Jerry Autieri - Shield of Lies

Frankia, September 892 C.E.

The Frankish warrior dashed for the tree line, legs pumping over the knee-high grass, eyes white with terror and a scarlet stripe of blood peeling from beneath his conical helmet. Bloodless fingers gripped his sword as its red blade waved like a branch in the wind. Four gray-fletched arrows sprouted from the teardrop-shaped shield strapped to his other arm, and one shook loose as he fled. Flushed cheeks bulged with his panting, and he dared a glance over his shoulder.

Throst had anticipated the moment of inattention and sprang from behind one of the thin poplar trees speckled before the waiting forest. His round shield collided with the fleeing warrior's face. He screamed and slammed backward into the grass. Without hesitation, Throst's blade hewed down and opened the Frank's belly in a spray of gore. A drop of hot, salty blood flecked into Throst's smiling mouth as he admired his work. This had been his fourth kill of the battle, a total to rival any veteran.

The moment died. Two more fleeing Franks converged on him, and these red-faced bastards were roaring their anger at Throst. He understood the Frankish curses hurled at him, though the lead man spit out more of a snarl. "Northman horse-fucker!"

Training carried Throst out of the arc of the strike aimed at his head, his reaction honed to a killing edge from constant drill. The brutish Frank slid past him with a cry as Throst raised his shield for the follow-up attack of the second warrior. The blow shuddered through his shield, numbing his arm, but Throst laughed. He was already striking down, one dexterous jab that pierced the naked calf of the second man. He grunted as he crumpled, and Throst yanked his sword free with a lace of blood following it.

The first attacker howled as he whirled, but the edge of Throst's shield was already spinning back into his face. Fear and anger ruled the Frank, making his movements clumsy and predictable. His nose bridge cracked under the rim of the shield, blinding and knocking him back. Throst spun and buried his sword into the Frank's side, who caved to his knees with eyes wide and mouth hanging open. He expelled a wet gasp as Throst followed him down, careful not to bend or break his sword as the enemy's corpse clasped it like a jealous lover. After the Frank collapsed to his face in the grass, he braced the corpse and dragged free the sword.

Fearing more attacks, he ranged around with his red-dewed weapon but met no threat. The retreating Franks had scattered, their shapes mere bluish outlines of men dashing for the cover of trees with Northmen lumbering after them. Then he spotted the undulating motion in the grass and remembered the second Frank.

He was crawling away, dragging his ruined leg behind. He had abandoned his sword, having snapped it when he fell. Throst shook his head and stopped the Frank by stamping on the ravaged calf. It slipped like a gutted fish beneath his foot, and the Frank shrieked in agony. Throst stepped harder, enjoying the power, then kicked the man onto his back. The Frank was not much older than himself, maybe nineteen or twenty winters. His teary eyes entreated Throst, and his words were no longer so bold.

"Mercy, I beg mercy. My father will pay you ransom. Please."

Throst stabbed him in the guts like a needle through sailcloth. The Frank curled up on the blade with a low growl of agony. He would die, but slowly and in terrible suffering. Throst twisted his sword, worrying the hole wider and filling the Frank's cupped hands with dark blood as he tried to stem the flow. With a cruel yank, he tore out the blade, then knelt beside the moaning Frank. He used the enemy's surcoat to wipe his sword clean, watching the Frank gargle and spit blood as his life drained into the grass.

"Well done. Three at once. Guess you really were training all this time."

The voice was rich with phlegm and the incoherency of ale. Throst's father staggered out of his hiding place behind a tree. His mail shirt and sword were battle-ready but not battle-worn. Drunk as he was, he walked steadily to Throst's side with an approving smile.

"Course, no one's gonna believe you did it alone. So that's why I'm here."

His father began plunging his sword into the corpses Throst had made, kneeling so the blood would splash over him. He paused to vomit, more from his drink rather than the grizzly work. Throst looked away to the main battle lines.

Ulfrik Ormsson's green standard flew high at the tidemark of bodies. The Frankish warlord, Clovis, had been defeated, and while Throst and his father had hid at the outskirts of the battle, they would share in its glory. Throst regretted he did not have a chance to test himself in the shieldwall. Ulfrik did not know his name, but he would if he had witnessed Throst's mastery of sword and shield.

Farther down the action, he saw women and children stripping dead Franks of their valuables before the men returned to claim their share. Some were Franks and others Northmen, but all were despairing and poor camp-followers. He stared at the women as his father finished disguising his cowardice with enemy blood. Throst's own woman was among them, and he saw her hefting an armload of weapons and other valuables.

"What's that?" his father asked as he came to his side. He followed Throst's stare, then placed an arm on his shoulder. "Your girl? Ain't never going to bring her home to your Ma? She wants you to marry better than a camp-follower."

"She's not a camp-follower." Throst shoved his father's freshly blooded hand from his shoulder. "She's here because I told her to follow."

"Does whatever you tell her? Now that's a good girl. Not like your Ma. Gotta hit her a few times before she listens."

As they watched, a group of Ulfrik's men were walking fast toward the scavengers. In a blink, Throst's woman disappeared from sight, drawing a surprised laugh from his father.

"There's a useful trick. Where'd the lass go?"

"She's like a fox in tall grass," Throst said, a touch of pride in his voice.

His father remained quiet as they observed Ulfrik's men dragging the women from their gathered treasures. The silence grew strong, and Throst turned to his father. His brow wrinkled in thought. Throst tapped his arm to rouse him, but he did not take his eyes from the field.

"You should have your girl come to Ravndal and serve Jarl Ulfrik. A talent like hers shouldn't be wasted on picking junk from a battlefield. She'd do anything you tell her to do?"

"She'd fall on a sword if I asked."

His father grunted with satisfaction. "That's a good girl. Keep her that way. Keep her close to the jarl and to you, but tell no one. We'll learn things, useful things."

Throst smiled at the idea. The Frank he had left to bleed had still not passed into death. He let out a low groan, and Throst stepped beside him. The pasty white face met his, and thick blood flowed over the Frank's lips. He mouthed a plea for death.

Turning away, he left the Frank suffering in the bloody muck.

Frankia, November 892 C.E.

It was a day made for death. A day schemed by the gods and Fates, and none of the people gathered at the hanging tree heard the gods' laughter. None saw the black thread pulled into the weave of their lives.

Ulfrik positioned his eldest son, Gunnar, at his right and mounted the lichen spattered rock that the gods had long ago set beside the hanging tree. The rock served as a natural platform from which to address the bloodthirsty throng. Over the contorted faces of warriors, old women, and children, he gazed at the black shape of Ravndal perched atop a hill taller than any other in the valley. The demands for justice echoed across the fields to Ravndal's stockade walls. The gods had made this place for hanging, and Ulfrik had strung plenty from the hoary elm during his years. Nothing had ever come from a hanging but justice and a swinging corpse left for ravens and wolves. His judgment was swift and final.