They tramped on for half a mile or so before Thorgrim became aware of something happening, some ripple of change in Ottar’s men up ahead. Vali, who had been walking on the far edge of the column, came jogging up to the head and fell in beside Thorgrim.
“One of the scouts is back, I think, one of Ottar’s men,” he said.
“Good,” Thorgrim said. Now, he hoped, they would learn something of the enemy. But after ten minutes had passed he understood that he would not learn it from Ottar. Whatever news Ottar’s man had brought, Ottar was not sending it down the line to Thorgrim.
That stupid ox, that great stupid whore’s son bastard, Thorgrim thought, though he knew he was a fool to think Ottar would share any news. He cursed himself and he cursed Ottar and he cursed Kevin and he cursed Glendalough.
An image of his hall at Vík-ló flashed before him, comforting and familiar. He felt a longing to be there, and it surprised him. Odd. It was the same longing he used to feel when he thought of his farm in East Agder.
Have I been so long from my home that I’m forgetting it? he wondered. Are the gods telling me I will never return to Norway?
Or was Vík-ló his home now? He could not deny his desire to be there just then, to be done with this ill-conceived raid and to be feasting and drinking with his fellows in the big hall built by Grimarr Knutson.
And then his thoughts were interrupted by Godi who said, “Here, lord.”
Thorgrim looked up. Armod Thorkilson was one of the scouts Thorgrim had sent out and now he was returning at a near run. He drew up beside Thorgrim and fell in step with him.
“The enemy, they’re just ahead, lord,” he reported. “A mile or so, not more.”
“Why am I just hearing of this now?” Thorgrim snapped. “Ottar’s scout was back ten minutes past.”
“Yes, lord,” Armod said. “We were together. He run off as soon as we saw the enemy, but I stayed so I could see how many they were, lord. How they were positioned.”
Thorgrim nodded, embarrassed that he let his ill humor goad him into chastising a man who did not deserve it. “You did well, Armod,” he said. “What did you see?”
“They look to be something more than three hundred men, lord,” Armod said. “Men-at-arms with shields. And spearmen. There are mounted warriors as well, on the flanks. They are drawn up on a line at the top of a short rise. Not a great hill, but a hill, anyway.”
Thorgrim nodded. “Drawn up in a shield wall?”
“Not as I saw them, lord. But near enough.”
“Good,” Thorgrim said, though he was not actually sure what he meant by that. Several things. Good observations on Armod’s part. Good that they knew how the enemy was arrayed. But mostly good that they would meet the enemy very soon, kill him, be done with all this.
Vík-ló… Thorgrim thought. And they walked on.
They were going uphill again and the mist was most certainly a light rain and Armod, who was walking just a few paces behind Thorgrim now, said, “Right over this hill, lord, and then the road dips down and on the next hill, that’s where I saw the Irishmen’s line.”
Even as Armod was talking, Ottar’s warriors up ahead were leaving the road and spreading out along the top of the hill, turning their marching column into a line of men, shoulder to shoulder. They were forming a shield wall, or what would be a shield wall when the order was passed.
Thorgrim turned and walked backward and he waved his arm in the air.
“The Irish are just beyond this hill and they are ready for us. Make a line, make a line, there!” He pointed off toward what would be the right wing of the Norsemen’s assault and his men jogged off to form a line that would link with Ottar’s, a line of shields and swords and axes and spears that they hoped would sweep the Irish before them.
As his men formed themselves, driven to hurry by Bersi and Kjartan and Skidi Battleax, Thorgrim stepped to the top of the hill and looked out over the quarter mile that now separated him from the Irish defenders.
It was just as Armod had described. A line of men snaked across the rise opposite them, nearly at the crest of the hill. They held shields that would have looked bright and cheery in the sunlight but which on that misty day looked muted and dull. Thorgrim could see helmets, and spears like reeds jutting from a river. Three hundred men.
No. More than three hundred, certainly.
Armod had been right about the horsemen as well. There were about thirty on the left flank and thirty on the right. The biggest danger to a shield wall was that an enemy could get around the ends and get behind it. With nothing to which they could anchor those ends, such as a river or a marsh, the Irish were looking to their mounted warriors to keep the Norsemen from turning the flanks. And if the horsemen were brave and knew their business they would be able to do so. Worse, they would be able to attack their enemy’s flanks, or get behind the Norsemen’s shield wall.
Well, there’s nothing for it, Thorgrim thought. Right at them, bold and reckless. He had seen that win the day, many times. Show the enemy that you are more insane than they are, and less afraid to die.
I am not afraid to die, Thorgrim thought. It was an observation, no more. And it was not fearlessness. Fearlessness was something else. This was more akin to weariness, and a barely formed notion that he was ready for his reward at Valhalla. He was not like Starri, who longed for the corpse hall. Thorgrim simply no longer cared if he was in Midgard, the world of men, or Asgard, the place of the gods. He did not care if he lived or died, as long has he died in honorable battle. And that made him a very dangerous enemy.
