"Sigfrid will claim the victory today." The smooth voice beside Ulfrik broke his concentration. He pulled back his hood, rainwater pouring down his back, and found Hrolf beside him.
"But it was my attack on the bridge that weakened it. This couldn't have happened without it."
"Agreed, but that is not something every man will see."
"Do you see it?"
Hrolf nodded, but his eyes never left the tower. The Franks had stopped firing, apparently their arrows spent. A man yelled in Frankish to the defenders in the tower.
"He's asking them to surrender." Hrolf stroked his beard and chuckled. "They're better jumping to their deaths."
Sigfrid had stopped ramming and now shouted orders, his face red and his eyes wild. The ram had split on the gates, achieving nothing. What he planned was unclear, but made no difference.
The gates fell inward and the Franks rushed out screaming, swords flashing white.
In the same moment, a cheer roared from the walls of Paris and the throng of Danes convulsed toward the enemy. Ulfrik admired their fighting spirit. "They die as warriors. I hope their god welcomes them as such."
Hrolf shook his head. "They go to the clouds and sing to their god until the end of days. A warrior has no place there."
"No wonder we crush these Christians in battle." Ulfrik's remark was countered by the deed of one heroic Frank. His sword wove and slashed, carving his enemy's flesh and pouring blood into the mud. He fended off three Danes, wounding one and killing another. The third faltered and paid for his hesitation with the loss of a hand. At last Sigfrid and another warrior bracketed the Frank, and only a stab in the back halted his relentless attack.
"Don't underestimate the Franks," Hrolf chided as the Danes cheered the death of the final defender. "We will tear down this foul tower and piss into the hole that remains. Then we go up the Seine. You will come with me, and taste the riches of Chartes and LeMans. Finally, we will have some action. What do you say to that?"
Ulfrik watched as Sigfrid and his men hacked up the bodies and flung bloody hunks into the river. On the walls of Paris, Franks melted away in silence until a small group remained. The holy man lingered, his white hair clear even at this distance. Another white-haired man stood with him, and Ulfrik's gut burned.
Is that you, Humbert? By Odin's one eye, I will have justice from you. Yet Hrolf had commanded him to leave Paris and go deeper into Frankia, spoiling the chance fulfill his oath.
Worse still, he doubted a return home by summer, and Thorod and Skard, enemies of Nye Grenner both, would swoop down on his family during raiding season. All he had achieved in Frankia would have to be abandoned to reach them in time, and breaking with Hrolf would make him an outlaw.
He sighed and met Hrolf's inquiring gaze. "Yes, action would be good."
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Runa sat in the hall, enjoying the warm hearth fire and the companionable silence of Elin and three other girls busy with knitting wool socks. The repetition calmed her, focusing her mind on the work and not on thoughts of winter or of her husband. Daylight grew ever longer and everyone used the time to check on herds or make repairs. For the women, they enjoyed a cold blue light to illuminate their work rather than lamps or the hearth.
She looked up at the smoke curling along the ceiling and feeling for the bright hole in the roof. The sky beyond was already tinted purple and the winter night would resume. Konal had gone to repair a storage shed damaged in a storm, taking several of his boy followers to assist. Gunnar had been sent with another to collect heather branches for the firewood. Hakon was taking his afternoon nap. It was a rare moment for her to enjoy being herself.
Placing her knitting to the side, she stood. Her short sword, the sax, had been set against the hearth where she sat and now slid to the floor as she rose.
"Sun is almost down and the men must return soon. We should start a meal."
"No sword practice today?" Elin laughed and the girls giggled. Runa had long accepted their teasing.
"Likely not. The storage shed needed repairs more than I need sword practice. Though I think the boys won't let Konal miss it, even if it means practice in the dark."
"Do you think Konal's brother is really coming?" one of the girls asked, her eyes wide. "He is so handsome, and he claims his brother looks just like him."
Elin clucked her tongue. "Your father has a man picked for you already."
"If both my father and the man return." Her voice trailed off, and suddenly everyone found a task to occupy them. Runa collected the wool into a basket and placed it by the loom.
She turned to console the girl, trying to summon a positive thought to buoy her faith.
But she froze, words stuck in her throat.
Standing in the open hall doors was a strange man. He was clad in heavy furs and a wool cap, greasy yellow hair hanging lank on the sides of his narrow head. In front of him stood Gunnar, and the man held a long, gray knife to his throat. Tears beaded at Gunnar's eyes but his mouth was bent in a defiant scowl.
The girls screamed, finally comprehending what they saw. The man walked Gunnar into the hall, and four others flowed in behind them with drawn swords. Their predatory smiles left shadow-filled lines on their faces, turning them into masks of evil.
"Shut up, woman!" the leader snapped.
The leader, who held Gunnar, was hardly a man. His beard was scraggly and his jaw still soft with youth. None of the strangers appeared older than sixteen or seventeen years. With her training, she noted the awkward way they held their drawn swords and the careless guard they assumed entering the hall. They believed no one would oppose them.
With every pounding beat of her racing heart, she resolved to make all five of these boys pay for their arrogance.
"Do as he says," Runa announced as evenly as her trembling voice allowed. "Remain silent."
The five strangers spread in from the doorway. The leader lifted Gunnar to his tiptoes by driving the knife at his throat. He started laughing. "What did I say to you? The men are gone and this place is all for us."
The group cackled and the women whimpered in terror. Elin sat where Runa had just been. Slowly, though no one paid much attention, she reached down to draw the sax upright. Runa reacted. "Elin, stand up when we have guests."
The command made little sense, but she had feared Elin planned to use the weapon. Instead, she left if upright and shot Runa a frustrated look.
"Guests! Yeah, guests all right!" The leader leaned back in laughter, his knife tightening on Gunnar's neck so that a trickle of blood sprouted. Gunnar grimaced but did not cry out.
She had to delay. Konal and the other boys would return soon. They might be able to aid her, but Gunnar had to be separated first.
"You're holding my son hostage. Let him go and you can have whatever you want."
"I'll have whatever I want, that is certain. But your whelp bit me, and he should be punished." The leader stepped closer with the knife cutting deeper into Gunnar's soft flesh. A tear rolled down his eye and he trembled. Runa tried not to look at him, instead searching for a gap to exploit.
One of the young men upturned a table with a roar. The women screamed anew, but Runa used the distraction to move closer to the hearth. The sax leaned on the opposite side, but an iron poker remained in the low fire closer at hand.
"You promised riches and women," said the one who had flipped the table. "But we've got two old bitches and three little girls. Where's the fucking gold?"
"Nye Grenner is famous for gold, isn't it?" The leader winked at Runa. "You're Ulfrik's wife; you've got gold on your neck."