The Lord of Vik-Lo: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 3) (12 page)

  The yard had burned through at the slings and collapsed, though the ends were still supported by the gallows on which they rested, so the spar made a great flaming angle with its vertex on the ship’s deck. Flames was now creeping up the mast; Thorgrim had a vision of a forest fire he had witness once in East Agder. The shrouds and the forestay, also alight, made bright lines in the dark.

  The burning yard had also ignited the oars that were stacked on the crutches beside it, and now Agnarr and some of the men with him had snatched up those that were not fully engulfed and were holding them aloft like the torches of giants.

  “Stand clear!” Agnarr yelled again and Thorgrim saw what he had in mind. He leapt aside, pushing one man out of the way and pulling another by the sleeve of his tunic. Agnarr and the others charged aft, swinging the oars down like they were splitting wood. The flaming shafts knifed into the shieldwall with the momentum of twenty pounds of pine swinging through a fifteen foot arc. The Irish held their shields aloft but it was futile. The men on whom the blows fell were driven to the deck. Some of the oars shattered, scattering burning lengths of wood fore and aft. Those that did not were raised and hammered down again.

  The shieldwall, which a minute before had been a solid defense stretching larboard to starboard, was now broken and gaping, like the wall of a fortress that had been breached. Thorgrim and those with him charged forward, shouting again. The flaming mast and rigging illuminated the struggling, confused Irishmen, some falling back, shields held up, some struggling to their feet. Iron-tooth rose and fell again, hacking down the men as they tried to regain their defensive positions. To his right, Thorgrim saw Godi clearing a way with his ax like a farmer scything wheat.

  The Irish were done and they knew it. Thorgrim ducked to avoid being hit in the head by an Irish shield, flung at him as its owner tumbled over the side of the ship and presumably into a
curach
alongside. The rest who could still move did the same, throwing weapons aside as then swung themselves over the gunnel, the Norsemen, their bloodlust up, charging after them. Iron-tooth came down in thin air where a second before the last of the Irish raiders had been swinging himself over the side. The edge, honed to a razor sharpness by Starri Deathless, dug deep into the oak sheer strake and Thorgrim had to twist it free.

  He stood for a second, shield at his side, Iron-tooth’s point resting on the deck as he gulped the cool night air. The scene was as brightly lit as if he was standing by a funeral pyre, and indeed he was - the ship’s funeral pyre, or it would be if they did not act quickly.

  “Anything aflame, throw it over the side!” he ordered, and the men, who were likewise catching their breath, leapt into action, grabbing up the bits of the oars, lifting flaming cordage with axes and swords, finding spots were the sections of the yard could be lifted without singeing their hands and throwing it all hissing over the side. Thorgrim used his shield to scoop up a load of the burning straw and toss it overboard. He stabbed Iron-tooth into a length of the yard that looked more like a log in a hearth and heaved that overboard as well.

  Motion forward caught his eye. He spun around, thinking at first that the Irish had returned, that they had worked their way up to the bow and were hoping to catch the Norsemen unaware. But they were not Irish. They were Danes. Thorgrim recognized Bersi as he led his men over the rail. They came ready for a fight, and Thorgrim could see the confusion on their faces as they surveyed the scene and tried to divine what was going on.

  “You missed the fun, Bersi, you are late to the feast,” Thorgrim shouted. “There is nothing left for you Danes to do but put the hearth fire out and go to sleep!”

  “You damned Norwegians always take it all for yourselves,” Bersi replied, then to his men he said, “Go to it! Let’s get this fire out, or Grimarr Giant will have to walk back to Hedeby!”

  Bersi’s men came aft and joined Thorgrim’s in tossing overboard what bits of sail, yard, oars or rigging that were still burning. With a flash of panic Thorgrim recalled
Far Voyager
. He looked up quick toward the place where he knew his ship was resting aground, but he could see nothing but darkness. He felt the fear dissipate. If
Far Voyager
had been set on fire, he would see her burning. Darkness meant she was untouched.

  And then he looked around at his men. He could see only shadows, dark shapes moving in the night as the last of the fire was stamped out, but he realized, to his surprise, that Starri was not with him. And neither was Harald.

Slammed halberds dire

‘gainst helmet-fire

bit winged arrow

into warriors’ marrow…

                                                              
Egill’s Saga

Harald Thorgrimson had been standing with Starri on the edge of the Far Voyagers when his father divided the men into three groups, one to defend each ship, and he found himself among those men designated for the ships farthest upstream.

  He did not want to go with them. He wanted to stay by his father because he felt that his father might need the protection that his sword could provide. Thorgrim, he feared, had been much weakened by his wound at Tara, and he was not the young man he once was. Harald would never say as much, and indeed he would fight any man who suggested Thorgrim was in any way diminished. Nor was Harald entirely aware of his own feelings on the subject. He was not the sort of person much given to introspection. He knew simply that he did not like to leave his father’s side in a fight.

