Lord of Fire and Ice (26 page)

“Let me spell you at the steering oar,” Harald said to Brandr, deep into the second watch of the night.

The dragonship’s sail billowed out like a pigeon’s breast as the vessel sliced cleanly through the smooth water of the fjord. Orlin, Ragnar, and the twins were taking advantage of the favorable sailing weather to snatch a few hours sleep, curled up in
hudfats
in the narrow craft. Later, when the tide changed, they’d have to row, but for now, the
Jarl
of Jondal’s ship made fair speed toward Tysnes Island.

“You need rest.” Harald insisted.

Brandr sighed. When his friend set his feet, he would not be moved.

“I don’t think I can sleep.” But he stood in any case and let his friend take the heavy arm of the tiller in his beefy hands.

“You worry for your woman,” Harald guessed.

Brandr nodded.
Among
other
things.

He feared he’d seen his brother for the last time in this life. He feared the weapon he pinned all his hopes on wouldn’t work, since they hadn’t been able to test the mixture. He feared the destruction of everything he held dear.

But most of all, he feared for his stubborn, willful wife.

Why did she not Send her thoughts to him? Why did she ignore him when he broadcast his to the four winds? Surely she realized he knew she’d sailed away to Tysnes with Finn on a fool’s errand. Hilde had already told him all. Katla’s silence wasn’t keeping any secrets from him.

The cold, dark possibility she was dead stabbed his heart, but he shoved it away. Surely he’d know if she was. He’d feel her absence in the very air around him. His body would refuse to keep breathing in a world where she did not.

“You sure we shouldn’t have strapped more shields to the sides of the ship?” Harald’s voice pulled him back into the moment. “Might have made it seem as if there are more of us aboard.”

“It wouldn’t make that much difference.” He hadn’t even told Arn he was taking his ship. He couldn’t very well add to that misdeed by depleting his brother’s armory for the sake of appearances.

“Twenty-five ships we’re sailing into, eh?” Harald’s voice cut through the wind soughing through the rigging and the steady shush of water against the hull.

“
Ja
,” Brandr admitted. “Maybe more.”

“Well, that gives us the advantage, then,” Harald said.

“How do you figure?”

“When they see us coming, at least half of them will die laughing.” Harald smacked his knee and threw back his head in a guffaw that echoed off the rocky sides of the fjord.

Brandr laughed with his friend.

May as well let Death know they were coming to meet Him unafraid.

***

“Who might you be?” Ulf asked, stopping his ascent of the woodpile but not lowering his dagger.

Katla pushed out of the overgrowth behind Finn. “We’re the owners of this farmstead.”

“Stay back, Katla,” Finn ordered. “We’ll ask the questions here, traitor. Step away from our brother.”

“I’m trying to help the lad.”

“Like you helped your friends?” Katla asked.

Ulf spat on the ground. “They weren’t my friends. I know what it is to be bound against your will. I wouldn’t suffer them to treat a dog so. This is the first chance I’ve had to free the lad.”

The sound of men tramping through the woods, swearing and breaking off bracken, wafted up to the top of the hill.

Ulf swore. “It’s later than I thought. The watch is being relieved. They’ll be here in no time. If you want me to free your brother, lower your bow, Tysnesman.”

“Do it, Finn,” Katla said.

With reluctance, he replaced the arrow in his quiver and slung the bow over his shoulder. Then he ran and climbed the woodpile to help Ulf bring Haukon down.

Katla was right behind him. “Easy,” she cautioned. “He may be injured more than we can tell here.”

The men’s voices were nearer now.

“He’ll be injured, all right, if you don’t leave now,” Ulf said. “Do you have a boat?”

“Hush, Katla,” Finn said as he lifted Haukon in his arms. The lad’s head lolled, but Katla heard him catch a snuffling breath. “Don’t tell him anything. He can’t be trusted.”

