The Lord of Vik-Lo: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 3) (19 page)

  “She swims,” Starri said at last.

  “She swims,” Thorgrim agreed.

  They were silent again for a long moment. Then Starri turned to Thorgrim, reached out and squeezed his arm, then walked off again.

  Often, when Thorgrim was in his black mood, Starri would take a place nearby and sit vigil through the night. Now, perhaps because they were not on a battlefield but safe within the walls of Vík-ló, he did not, but rather made his way toward the temporary Norwegian village of West Agder. The camp’s most prominent feature, the mead hall made from
Far Voyager
’s sail, was gone now, the sail and the oars that made up the frame being needed once again aboard the ship. But the tents and tables were there still, and food and drink were flowing. The men of West Agder had much to celebrate.

  Thorgrim did not join them, and no one asked him to. He stood in his place looking at the river until darkness came and the noise and the fire from his men’s encampment grew as the light faded. Then Thorgrim moved further off, down the river bank, closer to the sea, until the sounds from the camp were muted and distant. He sat, his legs drawn up near to his chest, as near as his aging joints could flex, and stared out into the dark.

  As he had grown older the black moods had come less and less frequently, and he had even hoped that they might be a thing of the past. But now the anger and despair at his inability to leave Ireland in his wake, the desperation and the fury at how Grimarr had thwarted him, swept him up like a winter squall, tumbled him and tossed him about, and he knew that he was not done with these terrible visitations, not yet. He knew he might not be free of the black mood until he reached Odin’s great hall.

  His awareness of those things around him began to fade as the tumult of emotions overwhelmed him. He knew from experience there was nothing he could do, he could not fight it, he could only remain where he was and let it pass. Whatever he did when the black mood was on him he knew he would not remember, and he could only hope that it was not too terrible.

  He pulled his cloak around him and stared out at the sea. Time passed but he had little awareness of it. He heard the sound of the waves on the shore and smelled the salt air and he felt the call of the sea.

  And then suddenly he was aware of another presence, someone behind him. He felt the dream-state slip, felt himself pulled back into the world of men. He turned his head and he saw the distant firelight glint off something swinging fast through the air. He had an instant to register the hardness of the thing, the cold dampness of the iron as it connected with the side of his head, and then all was blackness again.

I felt my life’s blood run

down both my sides.

I had to bear that bravely.

                                                           Gisli Sursson’s Saga

The first thing Thorgrim realized when consciousness returned was that he was buried. He was covered completely, and the weight of whatever covered him pressed down on him, head to feet. He felt a spark of panic to think he had been buried in the earth, buried alive. He tried to determine if he still had Iron-tooth; to die in this way was horror enough, to die without a sword in his hand was worse still, but to die without even having a weapon in his possession was unthinkable.

  It was then he realized that his hands and his feet were bound, lashed tight with thin cordage that dug into his flesh. He could feel the warm, wet blood from the places where the lashings had broken the skin. And then, awareness growing stronger, he realized that he was lying on something that was swaying and bumping. He was not under the ground, and this weight pressing down on him was not dirt. It had a familiar smell, a comforting smell. Hay.

 
Cart…
Thorgrim thought.
I’m in the back of a cart…
He cocked his head one way and another, trying to pick out some sound, but the hay muffled everything save for the squeaking of the wheels and axle which seemed to come through the fabric of the cart itself.

  He could hear nothing, see nothing, smell nothing save for the hay. He had no idea of where he was or how long he had been unconscious. He tried to shift his position and the pain in his head flared like a funeral pyre and he moaned despite himself. He worked his wrists against the bonds but the pain was terrific and the cords did not yield in the least.

  And then the motion stopped. He felt the cart sway as it came to a halt and the creaking and the bumping ceased and he could hear muffled voices through the hay. He could make out no words, and he had the sense that the men around him were purposely speaking soft. He heard a knocking, then more muffled voices. And then another voice, loud and commanding, making no effort to be quiet.

  “He is here?”

  “Yes, Lord. Under the hay.”

  A pause. Then, “Why in Odin’s name is he under the hay?”

  “So his men would not find him. If they happened on us.”

  This was greeted by a grunt, a suggestion that such precaution was stupid. Then the louder voice demanded, “He lives still?”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  “Bastard!” The hay did nothing to dull the sharp note of Grimarr’s voice. “Bastard!” he said again. “Bring him in.”

