Dubh-Linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2) (3 page)

  “Is there anything more I can do, Father Finnian?” Morrigan asked. The monk looked around the church, blue eyes taking in the fresh rushes on the floor, the swathes of bright colored cloth, the candles adorning the alter. He nodded, and his lips turned up in just a hint of a smile.

  “No, child, it appears you have seen to everything. You know, this church and all of Tara would be swallowed up if you were not here to look after it.” The words were kind, but the tone was no more obsequious than a comment about the weather.

  “Well,” Morrigan said, “it seems to have stood for all the years I was a slave to the dubh gall,” the words coming out more bitter by far than she had intended. She felt her face flush, but Father Finnian just nodded, with that look of calm understanding.

  “It stood, child, but it did not stand strong.”

  Finnian was dressed in his white vestments now, not the course brown robe in which he was most often seen. Of the many men in the order (and it was one of the most populous in Ireland, in no small part because of the protection that the ringfort of Tara offered against the ceaseless ravages of the Norsemen) Father Finnian was one of the few ordained to the priesthood, thus one of the few who could perform the sacrament of marriage. The hem of the garments were wet and plastered with mud and it was everything Morrigan could do to not snatch them up and try to rub them clean.

  Then, from above their heads, the bells of the church began to ring, calling those who had been waiting, the retinue of Tara, the
rí túaithe
, anyone of any significance within twenty miles, to the wedding of Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill, daughter of the late and greatly mourned Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid.

  Father Finnian turned to Morrigan. “The time is here,” he said.

 
Indeed
, Morrigan thought.

There are ax-ages, sword-ages-

Shields are cleft in twain, -

There are wind-ages, wolf-ages,

Ere the world falls dead.

                                                     The Fooling of Gylfe

Thorgrim Night Wolf was tired.

  He was tired of the voyaging, tired of the thousand concerns that were the lot of any leader of men, weary of consideration. But for all that, he could not deny the stirring in his blood when he heard the bow of
Thunder God
scrape up on the beach, leading the other ships in.

  Starboard and larboard, the men aboard
Black Raven
gave one last pull, and as the momentum carried the ship the last fifty feet to the beach, Arinbjorn called out, “Ship oars!” As one, the long sweeps came inboard and the oarsmen held them straight up. Thorgrim tried and failed not to glance in Harald’s direction, but the boy was handling his oar as well as any of the more experienced men.

  A Viking raid. Tired as he was, he loved this. It reminded him that he was still alive. And he knew that if, in an hour’s time, that was no longer true, then he would die the way a man was supposed to die.

  “Who is that fellow?” Thorgrim asked Arinbjorn as the
Black Raven
closed fast with the beach. Up near the bow, one of the ship’s company was whirling around, practically spinning where he stood. He wore only leggings, no mail, no shirt, no helmet to cover the wild mop of hair. His beard thrust out in various directions like a shrub that is beyond control. He held a short sword in his left hand, a battle ax in his right. He was thin, and had he been clothed he might have seemed weak and emaciated, but stripped to the waist his muscles stood out like the gnarled roots of a tree.

  “Starri Deathless,” Arinbjorn said. “He’s a berserker. Leads a band of berserkers.”

  Thorgrim nodded. He could see at first glance that Starri was a berserker, a member of that cult of warriors who went mad at the prospect of battle. They plunged into a fight with a ferocity that was ordained by the gods, a blood-lust beyond even what the Vikings considered normal. Thorgrim had fought alongside berserkers before and he recognized the signs, the disdain for armor, the frantic energy in those moments before the fight.

  “I hadn’t noticed him until now,” Thorgrim said.

  “He keeps to himself most of the time. In a fight, he’s hard not to notice.”

  And then the
Black Raven
ran up on the sand and Thorgrim stumbled a little at the abrupt stop. The men leapt up, the oars were carried forward and stacked on the gallows amidships, and Thorgrim could feel his heart beat faster in his chest. He reveled at the thump of shields being lifted from their resting place on the gunnels, the odd metallic swish of mail shirts as the men vaulted over the low sides of the ship. They splashed into the surf and grabbed hold of the rails and pulled with a will. The shallow vessel came up on the sand. Long mooring lines were run up the beach to hold it in place.

