Glendalough Fair (29 page)

The Irish line was one hundred yards away and they were closing the distance fast. Thorgrim could see now that it stretched out beyond his own line at either end. The Northmen would not have had men enough to turn the Irish flanks even if they had hoped to. The Irish could bend the ends of their own line around and strike his men and Ottar’s from two directions. And there were the horsemen as well.

“This will be a hard fight,” he said to Agnarr.

“It will,” Agnarr agreed.

They were close enough now that Thorgrim could make out the faces of the men who stood in opposition to them: warriors with swords and axes like those of the Northmen, and behind them, the spearmen who had been so deadly during the ambush at the river. And behind all of them were some of the commanders on horseback, waiting, watching the enemy come on.

Then one of those mounted leaders shouted something and the shout echoed down the line and the Irish did something that Thorgrim did not expect at all. The men-at-arms in the shield wall stepped aside, making space between them, and the spearmen stepped up through the line, spears held down, faces grim.

“What by Odin are they doing?” he heard Godi ask, but it was clear enough to Thorgrim. They wanted the Northmen to hit the line of spears first. They wanted the spearmen with their long pole arms to drive the points through the line of Norse shields and take down as many of the enemy as they could, to make holes in the shield wall which the men-at-arms would then hit with full force and drive through.

Fifty yards away. It was not a bad plan, not at all, but there were only a hundred or so spearmen against a shield wall two hundred and fifty strong. Thorgrim could see that the men with the spears were not men-at-arms. They wore leather, not mail, and they had no shields because shields would have hindered them in the job they had to do. They looked scared.

“Yell!” Thorgrim shouted. “All of you, make a noise, make a noise!” Thorgrim led the way, sending up a terrifying howl from deep in his guts, sending it up to the gods and raising his sword as his speed built. Godi made a great noise as well, and all up and down the line the men shouted and shrieked and howled and cursed, and Ottar’s men did the same. It was a sound from the underworld, and it drove the Northmen on to greater and greater speed, their pace becoming a fast walk and then a jog as they rolled on uphill.

The spearmen took a step back. Thorgrim could see mouths open, eyes wide in panic. It took men who were trained and experienced and well-motivated to stand fast in the face of such an onslaught, and these men were none of those things.

“Kill them! Kill them!” Thorgrim shouted, holding Iron-tooth high as he charged on. The sound of five hundred feet building to a run made a base note under the higher, louder keening of the manic Northmen. The Irishmen with the spears took another step back, and another.

Then the two lines hit, Northmen and spearmen. A man stood directly in Thorgrim’s path, an older man with a milky eye and an unshaved face and a look like he was fighting down panic and losing. His good eye met Thorgrim’s and he lunged forward with his spear, the black dagger tip coming right at Thorgrim’s face.

Brave bastard,
Thorgrim thought. With some training he might have made a good warrior. But that was never going to happen. Thorgrim caught the spear with Iron-tooth and turned it up, out of line, and without breaking stride took another step and brought the blade down on the spearman’s leather-clad head.

The look of surprise remained frozen on the Irishman’s face as he died and Thorgrim wrenched the sword free, felt his foot step on the man’s corpse as he pushed past.

That was enough for the Irish spearmen. If they managed to kill any of the Northmen, Thorgrim did not see it, but as the screaming shield wall rolled over them they reacted as he knew they would. They panicked.

All along the line he saw spears tossed aside and spearmen turning and fleeing the five yards back to the protection of the shield wall. But now the Irish men-at-arms could not let them through, because doing so would have meant making gaps in the wall just as the enemy was on them. So they held their shields together and the panicked spearmen pulled and clawed at them, desperate to get through, desperate to not be caught between the two shield walls.

But it was too late for them. The armies came together like ships colliding, crushing the men between them. Thorgrim saw one of the Irish men-at-arms do the most sensible thing; he brought his ax down on the spearman’s head and killed him before the man could pull the shield wall apart. But the panicked men had done their damage. In their desperate attempt to get to safety they had staggered the Irish shield wall, thrown it into disarray just as the Northmen slammed into it with all the momentum they could muster.

