Dubh-Linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2) (43 page)

  The battering ram hit again and the doors moved a bit more. It hit again and a gap opened up between them, and splinters appeared where the ram had struck. The men at the handholds swung it back, swung it forward again and again in a regular rhythm that made the door gape and jump with each blow.

  The Northmen around Thorgrim took a small step forward, as if drawn by the sound of the splintering wood. He could see hands readjusting their grips on weapons, men shrugging their shoulders and working the kinks out of their arms. Starri was doing that weird, whirling thing he did when he was having trouble containing himself.

  And then another crash of the ram against the gate, and this one sounded different. Thorgrim looked up in time to see the big doors crash open, a gap of several feet appearing between them as the bar holding them closed gave way under the relentless pounding. A shout rose up from the waiting men. The ram was tossed aside and the men in the front ranks pushed the doors more open still, the main gate wide enough to let a dozen men enter abreast.

  They began to crowd forward, every man eager to get in through the gap, to get at the enemy. Then suddenly the space beyond the doors bloomed with light as a great column of flame rose up just within the walls. There was shrieking from the front, and orders shouted in the Irish language that Thorgrim could not understand, but Thorgrim smiled and thought,
Smart
…
these Irish can be smart when they wish.

  Tara’s defenders had stacked flammables just inside the gate. Thorgrim guessed it was straw, no doubt soaked with some sort of oil, since nothing would burn otherwise on a day such as that. They had waited until the doors had been smashed open, the enemy surging through before touching it off. Where the walls of dirt and oak could not keep this attacking army back, they had set a wall of flames. But that would not hold their enemy back, either, not for long.

  The men in the front ranks, Irish men-at-arms and Vikings, charged forward, shields held high to deflect the flames as they would any other weapons. They kicked the burning material aside, but as they did, the real defense, arrows and spears from the Irish ranks within, came ripping through the columns of flame, fired by men hidden behind the fire.

  Thorgrim pushed forward, Harald at his side. He was eager as any to get into the fight, but experienced enough to know it did no one any good for them to crowd and jam into the relatively narrow gate. He reached over and put a hand on Harald, restraining the boy. “Do not forget what we are about!” he shouted over the din and Harald nodded.

  Thorgrim looked to his right, where Starri had been, but the berserker was no longer there, which was no surprise. Thorgrim looked ahead, just in time to see Starri literally climb over another man’s back and launch himself off the man’s shoulders at something unseen beyond the press of struggling warriors.

  Just inside the gate a line of men-at-arms kicked at the burning material and batted it with their shields, fighting to make a hole. Two of them were flung back like they had been gored by bulls, arrows buried in their chests, and two more stepped up to take their place.

  The fire and the arrows and spears were taking their toll, but it was clear to Thorgrim and must have been clear to all that the defenders could do nothing to hold the attacking army back for more than a minute or so.
I wonder what other surprises they have waiting for us?
Thorgrim thought.
Morrigan, what have you conjured up? We shall know directly…

  There was a gap now in what had been a solid wall of flame, the front ranks had managed to knock the burning straw aside and made a passage through the fire. Now Irish and Norse were pushing through, pouring through the gap. Thorgrim could see the ranks of men beyond the flames, two ranks, shields ready, and archers and men with spears in the front, taking down the enemy as they came. But the gap in the flames grew wider as more and more men pushed through, and the archers tossed their bows aside and drew swords, readying themselves for the bloody hand to hand fighting that would come.

  The Irish troops, Brigit’s troops, charged the line, a semi-organized attack that drove the defenders back a step, but they did not break or yield. All along the line the swords rose and fell, the sound of shouting and metal on metal, metal on wooden shield and the links of mail shirts rolled around the ringfort.

  But the Norsemen were holding back. The very men who would otherwise have been in the front ranks of the bloody fighting were three paces behind, and they did not look eager to take part. Because it was, in truth, not their fight.

  Thorgrim and Harald were through the gate, through the last of the burning straw and the choking smoke, and the great inner grounds of Tara lay before them, the many buildings, round and wattle built, or tall and square and framed with heavy beams. It was an impressive sight.

