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  ‘About time those lazy bastards got here!’ Ulrich said, a fierce, triumphant grin on his face. ‘That should be Skar and the rest of the lads.’

  The ordered line of Guthfrith’s men dissolved before their eyes as they halted their advance, suddenly aware of a new threat behind them. Then the line split asunder and new warriors came pouring through the gap.

  It was the Wolf Coats, armed and ready for war. Their wolfskin cloaks were fastened over their chainmail brynjas. The heads of the wolves pulled up over their helmets so the ears of the beasts pointed upward. They looked like half men, half beasts. Each man carried a sword, an axe or a spear and each of their round shields bore a painting of an animal: either a wolf, a raven or an eagle, the creatures sacred to Odin. In the lead was Skar, unmistakable by his height, a big, long-handled axe in his hands. The others fanned out on either side of him to make an arrowhead formation that punched through the centre of the Dubliners’ lines like a warm blade through butter. Those who did not get out of the way were hacked down and trampled into the mud.

  ‘You knew they were coming all along?’ Ivar said to Ulrich. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’

  Ulrich grinned. ‘It would have spoiled the surprise.’

  The Wolf Coats, now they had pierced through Guthfrith’s line, kept charging until they were all in front of the Dubliners. Skar stopped and spun around. With impressive discipline, the others ran past him then did the same so that the arrow head formation was reversed. They now faced the shattered melee that moments before had been an ordered line of advancing men. In the delta behind the Wolf Coats was the door of the hut the Orkneymen were in.

  Einar felt a surge of hope. They were still outnumbered, and Guthfrith’s men were already re-forming, but at least now they stood a chance of getting away.

  ‘Let’s get out of this shithole,’ Ulrich shouted. ‘Same as before, but now keep yourself behind my men. Except you, Sigurd. Take your place in the shield line.’

  Sigurd nodded and trotted out the door to join his comrades. Einar glanced back at the wounded men lying around the floor of the hut, then Affreca put herself between him and them, locking eyes with him in a reproachful glare as she slowly shook her head.

  ‘Stay behind me,’ Ivar said to Einar. ‘I’ll lead with the sword.’

  The Orkneymen quickly jostled out the door of the hut and fell in behind the Wolf Coats. Ahead, Guthfrith’s men had regained their composure and reformed a ragged shield wall that now faced them, stretching right across the enclosure. The only way out to the gate was through it.

  ‘What kept you?’ Ulrich shouted to Skar.

  The big man glanced over his shoulder and said, ‘Dublin is such an interesting place. We took time to see the sights. Ready?’

  ‘Ready,’ Ulrich confirmed. He turned to the Orkneymen. ‘We’re going to charge. My men will punch a hole through the Dubliners. The rest of you run through the gap. Once you get to the gate keep going and don’t stop until you reach the ship. Now go! For Odin!’

  The Úlfhéðnar let out a roar so loud and packed with such ferocity it even made Einar jump. They powered forward. He, Ivar and the rest ran as fast as they could after them, desperate not to be left behind.

  This time the Dubliners were ready and the previous ease with which the Wolf Coats had pierced their line was not repeated. The formation hit the shield wall and stopped. There came the clatter of shields hitting shields and the ring of weapons clashing. Skar swung his great axe, smashing it down on the man who stood before him, once, twice; then Einar could not tell whether the blade found its mark or the warrior just crumpled under the terrifying impact of Skar’s blows but he went down, opening a gap in the shield wall.

  Skar pushed into the gap, working to widen it by punching with his shield to his left while hacking at the flank of the Dubliner on his right. The axe caught the warrior across the back of the thighs, opening up a deep wound that welled up with bright crimson blood as the man screeched and fell to his knees. Skar rammed his shield boss into the man’s face, knocking him to the ground, then pushed through to get himself into the space he left in the shield wall.

  The other Wolf Coats saw what he was doing and piled in behind him. With sheer weight of numbers they shoved through the gap, pushing it wider and wider by hacking down men left and right.

  ‘The line is broken. Reform you fools! Reform! To me!’