“If you do have means off this island,” Ulf said, ignoring Finn, “I advise you to make for it and don’t look back.”

“You could come with us,” Katla said.

“Are you mad?” Finn hissed and headed for the path in the woods where they’d hidden before.

“But he’s Brandr’s father.”

Ulf’s hand snaked out and grabbed her forearm. “How do you know my son?”

“Brandr is my husband,” she said.

“You lie. He’s in Byzantium.”

“He’s returned. And he’s leading the defense of Hardanger. Something you should have done, old man.”

“Enough, Katla,” Finn said as he ducked into the thick forest bearing Haukon. “We must go now.”

“He’s right,” Ulf said, releasing her arm. “Go. I’ll see about a diversion to cover your escape.”

Katla hesitated. Traitor or not, the man was Brandr’s father. “Follow that path down to the water,” she whispered. “We’ll wait for you if we can.”

An ugly smile spread across Ulf’s tortured face. “I can see why he likes you. Now, get you gone, girl.”

The sounds of the approaching guards were nearer now. Fear made her wing-footed. Katla flew across the clearing and disappeared into the thick undergrowth. She started to follow Finn down the path, but angry shouts behind her made her look over her shoulder.

Ulf knelt at a corner of the man-high stack of wood, sparks flying as he tried to ignite the tinder. In a sudden whoosh, the flame caught on the dry wood, spread through the rotten interior of the pile, and blazed out the top to lick at the stars.

Ulf Skallagrimsson dumped all four buckets of water on the ground so there’d be no way to douse the signal fire. Then laboriously, Brandr’s father rose and cast a death’s-head grin toward the place where Katla and Finn had fled, before he began to limp away from the inferno, heading in a different direction.

He’s covering our retreat
, Katla realized.

“Who is?”
She’d lost her strict discipline, and Brandr’s question flooded over her mental wall.

Before she could regain control, she felt her mind’s images winging to her husband. She let them fly. She had enough to deal with without trying to shield her thoughts from Brandr any longer.

Four new guards poured into the clearing. One shouted for Ulf to halt, and when he didn’t, the man raised his bow and planted a shaft in Ulf’s lower back. He plummeted face-first to the dirt and didn’t move.

Katla clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.

The men found their dead comrades and the empty buckets. They beat on the flames with their cloaks, but it was too late. The blaze leaped higher. The fire would burn hot till all the wood was consumed, and then it would smolder for days.

“We have to tell the Bloodaxe,” one shouted.

“I’m not going to be the bearer of this news,” said another.

“At least we killed the man who did it,” growled a third.

“Bloodaxe’s temper won’t improve with waiting,” said the one who’d actually loosed the shaft that dropped Ulf to the ground. He turned to lead the way back toward Katla’s longhouse. “Come, you spineless old women. See if you can find where you left your manhood on the way down the hill.”

When they’d been gone for the space of ten heartbeats, Katla crept back out of hiding and ran to Ulf. The long shaft of the arrow stuck out of his back.

“Do you yet live?” she asked in a whisper.

With effort, he raised himself to his hands and knees. “
Ja
, girl. Why are you still here? Fly while you can.”

“Not without you.” She helped him rise to his feet. “Can you walk?”

“Not far.” He spat a gob of blood and reached around and broke the shaft of the arrow off close to his skin.

“Why did you do that?” Katla demanded as she propped one of his arms over her shoulders. “It’ll be even harder to get out now.”

“’Tis not coming out, and we both know it,” Ulf said, not bothering to stifle the groan that followed. “I’ll not stir a step unless you promise to leave me if they return or if we are followed.”

Katla tried to move him, but it was like shoving a boulder. There was no give to the man.

“All right, I promise,” she said. “Now come.”

“’Tis hopeless.”

“No, it’s not. Look.”

On the dark shadow of the mainland, an answering signal fire burned brightly. As they watched, another farther in the fjord blazed to life. And another. Pinpoints of promise, they called the folk of Hardanger to honor their oaths to meet a common threat.

