Uhtred was nervous. It would be the first time he’d done such a thing without the weight of his familiar, grim-faced sword. He was not a superstitious man by nature, but there was something disconcerting about this foreign piece of metal on his back. It was necessary, however; the weapon had become a sort of symbol, something easily recognizable and hard to play off.
He was covered with soot, as were the others that clustered on the roadside. The new moon provided cover for them in the tree line, making them shadows among the rustling leaves carried by a light, eastern breeze. He had picked good men. Some of them were knights more accustomed to work on foot, while others were a mix of guardsmen and ignoble personalities that he’d accumulated over the years for this sort of work.
The prince drew his sword and rubbed it in soot, dulling the possible glimmer that might betray them when the torches caught the metal. The others followed suit, some going so far as to blacken their teeth with mud or ink. The smell would stay with them for days, he knew. They would have to be sequestered from the rest of the populace until they had bathed properly; soldiers were not necessarily known for cleanliness.
After hours of waiting, Uhtred began to see a pattern in the camp. They were nervous, but the later the night became, the less zealous they were to patrol. The prince had counted the time until they were relieved; there were hours to go, and a man could become weary in that span of time. So he counted again, keeping an eye on the camp while his hands finished the dulling of his sword.
When the time came, he gave a nod to his compatriots. There were far more in reserve than those who would go into the camp. He had no intention of staying and fighting a pitched battle. This was to be a quick, whirlwind strike, and the hairs on his neck were raised when he finally paused to lift his eyes skyward in silent prayer. There was soot on his face, and perhaps that was enough for God to hear him. Almost as a last thought, Uhtred tied a rope onto the pommel of the sword. Men notched arrows into their bows, with their swords in the ground to pull after release.
They moved.
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Helka was not happy with his place guarding the wagons. The night was black and the breeze was cold against his skin. Worse, there had been a dispute, and the man was certain that he was watching over the guard as a punishment.
The man kicked at the ground, wiping the oil from his brow as he eyed one of the wagons. There was so much of it! How easy would it have been to bring a couple men into his confidence? Put himself on one of the wagons and ride somewhere, anywhere? Kill the men who’d been foolish enough to go with him? He could live a life fit for all of his years of service.
There was a distinct sound, like the snapping of twine, and Helka found himself unnerved by it. He turned his head to one of the sentries in time to see arrow shafts bristling from his throat and chest. There were shapes in the darkness. A dull burst of glimmer slashed a mighty gouge into a man’s neck, and he sank down to gurgle and whistle, his feet throbbing against the camp’s floor with a disjointed rhythm. Helka should have shouted. He wanted to shout.
He could not shout.
The rope that found his neck was strong, and it nearly snapped the bone when it was pulled taut. There was a sword in his peripherals, but it did not move except to shake, held by a hand. Helka could see a blurring line from the pommel, one that ran all the way to his-
-
Uhtred recognized the man. He had spoken to him when the negotiations had ensued, and knew him to be one of Ulrika’s bodyguard. That made the prince nervous. His eyes darted for signs of the king woman. It would not do to have her see them. Sight would lead to questions, and they were not of a variety that he cared to answer.
There were mere moments to spare. The men who guarded the wagons died quickly, which left a window open. Uhtred wiped the soot off of a portion of his sword and lifted it up, catching the light of the torches. The signal triggered the soft clapping sounds of work horses who were quietly led into the camp. They were tied to the wagons, and the soldiers fanned out around them in preparation to defend.
A mesh of leafless branches were tied to the last two wagons to cover the trail that the wheels and hooves would undoubtedly leave, and they scraped at the ground when the wagons creaked to life. The soldiers climbed aboard to be extricated just as men were beginning to come alive elsewhere in the camp. Uhtred held up his sword again to signal the archers, and then dropped it as evidence. The rope was key: it was a popular trend among bandits to tie ropes to their weapons, so that they could garrote a man quietly.
The arrow barrage came in steady volleys, split into two clusters to cover the escape of the wagon. Men died as they emerged from their tents, and finally there was a clamour. Unfortunately for the Nyrthlonders, Uhtred was already off of the road, making his way to the ferry boats that would speed their travel far beyond the marching ability of foot soldiers.
Uhtred’s smirk was as wide as the river mouth.
Wed Jun 17, 2009 12:11 am