Dubh-Linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2) (20 page)

  Thorgrim staggered back a step. He shook his head. “Stay here? Why…what could possibly make you want to stay here?” But he knew the answer.

  “Brigit. She wants me to stay. She loves me. And I love her.”

  Despite himself, Thorgrim laughed. There was nothing that Harald could have said to more perfectly demonstrate that he was indeed just a naïve boy with no understanding of the ways of the wicked world.

  “Loves you? She loves you like a butcher loves his pigs, raising them up so he can slaughter them. I don’t know what has gone on between you, what happened before, but any fool can see she is using you. You are but a piece, a minor piece, in whatever game she plays.”

  “A ‘piece’, is it? How would you know that? You don’t even speak her language. But I do, and here is the truth, father. She means to sit on the throne of Tara, which is her right, and she means for me to rule with her. By her side. I am to be king here.”

  And Thorgrim laughed again.

  “By the gods, father, do not laugh at me! I will not stand it.”

  “Oh, you won’t, eh? And tell me, what proof do you have of this Irish bitch’s lofty plans? Why in all Asgard would she want you to share her rule?”

  “Because I am the father of the baby that grows in her belly.”

  In the cross-current of shocks that had come that night, this was the most powerful yet, and it knocked Thorgrim well off course. When he regained his composure, he spoke, his voice no more than a growl.

  “You are a fool. I have raised a fool.”

  Harald took a step closer, and his tone matched Thorgrim’s, the same note, a higher key, his finger pointing like a dagger. “Do not call me a fool.”

  Thorgrim’s hand lashed out, fast as ever he delivered a thrust in battle, and his open palm caught Harald on the side of the face. The young man was knocked sideways, bent nearly double, but his feet stayed fixed where they were. He did not stagger under the impact. He straightened. In the fading light Thorgrim could see the red mark on his face where he took the blow.

  “Do not call me a fool,” Harald said again, his tone unwavering defiance.

  Thorgrim’s hand lashed out again, but this time Harald’s hand was there to meet it, his right arm moving across his chest so fast that Thorgrim did not see it. He grabbed Thorgrim’s wrist in a powerful grip and the two stood there, faces just inches apart, eyes holding eyes, arm pushing on hand, so that both of them, man and boy, trembled from the exertion.

  Thorgrim could see the fury in Harald’s eyes, a thing he had never seen before, and a stew of emotions churned in his father’s heart; anger, pity, sorrow, fear. But none of that was in Harald’s eyes. There, it was fury alone, a pure vein of emotion.

  They stood for what seemed a long time, pushing one against the other. Thorgrim could feel the pull and tear of the wound in his side. He had expected his son’s arm to fold under the pressure, once he started applying real force, but it did not, and Thorgrim could not believe the strength the young man possessed.
Harald Broad-arm…

  Then Harald, angry beyond thought, cocked his left arm for an uppercut. Thorgrim felt the slightest lapse of power in Harald’s grip as his focus shifted to the other arm and Thorgrim knew it was over. He moved by instinct and muscle memory alone; there was no thought at all, no consideration of what he was doing. He twisted his arm in a tight circle, broke Harald’s grip, and used the momentum to hit Harald square on the side of the head.

  This time his son staggered, stumbled back two, three steps, his hand pressed against his face. Thorgrim dropped his arms to his sides. Sorrow and guilt, that was all he felt now.
How has it come to this? My boy?

  “By Thor and Odin, son, I am so sorry,” he said. His hands remained at his side. He hoped Harald would hit him in return, though he knew that redemption would not come that easy, far easier than he deserved.

  Harald did not hit him back. He dropped his arms to his side as well, pulled his eyes from Thorgrim’s face, and walked away, walked back up the road. Thorgrim watched his back as he strode off. He wanted to say something, to call out, but there were no words in his mouth. He hoped his son would turn and come back, but he knew he would not, nor did he.

  Thorgrim turned toward the river, his face into the sea breeze, and he wept.

That woman in my dreams

takes all my joy, it seems.

As I fall asleep, she appears…

                                                             Gisli Sursson’s Saga

Starri Deathless let the heavy grindstone spin slowly to a stop. He sighted down the edge of the blade he was honing. It was a thing of perfection, as sharp as that particular blade could ever be. There was one tiny flaw halfway down the edge, but that could not be ground out without ruining the entire weapon. Starri said nothing to Jokul about it.

  He had learned not to criticize Jokul’s work, after one casual remark about the balance of one sword had led to twenty minutes of high-volume ranting. Every time he thought Jokul was winding his diatribe down, the smith would start up again, like a fire that would not go out. If Jokul had reacted with physical violence it would not have bothered Starri in the least, but Starri knew he could not endure the ranting any longer.

