Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [176]
For a moment the Vikings paused. They were looking at Osgar and Brian Boru.
Osgar had not been watching the king. To his surprise, he realised that Brian was still in the same position, slumped in his seat, where they had been praying together. There was a sword leaning against the back of the seat, but Brian had not bothered to reach for it. Until this moment, paralysed by fear, Osgar had not moved; but now, faced with death, instead of terror he felt an unexpected anger. He was going to die and no one, not even Brian Boru the warrior king, was going to do anything about it. The axe Morann had dropped was at his feet. Scarcely knowing what he was doing, he snatched it up.
The shield wall had collapsed. The rest of the Vikings were coming into the enclosure, but evidently the man with the scarred face was the leader, since they all kept behind him. Then the dark man pointed his sword at Brian and spoke.
“King.”
The leader looked from Osgar to Brian, then shook his head.
“No, Sigurd. Priest.”
“No, Brodar.” Sigurd was grinning as he pointed his sword at Brian’s white beard. “King.”
And now Brian Boru moved. Quick as a flash, with remarkable agility, he reached back over his head as he sat, grasped the sword behind him; and almost in the same instant it flashed forward, striking Brodar in the leg. As the sword bit, the Viking chief let out a roar and with a mighty swing brought down his axe on the old king’s neck, smashing the collarbone and opening a huge gash. Brian rocked, blood burst from his mouth, his eyes opened very wide, and he keeled over on his side.
And now Sigurd stepped forward with his broad, two-edged sword. Somewhere behind the swarthy Viking, Osgar heard someone say, “Priest,” but he hardly took it in. As he came towards Osgar, he wore a curious smile. Osgar, clutching his axe across his chest, backed away. Slowly Sigurd brought the blade of his sword up in front of Osgar’s face, showing it to him.
Osgar shook. He was going to die. Should he accept death like a Christian martyr? Earlier, he had not been able to bring himself to kill. But now? Even if he raised the axe to strike at Sigurd’s head, the swarthy pirate would plunge the fearsome sword through his rib cage before the axe had even started to descend.
As Osgar hesitated, Sigurd, taking no notice of the axe at all, took two steps up to the monk and, lowering his sword so that the flat of the blade caressed Osgar’s leg, brought his face so close to Osgar’s that their noses almost touched. His eyes stared into Osgar’s with a cold, terrifying menace. Osgar felt the sword blade slowly moving up his leg. Dear God, the pirate was about to stab it, with a terrible force, into his stomach. He would see his own entrails burst out. Only half aware of it, he vaguely felt a warm wetness running down his legs.
And then, suddenly, without warning, opening his mouth wide as though he was going to bite him, Sigurd the pirate let out a huge, bloodcurdling roar, into his face.
“Aarrgh! Aarrgh!”
And before a third was even out, Osgar had turned and fled, fled for his life, running as fast as he knew how, his legs wet, his face cold with terror. He did not even hear the laughter of the men behind him, but ran northwards, away from Sigurd, away from the battle, away from Dyflin. He did not stop until, breathless and panting, he reached the edge of the Plain of Bird Flocks and realised that there was no one behind him and that all was silence.
Brodar was bleeding badly; Brian’s blow had almost severed his leg. Down by the water, the Munster king’s forces had still not realised what had happened to him, but there was no time to lose.
Sigurd looked around him. When Brodar had pointed to the enclosure and