  Harald looked over at Thorgrim, unsure if, at his age, he could join the others without his father’s say so. But Thorgrim gave the faintest of nods and Harald was off like an arrow, racing forward and then flinging himself over the side into the shallow water. He wore an iron helmet and a mail shirt, a shield on his left arm and a battle ax in his right hand. To Thorgrim he still looked like the little boy he once was, running around the farm in Vik with his play armor and wooden ax.

  Harald’s helmet, mail and weapons, like Thorgrim’s, had been borrowed from Arinbjorn before they put to sea. For all the cattle and land and buildings and slaves Thorgrim owned back in Vik, in Ireland he was nearly destitute, having lost everything in his fighting with the Irish. The only possession he had was, happily, his most prized; his sword, Iron-tooth, taken from him by the Danes and returned (he still did not know how) by the thrall he knew as Morrigan.

  At last it was only him and Arinbjorn aboard and they went forward to a place where the ship had been pulled up on the sand. Thorgrim put a foot on the gunnel, stood and dropped to the beach, Arinbjorn behind him. The last of the Viking fleet was coming ashore. The narrow strip of sand, with the sea on one edge and tall, scrubby cliffs on the other, was filling with the men who had come to fight.

  Thorgrim straightened and found himself standing beside Starri Deathless, who was still whirling around, and Thorgrim had to step back quick to avoid catching Starri’s battle ax in the jaw. And in that instant their eyes met and Starri froze, just stopped, as if he was turned to stone, and held Thorgrim’s gaze. Starri squinted and cocked his head, as if trying to get a closer look. Thorgrim held his eyes, not sure of the meaning of this, unwilling to look away. He would not be stared down, not by anyone, not even a berserker. Especially not a berserker, who, when not needed for the fighting was generally not considered fit for the company of men.

  But the look in Starri’s eyes held no threat or challenge or anything that smacked of hostility. Thorgrim could not imagine what was going on in the man’s mind. Then Starri spoke, and his voice was calm. “Pray, what is your name?”

  “Thorgrim. Thorgrim Ulfsson, of Vik.”

  “But they call you something else, do they not?”

  “They call me Thorgrim Night Wolf.”

  “Yes, yes. The night wolf. You are the night wolf, and you are favored by the gods.” And then Starri nodded and turned away and ambled off, as if Thorgrim had drained the madness from him.

  “He’s an odd one,” Arinbjorn said.

  “It’s who they are,” Thorgrim said.

  “Here,” Arinbjorn nodded up the beach. “Hoskuld Iron-skull is calling the leaders together. Join me.”

  Thorgrim hesitated. “I am not a jarl, or the owner of any ship. I lead no men. I have no business at a gathering such as that.”

  “Nonsense! A man such as Thorgrim Night Wolf? Your council would always be welcome. Come with me.” So Thorgrim followed Arinbjorn White-tooth up the beach to where the men who commanded the ships of the fleet were gathered around
Hoskuld Iron-skull
.

  “You saw the riders on the ridge, I have no doubt,” Iron-skull was saying as they joined the circle. “They’ll be ready, waiting for us. We do not know how many.” Hoskuld was a big man, filling out with age, but he still exuded power in his bearing and his voice. He wore mail, finely wrought, a helmet that would have gleamed if the sun had been shining, and around his shoulders a cloak made of some fine fur. Ermine, perhaps. He was a wealthy and powerful jarl, and everything about him reflected that fact.

  “There’s a tower at Cloyne,” one of the other jarls offered, “maybe tall enough to have seen us at first light.”

  “A tower?” Arinbjorn said. “I was never told of any tower.”

  Hrolleif the Stout, who owned the ship
Serpent
and whose face was all but lost in his beard, shrugged as if it did not matter, and Thorgrim silently seconded the gesture. It did not matter.

  But jarls would talk, and each would be heard, so the conversation went back and forth for some minutes more. Bolli Thorvaldsson, a minor jarl from the south of Norway, owner of
Odin’s Eye
, the smallest ship in the fleet, favored the swiftest possible advance. Arinbjorn offered his own suggestion. “Let us take a third of our men, circle around to the south. If they are waiting for us in numbers, then the chief of our men will attack face on, and once engaged the third will attack from the side.”