  Einar heard Guthfrith’s voice shouting above the throng. He glanced and saw the king standing before his hall. Hearing his commands, half of Guthfrith’s men, those who could, extracted themselves from the fight, wheeling round to form a new shield wall to the side, in front of the hall and their king. The rest of the Dubliners’ shield wall dissolved into chaos.

  ‘Now! Run!’ Ivar shouted. The Orkneymen and Affreca barrelled forward, making for the gate of the King’s Gard. Guthfrith saw what was happening and began bellowing at his men to stop them. A spear whipped through the air, sliding with a wet thump into the chest of the man to the right of Einar. He screamed and fell to the ground. Einar felt like screaming himself. His senses were stretched taut like sail ropes as, unarmoured and weaponless, he anticipated the searing pain of a weapon strike landing on his exposed body.

  Ahead of him a Dublin warrior crouched behind his shield, his helmeted head just peeking over the rim, bracing himself to attack. Einar realised he would somehow have to get round this man if he was to get away. Then Ivar lunged forward, driving his sword, blade sideways, over the top of the shield before the warrior could duck further. The point of Ivar’s weapon punched into the eye socket of the warrior’s helmet. He dropped his shield as blood sheeted down the bottom half of his face below the helmet face guard and he collapsed to his knees as if the bones in his legs had suddenly turned to water.

  Then they were at the gates. They had lost a couple more men on the dash across the enclosure. One gate still stood open where Skar and his men had forced their way in and Einar saw a couple of bodies on the ground, presumably belonging to whichever unfortunate members of Guthfrith’s warrior band had been guarding the gates when the Wolf Coats arrived.

  A moment later and they were out of the enclosure and into the street outside. Einar felt exhilaration that perhaps they were going to make it after all. They were still charging at a terrific pace. He felt the muscles in his legs burning as his chest sucked in great gulps of air and he wondered what it was like for the men running in armour. Even Ivar was still ahead of him. The man must be tough as old boiled leather.

  A sudden anxiety gripped Einar and he turned around, his eyes searching for Affreca. She was standing right behind him.

  ‘What are you doing stopping you idiot?’ she shouted. ‘Keep going!’

  They charged downhill along the street outside, their feet pounding on the wooden walkway, their number filling the street from one side to the next in several ranks. They ran in silence, the Úlfhéðnar at the fore; the sight of the contingent of armed, blood-covered men enough to send any Dublin residents scurrying out of the way into their doorways. Looking over his shoulder, Einar saw Guthfrith’s men beginning to emerge from the gates after them. He wondered if they would really be able to make it to the ship and have enough time to launch it before the Dubliners caught up.

  The fugitive crew charged out into the open space of the marketplace, which was still reasonably empty and quiet due to the early hour. They crossed it then entered another narrow street, this one leading down to the harbour. Their ranks bunched together again and they all ran in unison, their feet beating a regular tattoo on the wooden planking beneath them, the only other sounds their heavy breathing and the clink of chainmail. Up ahead he saw a little child, a boy perhaps five or six winters old, playing in the middle of the street. He shouted an incoherent warning as he caught sight of a woman in a nearby doorway, presumably the child’s mother, looking with horror as the men thundered towards them. The child looked up, transfixed but did not move. His mother called out. Einar flinched as he d
isappeared beneath the trampling feet of the charging men before him. His natural instinct was to stop to see if he could help but the moment he slowed he felt a hand shoving forwards in the small of his back.

  ‘Keep running, you fool,’ he heard Ulrich shouting from over his shoulder. ‘Guthfrith’s men are right behind us!’

  They rounded a corner and Einar could see the masts of ships rising above the roofs of the houses and buildings up ahead. They were almost at the harbour. At the end of the street they arrived at the water’s edge and the wide dock where goods were stacked, either having been carried off ships or in preparation to being put on them. The wooden piers, lined with ships, jutted out into the dark, slow-moving water of the river.

  The Úlfhéðnar’s ship was docked on the third pier along. To Einar’s dismay he saw that another group of armed men were already ahead of them, also making for the same pier.