Katla looked up at her husband’s father. “There is always hope.”

***

“To the ships!” Malvar roared when the guards reported that their captive had been freed and the signal fire had somehow been lit. Even now, the flame on Tysnes Island’s high point was being answered by other fires on both steep sides of Hardanger Fjord. “Move!”

He gave one who didn’t scramble away fast enough a vicious kick. “Before I order you roasted over that flame.”

His men poured out of the longhouse in a near stampede and made for their waiting ships in the cove. They would have to row to clear the narrow mouth of the inlet. And after that, the tide was against them.

Once Malvar’s flagship waddled into the main channel of the fjord, he saw the sky to the East was lightened by dozens of signal fires winking on one by one. He gripped the gunwale by the long neck of the prow so hard his nails bled. His advance guard had failed to disable or secure the system of signal flares.

His attack had lost the element of surprise.

No matter. He still had the weight of a superior force behind him. Even the smallest ship in his flotilla bore two-dozen warriors. There were fifty shields affixed to each side of his ship, one hundred strong backs bending in concert to row his
drakkar
into the fjord.

Wind sang in the rigging. Death rode on his shoulder. Malvar was proud to be the one bringing it.

***

The zing of an arrow in the dark. A man’s guttural cry. The figure was shadowy on the far side of a towering fire, but Brandr saw him go down in the images Katla Sent to him. He felt her distress as if it were his own. She crept forward.

“No, girl,” he mumbled in his sleep. He drifted up to full consciousness and back down again, unsure whether he was dreaming or waking. He smelled the pitch-soaked pine blaze and recoiled from its heat as she moved around it. He’d never had such a vivid dream, and even as he lay in his
hudfat
, heart pounding and fully awake now, disjointed images continued to scroll across his mind.

Her white hand showed stark against the man’s dark shoulder. The fletching on the arrow sticking out of his back was so vivid Brandr could see where the feather’s barbules had separated from one another. The man turned his head.

“Father.” Brandr sat upright.

Harald still manned the steering oar. His other friends still slept. The wind had lessened, but they were making good progress toward the mouth of the fjord.

And if his dream…or vision—he was unsure what to name it—was true, Ulf Skallagrimsson was still alive.

“Brandr, look.” Harald pointed off the starboard bow.

A signal fire was burning. An answering blaze flared to life on the opposite side of the waterway.

“They’re all lit,” Harald said. “All the way to the sea.”

And the people who lit those fires were preparing to join Brandr and his men. If there was enough time, the fighting ships might form up into a force sufficient to make a stand on the narrow waters of Hardanger.

Then between one breath and the next, the sail on Brandr’s ship went slack. The wind died, and the waters that had been surging out of the fjord, rushing to join the sea, now pushed the defender’s
drakkar
back.

“We’ve lost the tide,” he said. Momentum would swing around to the force heading into Hardanger now. “Wake up, men. It’s time to row.”

“Haukon, are you injured?” Katla called down to the
faering
.

“No, not so much,” his voice rose, thready and weak, from the bottom of the boat. “Just feel like I lost a dozen fights and drank far too much mead.”

“Katla, what are you thinking, dragging that traitor along?” Finn demanded when he noticed she had Ulf in tow at the water’s edge.

Haukon lay sprawled in the bottom of the boat, but he was conscious and smiled weakly at her as she helped Brandr’s father into the bobbing
faering
.

“All the time I was bound, this man was ever kind to me when the others weren’t looking,” Haukon said. “It’s all right, Finn.”

“No, it’s not all right.” He untied the line that moored the craft to land and pushed away from the island with an oar. “He’ll lead them right to us.”

Katla bristled as she ignored her brother’s objections and hustled Ulf into the prow of the
faering
. Finn hadn’t seen all Ulf had done at the top of the hill. With a touch on her forearm, Brandr’s father stopped her from arguing.

