Looking again, Ulfrik saw the hastily constructed fortifications crowning the tower. "How did I not see it?"
"The real question is how the Franks built it so fast." Hrolf placed his hands on his hips, the sleeves of his mail glittering. "No matter. Our war machines will dismantle it."
The words went straight to Loki's ears, and the trickster god of mischief delighted in them.
An explosion as deafening as a clap of thunder rolled over Ulfrik, and one of the catapults flipped forward. The arm splintered and cracked while the body of the machine lurched into the air, wheels spinning off into the crowds and the high tension rope lashing the catapult crew. The rock it was launching skittered off at a wild angle, plunking into a ship passing beneath the normal arc of the shot. The crewmen splashed out of their ship as the vessel broke and sunk as if the thumb of a god had pushed it underwater.
Men screamed as the explosive power sprawled them to the ground and the uncoiling rope tore open men's flesh like a honed blade. The wheels landed among archers, scattering most and crushing others. The broken catapult landed atop another just as it launched its rock. The arm snapped off and the machine tipped to its side. In an instant two of the five catapults were destroyed and the crews of the others had fled. The remaining arms stood half-raised, dumbfounded giants staring at the river.
"Too much tension," Hrolf remarked, never having flinched at the spectacle. Ulfrik and everyone around him had instinctively cowered at the violence, and only now recovered. "I can't work those machines, but even I know you mustn't wind them too tight. It's just like working the rigging of a ship. Tie off too tight and you're bound to break a rope."