  ‘Guthfrith must have sent them to seize the ship,’ Ulrich shouted. ‘Come on, lads, or we’ll be stuck here.’

  They charged straight onto the wooden pier. Either from the noise or the vibration of their running feet, the Dublin warriors making for the longship realised they were coming and turned to face them. With surprising swiftness, they gathered themselves into a defensive formation that stretched across the narrow pier.

  With the knowledge that the rest of Guthfrith’s men were hot on their heels behind them, there was little for the Wolf Coats and the fugitive men of Orkney to do but charge straight at them. Fighting broke out immediately. Men hacked, slashed, shoved and kicked at each other. Skar raised and smashed his axe down again and again. The harbour was filled with the ringing of metal hitting metal and the screams of injured and dying men. With a roar Ivar swung his sword overhead at the man in his way. The Dublin warrior flinched down behind his shield but he was not quick enough. Ivar’s blade struck his helmet directly on the metal band that protected the crown of his head. There was a dull clang and instead of shearing open the helmet as the sword of Sigurd had done earlier back in the King’s Gard, the blade of Ivar’s weapon snapped in two.

  The Dubliner, delighted to find himself still alive, took full advantage. He lunged with his own sword. Ivar tried to parry the blow but the remaining stump of his own weapon was too short to be effective. The Dubliner’s blade ploughed deep into Ivar’s middle, tearing through his tunic and sliding into his guts. Standing behind him, Einar stared, wide eyed, as the point of the blade burst out through the old man’s back. Ivar roared in a mixture of consternation and pain as he sank to his knees on the pier. The Dubliner wrenched his sword back out of his belly as Ivar went down.

  Einar felt a strange sensation course through him. In an instant all the terror that gripped him, the constant tension that held all his senses in a vice-like grip and all his shock and horror at the violence he had witnessed seemed to dissolve and slip away. Everything around him appeared to be bathed in a strange ochre hue. As his doubts and fears slid away they were replaced by a deep, cold rage. He no longer cared if he lived or died, but he had an overwhelming lust to hurt, destroy and kill the men that stood between him and the ship.

  He snatched up the broken stump of Ivar's sword and hurtled forward. To Einar it seemed that the man before him was moving slowly, like someone trying to run in deep water. Somehow he knew already what the Dubliner was going to do even before he began to strike with his sword. Einar skipped sideways, letting the blade pass behind him, then he punched the stump of the broken sword forwards, driving it beneath the man's helmet visor and gouging an awful wound into his cheek. In the shadowed eye wells of the helmet, Einar saw the man's eyes widen in pain and panic. Several of his top teeth, smashed out of his jaw by Einar's blow, tumbled down into his beard. Einar struck again and again, mercilessly ramming the broken metal into the man's face. The Dubliner flailed his own weapon but the blows went well wide of Einar's body. Einar hacked and slashed. All he wanted to do was kill. He worked the blade under the Dubliner's chin and sawed at the flesh, unleashing a crimson torrent of iron-smelling blood. The man's scream turned to a gurgle as he collapsed to the dock. Still Einar was not done. He kept striking, raining blow after blow on his enemy's head and chest, opening up many deep, gore-filled wounds.

  A hand was laid on his shoulder and Einar jolted, as if startled. The strange red hue that bathed the world around him faded away and he looked about, confused, like a man suddenly woken from deep slumber. He found himself looking into the cold blue eyes of Ulrich.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Ulrich said. ‘Keep moving.’

  The Dubliners on the pier were too few and the fugitives too desperate to let them stand in their way of escape for long. In moments they had been hacked down and their corpses lay like gutted fish, bleeding over the dock into the water. The way to the Úlfhéðnar’s longship opened up.

  A couple of the Wolf Coats had stayed behind to guard the vessel and they had already loosed the mooring ropes so that the boat was floating free and ready to go. The sail was unfurled and waiting for the wind to fill it.

  As the rest of their warband and the remaining Orkneymen piled off the dock and into the ship, the Wolf Coats on board began shoving with long poles away from the pier. Einar looked down and saw Ivar was still breathing. He grabbed the old man’s tunic and hauled him down the last few yards of the pier, then hefted him over the side into the ship. Ivar cried out in pain as he crashed into the belly of the boat. The gap between the ship and the pier was widening and Einar had to leap to make it. He landed half in and half out, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. Seeing him dangling over the side, others rushed to him and pulled him on board.