Thorgrim’s whole world closed down. Seconds before his thoughts had covered the entire length of the Northmen’s line, but now he was concerned only for what was happening within a sword’s length of himself, because that was all he could see and it was all the area over which he had any control.

His shield came hard against that of the Irishman in front of him, and Thorgrim’s forward momentum was stopped, but the force made the Irishman stagger. Thorgrim drove Iron-tooth forward, right through the gap over the two shields in front of him, but the warrior there – a young man, but hard looking, no fear on his face – twisted sideways and the blade missed by inches.

Something hit the bottom of Thorgrim’s shield, a sword blow, low, looking for his guts or his thighs. He brought his shield down, felt it hit the blade, and then went over the top with Iron-tooth. This time he caught his opponent, drove the tip of his sword into the man’s shoulder and felt it bite.

The man jerked back, tried to bring his sword up, and would have died on Iron-tooth’s point if the man to his right had not driven his own sword at Thorgrim and forced him to fend off the blade.

The Norsemen were jammed together, shoulder to shoulder, and pressed against the Irish in front of them and it was hard to move, hard to work a blade. At least it was for Thorgrim Night Wolf, or any other man of average height. Godi, at his side, rising like one of the nearby mountains above the line of fighting men, had no such problems. His choice of weapon was a battle ax, a perfect choice for a man who could loom above the others and strike down like he was chopping kindling.

He did that now. With a roar he brought the ax down on the shield wall in front of him. The blade hit the rim of a shield with a ringing sound and kept on going, breaking the iron, splitting the wood. Thorgrim saw the look of surprise on the Irishman’s face, but the man beside him, the man who had gone for Thorgrim’s legs, did not hesitate. He turned his shield toward Godi and drove his blade at Godi’s chest and might have killed him if Thorgrim had not moved quicker still.

Iron-tooth struck like a snake, straight at the man’s throat, driving in right below the strap of his helmet and never pausing as it passed on through. Thorgrim pulled the sword back in a shower of blood and the man went down and a hole opened in the shield wall.

“Forward!” Thorgrim shouted but the men around him recognized the opportunity even before he spoke, and they pushed hard, shields leading, weapons lashing out as they forced the Irish back.

Thorgrim looked up and down the line. It was hard to see what was happening, but he had a sense that the Irish defense was crumbling, that their shield wall was coming apart. The panicked spearmen had begun that process, and now the ferocity of the Northmen’s attack was driving it on.

“Keep your shields together!” Thorgrim shouted. He did not want his own shield wall to crumble, did not want this to turn into three hundred individual fights. He wanted to get the Irish running, and butcher them as they did and then move on to Glendalough.

Their own shields were still overlapping as they pushed through the Irish shield wall and hacked left and right at the enemy. There were no reinforcements that Thorgrim could see, no men in reserve to fill the holes as they appeared. The commander of the Irish line had cast his lot, had put all his men into the shield wall. But of course the Northmen had as well.

A man stood in front of Thorgrim now, an ax in one hand, shield in the other, and a look of unadulterated fury on his face. He hacked down with the ax and Thorgrim caught it with his shield and the blade buried itself in the wooden boards. Thorgrim twisted the shield, hoping to jerk the ax from the man’s hand, while the man jerked the ax in the other direction, hoping to pull Thorgrim off balance.

For an instant they stood motionless, opposing forces balanced one against the other. Then the Irishman let go of the ax handle. Thorgrim staggered and his opponent came at him with a short sword he had snatched from his belt.

The blade darted in at Thorgrim’s throat but before it reached its mark Godi’s ax came down on the man’s arm, snapping it and cutting it half off. Thorgrim saw the man’s mouth open wide in a scream of pain and surprise and outrage and then Godi’s ax came down again and the scream was cut short.

And the Irish shield wall was indeed crumbling. There was no doubt now. Thorgrim could see men falling back, men dying under Norse blades. He could see the line bending where Skidi Battleax was leading his men in a frantic push.

