Warriors of the Storm by Bernard Cornwell Page A

turned to see three riders following us. We were in open country with nowhere to hide, but I cursed myself for carelessness. I had been daydreaming, trying to decide what Ragnall would do, and I had not looked behind. If we had seen the three men earlier we might have turned away into a copse or thicket, but now there was no avoiding the horsemen, who were coming fast.
    ‘I’ll talk to them,’ I told Berg, then turned my horse and waited.
    The three were young, none more than twenty years old. Their horses were good, spirited and brisk. All three wore mail, though none had a shield or helmet. They spread out as they approached, and then curbed their horses some ten paces away. They wore their hair long and had the inked patterns on their faces that told me they were Northmen, but what else did I expect on this side of the river? ‘I wish you good morning,’ I said politely.
    The young man in the centre of the three kicked his horse forward. His mail was good, his sword scabbard was decorated with silver panels, while the hammer about his neck glinted with gold. He had long black hair, oiled and smoothed, then gathered with a black ribbon at the nape of his neck. He looked at my horse, then up at me, then gazed at Serpent-Breath. ‘That’s a good sword, Grandad.’
    ‘It’s a good sword,’ I said mildly.
    ‘Old men don’t need swords,’ he said, and his two companions laughed.
    ‘My name,’ I still spoke softly, ‘is Hefring Fenirson and this is my son, Berg Hefringson.’
    ‘Tell me, Hefring Fenirson,’ the young man said, ‘why you ride eastwards.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Because Jarl Ragnall is calling men to his side, and you ride away from him.’
    ‘Jarl Ragnall has no need of old men,’ I said.
    ‘True, but he has need of young men.’ He looked at Berg.
    ‘My son has no skill with a sword,’ I said. In truth Berg was lethally fast with a blade, but there was an innocence to his face that suggested he might have no love for fighting. ‘And who,’ I asked respectfully, ‘are you?’
    He hesitated, plainly reluctant to give me his name, then shrugged as if to suggest it did not matter. ‘Othere Hardgerson,’ he said.
    ‘You came with the ships from Ireland?’ I asked.
    ‘Where we are from is none of your concern,’ he said. ‘Did you swear loyalty to Jarl Ragnall?’
    ‘I swear loyalty to no man,’ I said, and that was true. Æthelflaed had my oath.
    Othere sneered at that. ‘You are a jarl, perhaps?’
    ‘I am a farmer.’
    ‘A farmer,’ he said derisively, ‘has no need of a fine horse. He has no need of a sword. He has no need of a coat of mail, even that rusty coat. And as for your son,’ he kicked his horse past mine to stare at Berg, ‘if he cannot fight then he too has no need of mail, sword or horse.’
    ‘You wish to buy them?’ I asked.
    ‘Buy them!’ Othere laughed at that suggestion. ‘I will give you a choice, old man,’ he said, turning back to me. ‘You can ride with us and swear loyalty to Jarl Ragnall or you can give us your horses, weapons, and mail, and go on your way. Which is it to be?’
    I knew Othere’s kind. He was a young warrior, raised to fight and taught to despise any man who did not earn a living with a sword. He was bored. He had come across the sea on the promise of land and plunder, and though Ragnall’s present caution was doubtless justified, it had left Othere frustrated. He was being forced to wait while Ragnall gathered more men, and those men were evidently being recruited from Northumbria, from the Danes and Norsemen who had settled that riven country. Othere, ordered to the dull business of patrolling the river’s northern bank to guard against any Saxon incursion across the Mærse, wanted to start the conquest of Britain, and if Ragnall would not lead him into battle then he would seek a fight of his own. Besides, Othere was an over-confident young bully, and what did he have to fear from an old man?
    I suppose I was old. My beard