Glendalough Fair (2 page)

Goddess of golden rain,

who gives me great joy,

may boldly hear report

of her friend’s brave stand.

Gisli Sursson’s Saga

Thorgrim approached the rise in the ground that stood between him and the river and blocked his view of the fight. His hand rested on the grip of his sword, Iron-tooth, and the rain continued with not the least respite. He heard footsteps behind him and he turned to see Bersi Jorundarson come running up and fall in at his side.

“Thorgrim,” Bersi said. “What’s the trouble?”

“I don’t know yet,” Thorgrim said. “But whatever it might be, I can well image who’s behind it.”

“Kjartan?”

“That’s what I would imagine.”

Thorgrim had never doubted that the men of Vík-ló would sift themselves out into this or that group, and that some hostility would arise between them. It’s what men did. His chief concern was that they would divide themselves up into Norwegians against Danes. But in the end it did not go that way. Instead the men had divided up by those whom they would follow, the chief men, the men who would be masters of the ships.

Thorgrim’s crew mostly remained loyal to him, but some, those who had joined him in Dubh-linn just six months before, had become friends with the Danes and had gravitated to other camps.

Most of the men who had followed Grimarr Giant remained loyal to Bersi, and so in turn were willing to show some loyalty toward Thorgrim. Skidi Oddson, known as Skidi Battleax, was another who had gained great stature among the men after the slaughter he had inflicted on the Irish and the death of so many of Grimarr’s chiefs. Skidi had his own following, and they were not so pleased by Thorgrim’s having been made Lord of Vík-ló. But neither were they so opposed to the arrangement that they were willing to start trouble, and they could be counted on if not pushed too hard.

But some of the men, a ship’s crew, fifty or sixty, came under the sway of Kjartan Thorolfson, who was called Longtooth. Kjartan was loyal to none but Kjartan, and it was that very spirit of defiance that his men admired in him, and emulated.

Kjartan had spent the winter undermining Thorgrim in a hundred subtle ways, never pushing so hard as to provoke a response that involved edged weapons. But that was coming – Thorgrim could feel that the careful balance would soon be upset – and when it did he would kill Kjartan and see what Kjartan’s men would make of that.

Maybe the time has come at last,
Thorgrim thought. He took the last steps up the rise, stopped and wiped the rain from his eyes. Spread out before him on the open ground near the river, the place where the wood for the ships’ construction had once been stored, was perhaps the oddest sight he had ever seen.

There were a hundred men at least, too many to consider what they were doing a fight or a brawl. It was more akin to a battle, with swords flailing and men lying motionless on the ground and others shouting and struggling over the field.

For a moment Thorgrim stood dumbfounded. The action of the men seemed slowed down in the driving rain which flooded Thorgrim’s eyes and made it difficult to get a clear view. The ground was soft and the fighting had churned it into a quagmire. Some of the men were streaked with mud where the rain had not washed it away, and others were thoroughly coated with the stuff.

Maybe half the men were still standing. The others were thrashing and rolling in the muck, fighting with one another, fighting to regain their feet, fighting for breath. They slipped and staggered and seemed to struggle as hard to remain upright as they were struggling with one another. Swords and axes gleamed dull in the muted light, and Thorgrim could see blood on faces and arms, red and diluted by the downpour.

He spent ten seconds, no more, looking down on the scene. Long enough to see that half the men at least were those who followed Kjartan Longtooth, and that Kjartan was himself in the thick of the fight. The rest were rallying to a man named Gudrun, one of Skidi’s men, though Skidi himself was nowhere to be seen. Sleeping off the previous night’s indulgence, no doubt. What could have started this all, Thorgrim could not imagine.

“Come on, follow me!” Thorgrim shouted to the men behind him. “Break them up, and do it without killing or wounding any if you can!” He stepped forward, shield on his arm, Iron-tooth above his head. He shouted as he charged down the slope, a battle cry, a quivering wolf-howl that he hoped would get the attention of the combatants.