“Rest easy, girl. He’s right. I was a traitor, but Bloodaxe has bigger plans than following me,” Ulf said with a wheeze. “Look.”

Katla peered over Finn’s shoulder to where Ulf pointed. Once Finn glanced that way, he settled on the bench to use both oars to keep the
faering
in the deep shadow of the land. Their only safety lay in going unnoticed.

A flotilla of at least thirty ships passed by on their way into the mouth of Hardanger Fjord. By the time the last one sailed by, the tide and prevailing winds had turned, and the invaders oars were shipped. Their square sails billowed out in the fading night.

“
Oh, Brandr, he’s coming.
”

“I know, love. I see the signal fires. Is that your doing?”

“No. It was your father’s. He’s alive.”

Katla felt Brandr’s conflicting waves of joy and wariness tumbling in her chest.

“But he’s wounded.”
Brandr’s words were clipped.
“How bad is it?”

Katla didn’t wonder how he knew that. Evidently
inn
matki
munr
was a deeper bond than she’d ever imagined. It was as if they shared one soul. Everything she knew or experienced or felt, he did too.

Ulf coughed violently, and when he pulled his hand away from his mouth, Katla saw it was black with blood.

“His wound is bad enough.”
Even if she could transport him to her longhouse and use the herbs she’d gathered for doctoring her people, she doubted she could save him.

“Keep him alive for me.”

“I’ll try. Keep yourself alive for me.”

He chuckled softly. The sound tickled her mind.
“I’ll try too.”

Neither of them would be able to deliver on their promises, and they both knew it. Despair roiled in her gut.

“Brandr, I’m sorry I shut you out of my mind. Forgive me.”

“That’s all right, princess. I may decide to do the same before long.”

“No.”
She scrunched her eyes tight.
“I want to be with you. Whatever happens.”

“And whatever happens, I am always with you, Katla. I want you to remember that. Good-bye, love.”

When the link between them was severed, Katla gasped. Even when she held him at bay, she’d always been able to sense his presence, pressing against the mental barrier she’d erected. Now there was nothing.

She buried her face in her hands and wept.

***

Morning dawned with a sky made for weeping. The clouds were the yellowish purple of a week-old bruise. A few ships had joined Brandr’s in the night, but not nearly as many or as heavily loaded with warriors as he’d hoped.

As soon as it was light, he ordered Harald to signal them with flags to stay well behind him. Mist rising from the water made it difficult to spot the other vessels. Brandr caught only glimpses of empty masts or the occasional long-necked prows jutting above the carpet of fog. Rowers grunted in concert with each long stroke.

“May as well see if this thing will work,” Brandr said and positioned himself before the mast, standing on two metal casks brimming with the volatile elements of Greek fire. He hefted the long metal tube where the two compounds would join and aimed it far off the port bow. “Open the valves.”

The twins turned the wheel-shaped fittings, and the tube warmed under Brandr’s touch as the two mixtures were joined. But instead of shooting out the open end of the tube in a snaking blaze of unquenchable flame, sludge oozed from the tip, sparking and fizzling till it slipped under the waves with a disappointing sizzle.

“That’s not how I remember Greek fire working in the South,” Harald said.

“We have all the ingredients,” Brandr growled in frustration.

“Must not be the right amounts of each,” Orlin observed somberly.

Brandr sank down on his haunches. Orlin was right. It was a touchy concoction at the best of times, and he’d been rushed. The mixture was out of balance somehow, and there hadn’t been time to work with it till it was right.

In the distance, the faint squares of a long row of sails began to take shape in the morning haze. Bloodaxe was coming with the wind at his back.

“What do you want to do?” Harald asked.

Brandr hung his head for a moment and thought. “Signal the others to bleed off and wait near land. Use only enough oar to hold our position.” Brandr walked as far forward as he could and stared at his approaching foe. “We’ll let him come to us. If I tell you to abandon ship, grab an oar to keep you afloat, and go. No argument.”

