Men gained the palisades and arrows began to stream down. Screams followed and it galvanized the Franks.
Clovis was as shocked as any, maybe worse. He clutched her arm as his head cocked sided-to-side like a chicken searching for a fox, only there were hundreds of foxes and his beady eyes couldn't fix on any one.
Her blade was in hand, drawn with the precision imbued of daily practice. The bright iron flashed, as long as a man's forearm, and its point quivered with the desire for flesh.
Runa twisted Clovis's arm forward, jerking him toward her blade with a grunt.
"Die, you pig," she hissed into his ear as she thrust the blade up at the soft flesh of his armpit.
Only she did not connect.
She slammed to the hard wood boards of the path. Her teeth clamped on her tongue and coppery blood squirted in her mouth. Clovis's son loomed over her, his stump arm flailing uselessly, but his left arm cocked back with a sword flashing in the sun. He was blathering in Frankish and he glanced back at his father for a moment.
Her long knife shot up, driving under the links of mail into the base of his belly. A pink loop of entrails slid out with a cascade of blood, but he slashed down nonetheless. Had she not shifted to strike, the sword would have cleaved her head. Instead the blade shaved away a lock of her hair. He collapsed atop her with a gurgling hiss, his stump arm batting at her has he died. She was pinned beneath him, hot lifeblood washing over her legs.
Struggling to free herself, suddenly the body lifted aside. Clovis had flipped his son over, his face chalky and taut with shock. He screamed as his son's corpse flopped to the side like a gutted fish.
Runa flipped away. Many years had passed since she had last fought in a battle, and she had forgotten the hellish roar of it. All around blades and shields clanged together and screams and curses traded between combatants. In his eagerness to claim Ravndal, Clovis had outpaced the range of his men to aid him. The two guards watching her were now entangled with a pair of yellow-haired men in black furs who were chopping at them like trying to fell a tree. Only his son had been close enough, and had traded his life for his father's. Runa now had to escape while Clovis was numb.
She got to her feet, staggered a few steps, then something heavy collided with her head. She sprawled forward, her knife falling away as she plowed into the ground.
Warm, rough hands grabbed her shoulders and flipped her over. She looked up into Clovis's red, hate-filled face framed against the blue of the sky.
"You killed my son, you fucking bitch!"
He picked up his helmet, which Runa realized he had thrown to knock her down. He slammed it across her face and she felt a bone in her cheek crumple. Her vision turned white. When it returned, he had his sword drawn.
"I'll feed your heart to the dogs, you whore!"
The point of his blade rested on her chest and Clovis's frown deepened.
She closed her eyes and braced for death.
Chapter 55
Ulfrik yanked his sword from the belly of a Frank, blood slushing out of the cut as the man crumbled, and he raised his shield to deflect a spear thrust. All around him men writhed in grass that had been churned to bloody mud in the space of moments. He glided under the spear thrust, a foolish strike that left the attacker exposed, and stabbed into the Frank's leg. He staggered and Ulfrik shoved him over with his shield, sprawling him into the twirling chaos of combat. He flopped down, and Ulfrik paid him no further mind. A man on the ground was as good as dead.
Horses screamed and reared, catching Ulfrik's attention. Over the jostling heads of the combatants he saw the Frankish horses shot by his archers. The death of such useful animals was a great loss, but he did not want the Franks to remount and turn the battle, which had strongly favored Ulfrik from the opening blows. His instructions had been clear: kill the riders first and their horses second. The dying horses indicated the dismounted cavalry had already been destroyed.
"A fine day for killing," Einar shouted at him across the din. The giant man had gore up to his elbows and his hands firmly wrapped on the haft of his war ax. His smile shined out from a blood-smeared face.
"Finest day in years," Ulfrik said. The two stood inside a pocket of calm. Men struggled in pairs and groups, tight as lovers in a dance. A tidemark of corpses, all in bright Frankish colors, walled them off from the melee.
"Gunther One-Eye's men closed the gates." Einar pointed with his ax, a string of blood hanging from its head.
"I need to find Runa, and I don't trust Gunther's men to know who she is."
"Should be the only woman inside." Einar stared at Ulfrik, and his face softened after a moment. "But I guess that might be a problem, too."
Grunting, Ulfrik searched for a path through the fight. "We've won the battle out here. Inside is where we finish it. Lend me your ax."
Einar handed it over, the wood handle slick with blood.
"Fall back to Toki and my sons. They are out of harm's way, but trouble still might've found them. Watch for your family, too, especially Snorri. Now go while I reopen the gates."
He dashed through the combat, shield out and Einar's ax in hand. Where enemies tangled with him, he bashed them aside with the shield or clumsily struck with the ax. The chaos of battle swallowed them as he pushed forward to his own palisades. The dark walls seemed higher from this side of the embankments, but he had overseen their construction himself. They were higher than a man, but undefended they could be scaled. Flipping his shield to his back, he took a running leap with ax held overhead.
Launching up the wall, he slammed the long-hafted ax over the top of the palisade. His feet caught the rough wood and he pulled himself up the length of the haft until he reached the top. With a shout of success, he flipped over the wall and dangled on the opposite side. He dropped down into the shadows, pulling over his shield and unsheathing his sword.
People ran between buildings, shouting echoed down the alleys, and the clamor of battle filled the streets. He could not decide who was winning this fight, but he rushed along the edges of the wall toward the gates. As he progressed, he gathered two other of Gunther's men. "Are we winning?" he asked over the roar of battle.
"Can't tell. The Franks scattered all over. Count the bodies for yourself." The man who replied had a gash on his brow that bled like a high mountain stream, turning half his face red. His companion was far better; the blood on his face was another's.
The three arrived at the gates, a pleasing heap of Frankish corpses laced with arrows piled before it. "Open these gates," Ulfrik ordered. "The battle outside is done, so let my men in to finish here."
"Right you are," said the bleeding man, his eye blinking in the stream of blood.
Satisfied the gates would be opened, he turned toward the main street. The boards were littered with corpses, broken weapons, and arrow shafts. The battle had moved into the side lanes and alleys, the buildings and halls of Ravndal. Shrieks and dying curses were amplified inside the buildings, but for a scattered few men, the main road seemed abandoned. He could not decide where Runa would have gone in the confusion, but it would have to be with Clovis. He considered his hall, but doubted they made it before Gunther sprang his trap.
He had lost too much already and his family had paid a heavy toll. He would not allow them to suffer another moment. Runa could hold her own, up to a point, and then she would be at the mercy of whoever found her. He had to be the first one to her. Not the enemy.