Thorgrim hit the edge of the fight, charged into the closest group of brawling men. Came in with shield swinging. None of those in this melee had shields, Thorgrim saw, which meant they had not come to fight, and it gave him and his house guard a great advantage.

He stepped in and the man to his left slashed with his sword, but Thorgrim caught it on the shield, the steel of the blade ringing on the iron boss. The man staggered from the impact and Thorgrim swung his shield the other way, catching the man to his right with the shield’s edge and sending him sprawling in the mud.

“Put up your sword! Stop this foolishness!” Thorgrim shouted and the man, drenched and exhausted, nodded dumbly as Thorgrim plunged further into the fight.

A battle ax came swinging through the press, appearing as if by magic, and Thorgrim managed to get his shield up in time to stop it. He felt the blade dig into the wood and he twisted the shield hard. The motion jerked the ax from its owner’s hand and Thorgrim smacked the man hard with the flat of his blade, and as he swung he felt his feet coming out from under him.

With a curse he went down, bracing for the jarring impact with the ground, but it felt rather like dropping onto a pile of furs. He felt the mud grabbing at him but his eyes were up and he saw a sword coming down. He lifted his shield in time to take the blow, half sat up and swung his blade at the man’s legs. Again he hit with the flat of the blade and that was enough on that slick field to trip his assailant up.

Thorgrim stood as the man fell, using his shield as a prop to help him to his feet. Another warrior was ranging up in front of him and Thorgrim, now aware of what an ally the mud could be, pushed the man and watched him fall backwards.

This is madness
, Thorgrim thought. There was no animosity in the men he was fighting, none that he could see. No reason for the fight. They were just worked up into a rage, all the frustrations and anger of the winter pent in the longphort coming out on this field of battle. It was like a brawl in a mead hall writ large. He had seen sharks frenzied in the same way.

Someone was charging up on his side and he turned his head in time to see Godi grab the man and lift him bodily, one massive hand on his neck, the other grabbing his crotch. He hefted the shouting, flailing warrior over his head and flung him into a knot of fighting men and they all went down in a heap.

Further to his right Thorgrim could see Starri Deathless hurling himself into the fight and knew there was trouble there. Thorgrim wanted the fight stopped, not escalated. That called for restraint, and restraint was not something Starri was good at.

He turned to his right, certain that Harald would be standing there, and he was. As he opened his mouth to speak Harald slammed his shield into the two men to his left who were struggling, arms around one another. The blow knocked them both to the ground where they released one another and struggled through the thick mud to regain their feet.

Harald had sheathed his sword and now as one of Skidi’s men made a lurching attack he reached out and grabbed a fist-full of the man’s hair, right on the top of his head, and slammed it down on his upraised knee. The man seemed to bounce off the knee, his face now a smear of blood as he toppled back, bringing two more down with him as he fell.

“Harald!” Thorgrim shouted. “Go fight with Starri! See he doesn’t hurt anyone any more than he has to!”

Harald nodded, turned, slipped and went down with a curse, just as Thorgrim had. Thorgrim held his shield above both of them and offered the boy a hand. He pulled Harald to his feet, and only a wide stance and good luck prevented them both from going down again.

Harald pushed off through the crowd and Thorgrim drove his shield into the men in front of him and sent them reeling, and in the moment of peace that bought him he looked around.

His men, fresh and bearing shields, were making progress in getting the fighting men apart. Some who had been in the midst of the brawl were now abandoning the fight, some upright, some sprawled out, maybe wounded, maybe dead. Some had staggered off to collapse in the places that still sported grass. But many were still flailing at one another with swords and axes and fists.

Thorgrim looked to his left. One of Kjartan’s men, a big son of a bitch named Gest, second in command of
Dragon
, came bursting from the press, battle ax raised, his mouth, framed by a massive beard, wide in a scream of fury. The ax came down at Thorgrim with an execution blow and Thorgrim just managed to get his shield up in time to stop it before it cleaved his head in two.

