Sword Brothers

  Contents

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Author's Note

  SWORD BROTHERS

  Jerry Autieri

  Copyright © 2015 Jerry Autieri

  All rights reserved.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Blaring horns announced the breaking of the siege. Ulfrik stumbled out of his command tent into a slash of morning light and searched for the source. Warriors were spilling out of tents all around him, and from the slipshod hall where Jarl Hrolf the Strider resided a stream of armored spearmen flowed out in advance of their jarl. The horns sounded again, like the call of a dying beast rolling up from south of the camp, and Ulfrik's hands went cold. He ducked back into his tent and pulled his chain shirt from the rack.

  His arms ached as he slipped the heavy chain over his head. He had no help in donning his mail, eschewing the servants that other great jarls employed. Yet he needed help this morning. The mail shirt was tangled with his hair when someone burst in through the tent flap.

  "Gods, Father, the men can't see you like this. They'll be worried you'll trip in battle." Gunnar's voice was low, salted equally with impatience and humor.

  "I'll be tripping over piles of enemy corpses, if that's your worry. Now help me get this on and tell me the Franks have their relief force at last."

  Gunnar worked Ulfrik's gray hair out of the chain links, then helped settle the mail on his shoulders. The cold weight of it was consoling, like the embrace of a strong, protective friend. He clapped his son's shoulder in thanks. Gunnar was a full jarl in his own right. Fearsome to behold on and off the battlefield, hard lines and a ragged black beard framing a dark, angry face. The first wisps of gray worked through his wavy black hair. His sword arm ended in a stump, having lost his hand to the Franks years ago. He made up for the handicap with a custom shield strapped to his stump and a long-hafted ax in his good hand.

  "The Franks are attacking from the south, and the Bishop of Chartres has raised some holy relic over the walls." Gunnar handed him his shield then his sword, and Ulfrik slipped on his helmet to complete his transition into a warlord. He strode from the tent, shield on his arm and sword in hand, and Gunnar followed.

  "More Christian nonsense," he said. "But it gives them hope, which is the worst thing in a siege. How much time--"

  He did not need to finish the question. The outskirts of the camp were already roiling in combat. The din of clashing iron and screaming men was muffled with distance, but the morning light flashed on their weapons and lit the violence with a stripe of yellow. The relief force marched under bright banners of blue with white or yellow stripes or strange beasts to set apart their various lords. The gleam of their conical helmets was like the glittering scales of a snake crawling through the flat grassland. Across the fields, high on the hill, the gates of Chartres opened.

  "Caught in the jaws of a wolf," Ulfrik said. "This siege was a fool's mission from the start. Be ready to get bloody fighting out of this mess."

  "No other way to fight," Gunnar said. "I'll get my men to the ships. You'll follow?"

  "Not until Hrolf agrees," Ulfrik rubbed his face and looked toward the center of camp where Hrolf's banner of red and yellow dragons caught the morning breeze. Beside the hall, the giant form of Hrolf the Strider loomed over a crowd of armored men. In the distance, more enemy flowed out of Chartres. "But he'll have no choice. Make haste. The Franks are not stupid enough to leave access to the river unopposed."

  He parted from Gunnar and he marched for Hrolf, whose men clumped to his sides like flotsam to the shore. He plowed through them on his way to Hrolf, but gathered up his other son, Hakon, and his second, Finn Langson. The two men nodded without a word and fell into stride with him. Hakon now fought under Ulfrik's banner, and while he was the very image of Ulfrik in his youth, he was far less impulsive. Finn still had the freckle-splattered face of a boy, but years of battle had hardened it and dulled the brightness of youth with a tarnish of violence. Both of them shoved away men who crowded Hrolf, until Ulfrik stood at the center of the crowd.

  "We have to flee," Ulfrik said. "The men have no heart for this fight and the Franks are going to crush us."

  "We haven't sat here all summer just to run when the fight starts." The words came not from Hrolf, but from the man standing beside him, Mord Guntherson. He had once been Ulfrik's foster son at the request of his old friend Gunther One-Eye. He had been the main proponent of this siege of Chartres, so his opposition was expected. However, for years he had opposed anything Ulfrik said or did.

  "Look over my shoulder," Ulfrik said to Mord. "Your younger eyes see better than mine. There's not just a relief force. There's all of Frankia's fighting strength bearing down on us. The Franks wouldn't have sallied from behind their walls if this wasn't their big push."

  Mord grunted in frustration, shaking his head like a wet hound. Hrolf turned back toward the city and stared at the open gates. All around, the distant roar of the approaching Franks drew closer. Hrolf sighed.

  "There is a hill down the Eure River," he said. "If we can retreat to the high ground, we can make a stand."

  "Sound the retreat now," Ulfrik said. "Or the only high ground will be the piles of our corpses."

