CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

GOLDEN EYES SHONE LIKE TORCHES THROUGH THE GRAY MIST drifting among the skeletal trees. Beneath the wind hissing across the silver water, Harald Redteeth could hear the whispers of the alfar as they watched the world of men. They were warning of the raven-harvests to come. A crow cautioned him as it swooped across the still landscape. When he peered into the mirror-surfaces of the lakes, he saw the yawning skulls of the dead looking back at him from the other world. Oblivious, the Normans rode on, along the edge of the stinking marshland where stagnant pools reflected the lowering sky. But Harald listened, and he heeded.

Scouts galloped back from one of the islands rising out of a sea of reeds in a brown bog, their tunics smeared with mud where they had crawled on their bellies. Aldous Wyvill listened to their insistent reports and nodded. The rebels milled about, not yet realizing their end was upon them, Harald overheard, and Hereward was there, with the monk. The Viking’s fingers folded around the haft of his notched axe. What would it take to send the English warrior to the Gray Lands? In Flanders, Redteeth had been convinced he had struck a killing blow, but still the life-bane had survived. Now his quest had become more than a matter of vengeance. The alfar had told him that there had to be a balance in life and only one of them could continue on the road in the days to come. Hereward or Harald. Harald or Hereward.

Urging his horse alongside the Norman commander, the red-bearded mercenary said, “Hereward is more than a man. He is ridden like a mare by some night-walker, and he has all the powers of the dark world on his side. You must take special care with him.”

Aldous eyed Harald with contempt, then glanced back to see if the superstitious comment had affected his knights. The Viking was used to the look, and cared little. Fools lay everywhere.

“No risks will be taken,” the commander replied, turning his attention away from Redteeth to study the approach to the island. “We will strike quickly and hard before the rebels have a chance to mount a defense.” Looking across the boggy ground, he turned up his nose. “If we could use our cavalry, this would be over in the blink of an eye. As it is, we are still better armed than they.” He smiled at the chink of the heavy mail hauberks and the swords rattling against thighs.

Harald settled back into the rhythm of his mount and continued to listen to the whispers from the trees.

On the edge of the bog, the knights dismounted and left their horses with two of the young hands who had accompanied them from the hall. A narrow, low ridge of grassland ran toward the foot of the island. The Viking scrutinized the dense bank of black trees covering most of the island and the marshland and floodlands surrounding it. The rebels had chosen their camp well, he thought. But if the English were not prepared for the attack, their new home would be the perfect trap, with little opportunity to flee across the causeway that stretched across the water on the western side.

Aldous raised one hand to draw his men in line on top of the grass ridge. Harald settled into position midway along the column. The knights kept low, moving slowly so they would not be heard. The Viking sniffed the air. Woodsmoke. Two campfires, perhaps three.

At the foot of the island, the gray mist swirled among the willows and ashes. Harald smacked his lips, tasting the blood that was to come. As the knights steadily climbed the slope, muffled voices floated back through the fog. The rebels sounded busy. Preparing to flee, Harald wondered? Finding a position to make a stand?

When the calls and chatter were clearly close at hand, Aldous raised his hand again to bring his men to a halt. Whisking his arm left and right, he ordered them to move out in a line. The scouts had told him the island summit was flat and sloped gently down to the bog on the far side. A tune meandering through his head, Harald resisted the urge to whistle as he gripped his axe. He fixed his eyes on the Norman commander. The whispers of the alfar faded away. Silence fell.

Holding his hand high, the Norman commander waited, listening to the ebb and flow of voices. All eyes were upon him. He whisked the arm down. “Dex aie!” he called in his own tongue. God aid us.

Echoing the cry, the knights rushed up the final few steps of the slope and over the rim. Through the mist, Harald saw the English scatter like rabbits. There were fewer than he had anticipated.

Careering down the incline, the footfalls of the heavily armored Normans sounded like thunder. Harald outpaced them all. His eyes darted this way and that, searching for Hereward. A rebel in a brown tunic bounded through the ferns to his left. Two men disappeared into the mist to his right. The ghosts of others flitted ahead.

Plunging down the slope, Harald realized the fog was growing thicker still. He saw that all but one of the knights on either side had disappeared from view as they followed the muffled yells echoing from across the island.

His breath rasping in the chill air, the Viking skidded to a halt on the edge of a bog. He had reached the far side of the small island. The knight clanked to a stop beside him, then began to range along the edge of the marsh, looking around.

His senses tingling, Harald dropped to his knees to examine the muddy ground. It had not been churned up by fleeing feet.

“No one came this way,” he grunted.

The Norman ignored him, prowling past hanging willows.

The red-bearded mercenary stood up and tried to pierce the dense fog. Deep in the cave of his head, the voices of his ancestors rang out in warning. “Wait,” he cautioned. “Something is wrong here.” The knight stopped, lifting a sweep of branches with his sword.

Silence fell across the island. No fearful shouts or cries of fleeing rebels. Harald raised his axe, turning slowly.

From somewhere nearby, a throat-tearing scream shattered the quiet. Then another. And another.

Death cries, the Viking warrior knew.

The Normans had been too confident, he saw now. He felt sure the rebels had been aware of the impending attack and prepared for it, and he was not about to risk his life finding out the truth. “Return to the horses,” he called to the knight, as he began to move back up the slope. “We have lost the advantage here.”

He glanced back to see if the man was following and noticed large bubbles bursting on the surface of a pool in the bog. The knight turned just as a figure rose up from the depths, black slurry streaming off him. White eyes appeared in the mud-dark face, and then white teeth in a triumphant grin.

Rooted, the knight could only stare as Hereward’s blade flashed toward his neck.