Dubh-Linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2) (8 page)

  “Watch for the dogs!” he shouted over his shoulder. “They’ll release the dogs!” The Irish knew only that there were invaders among them – they did not know how many and they apparently did not yet know where they were. Rather than try to organize a defense, he guessed they would just let the dogs go, let the dogs find the enemy and bring them to ground. It was what he would do.

  They were fifty feet from the main gate, crossing open ground now, no fences, when the men on the wall saw them at last. Thorgrim did not understand the Irish words, but he understood the frantic shouts, the pointed fingers, the arrows knocked in bow strings.

  Thirty feet and Thorgrim finally saw the dogs. There were a dozen at least, coming from different directions, running flat out and barking and snapping as they converged with the Vikings.

 
Thor’s hammer!
He did not want to stop until they reached the main gate and forced it open. There was no chance of help from the others until that happened. And they could not let the men-at-arms get between them and the gate. But if they kept on running, the dogs would tear them apart.

  “Shield wall! Shield wall!” he shouted and skidded to a stop. He held his shield up as the first of the dogs leapt at him, spittle flying from it’s mouth, teeth bared. He met the dog with his shield and sent him sprawling back, slashed at another. He hoped the men would form some kind of defense, maybe they could back down to the gate, keeping a united front to the dogs.

  From his left another dog came out of the dark. Thorgrim never saw it until the animal’s wicked teeth sank deep into the muscles of his upper arm. He shouted in agony, tried to slash at the beast with his sword but he could not reach around his shield with the blade. Another leapt at him from the right, but its vicious bark collapsed into a howl and a whine as a sword, Harald’s sword, met it in midair and knocked it aside. Harald stepped to the left and drove his sword through the dog on Thorgrim’s arm, drove it again, hacked at the dog until at last it let go and dropped away.

  Father and son turned together to face the next, but Starri was in front of them, ax in one hand, short sword in another, flailing at the four legged attackers and Thorgrim realized that the terrible howling he had heard, which he had taken for the pack leader, was in fact Starri Deathless. The other berserkers were with him. Nordwall had a dog clinging to his arm, whipping back and forth as the Swede worked his ax, and the short man seemed not to even notice.

  Jokul and a man Thorgrim did not know were back to back and surrounded by howling, snapping dogs looking for a way past the men’s lightning-fast blades. One dog lay still, two more were limping off. Thorgrim wondered if Cloyne just might be running out of dogs when he saw Jokul jerk back, twist, swinging his sword wildly, then collapse, the shaft of an arrow jutting from his back. The dogs were on him in an instant, tearing at his flesh. Thorgrim wheeled around. The guards were gathered on the wall above, and several were bringing bows to bear.

  “Come on! To the gate!” The archers were a threat much greater than the dogs. “Starri, get your men back, back to the wall!” He gave the order but he was not at all sure the berserkers were conscious enough of their surroundings to obey. All around them the dogs were growling and barking and hunching down for a leap, but they were holding back, not flinging themselves at the Northmen. Thorgrim realized that the berserkers were more vicious and wild even than the pack of dogs, and the dogs sensed as much.

  This was the moment. “Harald, with me!” Thorgrim shouted and ran on, closing with the big wooden doors that could welcome the world into Cloyne, or hold it at bay. An arrow stabbed into the ground at his feet and he nearly stumbled over it as he ran. Starri and the berserkers formed a sort of rear guard, holding the circling dogs back.

  Thorgrim could make out the heavy cross piece that held the big doors closed and he figured he and Harald would be enough to lift it out. Ten feet to the doors and three men burst out of the shadows at the far side, swords in hand, racing to meet them.

  The first came at Thorgrim, sword held high, and Thorgrim could see the wild swing coming. He held his shield to one side, sword to the other, opened himself up, inviting the clumsy stroke, and as it came he raised the shield and turned the blade aside and thrust for the man’s exposed chest.