  ‘Oars! Oars!’ Ulrich shouted. ‘Row for your lives!’

  Behind them the rest of the king’s warriors arrived at the docks and began running down the pier towards the departing longship. Einar looked around, shocked at how few men were left from their original band. There were still enough to row the ship, however, and they took seats on the benches.

  ‘What’s she doing here?’ Ulrich bellowed, noticing for the first time that Affreca was still with them.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ the princess said. ‘I’m not staying here. Do you think my father and my dearest betrothed will want me now?’

  Ulrich frowned. ‘You’re lucky I don’t have time to throw you over the side,’ he said. ‘Well, I’m sorry your highness but the rule on this ship is that everyone rows, so if you don’t want to swim back to daddy then take a seat.’

  Affreca scowled and sat on a rowing bench. Einar slid into the bench behind her and grasped an oar, manhandling the blade end into the water.

  ‘It’s not hard—’ Einar began, about to demonstrate how to hold an oar.

  ‘Shut up,’ Affreca cut him off. ‘I’ve been rowing boats since I was a wee girl.’

  ‘Row!’ Ulrich cried and the crew all pulled together. The sleek longship surged forward, away from the harbour of Dublin and out into the wide, dark waters of the river. As they headed for the sea Einar glanced round, seeing the tall figure of Guthfrith and the brightly dressed Hrolf arriving at the pier. Even at the distance between them he could almost feel the hatred in their glares.

  Breathless and sweating from the effort of rowing, nevertheless Einar’s face broke into a smile.

  Thirty-Six

  King Guthfrith launched ships to chase them, but the Úlfhéðnar snekkja was too fast. A short distance from the harbour the sails filled with wind and, with the reduced numbers on board, it was able to sail even faster than before. By the time they reached the mouth of the river they had already left the pursuing ships behind. Once into the sea Ulrich turned the steering oar and the boat began to head north. When it was obvious that they had definitely got away, Ulrich allowed the crew to put the oars away.

  On one side the ship slid past the dark coast of Ireland. On the other was the open sea that disappeared to the horizon. As the sun rose higher behind grey clouds it started to rain and soon drops were hissing down into
the deep green sea all around the boat. The ship’s company took cover under cloaks and sealskin jerkins. Grateful for the rest, they lolled around.

  Einar stood up and walked down the ship. He felt light headed yet his arms and legs seemed heavy, like they were made of stone, and his body was bathed with cold sweat. His shoulders ached. When he reached the mast he stopped and leaned against it, glad of the support it gave his exhausted muscles.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  He felt a touch on his arm and turned to see Affreca was standing beside him. He was relieved that she looked as tired as him.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘What about you? You must be gutted that your own father would act like that. I can’t believe it myself.’

  Affreca gave a weary smile. ‘I am not King Guthfrith’s only child. He has many by many wives. Three are dead. He killed one of them himself. Two ran away in case the same thing happened to them. My new stepmother – she’s my second by the way – hates me. She uses any excuse to beat me. I spent every hour I could away from the Kings Gard and off hunting or just staying out of the way.’

  Einar frowned. ‘That sounds terrible,’ he said. ‘I understand now why you were so quick to leave with us.’

  ‘Daughters are expendable, father used to say, anytime he thought we’d got above ourselves,’ Affreca continued. She was smiling but her eyes were bright with tears. ‘Good for peace marriages and bearing grandsons. Sons can be an asset or an enemy.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like Guthfrith is much of a father,’ Einar commented, wary of the raw emotion he could see in Affreca and unsure what to do about it.

  ‘He’s a king,’ Affreca said with a shrug. ‘And that always comes first.’

  Einar saw Ulrich approaching.

  ‘So much for your wonder swords,’ Einar called to the little Wolf Coat as he pulled the broken stump of Ivar’s sword from inside his tunic. It was still clotted with dried blood.