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along the shore, just as they had left them. Men carrying torches walked among the hulls, directing men to their ships or helping to launch others into the river. Mord ordered his own men to locate their vessel and fetch him once they were ready to leave. He sat on a fallen log and began rubbing his calves.
    He had pitched headlong down the hill, along with all of Hrolf's forces, and broke through the thin Frankish resistance. It had not even been a resistance. The Franks were so ready to believe in a surprise attack that they had scrambled at the slightest provocation. Mord and his fellows had only to march through them as the Franks fled the so-called attack. None had pursued them up the banks, probably expecting a trap, and so the enemy had let Hrolf and his hundreds upon hundreds of men melt away into the night.
    Another victory snatched from total defeat, all thanks to the perfect and wonderful Ulfrik Ormsson. The man must shit gold and piss silver. Of the years he had spent under Ulfrik's command, Mord had seen a man who made more mistakes than successes and whose choices were questionable. He had an uncanny knack for worming out of trouble and appearing better for it. Men flocked to his banner despite so many of them ending up dead shortly after. Mord had to admit he did at least provide glorious ends for his men.
    The mood of his fellow warriors had lightened, and now people hustled about with purpose. Only hours ago they were sodden with defeat, himself included in that number. This adventure in Chartres had gained them nothing, and he had backed it harder than any other jarl. He had only just earned Hrolf's respect after years of being relegated to his backwater for the incident with his bullish, arrogant brat. What had begun as another attempt at Paris to test the new King of West Frankia's resolve had devolved into this siege of a secondary target of Chartres. They would be counting the dead for months, and Hrolf's skeptical eye would be turned toward him once more.
    "Has no one seen Ulfrik?" Hrolf himself was calling out for his second in command. Mord scowled at the giant king and his unseemly concern for Ulfrik. If he was such a hero then no doubt he would fight back the entire Frankish army with a stick and then walk all the miles back to Rouen with a sack of booty over his shoulder. Why should the greatest and most powerful jarl ever to rule this land stoop to seeking out one man?
    "We've not seen him, Jarl Hrolf," answered another warrior, whose arm was in a sling made from his cloak. "There was too much confusion."
    Hrolf waved the man aside then began to shout orders as others filed past him. "You three, begin the formation of the barricade. Fill the space from the riverbank all the way into the tree line with anything you can find. Make it waist high. Use my authority to gather whoever you need. Hurry, there are only a few hours before dawn and the Franks will come."
    Mord continued to rub his leg as Hrolf surveyed the progress of the retreat, standing with hands on his hips as if presiding over a victory march. Mord set his leg down and was about to hide himself elsewhere when Hrolf caught him.
    "What are you doing sitting down?" Hrolf was to him in two quick steps, a looming giant. Mord leapt to his feat.
    "I had something in my boot, Jarl Hrolf."
    "You should be leading the men to safety, not tending your foot like some old woman." Hrolf's eyes were hidden in the low light, but his frown was plain to read. "Oversee the construction of the barricade. Put whatever you can find into it. It just has to slow down the Franks."
    "Jarl Hrolf, we're wasting time with the barricade. The enemy did not pursue us, so we should get onto our ships and leave. The barrier is wasted effort."
    Hrolf had returned to studying the flow of men out of the darkness, nodding with satisfaction. "I thought we'd been backed into a trap we'd not escape. Ulfrik's plan saved us. I only hope he will join us before long."
    Mord felt his