“And then?”

“Then we’ll see what a fire mage can actually do.”

***

Malvar stood in the prow of his ship, scanning the horizon for any signs of organized resistance. The mist obscured his vision, but it seemed the signal fires hadn’t called down the warriors of Hardanger to meet him. The only thing out of the ordinary was the way the mist piled up in one place, dead center in front of Malvar’s ship.

“What’s that?” one of his men asked, a superstitious tremor in his voice.

Out of the watery mists, a fierce dragonhead rose, and behind it, as if he were mounted on the great wooden beast, a single man wreathed in clouds lying on the water. Silently, he stood, unmoving and unflinching, as Malvar’s flotilla drew nearer.

The mist parted, curling upward like disembodied souls straining skyward, and a blue glow was visible, growing between the man’s upraised palms. It bloomed as big as a head of cabbage and then divided into two, so the man held a glowing orb in each hand.

“Sorcery,” someone whispered.

“A fire mage,” said another. “He holds the flame and isn’t burned.”

“Who is this that he thinks to dazzle us with cheap tricks and false magick? The Old Ones are the only power we revere,” Malvar roared. “Someone put an arrow down his gullet. He’ll bleed like the rest of us.”

But before anyone could obey him, the man hurled the ball of flame to the base of Malvar’s mast. The sail caught in a searing moment. The second ball of blue fire burst on the deck of Bloodaxe’s flankship, sending the crew into a panicked rout.

“Archers!” Bloodaxe bellowed. “Bring that man down.”

***

“Shields up,” Harald shouted from the tiller.

Brandr’s crew let their oars drift in the oar ports while they hunkered beneath their round discs of hardened leather. Brandr flattened himself to the dragon’s neck, sheltering under the beast’s horny head. He was glad Arn had spared no expense for this figurehead, choosing a design with a flared horizontal crest at the base of its skull that acted as a shield for Brandr now.

From this place of relative safety, he commanded the existing flames on his enemy’s ships with a slow wave of his arm. Tongues of fire leaped from one ship to the next, dancing along the rigging and dropping burning ash on the panicked crews beneath. The long line of attackers broke as the outer ships sheared off, trying to distance themselves from their burning cohorts. Brandr arced fire from his palms to their retreating sterns.

The air was filled with screams and the hollow song fire always sang when it fed, licking at the pitch-soaked hulls with relish. The fjord around the attacker’s ships boiled with the flailing of drowning men as they fled the flames for a watery grave. Brandr recognized one of them as Albrikt Gormson.

But Bloodaxe’s burning flagship continued to advance on Brandr’s. While panic reigned on the other ships, a bucket brigade had formed on this one and was dousing the flames with methodical efficiency. Growling curses carried across the water as Bloodaxe drove his men to keep rowing.

Brandr glanced back at his friends. “He means to ram us. Time to abandon ship.”

Without a word of dissent, Ragnar, Orlin, Torvald, and Torsten grasped their oars with both hands and leaped into the water.

“You too, Harald.” Brandr clambered back to the stern where his friend still sat.

“Can’t swim.”

“You’ll never learn any younger,” Brandr said as he broke off the steering arm of the tiller, shoved it into his friend’s hands, and pushed Harald over the gunwale into the frothing water.

Harald surfaced, sputtering and complaining, but he was afloat.

Brandr turned to face Bloodaxe’s dragonship bearing down on him. His Greek fire mixture didn’t work as he’d planned, but he was certain it would burn. He gathered all his concentration and drew a deep breath. The shouts and chaos faded around him. Flame grew between his palms, beautiful in its purity, terrible in its destructive power.

He focused all his strength, and as the neck of Bloodaxe’s
drakkar
smashed Brandr’s dragonhead to kindling, he hurled the hottest ball of fire he could produce into the prow of his own ship.