“Forward! Forward!” Thorgrim shouted. “At them!” He put his weight against his shield, shoving hard against the man who stood opposing him. And then he stumbled. One second there was resistance, the next second there was none as the man gave up, dropped his shield, turned and ran.

Thorgrim straightened fast, sword and shield up, ready for a renewed attack, but none came. All along the line the Irish were turning and running, up and over the crest of the hill at their backs and the Norsemen were on their heels.

“Men of Vík-ló!” Thorgrim shouted. “Hold your line! Hold your line!” The Irish had devolved into panicked confusion but he could not let his own men do the same. That would mean pissing away any advantage they had gained, giving the Irish the chance to fight on. He had to keep them together, keep them organized, attack the remnants of the Irish line and take them apart.

He looked left and right. Some of Ottar’s men were chasing after the Irish, but his own men were resisting the urge, strong though it was.

“Men of Vík-ló! Forward!” Thorgrim shouted and the crews of his four ships rolled forward, ready to hit the Irish again, to finish that part of the day’s work and move on to Glendalough.

And then the mounted warriors struck.

I fed his corpse to the blood-hawk,

My sword’s edge swung and cut…

Gisli Sursson’s Saga

The riders came from the right and Thorgrim cursed himself because he had forgotten they were there, which was what the horsemen no doubt wanted. They had stayed out of the fight, standing ready to hold the flanks against an attack, or to swoop in if the shield wall broke. And that was what they were doing now.

Thorgrim heard the shouts at the far end of his line and turned to see the mounted warriors, two hundred feet away, charging down on his men, swords rising and falling, horses snapping ugly yellow teeth and lashing out with their hooves. He saw a man fall, arms and legs kicking as the horse reared and came down on his chest. He saw a horseman chop down with his sword and saw the weapon come up again streaming blood.

“By the gods!” Thorgrim shouted. “Come with me!” His words were aimed at any of his men within earshot, but in particular Agnarr and Godi, and he ran off confident that they were with him. He ran toward the end of the line, where the horsemen were wheeling and hacking and prompting their mounts to kick and bite.

“Make a wall! Make a wall!” he shouted as he ran, closing the distance. The mounted warriors had timed this well. If the Northmen had had the chance to form up in opposition they could have stood firm against this attack. But the horsemen had hit fast and hard and the panic was spreading.

Thorgrim stopped. His men were not listening. “Godi, Agnarr, to me!” he shouted and the two stepped up on either side. If he could not get his men to form a shield wall then he would form one himself, even if it was only three men wide.

“Forward!” Thorgrim shouted and the three of them stepped off. The nearest horseman was twenty paces away, going sword and shield with one of Bersi’s men. The rider did not see Thorgrim coming until Thorgrim was nearly within sword striking distance. Then the man looked up, saw the three shield-bearers charging him. He spurred his horse forward, right at Thorgrim’s short wall, Bersi’s man forgotten. Ride right through them, that was his intention, scatter the three men and hack them down. But as he came on Thorgrim and Agnarr and Godi all lifted their shields together, swinging them up at the horse’s mouth and its wicked teeth.

Thorgrim felt the boss of his shield hit the horse and saw the horse rise up on hind legs, rearing in surprise. He felt a hoof strike his shield with power enough to drive it back into his chest, but he held his ground. The rider was hanging on, desperate to keep from being thrown. Godi’s ax came down and struck the man just under the left arm. The rider screamed, and in the process of pulling the ax free, Godi jerked him from the saddle. The horse spun in place and charged off, now panicked and rider-less.

Movement to the right and Thorgrim saw a few more Northmen come running forward, shields held ready, and they stood fast as another of the mounted Irish men-at-arms came down on them. They worked together, the men of Vík-ló, holding off the attack from horse and rider, striking out as the man wheeled and struck at them.

More men were racing to join this new fight, coming with shields up and blades ready. There were only about twenty or so mounted warriors still engaged at that end of the line. They had taken the Northmen’s flanks by surprise, hit them hard, but now the Northmen were sorting themselves out and soon they would form a real defense, effective and deadly.

