Chapter 2: The Start (2)

"I am no coward," he shouted back. "But I cannot abandon my duty to protect our ship."

"What ship?" asked the enemy captain. "If we're so important, why don't you just leave us alone?"

Yngvar shook his head. "This isn't right. There should be peace between Franks and Northmen. This war started because of greed. Now that it ends, shouldn't peace return?"

"Greed?" scoffed the leader. "You have no idea what you ask. Your king has stolen half my lands. Half my family is dead or enslaved. My wife--my children--are gone forever."

"Half your land is mine," added another voice. "We should divide it equally."

They argued back and forth, and Yngvar listened carefully to learn their names. None seemed willing to surrender. Their faces showed no fear, only pride. They truly thought themselves superior to him. Even without knowing their language, he could tell it was true.

"Why do you call yourselves Romans?" he asked them. "Is Rome still great then? Are you the descendants of those heroes who once conquered Italy?"

"Rome fell generations ago," said an older warrior. "That empire died centuries before we were born. But its name lives on today."

"And you believe yourself better than me?"

His opponent shrugged. "Of course. Who else can claim such glory? The greatest city ever built, home to Julius Caesar, Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, Constantine the Great, Trajan, Hadrianus, Septimius Severus, Caracalla, Diocletian, Constantius Chlorus, and dozens more. All emperors and kings! And yet none greater than the Franks!"

Yngvar looked around. His companions were embroiled in combat with the rest of the enemy warriors. Only Thorfast and Gyna remained beside him. Brandr had joined in battle against several enemies, leaving only Yngvar and the twins to guard the rear.

"So you are descended from the Roman Empire?" Yngvar laughed. "Then where did you get the armor and weapons you wear? Where did you gain your wealth?"

A man named Cappa raised his sword overhead. A dozen other swords followed suit.

"By conquest!" he roared. "Our fathers fought and bled for Rome! Our mothers gave birth to sons who grew into soldiers. For over three hundred years, we served. Served until we became masters. Then came this fool King Charles. He stole our honor, our wives, and even our gods. We will never forget how we suffered under him."

Cappa swept his blade through the air. Other voices echoed his cry.

"Death to Frankish dogs!"

"Long live Emperor Maximus!"

Thorfast shoved past Yngvar, leaping onto the ledge behind him. He pulled out his short axe and swung it high above his head. As the weapon plunged downward, something flashed along the length of its shaft. It burst into brilliant light as it struck the ground. Everyone recoiled.

When the brilliance faded, a thin line of white smoke rose from the point of impact.

Maximus's eyes widened, and he stared at the smoking end of his own spear. Others also gaped at it. Some backed off, covering their mouths.

Thorfast held up both hands and lowered his head. When he spoke, his words carried clearly despite the distance and wind.

"My friends, please remember what I told you about using sorcery. It might seem fun, but there is always danger. Please think twice before following me again."

He dropped his arms and stepped away from the ledge.

At first everyone stood frozen. Then slowly they began to recover their wits. Many turned toward Yngvar, raising questions in their expressions.

The moment stretched long enough for Yngvar to feel certain someone would shout condemnation. Yet all remained silent.

After nearly two minutes, Thorfast nodded to himself as if satisfied by whatever test he had passed. He returned to Yngvar's side and handed him back his shield.

Brandr appeared from nowhere, having slain four foes with ease. Bjorn and Hakon had managed to kill one each and were now engaged with others. At least twenty men faced Yngvar across a wide gap in the cliff face. Most wore simple mail hauberks and helmets. Two carried shields. One had a horned helmet decorated with gold wire. Another sported a bright red cloak. These last two carried spears and looked confident facing Yngvar's group.

"Don't let them surround us," called Brandr. "Let's keep pushing forward."

"You're not going alone," said Yngvar. "I'll take care of these two."

With that, he charged straight ahead. Three strides brought him within range of the spearmen, which he batted aside like twigs beneath his massive hammer. The second went down with a slash to his neck, blood spraying as he collapsed. The third hurled his spear at Yngvar. He ducked low, letting it fly harmlessly over his shoulder.