  And that would have been the end of it, but the Irishman to his right chopped down at Thorgrim’s blade, an awkward move, but effective, knocking Iron-tooth’s point to the dirt. He tried to follow up with a slash at Thorgrim’s head, a mistake, as Thorgrim caught the man’s blade with his shield, stepped in and drove his heel down on the man’s knee. He felt the give of the bone, heard the crack and the shriek at the same moment.

  He turned his attention back to the first man. Beyond him he caught a glimpse of Harald trading blows with the third man. The Irishman knew his business, and even six months earlier Harald would have been no match for him, but Harald was not the same young man now. His sword and shield worked together as they fended off the Irishman’s sword and short sword, the blades glinting in the torch light.

 
No time for this
, Thorgrim thought. The man he was facing was the poorest swordsman of the three and Thorgrim did not waste time; a parry of his blade, catch the counter attack with his shield and he ended it there, then stepped over the man and drove his sword through the neck of the one Harald was fighting, ignoring Harald’s disapproving expression.

  “The gate!” Thorgrim shouted. He looked behind. The berserkers were fully engaged with the dogs and with the armed men who were now cautiously advancing on the invading force, finally realizing, perhaps, how few in number they were. Another of Starri’s men lay dead, and another was kicking and thrashing and clawing at an arrow that was run through his gut.

  He set his hands on the bar. “Help me with this!” he shouted and Harald grabbed on and they heaved together and the heavy oak beam lifted up from the iron holders. They tossed it aside and put their shoulders to the heavy doors. It was chaos within the confines of the ringfort now; men were shouting, the dogs were howling, the bells in the church had begun ringing out their warning and call to arms. That was good. That was the plan. Noise and confusion within the walls would serve as a clarion call to the Viking host.

  Thorgrim and Harald pushed together. The heavy doors resisted at first, but as they began to swing they gathered momentum, swinging faster, until finally they were full open, Cloyne’s defenses gone, the way clear for the Norsemen to pour into the fort. And beyond the gaping doors only darkness, quiet, not the least sign of life, nothing at all to suggest that

anyone would be coming soon. Or ever.

My foes sought me out,

swinging their swords

but I did not fall then.

I was outnumbered,

yet I fed the raven’s maw.

                                                           Gisli Sursson’s Saga

For the second time that night, Arinbjorn White-tooth was awakened from a sound sleep, and he was not happy about it.

  “Hrafn! What in the name of Odin is it now?” he snapped as soon as he understood that he was no longer dreaming.

  “I don’t know,” Hrafn said. “Something. Something is happening.”

 
All-Father save me from these damned fools,
Arinbjorn thought as he kicked the furs off and climbed out of his portable bed. He pushed past Hrafn and through the marquee’s flap and into the night. It was cool and damp and dark, but there was an edge of excitement in the air. It took Arinbjorn a moment to get his bearings and understand the cause of it. Bells. There were bells ringing out from the direction of Cloyne. He turned toward the sound. Now he could hear shouting far off, and could see pinpoints of light as men with torches ran in various directions, like sparks floating off a fire.

 
Damn it!

  “Hrafn!” Arinbjorn shouted, louder than was necessary. “Is Thorgrim in camp? Go find out, and be damned quick about it!”

  The guard ran off and Arinbjorn continued to stare in the direction of Cloyne. All around him he could see men climbing out from under bedding, grabbing up weapons, staring off in the same direction that he was. He could hear the murmur of speculation.

  Hrafn was back quick, though he could not have been quick enough for Arinbjorn. “Thorgrim and his son are gone. So are Starri and his band of lunatics. Thorodd saw them heading out, maybe an hour ago, but he doesn’t know where they went.”

 
I bloody do
, Arinbjorn thought.
Damn him!
Arinbjorn was angry because now he had to make a decision, and that decision could have far-reaching consequences for the only thing he cared about, which was himself. It was a decision that required a huge gamble, and if it went against him, it could be very bad.

  But Arinbjorn was a wealthy and powerful jarl, and he had not become such by agonizing and vacillating. “Call up the men,” he snapped at Hrafn. “To arms, we are going into battle.”

  Hrafn was smart enough to not ask questions, and as he hurried off to obey, Arinbjorn hurried off to seek out Hoskuld Iron-skull and the others. He found them, as he imagined he would, near Iron-skull’s camp, the commanders of the various ships gathered and staring out into the dark, trying to guess what might be going on.