  There was silence at that. Some nodded, but not with any great enthusiasm. Hrolleif spit on the sand, then wiped away the part that hung up in his beard. “Too fancy. Too fancy by half, I say,” Hrolleif said. “Right at them, that’s the way.”

  “Thorgrim Night Wolf?” Hoskuld Iron-skull asked, catching Thorgrim off guard. “You have spent some time now in this cursed country, what do you say?”

  Thorgrim thought for a second. He was with Hrolleif in spirit, but he was serving at the pleasure of Arinbjorn White-tooth. Arinbjorn was no fool, and his idea was not necessarily wrong. There was no shame in thinking things through or trying to outwit your enemy. Yet….

  “The Irish will not have mail, or few will,” Thorgrim said at length, “and they will not have battle axes. Some are mounted on creatures they call horses, but if any of you mistook them for swine it would be no wonder.” Some of the others smiled at that, some nodded. “I like what Arinbjorn suggests, but I think the biggest threat from the Irish are sheer numbers, in which case I would not care to have our company divided.”

  There followed a brief and disorderly discussion, with nearly all speaking at once, but it was clear that a great majority agreed with Thorgrim, and they would take that course. “That ridge is what we must worry about the most,” said one of the men whom Thorgrim did not know. He pointed with his chin to the high ground that bordered the beach, the narrow cut of a trail that led through the scrub. “We can’t go but two or three abreast up that trail. If these Irish know anything, they’ll hit us there, butcher us as we come on.”

  Hoskuld Iron-skull closed the discussion. “That is why the gods give us berserkers,” he said.

We sailed our ships to any shore

that offered the best hope of booty;

we feared no fellow on earth,

we were fit, we fought in the battle fleet.

                                Saga of Arrow-Odd

Harald Thorgrimson’s helmet slipped forward as he ran, despite the chin strap. The cursed thing covered his eyes for an instant, until he pushed it back into place. But now his vision was blurred by the sweat that ran liberally from under the padding despite the cool, damp weather. Still, he kept the helmet in place. He knew his father would be angry if he discarded it, and in some unexplored corner of his mind he was happy for the protection it offered as he raced into battle.

  Just ahead of him, on the narrow path running up the sandy dunes from the beach, hemmed in by tangled shrubs, charged Starri Deathless and his berserker band. Behind Starri was that company’s second in command, if berserkers could have such a thing, a Swede named Nordwall the Short. Starri and Nordwall were as opposite as two men could be. Where Starri was tall and wiry and constantly in motion, Nordwall was short and broad, a powerfully built man who tended to remain motionless, his eyes alone constantly roaming. He moved only when he had good reason to do so, and when he did, his actions were explosive.

  One could not say that Starri was
leading
the attack, since he was utterly oblivious to the men behind him. He was, rather, flinging himself up the trail, his only thought to get at the enemy.

  Harald was not pleased about having to advance in the wake of the berserkers. He had wanted very much to lead the attack himself, to be first up the trail, but Hoskuld Iron-skull had said no, the berserkers would lead, and that was an end to it. Harold was more than a bit put out by that. The fact that he was most likely the least experienced warrior there did not even occur to him.

 
Berserkers…. Damned madmen….
Harald thought as he pushed up the trail as fast as he could. He might not have had the frantic energy of the others, Starri, Nordwall and the half dozen in the van, but he was the youngest of all the ships’ companies, and had the legs and the lungs on the rest. So, if he had to trail behind the berserkers, at least he would be the first among those who were not entirely insane.

 
Father…he’ll be gasping for breath by this point,
Harald thought with no small measure of satisfaction, but those thoughts were interrupted by the swishing sound of an arrow passing close by. He pushed his helmet back again, looked up as he ran, looked up in time to see a bowman on the ridge one hundred feet away. He wore a rough, green tunic, a leather helmet. He had his arrow knocked and drawn full length.