  Starri likewise did not wish to leave Thorgrim’s side, but for quite a different reason. The gods always seemed to throw trouble in Thorgrim’s path and that was the path that Starri liked to travel. Around his neck Starri wore an iron arrow point that had split itself on the blade of Thorgrim’s sword moments before they had gone into battle. Thorgrim dismissed it as one of those many oddities that seemed to happen when armies fought, but Starri did not think so. He could see in that a clear sign from the gods that Thorgrim was blessed by them. Why else would they test him so, if they did not wish to see him prove his mettle? Starri’s greatest fear was a quiet death in bed, but if he stayed by Thorgrim’s side he did not think that fear would ever be realized.

  Neither man wished to abandon Thorgrim but neither did they wish to argue, or to disobey, so they rushed off to the furthest ship along with the other fifteen or so Thorgrim had indicated. Harald, as ever, wished to be first into the fight, and as usual, he was second. Starri Deathless, long-limbed, powerful and driven by madness, was always first. They had spent months in Dubh-linn waiting for Thorgrim to recover, and save for the odd drunken fight in the mead hall Starri had seen no combat in all that time. Now he raced into battle the way a man coming home from a long sea voyage races to his woman’s side.

  Harald was panting by the time he reached the place on the river bank where the far ship was tied, but he did not slow as he splashed into the cold, rushing water. Starri was already aboard, disappearing over the edge of the ship as Harald grabbed the sheer strake and pulled himself up and over. In such a situation the smart tactic was to get all the men aboard, then attack as one. Starri, of course, had done nothing of the sort.

  Harald dropped to the deck and pulled his sword, Vengeance Seeker,
as he did, coming up in a crouch with his shield in his other hand. Larboard and starboard more of his fellows were coming up over the side, but Starri was already half-way down the deck, battle ax raised overhead, screaming that unearthly scream of his which Harald, try as he might, could not imitate.

  The Irish were aft. The sail, furled to the yard, had been torched and was just starting to burn, and in the light of the flames Harald could see the expressions of shock and fear on the Irishmen’s faces as they stood motionless, like wooden carvings.

  Starri ran heedless toward them, and even if the Irish did not know what was coming Harald did. He had seen this often enough in the year or so he had been fighting at Starri’s side. The berserker leapt from the deck and his feet came down on the aftermost rowing bench, but he did no more than land, crouch, then spring off, flinging himself into the men crowded near the afterdeck, swinging his ax as he flew.

  A few of the Irish warriors had the presence of mind to raise their shields as Starri became airborne. Starri hit the shields shoulder-first, ax swinging, and then all of them; Starri, the Irish, the shields, all went down in a great writhing heap on the deck.

  “Come on! Come! At them!” Harald shouted, waving Vengeance Seeker and racing aft. He had no authority over these men, but neither did anyone else, and they listened to him because he spoke like a man to be listened to, and because he was Thorgrim’s son.

  It was an undisciplined rush under the light of the burning sail, the flame racing forward as Harald and the others raced aft. Harald could see the blood glinting on Starri’s battle ax as the weapon rose and fell above the jumble of men, but Starri himself, still buried, could not be seen.

  The first of the Irish warriors met Harald and their swords came together with a sound like a broken bell. For a moment they stood, immobile, swords locked, then Harald, through strength of arm, pushed the man’s blade back. To counter, the Irishman shoved Harald hard with his shield, but Harald yielded to the push, stepping back, and the Irishman, expecting resistance, stumbled. Harald saw the look of shock on his face, the brief recognition of a mistake, the last he would make, and then
Vengeance Seeker
came down on his neck.

  Starri was up. He had managed to disentangle himself and spring to his feet in that almost supernatural way he moved, and his ax was making great arcs in the air. The Irish were stumbling back, out of his way, but they were trapped by the narrowing stern of the ship, like deer driven into a pen to be slaughtered. If they had had spears or bows they might have dropped Starri before he could reach them, but Harald guessed they had not wanted to carry those awkward weapons going from boat to ship and back.

  Frightening as Starri was the Irish were not ready to either surrender or die. Those out of the reach of Starri’s ax pushed away from the pack of men and circled around him, hoping to get at the lunatic when he was looking the other way. But Starri was only one of their problems. Harald and the men with him continued aft, advancing with swords and shields. Overhead, the after end of the yard burned through and fell among the Irishmen in a blazing heap of wood and cloth. They leapt clear of it just as Harald and the others slammed into what defense they had organized.

  Shields made their sharp wood on wood sound as they came together, iron clanged on iron. The Irish shouted jeers and insults, a rather pointless exercise since Harald alone among the Northmen understood the words.

