The Storm God's Gift (Ulfrik Ormsson's Saga Book 5) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Author’s Note

  THE STORM GOD'S GIFT

  Jerry Autieri

  Copyright © 2015 Jerry Autieri

  All rights reserved.

  Chapter 1

  Lightning scraped the black clouds and thunder exploded in its wake. Rain and wind bent the line of pine trees like slaves under the lash. Audhild staggered forward, head and shoulders pointed into the gale. Her doeskin boots sloshed with mucky water as she fought to open her eyes against the rain slapping her face. A sealskin cloak was the only protection against the storm she had taken. Her cold, shaking hand wiped aside a lock of hair plastered to her cheek and she pushed ahead.

  Another blast of lightning divided the world into white and black shapes. The field and surrounding pines momentarily resembled the wood carvings that had adorned the lintel of her father’s hall. Then midnight darkness swept back over the land and a crippling boom staggered her. Audhild felt it in her chest. Thor was raging tonight, battling the giant serpent Jormungand and quaking the world with blows of his hammer. When lightning flashed, she looked skyward. Roiling clouds showered rain into her eyes. She did not find what she hoped for.

  She heard her name called, a small and desperate sound in the swell of the storm. It galvanized her onward. No one would stop her tonight. If this was the night the gods sent their gift, then she would be present to receive it.

  Her next step was into a rut hidden in the darkness and she pitched onto hands and knees in the muddy grass. Another lightning strike and thunderclap gave her pause, then she began to stand. The voice calling her name closed the distance in the moment she had fallen.

  “Audhild, by all the gods, woman! This is madness. Get back to the hall.”

  Regaining her feet, she searched the sky and ignored the man, Gudrod, closing behind her. She staggered forward, clapping the mud from her hands. The black outline of the Frankish tower on its high cliff emerged against the ultramarine dark of the stormy sky. Her steps remained quick and sure, even after having fallen.

  “Audhild, we must go back. Do you want the Franks to capture us?”

  She snorted at the threat, as if any Frank would be out in such a storm. All men were hiding from Thor’s battle, and only she had the courage to come seek the reward he would offer the brave on this night.

  At last a strong hand seized her shoulder, arresting her aimless plunge forward. She whirled on Gudrod, shucking off his grip with a snort of disgust. “Do not touch me again. If you come to witness the gift, then so be it. But do not hinder me.”

  Gudrod’s face was lost in darkness, revealed only in stark angles of white and black when lightning struck again. She saw the rainwater pouring off the edge of his hood, him standing bent in the rain as if he had been punched in the gut. He inhaled as if to reply, then held up a hand in apology. She used the moment to push on.

  There was no sign of anything but rain and misery falling from the sky, yet Eldrid had foreseen the storm god’s gift. Perhaps it had already fallen and she had not yet discovered it. A sudden chill spread through her guts. What if Gudrod’s presence offended the gods and they withheld from her?

  “We’re getting too close,” Gudrod shouted from behind. “The peace was only just made. The Franks won’t be above taking us for slaves.” Again Gudrod’s hand caught her shoulder, and again Audhild shoved it away.

  “Touch me once more and I will have Eldrid turn your stones to nubs. You are interfering with the gift. Eldrid said I was to find it myself.”

  “That’s not what she said.” The rest of Gudrod’s protest disappeared under a ground-shaking thunderclap, and Audhild smiled. It seemed the gods had no ears for his insolence.

  The high tower, already a mighty structure of wood and stone, loomed even higher on its rocky ledge. The tower monitored the land in every direction. If the gods would send a gift, this was a fitting spot. Gudrod shouted after her.

  Then she was weightless and her world milk white. Her ears filled with a keening ring. Cold rain pelted her face. She became aware of a muddy sound, viscous and slow. Something clamped to both her shoulders and shook her.

  It was Gudrod. In an instant, she could see and hear again. The ringing still prevailed over all other sounds and her vision was bleached white, but she now realized she was laying face-up in the mud with Gudrod’s hooded shadow hovering over her.

  “Are you alive?” he asked, his voice cracking with fear.

  She nodded. “Let go of me.”

  Gudrod paused, rivulets of rainwater flowing over his shoulders onto her body, then backed away. “You were almost struck by lightning.”

  A joyful warmth spread through her and she scrambled to her feet. Gudrod tried to assist, but she fought aside his quaking hands. Where the lightning had struck a pine tree was now flopped to the ground and sundered in two. Bits of bark and pine needle were in her hair and wood splinters scattered the ground. She began laughing and pointed at the tree.

  “What is there to laugh at?” Gudrod followed her pointing finger, but only looked back at her.

  “The gods have marked where they will place their gift. It is as Eldrid foretold. I have found it.”

  “Then can we get out of this storm before the gods mark us as well?”

  Audhild turned her face to the sky and let the rain wash over her. The gods would grant their boon, and her future, the future of all her people, would be safe.

  Chapter 2

  Fankia 895 C.E.

  “The fools chose to fight,” Ulfrik called to the ranks of mail-clad warriors as he strode back across the fields from the parley. Coarse laughter met his announcement, and he muttered out of the side of his mouth to Gunnar who walked beside him. “No Frank ever has the sense to know when he’s beaten.”