The Greek fire machine erupted into a blazing inferno that scorched the sky.

***

After Bloodaxe’s horde left her steading, Katla and Finn sailed around the island and cautiously nosed into the sheltered cove. Her people who’d survived the invasion were overjoyed to see her. She ordered all their thrall collars struck, because she wanted to convince them Bloodaxe wouldn’t be returning. He was going to meet her husband in battle, and Brandr Ulfson was more than his match.

Even if she wasn’t entirely convinced herself—after seeing Bloodaxe’s massive flotilla of ships—she had to present a brave face. But that didn’t stop her from having Finn organize a party of archers to guard the cove against returning enemies.

Then she asked for help moving Ulf Skallagrimsson into her old chamber. At first her people balked, since they’d seen him with Bloodaxe, but when she told them he’d been responsible for lighting the signal fire, and the defense of the fjord was underway because of it, they grudgingly accepted him.

It was a small matter. He was dying, at any rate.

When Ulf refused to let her try to remove the arrowhead, she was relieved. The shaft had sunk beneath his skin, and going after it was beyond her doctoring skills. So she cleaned and dressed his wound and made him lie down in her own bed. She gave him willow bark tea for pain until he demanded mead instead.

She was delivering his fourth horn of sweet oblivion when the flashes of a vision came. Katla’s knees gave way, and she sank to the flagstone floor of her chamber on Tysnes.

Fire scorched through her mind. Ships aflame. Men leaping into the sea, their clothing alight with blazing tongues. Smoke obscured her sight.

A blazing orange tunnel encompassed her, held at bay by a pair of outstretched hands.

Brandr’s hands.

As he passed through the conflagration, Katla cowered on the cold flagstones, seared by the heat in his Sending. The acrid scent of burning wood, flesh, and pitch made her belly heave.

A man whose beard and hair were aflame hurled himself toward her, and she was plunged into the frigid water of the fjord. The link between her and Brandr was sliced in two as completely as if someone had taken an axe to it.

Shaken and gasping, Katla came to herself in her bedchamber, spilled mead soaking her hem and filling in the cracks between the flagstones.

Old Gerte’s grandmother had been linked with her grandfather by the chains of
inn
matki
munr
while he drowned. If Brandr was underwater, he must have been unaware of it, for she received nothing more from him.

She wept in silence. She couldn’t keen and wail. She was too empty to do anything but let her soul seep from her eyes.

***

Brandr tumbled into the sea, tangled up with Bloodaxe, each of them grappling for the other’s throat. Water doused the man’s flaming head, but Brandr saw Bloodaxe’s lips were gone, his flesh pulled back to reveal his teeth clenched in a death’s-head grin.

Bloodaxe was a dead man, but he wasn’t satisfied to travel to
Hel
’s cold hall without the man who’d sent him there in tow. A thumb pressed against Brandr’s throat. He wrapped his arms around Bloodaxe and squeezed for all he was worth. Dark spots bloomed before his eyes, but Brandr held on. Finally, Bloodaxe released his last pent-up breath in an explosion of bubbles.

Brandr brought his feet up and kicked himself away from his drowning enemy. Bloodaxe struggled feebly for another few heartbeats and then floated away in the relaxation of death.

A single bubble of air escaped Brandr’s nostril and tickled his cheek. Overhead, the surface of the water blazed with his Greek fire. Beneath him, the broken back of Arn’s dragonship sank into the blue depths. Lungs burning for a breath, he kicked toward the surface.

Even a fire mage couldn’t put out the Greek fire till it had exhausted all its fuel, but he could move it if he could summon the concentration. He splayed his fingers toward the roof of flame and willed it to part above him.

A small oval of open water appeared and then shrank back. Brandr continued to kick toward the surface, trying to marshal his remaining power. Death by fire or death by drowning was still death. If he couldn’t open and maintain a space in the oily surface, he was going to die either way.