  “There, Father, there!” Harald pointed with his sword and Thorgrim followed the direction of the blade. Two hundred rods away stood a building framed with black timbers, its daub walls whitewashed, a tall, proud looking structure, not the largest within the walls but set off from the rest in a way that gave it an air of importance. It had a tall spire, and on top of it, a great wooden cross, a massive version of the tiny silver one Thorgrim had strung around his neck, along with the silver hammer of Thor.

  “This way! Northmen, with me!” Thorgrim shouted, Iron-tooth above his head, waving and pointing in the direction of the church. The others; Ornolf, Hrolleif, Ingolf, even Arinbjorn took up the call, shouting in words that Thorgrim knew would be as unintelligible to the Irish as the Irish tongue was to him.

  “This way! This way!” The Norsemen who had come with Arinbjorn, and who had come with Ornolf, began to peel away from the line and fall in with Thorgrim and the other leaders. The men whom Thorgrim had designated to bring Starri along dragged him out of the fight, shrieking and flailing, and pulled him after the others. Soon they had their backs to the Irishmen, still fighting in two lines of battle, contending for the throne of Tara, while the men from Dubh-linn, the men from across the sea, raced through the mud and standing water toward the church and the riches to be found there.

  Because in the council of the jarls, held back on the rain soaked field, Harald had assured them all that they could not believe a single promise made by these Irish, that the Irish would betray the Norsemen every time. This advice had fallen on ears quite ready to believe it. If they wanted the wealth of Tara, Harald suggested, then they had better go in and take it themselves, because it would not be offered up, no matter what they were told.

  The others agreed. But how, they wondered, might they gather up the plunder and escape, when the Irish army would be at the gate? But Harald had an answer to that as well. There was a back way, he told them. Another

way out of Tara. And he knew where it was.

I felt blood spilled

over my shoulders

by a corpse- net’s wielder

with his sharp sword

                                                                            Gisli Sursson’s Saga

They covered the ground quickly. The one time that Thorgrim looked back at the Irishmen still struggling for ground by the gate, it seemed to him they had not even noticed the Norsemen had deserted them, or if they had they were far too busy to protest. Either way it was of no concern. Plunder the church and be gone, leave these ridiculous struggles for control of Ireland to the Irish; that was all they were thinking of now.

  Hrolleif was the first to reach the door. He threw his massive shoulder against the solid oak, and grunted as he bounced off. “More of you, come on, bear a hand here!” he shouted and eager men leapt forward and began to drive their shoulders against the unyielding door.

  Then Ingolf spoke. “Are you certain it’s bolted?”

  Hrolleif grabbed the iron latch and lifted. The door swung open and Hrolleif made a grunting sound, said something unintelligible, and stepped in. The rest followed behind.

  The interior of the church was dimly lit by the gray daylight coming in through the tall, narrow windows. There were no candles burning, no one inside the church that they could see. The Norsemen spread out slowly in the big space and no one spoke. The quiet of the church seemed to infect them, and the possible presence of spirits, spirits of the Christ-God whose power they could not judge, made them wary and afraid in ways no human could.

  “Very well,” Ornolf said, louder than was necessary, and Thorgrim saw several men start with surprise. “We have very little time if we don’t want to fight our way out of here. Godi, stand by the door, keep watch on the battle by the gate, give warning if they come this way.” Godi nodded and went back to the door, still ajar, and peeked out through the narrow gap.

  “There’ll be gold and silver here somewhere,” Ingolf said, “all these churches, they all have gold and silver. Let us find it, quick.”

  The loud voices, the harsh orders helped break the spell cast by the quiet of the church and the men began to fan out, tossing chairs and small tables aside, kicking up the rushes that covered the floor to look for hidden places below. They were moving toward the altar when one of them, one of Ingolf’s men, gave a stifled scream, not a particularly manly sound, which made the others freeze and look up.

  The man was pointing toward the altar, and by the sheepish look on his face Thorgrim guessed that he now saw the threat was not as terrible as his reaction suggested. “There’s someone here,” he said.

  Thorgrim pushed through the men and walked quickly toward the altar. A woman was lying on the floor, flat out, arms spread, and Thorgrim was certain on seeing her that she was dead. And as he stepped closer, he was equally certain that he knew who she was.

  “Morrigan?” he said, his voice low. He was not really expecting an answer, but to his surprise she turned over and sat up, staring up at him. Her face was wet with tears, her eyes rimmed in red, and she looked at him with an expression such as he had never seen her wear; confusion, dismay, a lost and distant look.