  “He knows when I’ve beaten him,” Gunnar answered. Einar, who followed behind with Ulfrik’s banner, laughed.

  The warriors were already straightening their lines and touching their battered round shields together as the three men rejoined them. Dozens of shield designs
in as many colors bobbed along the front ranks. Ulfrik unslung his own green and white shield as he turned to face the Franks assembling across the dew-laden grass. They were assembling their own lines, comprised of a bushy black slash of inexperienced fighters under one veteran man-at-arms too proud to back down from a force outnumbering him three to one. Of course, their farms and homes lay behind them and Ulfrik had come to plunder as he did each summer, so he understood their reluctance to stand aside.

  “Archers forward?” Einar asked as he helped Gunnar bind his shield to the stump of his right arm. Ulfrik watched the giant man pull straps tight over Gunnar’s forearm.

  “Save the arrows. We’re going to blow through these bastards like wind through the trees.”

  Einar nodded, then thumped Gunnar on his helmet once the shield was secured. Gunnar’s eyes were already far away, and he saw the killing fever rising in his son. Their eyes met, and Ulfrik acknowledged his son with a slow nod. Gunnar took his spot behind Ulfrik, his sword white fire in his left hand. He could not stand in the front rank because his shield did not match with his sword-brother’s, nor could he stand behind another and step into the front rank for the same reason. Therefore, he stood behind Ulfrik in support until the enemy lines were broken. He had grown into Ulfrik’s height and strength, while his curling dark hair and eyes marked him as his mother’s son. On the battlefield Gunnar was unlike either of them, becoming a savage and bloodthirsty force more akin to a berserk than a disciplined warrior.

  The morning sun had finally pierced the sullen clouds, speckling the Franks with blots of light. The grass was a rich blue-green that offset the faded yellow surcoats the Franks wore. Sunlight flared on their conical helmets or their spear points. Their lines grew still and quiet, and Ulfrik shook his head. “It is an ill-done thing to kill children. But they are in the way.”

  “And they’re pointing spears at us,” Einar added. The giant man shook out Ulfrik’s green banner, showing the black elk antlers that been his father’s standard in what felt like another lifetime. The cloth cracked and snapped and galvanized Ulfrik to begin his attack. The Franks wouldn’t move and he had not patience to prod them into a charge.

  His voice boomed out for his men’s attention. “There is victory waiting across this field, then the spoils in silver and slaves beyond. These Franks are not prepared for us. Remind them why they must never grow lax, nor deny us what our might entitles us to take. Go forward and make widows and mothers’ tears. Forward to death and glory!”

  A roar went up and the men banged weapons against their shields. The line lurched ahead with Ulfrik pointing the way with his drawn sword. Gunnar shoved at his back and the men at his sides raised shields. Ulfrik judged the moment to begin the charge, leaving it to the exact moment he saw their few archers tip their bows toward the sky.

  “Arrows!” he yelled and began to run. Shields slid overhead as the first shafts splattered across the wide ranks. Wooden thuds echoed all around. Einar’s shield tipped as an arrow slammed into it.

  The first volley was not even noticed, and Ulfrik’s artful timing left the Franks no space for another. His massive line was already swarming the Franks. Across the field he saw their white eyes peering over teardrop shields. Only their leader owned any boldness, swearing like a drunk for someone to challenge him. The front rank of Franks knelt to brace their shields and the second rank set their spears. It was a stubborn display but unfit to deter furious Northmen hot for the slaughter.

  The clash of shield upon shield was like a thunderclap, and the flash of striking iron like the lightning that birthed it. Ulfrik kicked into the shield blocking him, and used his own shield to deflect the spear aimed at his face. Gunnar’s short blade darted beneath Ulfrik’s legs to jab the Frank his father had just toppled. Screams began, both sides spilling blood and breaking bone. Ulfrik shoved into the gap he opened, his own sword snapping forward and returning red. A flurry of faces collapsed under his shield as he drove forward, Gunnar and three other ranks behind him relentlessly pushing him through. The familiar reek of blood and urine wafted up from his feet. Pressed as close as lovers, he killed each Frank that opposed him with ruthless efficiency.

  Then he was free. As expected, Ulfrik had marched his men completely through the weak Frankish line. In a space of minutes he had defeated the enemy with one strong push. Franks were scattering and the neat ranks were unfolding in pursuit. Einar, his ax dripping blood, planted the banner, and Ulfrik stood beneath it to accept any who would challenge it.

  It took only a moment.

  The man-at-arms dashed screaming across the short space between them. He had lost his shield and held his sword overhead with both hands. His face was red with shame and his mail red with blood. He leapt the tidemark of bodies where the first line of Franks had resisted, and slashed at Ulfrik with a wild, hateful swing.

  Deflecting it easily, Ulfrik drove his shoulder into the leader and set him sprawling. The ground was wet with blood and he struggled to regain himself. Ulfrik could have run him through, but he waited. As the leader scrambled to his feet, Ulfrik kicked a lost shield across the grass to him. When he stood, he stared dumbfounded at it.