The ax lodged in the wood of the shield and Thorgrim felt his feet going out from under him in the slick mud. But before he could fall Gest jerked his ax free, pulling Thorgrim back on balance, allowing him to keep his feet and Thorgrim thought,
Thank you
.

Gest took another awkward swing and Thorgrim was able to sidestep it, but before he could counterstrike he saw another of Kjartan’s men come from the crowd, sword in hand and lunging for his guts.

Thorgrim swung Iron-tooth at the coming blade. He pushed his right foot down until the mud had hold of it. He pressed the shield against his shoulder and shoved it into Gest who was just then bringing his ax back over his head. Gest stumbled and his feet went out from under him on the slick ground and he fell back with arms splayed and a roar of outrage.

In the space opened by Gest’s fall Kjartan Thorolfson stood, sword in one hand, ax in the other. He was breathing hard and coated with mud, his hair and beard soaked through, his eyes locked on Thorgrim. He stepped quick around the struggling Gest and came at Thorgrim with weapons on the move.

You should be trying to stop this, you whore’s son
, Thorgrim thought even as he fended off Kjartan’s attack and lunged in counterpoint. Subversive as he might be, Kjartan was one of the leading men of Vík-ló. He should be stopping the men there from killing one another, not trying to cut down the lord of the longphort.

Thorgrim saw a motion to his right and parried with his blade, quick enough to stop a death thrust, not quick enough to stop the blade from piercing his tunic and running along his side, opening up a wound, sharp and warm.

“Bastard!” Thorgrim shouted and brought Iron-tooth up and drove it into the man’s stomach, all thought of restraint gone in the fighting madness. He turned back toward Kjartan with a whirling motion, leading with his shield, knocking Kjartan’s weapons aside and lunging for his chest. He felt the familiar sensation of his blade scraping off chainmail, then he swung back in the other direction as yet another of Kjartan’s men joined the fight.

Mail
…Thorgrim thought.
Mail
… Some warning was ringing in his head, but with the rain and the shouting and searing wound in his side he could not understand it. He batted the new attack away, slashed at the attacker, missed his face by inches as the man leapt back.

Again Thorgrim felt his feet going out from under him, but he managed to step back before he went down and met a new attack from Kjartan.

Mail!
The man’s wearing mail!
No one else in this fight was wearing mail, but Kjartan was. As if he had been anticipating this all along. Planning it.

Thorgrim met Kjartan’s sword with Iron-tooth’s blade, caught Kjartan’s ax with his shield. He stepped in and gave Kjartan a kick in the stomach which sent him reeling but he did not go down.

“Is this what your fight is all about?” Thorgrim shouted. “All this to kill me?”

Kjartan made a sound somewhere between a growl and a shout. He pushed himself off, leading with his sword, ax raised. Thorgrim dropped his shield to his side and waited, Iron-tooth ready to move. Two steps and Kjartan was on him, but Iron-tooth stayed where it was. Thorgrim brought his shield up fast and slammed it into the oncoming man, stopping him dead, hurling him back. Kjartan stumbled, arms wide, eyes wide. His feet came up and he shouted as he fell and came to a stop flat on his back, half sunk in the grabbing mud.

Thorgrim leapt forward. There was a ringing in his ear that seemed to blot out the liquid noise of the rain and the shouting and the odd voice calling, “Lord Thorgrim! Lord Thorgrim!”

The voice seemed to come like a dream and then hands grabbed his arms and shoulders and stopped him as he was stepping up to Kjartan to drive his sword through the man’s chest. It was only after he heard the words repeated again that he realized someone was actually calling for him.

“Lord Thorgrim!”

Thorgrim lowered his sword and shield and his body relaxed, and those holding his arms and shoulders let them go and stepped aside. Thorgrim turned to see a young man running up to him, one of Skidi’s men who had been posted as a sentry on the newly rebuilt wall.