  He set the blade aside. There were no more left to sharpen. But that was all right because he was done with sharpening blades, at least for now. He liked it. It was a prelude to battle. And even if there was no battle in the offing, sharpening a blade gave him that rise of spirit that came with the proximity to a fight. Starri had not been with a lot of women, not like many other men he knew, but he understood that the things one did prior to the final act were intended to make that ultimate release all the more intense.

  So it was with the rituals before battle. But, as with lying with a woman, one could only do the preliminaries so many times without taking it to the final act before the whole thing just became tedious and frustrating. 

  And if he remained stuck in Dubh-linn much longer, he would be there, at the place of tedium and frustration. Sailing with Arinbjorn had been good, leading the little band of berserkers. Starri was no leader; he knew that. He had never been able to concentrate long enough to take charge of anything, himself included, but with the berserkers that had not mattered much. Not much leadership was needed or indeed possible with a group such as that. They had seen fights enough along the coast.

  But meeting the Night Wolf had changed things, because he had seen, in that moment on the beach, that brilliant moment of vision, that his destiny was entwined with that man, blessed by the gods.

  Starri instinctively reached for the split arrowhead that hung from his neck.
Incredible…
Incredible that Thorgrim could not see the truth that was so obvious to Starri. He was blessed, and where he went, that was where Starri Deathless would be.

  At Cloyne it had been good. Going in through the secret gate. Only the Night Wolf could have known about that. The desperate fighting. Starri felt his mood improve as he reflected back on it. He had almost been slain on that field. Almost. Surely staying close to a man like Thorgrim would bring him soon to an end on the glory-field that would win the admiration of the Valkyries.

  But here in Dubh-linn, that would not happen. Here, things grew worse by the moment. Why? Because there were women. Starri did not dislike women. Not at all. But he had seen often enough how their presence complicated everything. Now Almaith had some designs on Thorgrim, right under her husband’s roof. And this Irish girl had arrived. Brigit. And she seemed to have some spell over Harald, so obvious that even Thorgrim recognized it, and Thorgrim was not quick where Harald was concerned. What could this mean?

  Their lives were like a great sheet of ice, once solid, flawless and constant, that was now melting, melting, revealing flaws and defects long frozen in place.

  This was why Starri loved battle. It was so clean, so unambiguous. The rules were straightforward and clear. As long as he let others worry about the reasons for fighting, and he focused on the fight itself, everything was good.

  “Jokul? Jokul the smith?”

  Starri looked up. There were two men standing there, big men, with long hair each done up in twin braids, as many of the Norsemen wore it. They wore padded tunics. Long, straight swords hung from their belts. Starri did not recognize them, but that was hardly odd. They looked like most of the men who wandered around the longphort, and Starri was not good with faces in any event.

  “What?” Starri said in reply.

  “Are you Jokul, the smith?” the man asked again.

  Before Starri could reply, Jokul burst from the house where he had been eating his dinner. “I am Jokul, who is it who’s looking for me?”

  “I am Sweyn, of Hedeby. This is my brother Svein.” The man in front nodded toward the one behind.

  “Huh? Danes, is it? Well, what do you want?” asked Jokul at his most charming.

  “We’ve been to see the smith Vali about swords for our men, and…”

  “Vali! You can see Vali about nails and horseshoes. I am the only one in Dubh-linn who can make a decent sword. But I don’t give them away, do you hear? You pay a fair price for my work, but that does not mean it’s a low price.”

  “I understand,” said Sweyn. “Can we talk about price, and how long it would take to make what we need?”

  “Talk,” Jokul said.

  “Maybe you’ll invite us in and give us a drink, so we do not have to talk on the street like this was the fish market? My brother and I are thirsty.”

  “Humph,” Jokul said, clearly struggling between his desire for business and his unwillingness to part even with a couple of cups of beer for free. This all seemed very odd to Starri. He could see Svein was carrying a skin, and it looked quite full. But then Jokul said, “Very well, come inside.”

  The two men stepped through the gate and followed Jokul inside and Starri followed behind because he was curious now. They went into the big room where the table stood by the hearth and Jokul roared, “Almaith! Beer, here!”

  Almaith peered into the room, surveyed the situation, and disappeared. Jokul waved toward a bench by the table and the two brothers sat, their bulk dwarfing the furniture. Jokul sat as well, and Starri took a seat on a stool in the corner. He was quiet, his movement so fluid and unobtrusive that no one seemed to notice he was there, and if they did, no one asked why he was.

  In the corner, Brigit sat with her hands in a stream of dull sunlight coming in through the window. She was sewing something, but Starri had the impression that it was just for something to do. Harald and Thorgrim had left an hour or so before, Almaith had her hands full keeping up with her increasingly crowded household, and that left Brigit unoccupied. She looked up briefly, ran her eyes over the men at the table, ignored Starri, and went back to her sewing.