  Thorgrim felt the weight of the hay diminish as hands dug him out. A knife flashed and the binds around his ankles were cut free. More hands grabbed his arms and legs and dragged him off the end of the cart and stood him up. His head whirled, light flashed in his eyes, tears ran down his cheeks. The crushing pain in his skull made it hard to stand or form a thought. Under it all he could feel that the dark mood, the night wolf dream, had not gone away. It was there, lurking.

  More hands half pushed, half dragged him through the door and into Grimarr’s hall. Grimarr was seated in his big chair, the one that Thorgrim had always suspected was meant to suggest a throne. Oversized as it was, Grimarr filled it completely. His legs were thrust out in front of him, he was slumped back, head cocked to one side. He looked weary. He looked furious.

  Thorgrim staggered across the floor on legs that barely functioned, and if the men on either side of him had not been taking most of his weight he would have fallen in a heap. Grimarr’s men maneuvered him until he was facing Grimarr, then let him go, let his legs collapse under him, catching him again when he was on his knees so that he was left kneeling at Grimarr’s feet.

  Bersi stood behind Grimarr and to his right. To his left was Hilder, holding what Thorgrim recognized as the iron spit that had put Grimarr down during the Irish raid.

  “Thorgrim Night Wolf,” Grimarr said, speaking the name slow, savoring the words. “Late of Dubh-linn.”

  Thorgrim looked into his eyes, though in truth he could hardly see. His vision was dulled and tears were welling in his eyes from the pain in his head. Even if he could have spoken he would have had nothing to say to that.

  Grimarr continued. “You may know why you are here. Or you may not. It does not matter. The gods know and I know.”

Again, Thorgrim made no attempt to answer. Such an effort would have been pointless on many levels.

  “Before you die, Thorgrim Night Wolf, I want you to know this one thing.” Grimarr sat up and leaned forward, as if he was suddenly interested in what he had to say. He leaned close to Thorgrim, their faces inches apart. He spoke soft, his voice a low, animal sound.

  “Many of your men will die helping me get the Fearna hoard,” Grimarr continued. “All of them, if I can manage it. All but your son. Him, I’ll bring back to Vík-ló and I’ll kill him here. I will take a long time to do it, and his end will be the most humiliating death I can arrange. He’ll shriek like a girl, and when at last he dies he will join you in the frozen wastes of Hel. And my only regret is that you will not see your son die. So I want you to know that he will die with no sword in his hand, and his body will be left for the pigs and the crows.”

  For a long moment the two men stared at one another, inches separating them. Thorgrim’s mind was clearing, but still he had no idea of why this was happening, why Grimarr had suddenly changed in this way. He had a vague memory of Grimarr’s earlier trying to ingratiate himself but that seemed more a dream now, and trying to recall any of it was like peering through thick fog.

  And suddenly Thorgrim was filled with hatred for Grimarr, hatred so bitter it was like a terrible taste in his mouth, a sharp knife in his gut. It swept over him and engulfed him and with no idea that he was even going to do it he lunged forward, teeth barred, a howl in his throat. He snapped at Grimarr’s cheek and felt the flesh between his incisors and he bit down hard. He heard Grimarr shout and felt him pull back, the flesh pulling free from his teeth, the taste of blood in his mouth.

  Grimarr pushed himself all the way back in his chair, eyes wide, hands up, blood running down his face Thorgrim launched himself forward, pushing off with his toes, just clearing the floor when the man to his right, unseen, kicked him hard and sent him sprawling off to the side.

  It was no more than a heartbeat before Grimarr recovered from the shock and leapt to his feet, wiping at his bloody cheek with his sleeve. More hands grabbed onto Thorgrim’s arms and hefted him up and he snarled and snapped at them, but Grimarr’s men were careful to keep clear of his teeth. They held him up and Grimarr pulled his sword from its sheath and took a step closer.

  Thorgrim still did not speak. He had no words and he did not seem capable of speech in any event, but he was lucid enough to know that the wolf dream still had partial hold of him.

  “Throw his cloak over his head,” Grimarr ordered and Thorgrim felt the cloth lifted from behind and then it fell over his head, over the front of his tunic and he could see nothing but blackness, smell nothing but the damp wool. He heard the familiar swish of blade through air and suddenly he felt the searing pain of a slashing wound across the chest, a hot flame tearing a line through his flesh, and then the wetness of the blood and the first wave of agony.