  "We can beat them," Mord said, glaring at Ulfrik. Hrolf dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

  "Pull back to the ships," he said. "Have everyone gather at the hill."

  Ulfrik sprang to action the moment Hrolf turned from the battle. No one wanted to retreat, but the first wave of Franks was already crossing the ditches dug about their siege camp. Their neat ranks were broken up, but Ulfrik knew what would precede their charge.

  "Keep shields overhead while the men are falling back," he said to both Hakon and Finn. "They're going to spray us with arrows the moment they come into range. Hakon, you must gather our men to the ships. Finn and I will meet with Einar. The Franks are already w
orking up the riverbanks to cut us off. We'll keep a corridor open."

  The next moments were filled with shouted orders, kicking men into action, and organizing a defense. He assembled a force of fifty of his best hirdmen and joined it with an equal number of hirdmen from Einar's band. Together they marched to the riverbanks where at least triple their number of Franks advanced behind their teardrop-shaped shields. The crunch of their armor and the thud of their boots on the muddy banks reverberated through Ulfrik's own mail. He felt their approach like a fist rapping the center of his chest. He set his ranks deep, but wide enough to plug the gap from the riverbank to the slope. He stood at the middle, Finn at his right, and set his banner of black elk antlers against a green field into the soft earth. Down the front rank Einar set his banner of a boar's head with bloody tusks. Even now with his blond hair and beard streaked with gray, he was still a strong, giant man who forsook a shield in favor of a two-handed ax. He smiled at Ulfrik as the Franks approached.

  Finn's shield touched Ulfrik's and it was the signal for all of his men to lock shields. The wooden clacks echoed down the line and spear points lowered over shoulders to meet the Frank's approach. There would be no parley, no attempt at peace. These Franks would be their best warriors, given the crucial task of cutting off retreat. Ulfrik was Hrolf's greatest warrior and Ulfrik's hirdmen the finest troops. The battle would be a clash of giants, and Ulfrik was honored to spill the blood of these noble enemy.

  Archers detached from the rear of the approaching Franks. Ulfrik raised his shield and shouted, "Arrows!"

  The shafts fell among them, thudding into wood or thumping into the earth. Cries of injured men gurgled up from the rear ranks. As the last arrows fell, he lowered his shield. He knew it was nothing more than cover for the charge of the main force.

  The Franks were dashing now, screaming to their god for victory. Ulfrik watched patiently, and not one man flinched in his line. Over the years he had distinguished himself among other jarls for instilling battle discipline in his men. Where others would meet the charge, he waited until they were close then shouted again. "Spears!"

  From the second and third ranks spears sailed overhead to crash into the charging line of Franks. The long shafts sailed home into flesh, causing the charge to stutter. Franks collapsed, screaming with a spear through their guts or piercing their thighs. Where the spears missed, they formed an obstacle in the ground or stuck to a shield and weighted it down into uselessness. All Northman spears were made with long, flexible blades designed to bend out of shape so they could not be picked up and used against them. A few inexperienced Franks tried, further ruining the cohesion of their line.

  Ulfrik smiled as the first enemy crossed the final distance, leaping dead friends and dodging the last flight of spears.

  He had waited all summer for a stand-up battle. He braced his shield and widened his stance. He had his sax in hand, a short sword built for the close fighting of the shield wall where a longer blade was useless. The Franks had yet to learn that lesson and fought with their long swords.

  The Franks roared, and Ulfrik's men cursed them with their own battle cries. The enemy charged across the gap, red-faced and wide-eyed, swords and spears flashing in the light.

  They rammed into Ulfrik's shield wall.

  Then all was a red haze.

  The battle lust was strong in him, even at his age. A whole summer of simmering energy exploded when those first shields crashed into his own. He felt himself shove backward then stop. The spears behind both sides clamped down across the gap, like the teeth of a great dragon closing on its prey, and men on both sides screamed as they died. The instant he had regained himself, Ulfrik slammed back into the enemy and stabbed under his round shield, aiming for exposed legs.

  Nothing was louder than a clash of shield walls; not even the collapse of a glacier rivaled the volume. Men roared in pain and hatred, iron rang and hummed, wooden shields thudded together in an awful song of death. The tangy scent of blood filled Ulfrik's nose, overwhelmed only by the stench of someone's bowels being spilled onto the grass. His hands grew hot and slick with blood, and he sewed his blade into enemy flesh.

  The whirlwind battle filled Ulfrik with joy, even as companions fell back bleeding and shrieking. Battle defined him, and in the shield wall he found all the meaning he needed in life. A sharp pain lanced through his shoulder where a spear pierced his mail. He tore it free with a growl, plunged his sword into the throng of enemy, and delighted in the soft resistance he encountered.

  Despite his love of combat, he realized the edges of his line buckled. Over the turmoil he saw the Frankish archers scurrying up the hill unopposed. They would set themselves at his unanchored flank and shoot into his rear ranks. Unable to turn to see the progress of Hrolf's retreat, he had to hold the line until he could be sure Hrolf had launched his ships.

