Gunnar would have loved these trenches, he thought as he walked the edge of one, searching for men who had fallen asleep. Finding an abandoned spear, he picked it up as he patrolled. His son and his friends would speed through the trenches, wooden swords and cloth-covered spear shafts overhead. Runa would have fits searching for him amid the maze of trenches. A smile came to his face and as quickly died. He would not see his family for a long time yet. He had trusted Snorri to safeguard them, and he knew his old friend and mentor would not fail. Besides, something in his heart gave him confidence they were alive and well. He had to believe it, or he could never execute his duties for Hrolf.
It did not take long to find a man curled under a blanket, sleeping on a board at the far end of the trench. Every morning he found shirkers and berated them. The Franks had a canniness for slipping reinforcements into Paris. He had allowed it once, and vowed to never allow it again. Ulfrik kicked dirt from the edge of the trench onto the slumbering man. He ducked his head beneath the dark gray blanket, nothing more than wavy hair showing.
"Hey, get up, the Franks are attacking." Ulfrik jabbed the butt of the spear into the man's leg, but he merely kicked and grumbled.
Licking his lips, Ulfrik searched around. Weary men were shambling away from the trenches, while an equally tired group ambled toward them. He detested these shirkers who slept while good men covered for them. He spun the spear around and pricked the man's side.
"Arrows! Spears! We're overrun!" Ulfrik's false alarm and the jab of the spear sent the man flying to his feet. He wrestled with his blanket, which entwined his legs and set him crashing to the trench wall. Flipping the spear again, Ulfrik clobbered the man across his shoulders. "Too late, you're dead. No weapon in hand, slain with your pants wrapped in a blanket. You'll not see Odin's hall."
The man crumpled and seemed to surrender. He looked up at Ulfrik, the whites of his eyes clear in his dirty face. "Lord Ulfrik! Is it true?"
"No, you fool." He extended the spear shaft again, this time to help the man to his feet. "But if we had been, sleeping half-wits like you would be dead. How long had you been asleep?"
"Only a short time, lord." The man grasped the spear shaft, then hauled himself up. He disentangled from the blanket as he stuttered an explanation. "Nothing has happened in so long, and the Frankish king never came like they said he would. No harm in a little extra rest with them all cornered in Paris."
Ulfrik butted the spear end into the man's face. He howled in pain, white hand clasping over his mouth where the shaft had struck.
"How's that for harm? Could be a lot worse. If the Franks slipped from their walls in the night to put knives to the throats of sleeping men, that'd be harm, wouldn't it? Or if they leapt across this trench, over your sleeping body, to attack the camp, that'd be harm. Do I have to instruct you further?"
In one deft flick, the spear point leveled at the man, who dropped his hand from his mouth and turned his head aside. "No, Lord Ulfrik. I understand. I was a fool, and deserve punishment."
"Every morning I find men sleeping at the bottom of these trenches, and I get less patient each time I find one. You put us all in danger. Now, get out of that trench. For good or for ill, your duty here is done. Tomorrow, you'll give me a better effort or I'll have your eyelids cut off. Understood?"
The man nodded and struggled out of his trench. Ulfrik scowled at him, watching him stumble away as if the Franks pursued him. These new men lacked discipline and feared no consequences. With Hrolf and Gunther away, taking most of the other jarls, too few men in authority remained to enforce discipline. If the Franks pushed on him now, he feared a total collapse.
Turning to find another trench to sweep, a distant light flared. His stomach burned with immediate recognition.
Metal in sunlight.
Another spark, and he located what he feared. To the east, atop the hill where the Franks claimed one of their little gods, Saint Denys, had died, came flashes of mail and weapons in the morning sun.
Between the autumn-thinned treetops, Ulfrik saw the hill crawling with flashing iron. It would not be Hrolf, who was approaching from the west.
A single bell began to toll inside the walls of Paris. Figures on the eastern battlements clumped together, straining like Ulfrik to glimpse that distant hill. Unlike him, they began to cheer, thin voices rising into the clear morning air. Another bell began to chime, and soon another.
Ulfrik swallowed. He did not need his forward scouts to return with their reports. He knew already.
The Holy Roman Emperor, Charles the Fat, had finally come with his army.
And Ulfrik stood alone with half of the Danes to face him.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Every bell in Paris clanged and the walls bristled with the dark shapes of men shouting victory and defiance. The flashing iron on the far hill flowed like a river of melting snow, disappearing into the trees.
Ulfrik tightened the strap of his baldric, adjusting his sword on his hip. His arm looped through an iron-rimmed shield. His mail hauberk weighed on his shoulders and his helmet pressed into his hair. Though his heart pounded, he stood beneath his heavily sagging banner of red as if he had nothing more pressing than a review of his troops. Mord, also dressed in war gear, bore the standards next to him, proud and fearless.
"Still no scouts have reported?" Einar asked as he tightened his belt and shouldered his ax.
"You've been with me the whole time, and have you seen any?" Ulfrik observed his men forming into neat columns, their discipline impressive. "Either run off or the Franks killed them. Doesn't matter now. If Hrolf is where scouts last saw him, we've time to join before the Franks reach us."
The camp had responded with unexpected efficiency. Belongings and booty were gathered, war gear donned, ships abandoned, and marching ranks formed within the hour of Ulfrik's alarm. Whatever Charles planned, he was slow in execution. Ulfrik's leaders knew the plan: to locate Hrolf and his men then fight the Frankish army head-on.
At last, a fight he could understand. A fight for glory and honor. Even if he died, it would be as a man and warrior, and not a mash of blood and bone at the foot of a tower.
He raised a horn and blasted an extended note, then shouted the command to march. In reaction, the jeers from Paris grew louder.
The first leg of the retreat into the western woods proceeded in good order. Ulfrik marched at the head, with petty jarls and chieftains leading their columns. Ulfrik never had a true count of the men under his banner, but estimated close to three hundred warriors. They strode the paths through the trees and pushed for the fields where he expected Hrolf to arrive.
As the woods thinned, Ulfrik summoned his scouts, young and small men suited to stealth. Dispatching them ahead, he slowed the march. Several of his leaders complained, but he ignored them. Soon the scouts scurried back through the woods.
"Franks! Scores of them coming through the trees opposite." The breathless scout stumbled to Ulfrik, who caught him.
"Any signs of a battle? Has Hrolf come this way?"
"Not that we could tell, lord."
The column crunched to a halt, and Ulfrik drew his leaders to him, sharing the news.
"We have to out-pace the Frankish scouts. I want men clearing our flanks as the main column pushes west. Beyond this stand of trees is another field, and Hrolf will certainly be there."