Chapter Twenty
Once the boat had made landfall, the Britons seemed to hold position for a while. Perhaps they were securing it or simply waiting to see if their arrival had raised any alarms.
Tormod kept his eyes on the spot where he knew them to be, although the Britons had chosen their landing place well. Well enough that Tormod guessed at least one of them was a previous resident of the peninsula.
Three, four, five sets of feet splashed into the water, then a sixth. The men huddled for a moment, low voices no longer carrying. They didn’t duck or head for the rocks, as they seemed certain no one was watching them.
Tormod froze when he heard movement from behind him and a seventh man made his way down the jagged rocks to join the others.
“Their guards are dead,” this man said when he arrived at the group.
“The villagers are mostly in the hall. It is a feast night. They celebrate Midsummer like the pagans they are. Oh, and I saw their jarl and the Lady Aoife outside, heading for near here I believe, but there is no sign of them now.” The man laughed.
“They did not seem happy with one another. If she is killed, it will be easy to blame the Norse for it. And we can use that to justify our actions in defence of her.”
Tormod noticed one man did not laugh with the others and indeed stood a little way off to the side. The dissenter from the boat, perhaps.
“I waited north of here in case they found that the guards were dead. I was nearly caught by one of the scum rutting like a beast with a woman.”
Bjorn and Ylva, no doubt. Tormod held his breath.
“It meant I couldn’t watch the village, but they are still feasting, although it seems to have grown quieter in the last while. They are drunk most likely, in their hall, waiting for their dead guards to warn them.”
Tormod clenched his fists at the mocking laughter.
“Now, start with the livestock and then burn the houses, quickly and quietly. Try not to let anyone raise the alarm. We are outnumbered and they fight like the very devil himself.”
“And the Lady Aoife?” the man who stood to one side asked.
“We are to spare no one.”
“But…”
“No one.”
Much as Tormod detested this man, he could tell the idea of killing a kinswoman did not sit well with him. Finally he grunted in what Tormod took for agreement and the men set off towards the village.
He did not think their plan was a good one.
Were they so confident they would win? It seemed a foolish thought, given that in less than a hundred years these people had lost more and more of their land to invaders from every direction.
Perhaps this was why. It was likely each man carried a knife and a long sword with a shield that was heavy, far heavier than those used by the Norse.
It made them slow and often the shields were useless as it took so long for them to get into place that Norse axes and swords had already done their job.
Tormod offered up a prayer to Thor, his namesake.
Even at this darkest point of the night, there was still a glimmer of light as dawn fought to pull its way over the mountains to the east. He could see the men still moving as a group.
They would be completely surrounded once he moved into place between them and their boat.
He waited just a moment longer, then moved quietly across the shingle, his own footsteps masked by those of his enemy.
One of them must have heard him and started to turn.
Tormod crouched low to the ground, waiting.
He was sure it was the one who had not wanted to harm Aoife but he couldn’t be sure.
When he turned back and followed the others, Tormod stood and took two heavy steps forward.
Around the edge of the beach he saw Ulf, Bjorn and Arne and many other warriors.
The group in the centre panicked, and with loud yells ran at the Norsemen. One even turned and saw him.
Tormod wondered why they did not hold their tight circle in the middle—it would have been a far more defensible position, but the fear in the eyes of the man who charged him answered that.
Raising his shield to block the man’s sword, he swung his axe and cried out with the passion for fighting that had been bred into his people for generations, the thrill of battle emptying his mind of other concerns.
At his cry, the Norsemen attacked. All ready to die and be assured of their place in Valhalla.
The battle, such as it was, did not rage long. Winning or losing was never the question for Tormod. He knew his people would win. This place was his. The Britons were too concerned with living and not concerned enough with winning. They fought as individuals, none truly willing to die.
He swung his axe once more at the man in front of him.
Only the man’s last-minute attempt to dodge saved him.
The side of his head made contact with the shaft of Tormod’s axe and he fell to the ground, not dead, merely unconscious.
Tormod stepped over him to carry on fighting, but found that no other was left alive.
Bjorn moved to stand over the survivor, and Ulf placed his sword at his throat.
“Chain him!” Tormod ordered. He caught a glimpse of disappointment in Ulf’s eye. Bjorn’s expression was almost impossible to read. “He may have much to tell us.”
“Very well,” Ulf said, his tone not matching his words.