“Halt,” he shouted. “King’s guard, halt.”
“What is it, man?” the driver hollered back. “If I stop, we’ll be stuck.”
“Pull up,” Hod insisted, but the driver and the mounted guard around him paid him no heed.
“There are men concentrated in the trees half a mile ahead,” he yelled, but the driver cracked his whip, still spurring the horses forward. “I don’t like it.”
He’d not traveled from Berne to the temple mount, and the way was unfamiliar, but the distant, clustered heartbeats he could hear—two dozen to the left, another dozen on the right—seemed to float above the ground, indicating bodies in the trees. The men hiding in the trees did not converse, and he couldn’t divine their motives, but it was obvious that they were awaiting the caravan.
“What are you shouting about, Northman? We are one hundred strong and we ride under the king’s banner. ’Tis naught but a few scared clanless taking shelter beneath the boughs,” the guard nearest him grumbled back.
The caravan trundled along, the slog—and the messenger—making them foolish and resistant to his warning.
“Banruud!” he shouted, but the king, near the front of the convoy, did not rein his mount or give any indication he’d heard the warning, and the men around Hod protested his disrespect.
“The king doesn’t take orders from a blind Northman,” another man reprimanded him.
“Who does he think he is?” This comment came from a guard in front of the carriage. They were hearing him, but they didn’t draw up.
“He rides like a lady all day but can’t abide the wet,” someone else mumbled. They’d laughed at his refusal to use a horse and mocked him when they thought he couldn’t hear.
The driver kept on, ignoring his pleas, and the guard on either side demanded that he cease his yammering.
They weren’t going to listen or even alert the riders in front of them, and he wasn’t going to run alongside them, waving his arms. He’d do more good right where he was.
He could hear the women inside the carriage. They were awake and listening.
“Princess Alba,” he directed. “Liis of Leok, get down on the floor and brace yourselves.”
Their immediate movement indicated they had not disregarded his instructions, praise Odin. He scrambled up onto the carriage roof, grateful it was sturdy and well constructed, with cleats for an archer to balance between. He shrugged off his bow and centered his shield beneath his quiver.
The driver cursed and swung his whip, thinking Hod had come to take his reins. Hod could only turn his head against the snap, unable to guard against it, balanced as he was.
“Mind the road, man,” he ordered, and he nocked an arrow and drew back on his bow. Then he waited for the hiss that confirmed his instincts. He would not be the first to shoot.
“The Northman’s taking the carriage,” someone yelled, and for a second he feared they would turn their weapons on him.
“Ambush!” someone yelled a moment before his voice caught in a gurgling sigh. His horse shrieked beneath him, and a volley of arrows rained into the king’s caravan.
“In the trees!” the captain of the guard boomed. “They’re in the trees.”
The carriage driver started to pull up, but it was too late for that.
“Go, go, go,” Hod roared. “And don’t slow.”
An arrow nicked his sleeve and he returned fire, his legs screaming as the carriage rocked, and the horses bolted. One, two, three thundering hearts. One . . . two . . . three shots. One, two, three falling bodies.
Banruud was trying to give orders, hollering from the back of his rearing horse. An arrow whistled toward him as another sank into the chest of the man to his left. Hod swiveled and aimed again, releasing three more arrows in quick succession in the direction of the wailing, incoming volleys. The man who’d almost killed the king careened from his perch and another landed in the undergrowth, the crash and snap signaling his fall.
Hod found three more beating hearts and silenced them, one by one, and thought for a moment the skirmish had been quelled; the attackers in the trees were falling or fleeing, but the dead and dying littered the way, and the carriage was not built for the battlefield. Ghisla screamed his name and Alba begged Odin for protection as the front axle snapped and a wheel split in two. The carriage flipped, tossing Hod and the driver into the air and sending the women inside on a perilous ride.
Hod landed on his back in the mud, his bow still clasped in his hands, but his shield sent him spinning across the mire like a child sledding across the snow and tossed him into a hedge. He lay stunned for five seconds, his breath knocked from his chest, his senses scrambled.
“Hod!” Ghisla screamed his name again, and he rolled, coming to his knees to meet the ongoing threat. Horses reared and men ran, and all was chaos and cacophony around him. He couldn’t distinguish foe from friend, not when the men he fought beside were as unfamiliar as those who sought to kill him. The trees had emptied.
Someone ran at him, swinging a blade, and he brought up his bow and released an arrow, point blank, into his assailant’s chest. The man fell on top of him, his breath rattling through his lips, as an arrow meant for Hod hissed through the air and buried itself in his back.
“My thanks, kind sir,” Hod whispered, patting the dead man’s cheek. He heaved him to the side and reached for his staff, but it had come loose in his fall. He gritted his teeth, raised his bow, and held his position as he listened to the mayhem around him, trying to distinguish who needed killing. It was like sifting through sand looking for a seed, and he raged against his limitations.
Banruud had dismounted. His heart pounded, the only recognizable rhythm in the thunderous haze. Hod couldn’t hear Ghisla or Alba. His terror ballooned and he bit it back, forcing them from his thoughts. He was no good to them if he was dead.
Someone rushed the king from behind, lungs rasping, heart wailing, and Hod released his arrow, glad to have an obvious target. He listened as it found its mark; the man’s heart slowed . . . then dropped . . . and his howl of attack became a whoosh of air that bid goodbye to the ground.
Banruud swore and said Hod’s name, acknowledging the rescue. The ruckus swelled to a fever pitch, dancing feet and clashing blades, the movements too intermingled for Hod to enter the fray, and then someone yelled, the sound triumphant, and a chorus of cheers rose in answer.
The battle was won.
Thank Odin.
Hod rose to his feet, unsteady, and went to find Ghisla.
Had Hod not warned them, it would have been much worse. The carriage was broken, the wheels split and the door caved in, but Ghisla and Alba were unharmed. They’d knocked heads as the carriage rolled, and Alba’s eyes were already blackening, but they crawled out of the window and climbed down the wreckage when the cry of victory went up.
The driver limped toward them, his whip still clutched in his hand, his left arm tucked against his side, and Ghisla searched the wreckage for Hod, dread and terror warring within her. She’d screamed his name when the carriage rolled, unable to help herself, but she dare not call for him now.
One horse had a broken leg, one a broken neck. Two still stood in their harnesses, waiting to be rescued, and they nibbled at the grass at their feet as if nothing were amiss, but the worst of the battle scene was behind them.