  “Arinbjorn!” Hoskuld said as he approached. “I was going to send for you. What do you make of this?” He pointed with his long beard toward the distant town of Cloyne.

  “This was my doing,” Arinbjorn explained. “I thought to have some of my men make their way into the town, secretly, open the gates, let the rest of us in. I asked for volunteers. Thorgrim and the berserkers, they stepped forward. It seems they are discovered.”

  Hrolleif of the ship
Serpent
made a noise. “Were you going to tell any of us about this? This sort of thing works better if people actually know it’s happening.”

  “The idea came to me in a dream, a gift from the gods, I should think. No time for councils and such. I judged that I should act,” Arinbjorn explained. “I was going to alert you just now, rouse the men and prepare them to advance. My men are arming as we speak. We should have had time to prepare, but Thorgrim has mistimed it. He was not supposed to make for the gate for another hour.”

  Hrolleif grunted. The others made various sounds. Hoskuld Iron-skull said, “I reckon you should have told us, at least, even if you kept the men out of it.”

  “I should have, and I apologize, but in truth the idea came to me just an hour or so past. Sometimes the bold move is the right move.” It was a good response, he knew. Part contrition, part challenge, daring any of them to find fault with his boldness, or suggest that they themselves would have been more cautious.

  “In any event,” Hoskuld Iron-skull said, “It looks like Thorgrim could use some help. Let us get our men under arms and moving. Quickly now.”

  The leaders broke like a flock of birds startled into flight, each hurrying back to their part of the camp, bellowing orders as they went. There was no call for stealth now. All of Cloyne was up in arms, it seemed to be madness there, and every one of the Viking host was eager to get in on it.

  By the time Arinbjorn returned to his camp his men were awake and armed and his slaves were standing ready with his mail, helmet, shield and sword. He donned his gear quickly and led his men forward to where the rest of the army was forming a rude line facing Cloyne. The noise from the distant town seemed even louder now, and Arinbjorn could pick out the sharp bark of dogs among the other sounds.

  Hoskuld Iron-skull strode in front of the line, his sword held high. “Let us hurry now, to the aid of our brave brethren. If the gods are with them, then we will find the gates of Cloyne open to us! Let us make a noise as we advance that will make these Irish whore’s sons crap themselves just to hear!” With that he turned and advanced toward Cloyne, his momentum and the roar in his throat building as he lumbered forward, the Viking host following behind.

  Arinbjorn hurried with the rest, but his mind was elsewhere. This whole thing could still work in his favor, or not, and it depended on whether the attack was a success, on whether he got credit for the plan, on whether Thorgrim told the others about their disagreement earlier.

 
Thorgrim may be dead
, Arinbjorn thought as he picked up his pace, and the thought calmed him.
The gate open and Thorgrim dead…
If the gods were still favoring Arinbjorn White-tooth.

The main gate was indeed open. That part had been relatively easy. Save for the three guards who tried to stop them, and died in the process, Thorgrim and Harald had swung the big doors wide apart with no opposition. But that was where their luck had ended.

  There was no sign of the Viking camp launching an attack against the town. There was every indication that the men of Cloyne realized they were not facing a numerous enemy, and that even with most of the men-at-arms having marched off they still greatly outnumbered the band who had managed to get inside the walls.

  Thorgrim’s back was pressed against the door. Across the twenty foot gap he could see Harald pushed hard against the other. One side of the boy was lit up yellow in the light of the watch fires burning at the entranceway, the other in deep shadow.

 
Now what, now what
? Thorgrim asked himself. Keep his men alive, keep the gate open, until the others came, and if the others did not come then get out of there as fast as they could.

  Something brushed past Thorgrim’s shoulder and in the same instant he felt the jar of an arrow embedding itself in the back of his shield. He turned and looked up. There were archers on the wall above. Thorgrim could not imagine how the man had missed from that distance, but he would not give the next one so easy a target. He pushed off from the door and waved his sword at Harald.