  He tried to double over but the hands on his arms held him up and then he heard the blade slash again and it cut him from the other direction, two wounds that formed an X, like a rune hacked in his skin.

  Thorgrim made a sound in his throat that was part growl and part effort to suppress the terrible and building pain. Behind his back he clenched his bound fists and he felt his legs grow shaky under him. He was aware that Grimarr was moving again and somewhere in his mind it registered that this was the death blow, that Grimarr was bringing his arm back for a stroke that would take his head clean off. Then the men holding him jerked him back and he heard a voice – Bersi’s voice – say, “Not here, Lord! The blood…you have what you need!”

  It fell quiet. Thorgrim’s body was wracked with pain, his head pounded, the agony from the bleeding wounds threatened to overwhelm him. He could hear men breathing hard all around. And then a hand jerked at the cloak, ripping it off, and in the dim light he could see Grimarr standing in front of him, sword pointed at the floor, blood, his blood, dripping from the point.

  It was Grimarr who held the cloak. His breath was raspy and wisps of his long, wild hair fell over his face and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. For a moment he and Thorgrim just looked into one another’s eyes. Then Grimarr held up the cloak and examined it. The broach was bent but still in place. There were two wide rents where the sword had slashed the fabric and from those rents down the cloth was dark with the blood that had soaked into it.

  Grimarr seemed no more able to speak than Thorgrim. His mouth hung partway open and he was breathing loudly and every man in the hall stood waiting for some word from him, the Lord of Vík-ló.

  But Grimarr had no words. He nodded slowly, as if he finally understood something that had been puzzling him. Hilder stepped up and handed Grimarr a belt and sword and Thorgrim recognized it as his own, Iron-tooth in its scabbard. Grimarr nodded again, took the weapon, and then by way of orders jerked his massive head toward the door.

  The men holding Thorgrim spun him around and tried to make him walk in the direction Grimarr had indicated, but such an effort was beyond him now. He took one step, his knees buckled, and he was heading for the floor when the darkness enveloped him again.

  Thorgrim was once more buried under the hay when the wolf dream swept over him. He could see nothing, and he was not even sure if his eyes were opened or closed. His body was wracked with pain, but it was an odd pain, a dream pain, because he was not in the world of waking men. He was dimly aware of that, of his being in this netherworld, wandering in this country of dreams.

  He could smell the hay, and now he could smell more, much more. He could smell blood and he knew it was his own blood. He could smell men around the cart and he could even distinguish one from another by their smell alone. There were five of them. Two pulling the cart, one walking beside them, two behind. The road they were on was rough, rutted and bumpy. He could smell damp earth and grass.

  His ears searched for sounds in the dark and found them, a multitude of sounds, picked out from beyond the cart’s relentless squeaking. The breathing of men moving fast. The footfalls of feet swathed in soft leather shoes. Insects far off. An owl that called once and then was silent.

  Thorgrim lay completely motionless and felt his body gathering strength, collecting it up, hording each little bit like a woman gleaning a field, but there was not much strength left to gather. His mind was free of any conscious thought but his body seemed to understand that one great push was called for, one tremendous burst of power and then he could rest. Then he could rest.

  He had no sense of time as he lay in the dream state, and the only motion he could feel was side to side, or thumping over some imperfection. He understood that they were going forward as well, but he had no way of knowing where they were, or where they were bound. Nor did he care, and in that odd dream state it did not even occur to him to care.

  The cart stopped and Thorgrim felt his body tense, ready for that one burst of power for which it had been marshalling strength. He had a vague idea that his limbs had been bound at one point but they did not seem to be bound now. He could hear voices, human voices, speaking softly, but he could not understand the words. He could hear them gathering, he could smell them, the odor of one overlapping the other. He heard the sound of a blade slipping out of a scabbard, then another. He could taste blood in his mouth.

  He heard a rustling in the hay and some unseen hand brushed it aside and the complete blackness was likewise brushed aside as the light from stars and moon began to work its way through the cover. Another swipe of the hands, more hay gone, and the clean air of the night came to him, and the odor of the men was stronger. They were nervous, he could smell it.

  A second set of hands reached into the hay and grabbed an armful and tossed it aside. Thorgrim braced, muscles tight like cords, a low growl coming unbidden from his throat. He heard a gasp, heard the man above him leap back, heard his shout, “What, by the gods…” and then Thorgrim was up and on him.