He grinned. "It went home, Einar. If we breach these walls, then I can avenge Ander, claim the treasure we came seeking, and be clear to return home."
Outside, the rain slapped Ulfrik's warm face like a cold hand. Mord, now pulled into his cowl, joined them. Completely bedraggled from standing in the rain, he smiled when he saw them.
"All dried off? I've been thinking about what you said, Lord Ulfrik. My father never asked me to spy on you, I just assumed that was my role."
"And have you done well in it?"
"I have." Mord fell in with them as they rushed through the rain for their barracks. "But you've know it all along?"
"Of course."
"My father believes you will become a great jarl under Hrolf, and he wants to know what you stand for."
"And make sure he's always on the winning side. He told me that himself."
"True." They fell silent for the final distance over the muddy field, but as they arrived at the barracks, Mord spoke up again. "Hrolf has no plans to release you once this is done. My father has said so more than once. Do you know that?"
Ulfrik did not answer. He did not want to consider what he had long suspected: even if Paris collapsed today, he might never return home again.
Ulfrik watched from the rear ranks with Hrolf and his block of fighting men. After weeks of planning, building, and drilling, hundreds of Danes now scrabbled up the walls of the north tower. Less than half the force remained from eight months before, but the defenders were just as strong. Ulfrik glanced at Mord, who gripped Nye Grenner's standard with a white-knuckled hand. He saw his own worry slashed into the taut lines of his face.
The attack was faltering.
Ropes of fire poured down the tower walls, searing the men below and driving them into the river. Franks shoved away ladder crews, screaming Danes clinging like bugs on a falling branch. The mighty arrow storm from both sides thrummed in the air, shafts snapping on stone walls or clunking into wooden shields. Men cried out in death and fear, frustration and rage. Those who surmounted the top of the tower spent their lives at great cost, hurling Franks out of their defenses to shatter their bodies at the foot of the tower. The air tasted bitter with burnt flesh and spilled blood.
Again the Franks defeated the battering ram, this time with fire arrows and burning pitch. Even after soaking the ram housing in water, it still burned. The iron doors had not even bent before the crew scattered.
"Shall we bring up the attack?" asked an eager-eyed hirdman in Hrolf's command. "The men need inspiration."
Hrolf growled but said nothing. Ulfrik shared his lord's black mood. Lives were being wasted on this tower assault, but there was no other entrance. To directly assail the walls of the city was even more dangerous, giving the defenders a wider berth to fire their bows. As it was, their arrows were deadly enough when shot from the limited space of the tower.
Men streamed away from the tower, covered in blood and fear stretched tight on their faces. It was a scene so often repeated Ulfrik had no need to see it. He closed his eyes against the tide of the vanquished.
Defeat.
He would not be leading a force through the opened tower doors, to push inside and then across the bridge into Paris. Instead, he would wait patiently for Hrolf to admit defeat and conserve his fighting force for another day.
"Sound the withdrawal," Hrolf said after too few men remained to sustain the attack. When his hirdman questioned him, he struck the poor fool in the jaw and screamed his order again. The first notes were weak, the man recovering from the staggering blow, but as his notes strengthened other horns joined. Soon, the riverbank reverberated with the sad call of retreat.
Having never witnessed Hrolf striking his own, Ulfrik regarded his lord. His teeth gnashed in bitter determination, which Ulfrik took as a poor sign. Though he had promised one last attempt before departing Paris, Ulfrik was certain Hrolf would not back down. He would lead them all to their deaths before abandoning his ambition. In his heart, Hrolf was stubborn and driven, and he fostered heavy grudges. His fury was not typical of the Norse people; it was every bit as intense, but slower and steadier and capable of burning far past the point where another man's rage would extinguish.
Ulfrik was tied to this man, who had tied himself to vanquishing Paris. All the while, the defeated army flowed around both of them.
They stood in place, a block of discipline amid a chaos of disorder, each man looking ahead-fixing on nothing but their own thoughts. The Franks cheered, as usual lauding their gods Christ and Saint Denys. Ulfrik wondered if their other god, Saint Denys, was responsible for defying Odin and Thor. To Ulfrik's mind, the gods of the Norsemen had grown bored and abandoned them to the new gods.
"Lord, they have shown a white sheet. What does it mean?" One of the hirdmen pointed at the tower, where a white flag fluttered in the wind while the Franks continued to cheer. Ulfrik did not understand the meaning.
"They want to parley, or surrender." Hrolf's voice did not sound as if he believed they intended surrender. "It's a sign for a temporary peace, like our hazel branch. I will go to hear what they say."
Hrolf took Ulfrik and Gunther along with ten other spearmen, each bearing the siege shields that to Ulfrik appeared more like hall doors. Not even the dirty Franks would attack under the sign of truce, but precaution was always prudent. A translator, a Dane who had long lived in Frankia, accompanied them. They had to step over bodies and slog through bloody pools. A hand grabbed Ulfrik's ankle, a weak and trembling grip of a man not yet dead. Pulling his foot away, he continued forward. Too many suffered like this man, and to save them all would take a half day of labor. Normally, the Franks allowed them to cart away the dead and injured as long as only small parties worked at it.
Halting before the tower, puddles of flame still twisted at the base of the walls. Ulfrik averted his eyes from the smashed corpses, his stomach churning from memories of the sounds of shattering bodies. Gore sprayed the ground along with spent arrows, broken weapons, and blood-soaked clothing. Ulfrik kicked away a busted shield, and squinted up. The flag withdrew and a gray-haired man leaned over the edge, speaking perfect Norse.
"Jarl Hrolf, why have you persisted in this foolish quest? Return to your ships and leave. God forbids you entrance to our city."
"Humbert!" Ulfrik shouted before Hrolf could answer. "I'll pull apart every stone of your walls to get you. I'll dance in your guts!"
"Ah, my old master, Ulfrik. My name is Anscharic and you would do well to learn it. I am bishop now that poor brother Joscelin has passed on to our Lord in Heaven."
"I'll call you a dead man. You killed my hirdman and friend." Ulfrik stepped forward, shaking his fist at the walls. Anscharic spoke to the men beside him, and laughter filtered down.
"I've put a price on your life, Ulfrik. You will not live long."
Ulfrik inhaled to roar back defiance, but Hrolf's long arm yanked him by the hood of his cloak. "Forget your grudges with the old man. Let me talk."
Glaring at the shadowed faces laughing at him atop the tower, he reluctantly stepped back in line. Hrolf cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted.
"Listen, fools, your king has not come and Henry has died on the way to save you. If your god loves your city so much, why has he delayed and killed those who seek to protect you?"
The Franks disappeared back over the edge. Hrolf chuckled, then spoke to his men. "Their wondering if that news is true. I'm glad someone up there is translating for me."
The Danes laughed, but Ulfrik glowered. At this moment, he would trade his life for a bow to shoot Anscharic off the walls.
"Unless you called me here to surrender," Hrolf continued, "you waste your time. For seven hundred pounds of silver, I will be pleased to take my men away. Otherwise, you'd die happier if you jumped from this tower."