Andrew Offutt - When Death Birds Fly

Wulfhere raised his huge ax, and hurled it.

The terrible weapon flashed through the air, turning almost gently, flying for Sigebert’s backbone. Wulfhere began to run, even while the missile was in the air. It needn’t slay Sigebert. Gods! An it merely knocked the cur-begot bastard from his horse’s back, or struck the horse itself and caused it to throw Sigebert, that would be enow. Wulfhere yearned only for the chance to get his hands on the swine. Of that there could be but one end.

Ever after, Wulfhere cursed the fools who made that street too short. Sigebert had reached its end and was turning the corner to safety by the time the Danish ax caught up to him-and hissed by. The head caught his flapping cape, tangled therein and ripped it from his shoulders. Though rocked in his saddle, Sigebert was untouched. His horse galloped.

Swearing mightily, Wulfhere continued his ponderous, armoured run and swore the more. The iron scales of his byrnie jolted and rang with each step. A woman, helping her young brother from the street after Sigebert had ridden him down, shrank fearfully aside from the big red beard. He never noticed her, nor gave thought to the possibility of being mobbed by the people.

They showed no sign of wishing to meddle with this enraged giant loose on their city. The contagion of mass fear had convinced them all in moments that they had a Saxon invasion to dread.

Wulfhere grunted with satisfaction to see his cherished ax lying in the street, enwrapped by the Frank’s rich cape. Seizing the weapon, he left the garment in the muck and returned to the customhouse, bawling for Cormac.

“Wolf!” he roared, absently knocking a wounded Frank aside with his shield when the fool-still on his feet-seemed to want to attack him. “The slimy dock-rat’s escaped us! He’s run, the mangy scum, and left his men! There’s no more to be done here!”

“Bad,” Cormac said, betrying little emotion. “We must leave. It’s defeat we’ve put on these Franks, but if we tarry, the Count of Nantes will be sending a little war-host against us. This time, let us be very sure we leave no wounded, for that polished filth to play with.”

Wulfhere, fully agreeing, began to shout orders.

Cormac ran to inspect the three Danes by the custom-house’s back door. Poor old Horsejaw had his helmet off and his brains, showing. Unquestionably he was dead. Another lay in his blood with a sword-thrust through the throat. Anlaf’s gullet, windpipe and arteries were severed, all. Cormac took in the nature of that particular wound, and did not miss its significance. His icy eyes slitted briefly in thought.

The third Dane was Einar, still suffering greatly from that blow in the stones. He’d lurched to his knees, sweating, grey-faced and bent over, but he needed Cormac’s aid to rise and walk. On the way to Norn he vomited; once he’d gained her deck he sank down groaning. He’d lack interest in women for at least a month, mayhap for life.

“Out of here, swiftly,” Cormac bade Odathi, and added with harsh humour, “Best ye be not come trading again in this port!”

Odathi chuckled. “I’d not ha’ lent myself to your scheme if I’d any pressing need to return! Your enemy, chieftain-did he die hard?”

“He died not,” Cormac said bitterly. “It all went for naught. It is the rest of the day ye mean to stand there babbling?”

Grimly, they counted their dead. Those numbered not so many as Cormac had feared; indeed fewer than he’d dared to hope: three only. Some others were sore wounded, and most, including Cormac and Wulfhere, had at least minor hurts.

“The first good thing in this business, Wulfhere growled as they cleared Loire-mouth, “is that no trap was set for us this time.”

He was thinking of their first meeting with Sigebert, when they had almost been captured. That had been a most carefully planned trap. Few could have scaped it. Even Cormac and Wulfhere had found it needful to abandon their hard-won loot in order to keep their lives, and cross the tempestuous waters of the Cantanabrian Sea to evade the Romish warships that pursued them.

“Sigebert cannot have dreamed we’d dare set foot in Nantes again,” Cormac said. “He knows better now, curse him-and it’s even greater care he’ll be taking to safeguard his putrid life!”

Morbid silence descended on them both. Three men slain, others hurt, and naught gained. Further, Einar was victim of Sigebert himself and so, Cormac thought, was Anlaf.

They knew not of the lost and hating young girl Sigebert kept in his house. They cared not that their bold attempt on the Frank’s life was the talk of Nantes by midday. Sigebert’s guards were those who spoke of it loudest and most vehemently, for they had greatest cause. The names of Wulfhere Skull-splitter and Cormac mac Art were freely bandied about. Cathula recognized them with great joy when the story came to her ears.

Bright was the weather as Norn eased through the straits of Mor-bihan, bright the weather and gloomy the mood of the reivers. As the vessel moored, a horse came plunging along the beach. Its rider unhesitatingly urged it up the timber ramp and galloped recklessly along the jetty.

He was Prince Howel of Bro Erech. The reverberations of hoofbeats on timber yet echoed while he greeted them.

“Cormac! And Wulfhere, I see! No wounds that show?” Then he looked again, seeing Cormac’s moodiness and the thundercloud darkness on Wulfhere’s brow. “It went not well, did it?”

Cormac shrugged, then vaulted the ship’s rail. He performed the feat with ease and landed well balanced, despite the weight of his mail shirt. The links of it chimed together on his body. Howel’s horse shied a bit. The prince patted its shoulder, soothing it with an absent, “Sa, sa my beauty.”

“It went not well,” Cormac admitted. “Almost we had success-bah! Almost! The beggar who squats naked on the modden can say he’s almost a king! All he requires is different parents.”

Wulfhere trod down the gangplank. It bent like a drawn bow under his weight.

“Three men slain! With those who had their death in a sea-fight with the Basques, far south, there be nine-and-twenty living of the two score sailed from Galicia with us. And neither vengeance nor plunder to show for any of it! Sigebert yet breathing! I think that bastard of Loki’s get must bear a charmed life!”

Howel swore in genuine disappointment. “That be worse than a sorry business. What will you do now?”

“Return to Nantes and make a new attempt!”

“Nay, Wulf,” Cormac said. “That we’ll not be doing. Sigebert now knows we be about, and hungry for his blood. He’ll not be exposing himself to weapon-steel of ours again. Nor will he omit to have every ship to dock in Nantes searched most carefully from now on, the moment it touches the quayside! And it’s thrice as many guards Sigebert will surround himself with, now.”

“Franks of the likes of those others?” Wulfhere snorted. “How will he get them? Conjure them out of the air? And if he makes do with Gallo-Romans, I fear them not.”

“Something in that, mayhap,” Cormac conceded, “although it’s many Frankish warriors there may be serving as mercenaries or levy troops in the Roman kingdom.” He sighed. “Yet my main argument holds, even should Sigebert be unable to get any such. He will be expecting us again, and take all the precautions he can. It’s too long the odds are, Wulfhere.”

Wulfhere spoke angrily, knowing it was not feasible but hating to give up-and hoping Cormac would devise a scheme to make it succeed. “We might try an attack from the landward side.”

Cormac considered the notion. At last he shook his head. “Not with such few men as we have left. We’d never get through the city gates. It’s unlikely that we could sneak over the walls at night; but supposing we did, Wulfhere. We’d just about be after reaching Sigebert’s mansion-and die there, not even slaying him, but once again failing to slay him. Bear the truth, Wulfhere. We have failed.” Cormac added grimly, “For this time.”