  Ornolf stepped up by Thorgrim’s side. “I know you!” he exclaimed. “Why, you are that thrall, Morrigan!”

  “We all know her,” Thorgrim reminded him. “And we are the worse for it.” But Morrigan still looked at them, with an expression like a stunned bird, and said nothing.

  “Well, this is a bit of luck,” Ornolf declared. “This thrall will know where the churchmen hid their treasure. Come there, Morrigan, tell us where it is.”

  But Morrigan just continued to stare, and after some seconds of silence she slowly shook her head.

  Arinbjorn pushed his way through the press of men. He had a dagger in his hand, and his face was red, his jaw working. “I will make this bitch talk, by the gods, see if I don’t,” he said, and he advanced on Morrigan, but Thorgrim put a hand on his arm and held him back.

  “No,” he said, tightening his grip as Arinbjorn tried to shake it off. “That will do nothing, you will get nothing from her.” Thorgrim had spent time enough with Morrigan to know what she was made of, and he guessed that he knew what would loosen her tongue, and what would not.

  “See here, Morrigan,” he said, “we are done with fighting you Irish. We mean to plunder this church and be gone, but we do not have much time. If you won’t help us find the silver and gold, we’ll tear the church apart, and as a diversion we will set it on fire when we go.”

  He held her eyes and she held his and neither spoke, neither moved. Half a minute swept past and Thorgrim said, loud, still looking at Morrigan but addressing the others, “Very well, she will not speak. Tear this place apart.” He pointed with Iron-tooth toward the altar. “Start there.”

  Half a dozen men had moved passed Thorgrim, past Morrigan, toward the altar when Morrigan finally spoke. “No. Wait.” Everyone stopped and the church was silent, completely silent. Then Morrigan pointed toward the final resting place of Blessed Cummian, fifth abbot of Tara.

  With their numbers substantial and their motivation high, it took the Norsemen little time to move the stone and empty out the hoard of treasure hidden in the floor of the church. The sight of all that gold and silver put them in a generous mood, and they were willing even to do as Morrigan asked, removing the relics from the reliquaries before tossing them in the
ad hoc
sacks made from altar clothes, tearing the bejeweled covers off the bibles and tossing them in the pile but leaving the illuminated manuscripts behind.

  Five minutes and they had cleaned out the ersatz grave and Godi had called no warning from the door. They could still hear the shout and clash of battle, but it was becoming less frenetic as the combatants grew weary or collapsed from wounds received.

  “Let us go,” Ornolf said in a commanding voice. “Harald, show us the way.” The alter clothes were gathered up, the men headed toward the altar and a small door behind it. Morrigan stood by the open grave, the relics and torn manuscripts at her feet. Arinbjorn grabbed her arm, squeezed it and dragged her along.

  Thorgrim stopped and turned to him. “What are you doing?”

  “She comes with me. After all the tricks she has played, the deaths of my men on her head, she will come with me and she will pay it back in full.”

  “No,” Thorgrim said. “She did us a good turn. In Dubh-linn. She saved Harald’s life. And she spared yours. Leave her be.”

  “I care not what she might have done for you. I only care what she did to me. And my men.”

  “She was defending her home, her people,” Thorgrim said. “Who here would not have done as much? Would you kill her because she outwitted us?”             

  The two men stared at one another, their hatred like a physical presence. Neither spoke. But Thorgrim was aware of the seconds slipping past, and each one lost lessened the chance of their escape. “Leave her,” he said with finality. “If you try to take her, by Odin you will answer to me.”

  He saw Arinbjorn release his grip. He turned to follow the rest to the door when he heard the motion behind, and before he could turn back he felt the needle point of the dagger pierce his mail shirt and drive in deep, felt the point deflect off his shoulder bone and bury itself in the muscle under his left arm.

  He whirled around but Arinbjorn did not let go of the handle, and the action pulled the knife free. Thorgrim could feel the blood running down inside his tunic. A half a second later the pain came, like forked lighting tearing through his shoulder, his back, his neck. He staggered sideways his eyes on the knife, dripping blood, still gripped in Arinbjorn’s hand.

  And then they came for Arinbjorn, Harald from one direction, Ornolf from another, swords raised, and Arinbjorn looked left and right in panic.