One of the riders yelled something; it meant nothing to Thorgrim but clearly it meant something to the other riders because they all jerked their reins over and wheeled their horses and charged off down the far side of the hill. They were not fleeing; they were falling back. They had done what they needed to do. They had thrown the Norsemen’s line into temporary confusion and given the Irish men-at-arms a chance to put some distance between them and their attackers, give them a moment to reform their line before their retreat turned into an bloody rout.

Thorgrim lowered his shield and rested the tip of Iron-tooth on the ground and watched them ride away. He turned to see what was happening on the other parts of the field. The horsemen on the right flank of the Irish line had hit Ottar’s men just as those on the left had hit his, but they too were riding off, having inflicting what hurt they could.

He walked up the remainder of the slope. Bodies were strewn over the ground, some Northmen but mostly Irish, and of those they were mostly the poor spearmen who had been thrust out in front of the shield wall. Some were wounded and crawling pathetically away, some moaning and waving arms, but most were still.

At the crest of the hill he stopped and looked down the far side. The Irish line had retreated a few hundred yards, but now they were forming up again, remaking their shield wall. The mounted warriors had saved them from complete destruction, and now they were ready to take up the fight again.

Thorgrim looked past their lines. In the distance, less than a mile away, was Glendalough.

Glendalough
….

He realized that after all this time, all the struggles to get to this place, Glendalough had taken on some mythic quality, like Asgard or Valhalla.

Glendalough
.

It did not look much like a mythic place in real life, seen through the light rain that was falling, under the leaden skies. He could see the church, an impressive stone affair with a short, square tower rising up at one end, and a steep roof that had to be forty feet high at the peak. There was a scattering of buildings around it, and further away from the church, which seemed to form the center of everything there, were more squat, thatched buildings, a few roads crisscrossing between them, a few buildings bigger than the rest.

The homes of the local jarls
, Thorgrim guessed. There would likely be hoards found buried in those houses, if they had time enough to search for them.

Beyond the cluster of buildings he could see a lake that wound its way into a sharp, narrow valley far off, and just behind the town a steep, humped mountain rose up. It was beautiful country, he had to admit as much. Almost mythical.

Thorgrim wiped the rain from his eyes and blinked. The monastery and the village did look prosperous, by Irish standards, and he guessed there was wealth enough to be had there. But first they had to get though the army of Irishmen which was reforming in front of them.

“You men, get in line, get in line, we must hit those Irish bastards before they can get themselves straightened out!” he shouted, and Bersi and Kjartan and Skidi took up the cry, and quickly the men of Vík-ló were hurrying back into some sort of formation.

We must link with Ottar
, Thorgrim thought. He turned toward the left wing of their line and saw he was too late. Ottar was already charging down the hill, his sword held high. He looked like some sort of mad beast. Behind him his men were running as well, shouting, banging swords on shields, a great disordered mob flinging itself across the eighth of a mile that separated them from the Irish.

Stupid bastard
, Thorgrim thought again, and realized how often those words came to mind when considering Ottar Bloodax. He looked over at the Irish. They were still broken and disorganized but they would not be for long. He could see captains pushing men into line, the milling men-at-arms quickly becoming a shield wall once again. If Ottar could hit them before they managed to restore discipline he would break them once and for all. If not, his wild attack would be suicidal.

This will be a close thing
, Thorgrim though, but he did not think Ottar would be that lucky. They had driven the Irish line back once, but those men were not farmers, they were men-at-arms, and they would not be so easily pushed again.

“Let’s go!” Thorgrim shouted, holding Iron-tooth high and heading down the hill, making for the Irishmen at the far side of the field. Their line was not perfect, but it would do, and they could not wait any longer and let Ottar’s men be butchered. He did not particularly care if Ottar and his men lived or died, but if they were slaughtered now then there would be no possibility of taking Glendalough, and that Thorgrim cared about very much.

He heard his men cheer as they rolled forward, heard them howl and scream and bang their weapons in a din that would loosen the bowels of all but the hardest men. Ottar and his crews had halved the distance to the enemy, but already the Irish were falling into place, locking shields in a solid wall of multicolored circles, and behind the shields, conical helmets, shirts of mail, leather jerkins, swords and axes poised.