  Sweyn and Jokul were in an animated discussion about swords, quality of steel, finish of hilts, prices. Almaith came in and set cups of beer on the table and the men picked them up without acknowledging her, as if the cups had appeared of their own volition.  Starri paid no attention to the negotiations. Jokul’s work was in great demand, and in the short time he had been there, Starri had heard this scene played out a dozen times.

  In truth, Starri was more interested in what Svein was about, which at first glance would seem to be nothing. He did not speak, and he took one sip of beer for every three the others did. His eyes were all around the room. They lit on Brigit and stayed there for a long while. That was not unusual; Starri had noticed that few men could keep their eyes off the girl, but Svein’s face did not wear the same look of desire that he had seen in others. Jokul, in particular, looked at her with something like ravenous hunger. Harald’s look was different, more affection than desire. Only Thorgrim seemed to look on her with indifference.

  From Brigit, Svein’s eyes moved up to the ceiling and over to the door that led to the other end of the house. He shifted slightly and cocked his head, just a bit, so he could take in the hearth and the wooden chests pushed up against the wall.

 
Curious fellow,
Starri thought.

  Then they heard the sound of feet along the path and the door opened and Harald stepped in. He looked briefly around, seemed to see no one until he saw Brigit. He said something to her in the Irish language that Starri did not understand. Brigit put down her sewing and stood. She looked concerned, even a little frightened. Harald was agitated, and Starri could see on the left side of his face the unmistakable mark of a solid punch landed.

 
Did Thorgrim strike him?
Starri wondered. That did not seem possible. Thorgrim loved the boy more than his own life. Far more. Starri could not imagine what could provoke him to hit Harald so hard as to leave a mark such as that. He watched Svein as Svein’s eyes followed Brigit and Harald out the door.

  “You seem to have quite a few living in your house,” Sweyn observed with a laugh.

  “House?” Jokul replied. “It’s a damned inn, I tell you, not a house, with that Irish wife of mine letting every damned stray cat stay here. They pay me half as much as they eat! I’ll be begging bread in the streets in a week, at this rate.”

  “Well, you’ve driven a hard enough bargain with me, that should keep a roof over your head for a while, anyway.” Sweyn stood and extended a hand. Jokul took it and shook, but Starri could see his thoughts had already moved on to other considerations. As had those of Starri Deathless.

  For some time, he did not know how long, Thorgrim stood by the edge of the water and let the cool sea breeze of late spring envelope him and let the emotions bleed out. Could he return to Vik without his son? Harald was not a boy. He was right about that. At Harald’s age, Thorgrim certainly did not have his father by his side, worrying about his every move. And if Harald was being a fool, surely it was Harald’s place to discover that, not Thorgrim’s place to point it out.  

 
We want the young to learn from our mistakes
, Thorgrim thought, and wondered if ever in the history of all humanity such a thing had ever happened.

  It was well dark when he turned at last and headed back up the hill, back toward Jokul’s house, though he had no intention of going there, at least not at that hour, not while others were still awake. From the plank road he could see candles burning inside, and occasionally the bulk of Jokul eclipsed the light as he moved past the window.

  “Night Wolf,” a voice said. “You are prowling the roads tonight.” Starri Deathless stepped out of the dark. He had been just feet away, but Thorgrim had not seen him, and that was unusual because men generally could not approach Thorgrim undetected. Starri’s voice, unexpected, might have been startling, but it blended with the evening and was no more jarring than a breeze rustling through treetops.

  “Starri. You are restless, too.”

  “I am.” Starri stopped at Thorgrim’s side and the two men turned and continued on up the road. No thought as to where they were going, no discussion, they just walked.

  “We have to leave Dubh-linn,” Starri said at last.

  “Yes,” Thorgrim said.

  “There are things happening here. Bad things.”

  “Yes.”

  They walked on. The mead hall was loud and light leaked from around the doors and shuttered windows, but they had no interest in that place and continued past. “My only thought was to get home. I thought it was what Harald wanted, too,” Thorgrim said.

  “But now there is this girl?”

  “Yes. She makes him her fool.”

  “Youth makes us all fools,” Starri said. “Age only makes it worse.”

  Despite himself, Thorgrim smiled in the dark. “When he was a prisoner, Harald apparently laid with her. Now she tells him that she carries his child. She says she is the rightful heir to the throne of Tara, which is some Irish kingdom not far from here. She has Harald convinced they will rule it together, if he can raise an army to take this Tara from those who rule it now. So Harald has gone to Arinbjorn.”

  They stopped and looked out over the distant sea. The moon was rising and casting a long, textured band of gold light over the water.

  “That’s quite a story,” Starri said at last. “Like a nursemaid might tell a child to get it to sleep. Could it be true?”