  “Pick it up,” Ulfrik said in his poor Frankish. “Then try that again.”

  “My thanks,” said the leader as he warily retrieved the shield. It was one of Ulfrik’s, a chipping white paint job decorated with black scroll work. It looked out of place on the arm of a Frank.

  The two regarded each other a moment as the battle milled around them. Einar stood in a crouch, watchful for interlopers. In the moment of inattention, the Frank struck at Ulfrik.

  Barely catching the strike on his own shield, he instinctively chopped down to cut the Frank’s hamstring. They continued past each other, whirling about to face off anew. The blow had only been a gash, and the Frank registered no pain. Ulfrik crouched and resolved to end it.

  His strike was explosive, using his shield and superior strength to fold up the Frank’s shield and expose his side. Ulfrik’s blade rammed into the leader’s kidney and he crumpled with a wail. Drawing out the blade as the enemy collapsed, Ulfrik swiftly struck the back of the neck. The head did not come free, but he delivered the swift death he wanted. “Foolish but brave,” he said to the crumpled body of the dead leader.

  A motion caught his eye and he looked up to see a Frankish spearman charging him. His shield came up and he jumped aside, but the Frank did not charge home. Instead, when he saw the dead leader at Ulfrik’s feet, he fell to his knees and threw down his spear.

  “Mercy, I beg you, my lord!”

  Here was a man no older than Gunnar, perhaps eighteen or nineteen winters, though he had a child’s face. His eyes were filled with tearful hope. Ulfrik pointed his sword at him. “You should die.”

  The Frank cried out and threw himself flat. “Mercy, please!”

  “What ransom will you fetch? Better a slave maybe?” Ulfrik was not above selling or buying slaves, though he seldom did. He no longer needed the wealth, and housing them before their sale was troublesome. He considered giving the Frank over to a hirdman. “Get up and start running. If you’re caught again, don’t seek mercy.”

  The Frank looked at him in astonishment. He didn’t move.

  Ulfrik kicked him. “Then it’s death you want?”

  The Frank scrabbled to his feet and began to run. At a safe distance he turned and waved his thanks to Ulfrik.

  Ulfrik removed his helmet and wiped sweat from his eyes. In every direction men were running down fleeing Franks.

  “He’ll be caught again,” Einar said as he joined Ulfrik. “Then he’ll tell how you freed him once before.”

  “So let me be accused of mercy,” Ulfrik said, idly prodding the dead leader with his foot. “Men follow me for victory and gold, not bloodshed alone.”

  They surveyed the carnage surrounding them, Ulfrik tracing a stream of wrecked bodies, lost shields, snapped spears and bent swords to where his men had broken into small combat
s. He found Gunnar standing over a man on his knees, arms raised in surrender. Gunnar did not hesitate to ram his sword through the surrendering Frank’s face. When he collapsed in death, Gunnar placed his foot on the man’s sword arm and hacked off the hand.

  “No one will accuse him of mercy,” Einar said dryly.

  Answering with a long puff of breath, Ulfrik shook his head and approached his son. In the years since losing his hand, Gunnar had dedicated himself to overcoming that handicap. The fanatical effort had paid off, for now he could do as well or better than a man with two hands, but the cost of recovery had been more than the effort of relearning with his left hand. A part of him had changed forever.

  “A trail of handless bodies follows you across every battlefield,” Ulfrik said as Gunnar wiped his sword on the dead Frank’s surcoat.

  “And what trail do you leave? Footprints of the men you let run?” Gunnar sprung to his feet, standing a hand’s distance from his father. “What was that I saw? You let the enemy go?”

  “The Franks are broken. We’ll have their land, their women, all they own by nightfall. I did not need to kill him to claim what I want.”

  Gunnar scowled. His dark eyes flashed with the anger and stubbornness of this mother’s side. With his hair curling from sweat and his chin tipped out, he reminded Ulfrik so strongly of Toki that the name nearly came to his lips.

  “Your anger is useful, Gunnar. Guide it, but don’t let it rule you. You’ve done well today, killed many a foeman. No man will doubt your prowess.”

  He knew Gunnar was not listening. His son was already scanning ahead, looking for the next enemy to kill. A dark knot of men hailed him, his closest friends, and he ran after them without another word to Ulfrik.

  “Shall I sound the horn to call them in?” Einar said as he rejoined Ulfrik. “This battle is won. Time to grab the rewards.”

  Ulfrik nodded and watched Gunnar stoop down to hack off another sword arm.

  “Some battles are never won,” he said to himself.

  Chapter 3

  Ulfrik waved to the crowd that had flooded out of Ranvdal to greet his returning army. He rode at the front, only a dozen others privileged to accompany him on horseback riding close behind. The black stockade walls of his fortress were sharp against the summer blue of the sky, and the sun washed the land and people in dewy brilliance. His warriors snaked along on foot behind him, and then the baggage train as well as wagons of loot and prisoners. At the rear of the column came the carts of the fallen. While each man was laid out with all dignity, the dead were never a good thing to present first to the crowds.