  “Come on! Come on!” he shouted and as he did he saw an arrow streak over his head and drive into the thick oak door against which Harald stood. The shaft quivered from the impact, a foot from Harald’s face. Harald needed no further prompting to move.

  They ran back into the ringfort where Starri and his berserkers were formed in a semi-circle defensive line, holding off the men and dogs that were throwing themselves at them. There was little organization to the Irishmen’s attack, which worked to the Northmen’s advantage, but the Irish had numbers on their side, and numbers would win in the end. No more than a dozen men had come with Thorgrim, and there were fewer now. It was the berserkers’ manic ferocity alone which was holding the Irish at bay; absent that they would have all been dead by then.

  Thorgrim charged the line, swinging his sword at the Irishmen who were working their way around the left flank. “Starri!” he shouted. “Get your men moving back! Back!” If they could get their backs to a wall, or get through the gate, they might have a better chance of holding off the rest.

  To Thorgrim’s surprise, Starri Deathless heard him and shouted the order, stepping back as he did, then stepping back again. A roar went up from the Irish as they sensed that the handful of Northmen were about to break. Again they pressed the attack against the berserkers and again were driven back by the wildly swinging blades of sword and battle ax.

  Another step back. An arrow swished past and caught Nordwall the Short in the shoulder, spinning him around with a shout of agony. Thorgrim looked over his shoulder. The archers on the walls behind had found new targets.

 
Where is Harald?
Thorgrim looked anxiously around. He had thought the boy was with him. If they were going to die here, then he would want them to die together.

  From out of the dark came a shriek, a terrible sound, at once frightening and triumphant, a shout like Thorgrim had never heard, and yet one with a tone oddly familiar. Heads turned. A heavy cart came rolling into the light from the fires outside the gate, careening toward the Irish who were attacking Starri’s men, jouncing along backwards at a crazy speed. A pile of hay heaped onto the cart threatened to topple over as it bounced and jolted. And then Thorgrim saw Harald, holding the shafts, pushing the cart like some two-legged draft horse. There was a wild look on his face, and his mouth was open in shouting.

  The shear surprise of the thing stopped the fighting dead. Vikings and Irish paused in mid-swing of their weapons to look at this odd sight. And as they watched, the cart, moving faster with every one of Harald’s powerful steps, slammed into the crowd of Irishmen, knocking them down like saplings in a hurricane and sending the rest leaping out of the way.

  “Grab the cart! Grab hold of it!” Thorgrim shouted, sheathing Iron-tooth and taking hold of the wagon’s rough wooden sides. Here was a rolling defense, a mobile fortification. The berserkers grabbed hold as well, checking the forward momentum as Harald held the shafts and dug in his heels.

  Thorgrim waved his arm, gestured toward the open gate. “This way, this way, pull the wagon along!” Willing hands grabbed hold and shoved the wagon around until it was pointing in the new direction, then ran along either side, driving the vehicle over the hard packed ground. They were just passing through the gates when Thorgrim shouted for them to stop, and again the momentum of the wagon was checked.

  “Turn it sideways and push it over!” he ordered and the heavy, rough cart was shoved around until it stood sideways in the open gate. In the flickering light of the fires the Northmen could see that the Irishmen had recovered from the shock, had gathered again and were advancing cautiously toward the wagon.

  The Vikings were on the other side of the wagon now, their backs to the open countryside through the gate, and they heaved, grunting and straining, as they lifted the side of the wagon off the ground. Nordwall stood beside Thorgrim, the arrow jutting from his shoulder, but he pushed with a will, as if he was fresh as the morning dew.

 
Odin, All-father, does anything stop these people?
Thorgrim thought.

  The cart lifted, balanced for a second on its two starboard wheels, then toppled over on its side, spilling the load of hay through the open gates. Arrows thudded into the wood where the hay had been piled, but the archers on the walls could not reach the handful of men huddled behind the wagon. Thorgrim peered over the edge of the temporary defense. The Irish were still coming on, swords and shields in hand. They were moving slowly, bracing for the next surprise, but they were not hesitating in their advance. And there were a lot of them.