As soon as he recovered, the remaining armored warriors surrounded him. This time he used his shield to strike rather than simply blocking. The boss caught one man full in the chest, knocking him backward into another. Before either could regain balance, Yngvar spun behind him, driving his knee into the small of the attacker's back. He stumbled forward, crashing atop the fallen man. Yngvar drove his elbow into the exposed throat of the prone foe, crushing cartilage and breaking bone.

Before any could rise, Yngvar had closed on the next man. He punched him once in the nose, then kicked him between the legs. Both fell with groans.

Men shouted orders and curses, some calling for retreat. But no more attackers emerged from the shadows or opened the door.

Yngvar sheathed his dagger and drew his sword. His left hand still ached painfully, so instead he rested the pommel upon his right wrist. In front of him lay two corpses and six wounded men moaning on the grass.

"What was that about?" asked Thorfast. He sat on the ledge overlooking the battlefield, resting against the rock wall. "That wasn't just a bit of trickery, was it?"

"No, it wasn't," Yngvar answered, looking around. "It seems my father has come to help me after all. Now where are those blasted Franks hiding? They must be watching this battle already."

***

Flames licked the sky, casting orange light over the field below. To the north, clouds gathered darkly. A cold breeze blew, carrying the scent of snow.

From the height of their perch, Yngvar watched the scene unfold. Across the flatlands beyond the cliffs, hundreds of torches burned brightly. Their flickering flames illuminated dozens of enemy tents and sentries. Beyond them the main camp glowed brighter yet. From here, the firelight revealed only shapes and silhouettes, nothing clear enough to identify an individual warrior.

But even from this distance Yngvar knew who led the host. King Gorm the Old stood tall at its center, flanked by three other kings. All five bore themselves proudly, as though waiting for war horns to sound. Behind them loomed scores of jarls and chieftains, each leading a band of hirdmen.

A great cheer arose from the mass of soldiers ringing the campsite. Even from above, Yngvar heard the thunderous roar. For a short while, it seemed as if every man raised voices to the heavens. Men clapped shields together and threw weapons into the air. Others tore off armor plates and tossed them onto piles. Banners fluttered wildly. Spears waved overhead. Horns blared. And the whole throng danced and sang songs of glory.

King Gorm lifted both hands high into the night, holding aloft a flaming torch. Its brightness lit up his gray-streaked hair and beard. It cast a shadow across his eyes that made them appear darker than normal. As if seeing through smoke, he studied the landscape before him. Perhaps he saw something that troubled him, because his mouth curled downward.

He lowered his arms, but did not step away from his position. Instead, he turned toward the distant mountains. Yngvar followed his gaze, wondering what concern would prompt such a reaction. Nothing moved there save tree branches swaying in the wind. Then he noticed the faint glow of lights rising from the peaks. Was someone preparing to attack? Would they try again tonight?

His attention returned to King Gorm. He seemed lost in thought. The cheering died out and the king stepped back. He gestured grandly at the assembled armies. At last, the cheers rose anew. He smiled broadly, revealing teeth stained yellow with age.

Then he began shouting orders. Warriors rushed to obey. Within moments, the entire army broke apart, flowing in separate directions like streams splitting into tributaries. Each group headed different ways. Some disappeared into the darkness, others vanished among the trees lining the river valley.

Gyna appeared beside Yngvar. She leaned against the cliff face, staring down at the chaos. Her breath came raggedly, her fingers white on the stone.

She pointed toward the woods. "The gods have abandoned us. What will we do now?"

"We're going home," he said.

At first she stared blankly. When understanding dawned, tears flowed freely.

"You fool!" she screamed. "This is our chance! We can escape these damned heathens forever! I want your child, you bastard."

Yngvar's head snapped to her. Shock filled his mind. How dare she say such things? Did she think he wanted children? Couldn't she see how much danger he faced? He pushed past her, stumbling over rocks. By the time he reached the ground, a dozen warriors were closing on him. Brandr and Bjorn joined him, along with Alasdair and Thorfast.

"What's happening?" demanded Brandr. "Where are the Franks coming from?"

"I don't know."