"Do you see anything?" Ulfrik hissed at Einar. "Your eyes are better than mine."
"Not yet." Einar's voice barely concealed his irritation, and Ulfrik realized he had asked the question one too many times.
Across the road, atop a tree-studded hill, his archers lurked in the underbrush. Fifty of them waited for the column of Franks to pass, and then would erupt from hiding to shove the Franks sideways into the forest and onto Ulfrik's waiting spears. A blind turn in the road provided excellent cover for his main force. He counted on surprise and confusion to make short work of the Franks. His reputation with Hrolf hung on the outcome of the attack. Hrolf had explicitly stated that a gift of Henry's head would help him overlook Ulfrik's indiscretions.
"The Franks are near," Mord said from Ulfrik's left. He had buried Ulfrik's standard under leaves, and would raise it when the attack began. His hand already sought the pole in preparation of the charge.
The marching of troops vibrated in the ground beneath Ulfrik's chest. He heard a stir of leaves like the wind rushing through the forest, but knew it was his men gathering their weapons for the attack. An ant crawled over Ulfrik's nose. He ignored it as the insect wandered over the crags and peaks of his face. The first of the Franks emerged into view, rounding the blind corner.
He held his breath. All around mounds of leaf-shrouded warriors inched forward. The ant crawled through his beard and bit his cheek.
Franks slouched in their mail hauberks, shouldering spears and axes, shuffled past him. They made dull conversation in bored voices, a rumbling murmur that ran through their column.
Then the thrum of bows followed by shrieks of the injured.
"Hold a moment," Ulfrik commanded, his voice barely louder than normal. "Let their backs turn to us."
Swords hissed from sheaths and arrows slammed into upraised shields. A few shafts sprinkled to the edge of the woods, disturbing the remnants of the morning fog still clinging to the ground. Frankish leaders hollered orders at their men, and the column lined up to face the archers.
"Now! For battle and glory!" Ulfrik sprung and two hundred men shed their camouflage in an explosion of leaves.
They charged the rear lines, spears lowered or swords braced to drive through the backs of the unsuspecting Franks. Ulfrik bolted straight for the first man in his way, and cleaved the Frank at the shoulder hard enough to collapse the man to the ground. Mord followed at this left, the banner of Humbert's cloak swinging wildly overhead. Einar brought up his right, wielding a two-handed ax that chopped an unsuspecting Frank like firewood.
The ambush had been expertly timed and the Frankish column broke and scattered. The archers abandoned their bows and joined the fray, trapping most of the enemy against Ulfrik's force. Screams of terror and curses flowed out of the cleft where the Franks staggered and died. Ulfrik's heart sang with the glory and freedom of battle. His charge carried him through the first man and into the fray. All around he had enemies to strike. Einar's massive ax hooked shields to drag them down and Ulfrik stabbed his blade into the gap. Franks gasped and perished. Mord showed himself as capable as Toki had been with the standard, planting it beside Ulfrik and destroying enemies who sought to batter it down.
After months of inaction or uninspired raids against unworthy foes, Ulfrik was giddy with the thrill of a true battle. His blade flashed white as he slashed right, and his shield slammed left. He cut a swathe of victory through the ranks of the enemy, and Danes swarmed alongside him.
"Kill the bastards," he screamed. "Their blood is ours to spill. For Odin and Thor! For battle eternal!"
The killing song drove him like a madness. Franks scattered at his approach, tripping over one another to escape his wrath. He spit blood into the face of one wide-eyed man and gutted him in the next moment.
Then the thunder.
Ulfrik tumbled back, the sky in his eyes. Dark shapes flying past. The copper taste of blood filling his mouth. Sounds were muffled and dull. He realized he had been hit in the head, and his helmet knocked away. Someone screamed his name as he felt the thunder throbbing in the earth.
Cavalry.
Out of nowhere horses crashed through Ulfrik's line and scattered the throng of defenders. His standard had fallen. He rolled to the side, away from the approaching sound of hoofs beating the ground. A spear lanced the ground where he had just sprawled out, and the horse and rider sprinted past him.
On his feet, he had little time to consider. The riders rode beneath a standard of some strange beast. A regal man in shining mail and a casque embossed with a gold crown led the group of ten riders, undoubtedly Henry of Saxony. They were turning their horses on the road, hampered by the trees crowding them. They reached for fresh spears carried on the flanks of their mounts as they maneuvered for a second pass.
Ulfrik had lost his sword, and so drew his sax. The short blade was worthless against mounted men, but he had nowhere to turn. Behind him a gap hung open where the cavalry had breached the line. Men were strewn on the ground, dead or dazed. He hoped the horses might trip on the bodies on their second pass.
Henry shouted something in his language, hefted a spear, and kicked the horses to a run. Five went in front with five others behind. Their cloaks of blue or gray fluttered behind them as their horses kicked clods of dirt into the air. Ulfrik and a handful of bloodied men faced them.
"Go on, you Frankish bastards!" he roared at them. "I'll take you and your ponies to the grave."
Henry singled him out, pointing his spear for the others to follow. Ulfrik realized too late he could not escape all five horses. Only one veered off to avoid fallen bodies, and the remaining riders bore down on him.
Shield still lashed to his arm, he ducked behind it. As the first horse reached him, he collapsed on his back and hid beneath his shield. One spear hit him square on the shield, while the others flew wide as the first wave galloped past. Sloughing off the shield, he grabbed an enemy spear, then flipped it to point at the next wave.
Ulfrik carved out the flank of a horse. It screamed and bucked, sending the rider to the dirt and disrupting the others. In the crash, Ulfrik again sprawled out, horse hooves slamming around him as he covered his head in fear.
Now Mord had raised the standard, and the Danes cheered. They crashed back into the mounted Franks like the tide into rocks. Staggering to his feet and retrieving his shield, Ulfrik bellowed encouragement. "Pull them down and chop them up! Victory is ours."
"Lord Ulfrik, watch out!"
Something hit his back, and he tumbled forward. A man screamed behind him, and fell over his body. Ulfrik spasmed, fearing a killing strike in his helpless position as both friend and enemy converged around him. He shoved the man aside, a shattered spear shaft impaled through the man's thigh and black blood flooding into the dirt beneath him. Over the man's body, a white-eyed Frank was already charging with sword drawn.
Renewed rage strengthened Ulfrik's resolve. He took the Frank's wild blow on his shield, then plunged his sax into the man's groin. The Frank slid to the ground with a howl and Ulfrik left him to writhe in slow death.
The battle churned as the Franks rallied around their trapped leader. Without another thought, Ulfrik dashed for Henry's beast standard that rocked and swayed amid a press of Danes.