  Harald’s reflex was to duck, to swerve out of line, and he actually took a step to the right before he corrected himself with an oath and charged straight on. The bowman let the arrow fly - Harald could see it streaking down the hill toward him. How many times had he himself let fly an arrow and watched it fly away? And now here was one flying at him. There was time only to feel a surge of panic. His mind was wiped clean of thought, he could think of nothing to do but charge on. Then the man to his right leapt sideways to avoid a tangle of brush, and the move put him straight in the path of the three foot shaft.

  The arrow’s impact stopped the berserker’s forward motion and sent him reeling back. The wicked metal tip erupted from the man’s back in a welter of blood that felt to Harald like warm spray. Now Harald did leap aside to avoid the falling, writhing man. Spared, for the moment, Harald felt his panic turn to shame, and vague thoughts of Thorgrim and what he might think jumbled in his mind and solidified into anger and determination. He looked up as he ran, adjusted his helmet, raised his battle ax and let a wild shout rise from his lungs.

  There were more bowmen on the ridgeline, half a dozen, and they let fly at the onrushing Norsemen. Harald could hear the swish of the arrows, all but lost in the growing shouts, the screams and animal howls of the berserkers as they covered the last fifty feet up the trail. Starri Deathless had an arrow through his upper arm, the head passed clean through, the shaft lodged in his muscle like it was some sort of decoration, but he gave no sign that he was even aware of it. He was howling like a wolf, his ax and short sword held overhead, his bare chest exposed as if making a target for the bowmen, but rather than firing, Harald could see they were backing away as the berserkers closed with them.

  Starri was up and over the edge of the high ground and lost to sight, Nordwall at his heels, the others crowding behind and Harald pushing hard to keep up. All his youth and strength were not enough to allow him to keep pace with the unworldly energy of the berserkers as they raced into a fight. He adjusted his helmet and glanced over his shoulder. The next man was four of five paces behind, another right behind him, and the rest of the Vikings spread out along the trail, legs working hard in the sandy soil, a long line of bright colored shields and polished weapons coming up behind. He could not see his father, but knew he would be coming on as fast as his old legs could carry him. Harald could not recall exactly how old his father was, but he had to be in his fourth decade at least, and the years were starting to tell.

  And then Harald was up over the ridge himself, his soft leather shoes digging in, pushing him on, up onto the flat ground and into a scene of madness. The Irish had made a shield wall of sorts, and the bowmen were retreating behind it, firing as they went, and the berserkers were flinging themselves in disordered array at the defense. Harald slowed for a second, taking it in, looking for the most advantageous point to add his weight to the fight. Beyond the struggling men, two hundred yards back, the land dipped down into a low spot, hidden by the hill on which they stood, then rose up beyond that and rolled away in fields that seemed dull green in the overcast, with patches of trees dotting the countryside, and a brown scar of a road no doubt leading back to the town of Cloyne.

  Starri Deathless was flailing at the shieldwall with short sword and battle ax, his arms moving like tree branches whipping wildly in a storm. Splinters flew from the shields held up to fend him off, sprays of blood shot through the air. Beside him, Nordwall the Short hacked at the defenders, swinging down at the heads of the men in the shieldwall, wrenching his weapon free, then an upward swing from below. To Harald, all of Ireland seemed to contract down to that one flat hill top, and there was nothing but the struggling men, no sound but the shrieks of the wounded, the screams of the enraged.

  Harald could see the left wing of the shieldwall starting to bend forward, turning like an arm to envelope the berserkers, who were too inflamed to notice. In a moment the Vikings would be fighting an enemy in front and behind.

 
There, there, there…
the word churned in his mind and he charged forward, battle ax raised, leading with his shield, in just the manner Thorgrim had taught him with wooden toys on the farm. A shout came from his gut, burst from his mouth, rose up and up into a wolf’s howl. He saw the men at the extreme edge of the shield wall look up, saw moustaches, beards, looks of shocked surprise and then he was on them, slamming into the nearest of the Irish defenders. He felt the shock reverberate through the boss of his shield. The Irishman stumbled, Harald’s battle ax came down, came down with such force and momentum that the weapon was not slowed in the least by its impact with the man’s head, but instead passed clean through and struck the back of his shield.