  A blade clanked against his helmet, shifting his faceplate so his vision was obscured. He returned to the shove and strike of holding the line.

  "Step back," he called out. "Give some ground."

  He had to repeat the order twice before he heard it echoed in the rear ranks. Reversing a block of men required care, for it could easily devolve into a rout. He was glad Einar held the far line, or else it may have collapsed already. The man behind pulled back and Ulfrik stepped with him, leaving a tidemark of bodies for the Franks to hurdle. This was an advantage as well, forcing the enemy to clear the obstacle.

  A dozen or more hand axes flew across the gap to harry the Franks as they rushed forward. Ulfrik saw one well-placed throw sink into a Frank's neck and send him flailing back into his shocked companions. Yet victory was short-lived.

  "Archers on the flank!" The warning spread like burning oil across a deck. Ulfrik heard the hum of bowstrings and the hiss of arrows in flight, then the screams of the wounded.

  Whether Hrolf had extracted his force, Ulfrik's line verged on collapse. The Franks closed again, praising their god and saints. Finn had moved his standard back, but now it wavered as he struggled to plant it again.

  "Forget it," he shouted to Finn. "Fall back to the ships. I've got the archers."

  Finn nodded and backed away from the oncoming Franks. His rear ranks were already melting away, but Ulfrik grabbed his front line and anyone at hand. "Follow me. Kill the archers!"

  He did not stop to watch who followed, but broke free of his line to run for the archers. They were preparing another volley as Ulfrik and his men charged. The Frankish archers were lightly armored, numbering twenty at most, and unprepared for a fight. Ulfrik expected to chase them off long enough to cover his men's escape.

  Instead, they lined up squarely and leveled their bows at his charge.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Arrows swept around Ulfrik, one close enough to feel the rush of air as it sped past his face. Behind him men grunted and he heard them crash into the grass. An arrowhead exploded through the wood of his shield and another glanced off his helmet, which was still twisted over his head. Despite the workman-like disposition of the archers, Ulfrik continued his charge. To falter now would send any man following him into a retreat. The archers had to be driven back or his men would be destroyed during their withdrawal. He had no other choice but to pound across the grass into the morning sun where the archers arrayed for their next shots. He did not even know how many warriors had charged with him.

  Judging from the archers' patience, he guessed he might have thrown his life away on this gambit. They had their next shots on their strings, and Ulfrik was close enough to read the determination in their faces. One archer had an arrow lined up to his head. He ducked behind his shield and the arrow clanged against the metal boss at the center. His hand went numb from the blow.

  That was the archers' last volley and already they were drawing swords. Ulfrik careened into the closest archer, bowling him to the ground and continuing through the ranks. The man behind struggled with his sword caught in the sheath. Instead, he swiped at Ulfrik with his bow staff.
It thumped onto Ulfrik's shield then a quick jab beneath it and the archer screamed in agony.

  He whirled now, finding he had been joined by only half the number of archers. Behind his on-rushing men, bodies stuck with feathered shafts squirmed in the grass. Beyond them the Franks had pursued Finn and Einar's men down to the waiting ships at the shore. Dead bodies and ruined weapons streamed out behind the Franks like the wake of ship.

  An archer fired at point-blank, sending a shaft into the throat of one of Ulfrik's men. He did not falter, but continued through, lopping off the archer's arm at the elbow, then collapsing in death. Each of his men was worth three of the Franks. Filled with pride, Ulfrik bellowed his challenge.

  "It is Ulfrik Ormsson come to bring you death! Prepare to meet your god!"

  Despite their superior numbers, the archers did not fare well against Ulfrik's heavily armed and armored followers. The swirling combat lasted only long enough for the remainder of the Northmen to charge home. The raving Northmen carved a swathe through the enemy ranks, Ulfrik a bloody-handed devil roaring at their center. His arrow-studded shield collided with the head of one archer while he drove his blade into the leg of another. He would have delighted in nothing more than running down the rest of the fleeing archers, but he witnessed the arrival of the main relief force.

  A tide of bright banners and iron flowed across the siege camp and their defiant shouts were like the breaking of waves on a beach.

  "To the riverbank," he shouted at his men. A wild-eyed warrior was bent over, tearing the through the belongings of an archer who still lived. Ulfrik grabbed him by the collar of his mail shirt and shoved him back. "Run or die. Look at what's coming."

  He left the man to decide if booty or life were more important, and began sprinting for the shore. The Franks had moved past him, now away to his right and crowding the rear guard of Einar and Finn. He saw their standards waving and thrashing over the chaos, and he prayed they would escape. Ships filled with men were launched into the green waters of the Eure River. The hill where Chartres stood crawled with exultant Franks, and their cheering could be heard over the clash of battle.