1
Clontarf, Ireland
Danish Fortress, 910
HE PLACED HIS finger to his lips as he turned to his two men. They’d crossed the plank over the deep ravine as quietly as they could, though the need for their absolute silence wasn’t necessary now for lightning streaked through the night sky and with it came the booming thunder, louder and more powerful than the gods’ own battles. The utter whiteness in the sky, then the shaking of the earth was as steady as the torrential rain that blanketed the sky and the earth, coming down so thickly it was difficult to see two feet ahead. But he knew exactly what he was doing. Everything was going as planned. He gave a small salute to Hafter and Sculla behind him, and he smiled, a fearsome smile.
Einar was within the fortress, he had to be. Rorik had been told that he was by his own man inside the fortress. The message Aslak had sent was only a week old. Aye, Einar had to be here, even though that witch had yelled to him from the fortress ramparts that he was in Dublin, at the king’s compound, aye, that damned witch who was probably his whore, who was lying, trying to protect him.
He and his men reached the small rear door, thick and stout, able to withstand a battering ram for a very long time, but it would be open, for Aslak had sworn it would be.
It was. He eased open the door, then turned slightly to wave his men to move in closer behind him. They moved silently, pressing close.
He hunkered down, his knife drawn, and eased through the opening. Suddenly, behind him he heard a man shout, “Take him! He has nowhere to go! Don’t kill him!”
Rorik lurched back to see three men coming across the wide plank still spread across the ravine, swords drawn.
He was seized with madness and blood lust. In front of him were a dozen men, armed and ready, but it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t retreat, not now, even though he knew he alone could kill the three men who’d crossed the ravine. No, he must go forward. One of the men in front of him was Einar, a man he’d never seen. He yelled his name, calling him a coward, a murderer, taunting him to come and fight him.
“Einar! Einar!”
The garrison warriors remained together, pressing closely, drawing nearer, their shields and swords raised. He growled his fury. He shrieked his rage to the sky. They were hiding him; they were protecting Einar.
Rorik raised his sword over his head, and like a berserker lunged into the mass of men. His blood pounded madly through him. His brain saw only the frenzy of killing. He hacked his way wildly through the warriors that surrounded him. Einar must be here. He was hiding, using his men as a shield to protect him, but Rorik would find him. Aye, and he’d send his sword through his throat. He heard a scream of pain, then another and another. He paid no heed.
“Einar!”
Again, he heard that same man shout from behind him, “Don’t kill him!”
Suddenly, he was grabbed by a dozen hands and jerked down to his knees on the muddy ground. He struck out with his sword, dropped his shield, and used his knife, carving a slice from one man’s leg. The hands eased in that instant, and he was up, his knife in one hand, his blood-covered sword in the other. He yelled at them, cursing, his eyes demon-red in the thick sheeting rain, deadened to anything save his mad lust for revenge. Thunder shook the earth beneath their feet, and the men jumped back. Then they formed a circle around him, always moving, first to the right, then to the left, adjusting as he shifted his position, always balancing on the balls of his feet. He yelled at them, calling them cowards and worse, sons of whores.
Gunleik, the garrison commander, stood a bit behind the circle of men, studying the warrior. His two men were already prisoners, both of them wounded, but not gravely, and that through happenstance. Both men were brave and strong, one of them nearly seven feet tall, and he’d fallen like an oak tree when Ivar had struck him over the head with the blunt side of an axe. The other had gone down when he’d slipped in the mud and four men had held him down, cuffing him with his sword handle. But this man with his wild eyes and his cunning, this man wouldn’t give up, nor would he be tricked with guile, but still, Gunleik refused to kill him.
Four of his own men were down, screaming in pain. He y
elled out again, “Keep back! Don’t kill him!”
But his men were angry. They wanted the man’s blood. He couldn’t let this continue. His men would kill the warrior soon and he wouldn’t be able to stop it.
He drew his knife from his belt. Slowly, with great deliberation, he raised it and calmly aimed. When the warrior turned to face him, the knife flew from his fingers, a silver blur in the heavy rain. It struck him high in the fleshy part of his right shoulder. It hadn’t struck bone, for it wasn’t meant to, just thick muscle, which was bad enough.
Rorik heaved and jerked backward with the force of the blow.
He shuddered, but didn’t fall.
He screamed and lunged at another man, but he was slower now, his mortality finally eroding his warrior’s resolve, weakening the iron hold he had on his body.
He stumbled, then regained his balance, standing within the center of the circle now, still slashing his sword in a wide arc around him.
“Move away from him!” Gunleik shouted. “Nay, Emund, keep back! I order you, don’t kill him!” It couldn’t last much longer now. He was a man, after all, he was mortal. His eyes would blur from the pain, his powerful arm would numb, his guts would cramp, and he would fall.