  Dead and wounded men lay at Starri’s feet and now he stepped up on the bodies to get leverage and height as he pressed the fighting aft, but between him and the charge that Harald led, the fight, for the Irish, was over. The sail, yard, and mast were blazing; they had done what they had come to do. Backing away, fighting as they went, the Irish began to climb or leap over the rails into the darkness below. Through the crackling of the flames and screaming of the men Harald heard the dull sound of their feet hitting the bottoms of their curachs, which he realized were tied alongside.

  “Grab him! Grab him!” Harald shouted, pointing to Starri Deathless who was going over the side after them. Half a dozen men reluctantly grabbed Starri’s arms and legs and pulled him back aboard, kicking, screaming and wailing, suffering the agony of finding himself once again alive at the battle’s end. His shipmates held him down, no easy task, but they knew from experience it would pass soon enough. The rest of the men were tossing burning bits of spar and sail over the side.

  Harald watched the flaming wreckage arcing through the air like falling stars and then blinking out as it hit the surface of the River Leitrim, but his mind was moving beyond the fight.

 
This has to be about the Fearna treasure
, he thought.
The Irish, this Lorcan, he still wants it as much as Grimarr does.

  It made sense. If Lorcan was master of the land then Grimarr could only go after the treasure by sea. And if he could not go after the treasure by sea, if his ships were burned to the waterline, he could not go after it at all.

 
But Lorcan does not know where the treasure is, any more than Grimarr does
, Harald thought.
Conandil alone knows where it is hidden. If they do not have her, they will never find it.

  And with that thought, he felt his stomach turn and a lightning flash of panic shoot through him. He raced over to where Starri was being held to the deck. His thrashing was tapering off, his struggle half-hearted at best. “Starri!” he shouted. “You must come with me! There’s more fighting if I’m not wrong! All of you, you must come with me!”

  He did not wait for a reply. He stood and raced forward then flung himself over the low side, sinking inches deep into the mud, pulling his feet free and racing for the shore. He thought about looking for his father, trying to round up all the men from
Far Voyager
’s crew, but he did not think he had time. Instead, he raced across the grassy place along the river, so familiar to him now that he could easily find his way in what weak light there was. Through the soles of his shoes he felt the change from grass to boards as he reached the end of the plank road and raced on, uphill, toward Grimarr’s big hall.

  Harald could hear the others following, and glancing over he saw Starri just behind, his face streaked dark with blood, the battle ax gripped in his hand. He could not run ahead of Harald this time because he did not know where they were going.

  One hundred feet from the river’s edge the plank road climbed over a small rise. It blocked the view of the town beyond, but Harald could hear other men moving up ahead of them now, coming closer. Danes, Harald guessed. He slowed and stopped, held up his arm for the rest to stop as well. They did not need to get into a fight with the wrong people.

  The Danes materialized over the rise, weapons in hand, shields on their arms, and Harald could see their surprise at running into armed men coming up the plank road. They came to a ragged halt and weapons came up and Harald shouted, “No! Stop! It’s us, the Far Voyagers, the Norwegians! The Irish are attacking your ships and I think they are attacking Grimarr’s house as well! Come with me!”

  One of the Danes stepped forward, an older man with a wicked scar across his cheek. Harald recognized him but knew they had never spoken. The man squinted at Harald until he recognized him as well.

  “We see the fires on the ships,” he said, “we hear the fighting there. Where are you going?”

  “To Grimarr’s house. There will be fighting there.”

  “You come with us,” the man said. “We’ll not have you whore’s sons running armed around the town. Or do you know the fighting is at the river, is that why you’re running in the other direction?”

  For a long second he and Harald just stared at one another. As a rule, Harald would never let such an insult to his courage go unanswered. But now he was desperate to be rid of this man, so instead he replied, “You Danes should have the honor of being first into battle. Lead us.”

  The scarred man gave a smile, just a small, triumphant twist of the lips, then turned and continued his jog down the road, his fellow Danes behind him. Once they had passed, once they were all but swallowed up by the dark, Harald turned and continued on up the road, his men close behind.

 
Stupid bastard
… he thought. They pushed on, the night growing quieter as they left the fighting on the river behind. Harald could see Grimarr’s house up ahead, and even from a distance he could see that the door was hanging part way open. He ran faster and adjusted the grip on his sword.

  They reached the threshold to Grimarr’s hall but there was no fighting there. Harald used Vengeance Seeker to push the door open. The fire in the hearth was dying away, but in its weak light he could see the massive bulk of Grimarr Giant sprawled out on the floor. There were two others, Danes who had clearly fallen in a desperate fight, one lying near the door in a spreading pool of blood that glinted in the flames.

  “Conandil?” Harald called. “Conandil, it’s Harald, are you here?” He spoke in Irish, but there was no answer. Harald had not expected there would be.

  He stepped back outside where the rest waited for him. He looked around. Had they taken her down to the river? He would feel like a fool, leading his men back after having them run directly away from the river to Grimarr’s house.