  The man was dead and of no concern to Harald, so Harald let him fall away. He wrenched his ax free of the shield and swung it back, and on the backswing caught a sword slashing at him from behind the shieldwall. The man who had swung the sword was knocked off balance by the move and Harald drove his shield into him, sending him staggering back. Harald raised his ax, but - by luck or design - the man had stumbled beyond the reach of the three-foot weapon.

  Harald was pivoting right when he sensed men around him, and then more of the Vikings who had pushed up the path at his heels flung themselves into the fight. On his left hand Harald had a glimpse of a yellow shield with some sort of red design on it. He looked to his right, took his eyes from the enemy in front, and even as he did, he heard his father’s voice in his mind commanding,
keep your eyes on the fight!

  Just as the words came to him he was struck in the side of the head by something, some weapon that made his helmet ring and knocked him off balance. Then the helmet slipped down over his eyes, blinding him, completing his humiliation.

  With hands encumbered by sword and shield he tried to push the helmet back. He clenched the muscles in his stomach, bracing for the sword thrust through the mail, through his gut. Images swirled in his mind of his body sprawled on the field, dead, helmet over his eyes, the Valkyries laughing as they passed him by…
No one goes to Valhalla who dies so stupid!

  And then another blow to the head, from the other side, and the helmet flew clean off. Harald had a sensation like swimming in the sea back in Vik, coming up from the silent depths of the fiord, breaking through the surface of the water into the bright light. He was free of the helmet, his vision was clear, and with a shout he leapt forward, ax over his head, his arm tensed and ready for a mighty swing like the arm of a trebuchet.

  Harald’s ax came down. The blade struck the edge of an upraised shield and shattered it and the ax lodged in what was left of the wood. The man holding the shield thrust his sword at Harald’s throat, but Harald knocked it aside with his own shield. He jerked the handle of the ax, but could not get it free.

  The shieldwall was starting to collapse. It took considerable courage and discipline to remain locked shoulder to shoulder in the face of a determined enemy, and that was more than the part-time soldiers defending Cloyne could muster. One by one they began to break away, leaving gaps in the line through which the berserkers flung themselves with their inhuman fury, weapons singing, as the other Northmen, just as determined, struck the line on the flanks.

  Harald and the man he was fighting were caught in a weird dance, Harald trying to yank his ax free, the Irishman trying to regain control of his shield as he thrust his sword at Harald and Harald knocked the blade away.

 
Enough,
Harald thought. He released the ax, which threw the Irishman off balance and Harald, reverting to the most ancient weapon of all, thrust his fist over the edge of the shattered shield and smashed it into the man’s face. The blow would not kill him, but Harald felt the Irishman’s nose collapse under his fist before the man whirled around and fell to the wet grass.

  There were weapons scattered on the field now, dropped by the wounded or the dead, or discarded as a prelude to flight. Harald, his eyes locked on the men before him, reached down and snatched up a sword, and even as he straightened, the shieldwall collapsed. As if on some signal that could be heard only by the Irish, the men sent to defend Cloyne backed away, turned, and fled north, turned their backs on the Viking raiders as they raced for what they hoped would be safety.

  Up and down the line Harald heard the shouts of victory, the outraged screams of the berserkers who wished their enemy to fight to the death. The Vikings rolled forward, building speed in pursuit, a pell-mell, disorganized chase based on no plan beyond catching the fleeing men and finishing them off, stopping them before they could make another bloody stand.

  Harald felt he was under no orders now to allow the berserkers to take the lead, so he dug in hard as he ran, pushing to be the first to catch up with the Irish in their flight. He could hear voices behind him, the sharp bark of orders, could pick out the sound of Hoskuld Iron-skull’s voice and even that of his own father.

  “Halt! Halt! Halt!” The words finally registered with Harald.
Halt?
With complete victory right before them? Harald pressed on, determined to ignore them.
Old men, too timid
, he thought.

  Ahead of him he could see the Irishmen disappear over the crest of the small hill on which they had been fighting, their retreat turned to a route as they threw weapons and shields away. Even loaded down as he was with shield, sword and mail, Harald felt sure he could overtake them, and then they would be defenseless. He pressed on hard, the edge of the flat hilltop just yards away.