  “No!” Thorgrim ordered, surprised at the strength he found in his voice. This had been coming for a long time, and he could not allow Arinbjorn to simply be cut down by half a dozen swords. His right arm still worked, and neither he nor Arinbjorn carried shields, so he had no need for his left. Fair enough.

  “Arinbjorn and I will settle this,” Thorgrim said, raising Iron-tooth and feeling the shaft of pain as he did, realizing he may have just made his last mistake. “Let no man interfere here.”

  Arinbjorn wiped the blade of his knife on his trouser leg, sheathed it and drew his sword. Their attacks were simultaneous, the blades coming together, the ring of steel loud in the now silent church, the men forming a circle around the combatants like some sort of human amphitheater. Thorgrim stood sideways to Arinbjorn, his wounded shoulder well back, lunged and missed. Arinbjorn swept his blade down in an arc, looking for Iron-tooth, but Thorgrim twisted his sword aside and Arinbjorn found only air.

  Thorgrim renewed the attack and Arinbjorn backed away. The blood was spreading, warm and wet, down Thorgrim’s back. The pain in his shoulder was such as he had not endured in a long, long time.

  Arinbjorn swung his blade again, but this time Thorgrim was not fast enough and Arinbjorn connected with Iron-tooth and swept it aside. He stepped in and lunged and, lacking a shield, Thorgrim could do nothing but use his left arm, mail-clad, to parry the thrust. But his arm would barely respond, and as it struck Arinbjorn’s sword and pushed it aside the pain was redoubled. Arinbjorn stepped closer still, too close to use his sword, but with his right hand gripping the hilt he punched Thorgrim hard in his wounded shoulder.

  Thorgrim shouted with agony, something he could not recall ever having done. He lashed out at Arinbjorn with his fist, connected with the side of his head and sent him stumbling back, but the punch was weak and he knew it, and he could see Arinbjorn had moved more from surprise than from the impact of the blow.

  There was no sound save for the two men gasping for breath, and then Godi’s voice came echoing down the length of the nave. “They’ve left off fighting!” he called. “I see men pointing this way!”

  Arinbjorn attacked again, driven by anger and a desperate need that Thorgrim could see in his eyes. And Thorgrim, growing weaker with each pulse of blood flowing from his wound, could do nothing but step back and step back again and try to keep Arinbjorn’s blade from getting past his defense. He was a leaking cask; the strength was flowing out of him now, and soon he would die because he could no longer hope to do anything but fend off Arinbjorn’s attack, and even that he could not do much longer.

  “Here they come!” Godi shouted and Thorgrim was vaguely aware of a murmur running through the watching Northmen and then his foot tangled in an overturned chair and he went down, falling back, straight back. There was something inevitable, even comforting in the fall, as if he was free from the terrible burden of fighting now, as if he would just fall and keep falling until he had fallen clear into oblivion.

  And then he hit, and the shuddering impact brought another scream of agony to his throat, but he clenched his teeth this time and held it back. Arinbjorn was above him, sword raised, and then the man’s throat seemed to explode in a shower of blood. His eyes went wide and his head snapped back and he made some weird noise, a liquid noise, and he collapsed, missing Thorgrim by inches, his arm falling across Thorgrim’s chest like a lover.

  Morrigan was standing there now, behind where Arinbjorn had been, a blood-tipped sword in her hand. “There,” she said. “No
man
has interfered with your ritual of pagan vengeance. Now take your plunder and go. Perhaps you will trade it all with Lucifer for a cup of water, but I think not.”

  And they went. Thorgrim, supported by Harald on one side, Starri on the other, was half-dragged, half carried through the door in the back, the others following behind, so that the church was between them and the Irish men-at-arms whom Godi reported cautiously advancing toward them. They crossed the open ground, made for the door, which Harald remembered well, the door that Brigit had led him through so many months before when she helped him escape from her father’s fatal designs. There were no guards this time. Every man who could carry a weapon had been fighting.

  If they were seen by the Irish, they had no knowledge of it. No shouts, no pursuit. They swung the door open, poured through that opening in the ringfort walls, made for the woods at the base of the long Hill of Tara. The Irish did not come after them. Any lust for combat they may have felt that morning had been sated long before.