Once more Thorgrim wiped the rain from his eyes and spit out the water he had managed to get in his mouth. The ground was soft under foot, the light rain growing harder, as was his breath as he pushed to cover the distance. He was not running. He was moving at a pace somewhat short of a jog. He did not want his men winded and heaving as they came to grips with the Irish, though he wondered if perhaps he was thinking more of himself.

From his left he heard the renewed clash of weapons as the quickest of Ottar’s warriors reached the Irish line. Ottar was first among them; Thorgrim could see his massive head and shoulders rising above the others as he whirled his battle ax at the enemy. He saw Ottar tear a hole in the Irish shield wall with his weapon, but before he could step in more men were there to fill it.

Ottar, however, was all but alone, with most of his men just catching up. Rather that delivering a massive, shocking blow to the line, they were coming at it in ones and twos and Thorgrim could see they were being cut down as they came. And then the mounted warriors were there, sweeping around the far end of the Irish line and charging into Ottar’s flanks. He heard the screams of agony, the bellows of outrage and surprise. He saw men dying under the horsemen’s long swords.

Stupid, stupid,
he thought, but that was all the thought he could give to Ottar, because he and his men had almost reached the right side of the Irish shield wall. Once again they would fight shield to shield in that packed killing ground, and if they could break the Irish again then there was a good chance they would be broken for good, and the way to Glendalough cleared.

Thorgrim paused and Godi paused and they let the line of men behind catch up and envelope them. They took their place with the others and pushed on. Thorgrim was breathing hard and he realized that his shoulder ached, and he guessed that he had taken a blow there but had not realized it until then. He did not think he was bleeding. He could not feel that familiar sensation of warm blood running down inside his tunic.

It all had an unreal quality to it – the men at his side, the men before him, the shield in his left hand, Iron-tooth in his right. Hadn’t they just been through this? Hadn’t they just driven a shield wall back? Was this the way the gods would curse him, make him stand in the shield wall, in the rain, over and over again, with never the feasting at the corpse hall after?

One last look to his left. He could not see much of Ottar’s men. There were too many others crowded into that small stretch of Irish meadow, but from what he could see, and what he could hear, Ottar and the others were not having a good time of it.

And then they reached the Irish men-at-arms, shields hitting shields with their dull sound like axes cutting into tree trunks. The Irishmen’s line staggered and bowed under the impact of the men from Vík-ló but it did not break, and once again Thorgrim’s world closed down to that spot of land, Godi on one side, Agnarr on the other, an enemy in his front. He was shouting, bellowing, working shield and sword in that tight place. His arm was tiring. His face was bleeding. He could feel the warm blood running down his cheek, though he could not recall the thrust that had cut him.

His foot slipped but he recovered in time to stop an ax blow with the edge of his shield. The grass under foot was being trampled into mud and that made the footing precarious. And still the enemy stood and wielded their weapons, and the shields pushed against each other, and the blows came slower, and they came with less force but still they came.

This cannot go on
, Thorgrim thought. They could not stand there and flail at each other until one army or both collapsed to the ground in exhaustion. Something had to give way.

And then it did. Godi brought his ax down hard on the man to Thorgrim’s right, not for the first time, but now the man’s shield, already damaged, shattered under the blow. The Irishman looked at the broken wood boards with the sort of dumb amazement that comes from being exhausted beyond words, and then Thorgrim darted Iron-tooth forward and drove the point through the man’s shoulder.

The Irishman made a choking sound, part fury, part agony. He twisted and fell and he left a hole in the shield wall. It was just the chance for which Thorgrim longed. He stepped forward, into the gap, ready to beat it wider, to break the Irish line.

And then he stopped. Beyond the gap in the line he saw something he had not seen before, and he knew it was the end of the Northmen’s hopes.

More men. Fresh men, armed men, shields ready. They were not more than a hundred yards away. They were marching fast toward the battle ground. At their head flew a banner, what looked to be a raven on a green field.

Kevin mac Lugaed had come to join the fight, and Thorgrim did not think he was coming to fight on the Norsemen’s side.