He looked to his left. Ottar and his captains were getting their line formed up, just as his own captains were doing. Thorgrim knew he should speak with the man. He let out a breath. Charging the Irish shield wall seemed a much more inviting prospect than summoning the patience to deal with Ottar. But he was resigned to do everything in his power to make this raid a profitable one. He owed that to the men who followed him.
He walked down the line, past his own warriors and past Ottar’s. “Ottar!” he called as he approached.
Ottar turned, his long braids swinging like loose ropes in the wind. “You!” he said. “Do not get in the way of my men. Do not let any of the dogs who follow you get in the way of my men.”
Thorgrim stopped ten feet away and looked at Ottar. He had hoped against all reason to have some meaningful discussion about the coming fight. But he could see that would not happen, so instead he replied, “Ottar, when this is over we will fight and I will kill you. But for now, see that your men form a shield wall with mine and we will go at the Irish line yonder. See none of your men run away. I’ll personally kill any who do. And see you do not run away yourself.”
He turned as Ottar was opening his mouth and walked back toward his men as Ottar began to shout. “Night Pup! I’ll kill you now! Get back here, you whore’s son!” But Thorgrim kept on walking because he knew Ottar would not act against him now, not with Glendalough lying at their feet. He would not start a private war when there was another, more lucrative one waiting for him. Nor would his men tolerate his doing so. Even Ottar could only push his men so far.
Godi and Agnarr were standing at the head of Sea Hammer’s men, who in turn were at the center of the line of men from Vík-ló.
“You had a profitable talk with Ottar, I trust?” Agnarr said.
Thorgrim made a grunting sound. “I have had more profitable talks with the swine on my farm,” he said. “We can only hope that he and his men will hold the left wing, and that we can drive these Irish back quick. If this is not a fast victory then I think it will not be a victory at all.”
The Irish on the hill were starting the beat their shields with their swords and shout what Thorgrim had to guess were taunts and insults. And suddenly Thorgrim felt alone and exposed. Godi and Agnarr were there, and they were good men, men he loved and trusted. But Harald was not there. And Starri was not there. It did not seem right at all to be looking at a shield wall without them on han
d. It did not seem like a good omen. Not a good omen at all.
Then he heard Ottar roar like some great beast of legend and Thorgrim looked to his left. The big man stepped back into the line of his warriors and called an order. Their shields came together, each one overlapping the one beside it. The shield wall was formed.
Thorgrim turned to Godi and Agnarr. “Let’s go,” he said and they, too, stepped back and took their place in the line, shields up, weapons ready, and Bersi and Kjartan and Skidi Battleax stepped into the line as well.
Ottar was already moving forward, giving no thought at all to what Thorgrim’s men were doing, and Thorgrim had no choice but to call for his men to advance with Ottar’s. Otherwise the shield wall would have been broken, which was the second greatest danger to men fighting in that array.
The line moved faster as it headed down the hill. The Irish stopped their banging and locked their shields together, but the jeering continued, pointless as it was. The Norsemen reached the bottom of the low hill and began up the slope of the next, some men walking on the road but most spread over the fields to either side. Thorgrim’s eyes were everywhere: on his men, on the Irish shield wall, on the horsemen on the flanks.
Particularly on the horsemen. They were keeping put for the moment, waiting to see if the enemy would try and turn the flanks of the Irish line. But if - actually when - they charged into the battle they could send the Northmen into panicked flight and cut them down as they ran. That was another thing that Thorgrim had seen before.
The Irish line was one hundred yards away and they were closing the distance fast. Thorgrim could see now that it stretched out beyond his own line at either end. The Northmen would not have had men enough to turn the Irish flanks even if they had hoped to. The Irish could bend the ends of their own line around and strike his men and Ottar’s from two directions. And there were the horsemen as well.
“This will be a hard fight,” he said to Agnarr.
“It will,” Agnarr agreed.
They were close enough now that Thorgrim could make out the faces of the men who stood in opposition to them: warriors with swords and axes like those of the Northmen, and behind them, the spearmen who had been so deadly during the ambush at the river. And behind all of them were some of the commanders on horseback, waiting, watching the enemy come on.
Then one of those mounted leaders shouted something and the shout echoed down the line and the Irish did something that Thorgrim did not expect at all. The men-at-arms in the shield wall stepped aside, making space between them, and the spearmen stepped up through the line, spears held down, faces grim.
“What by Odin are they doing?” he heard Godi ask, but it was clear enough to Thorgrim. They wanted the Northmen to hit the line of spears first. They wanted the spearmen with their long pole arms to drive the points through the line of Norse shields and take down as many of the enemy as they could, to make holes in the shield wall which the men-at-arms would then hit with full force and drive through.
Fifty yards away. It was not a bad plan, not at all, but there were only a hundred or so spearmen against a shield wall two hundred and fifty strong. Thorgrim could see that the men with the spears were not men-at-arms. They wore leather, not mail, and they had no shields because shields would have hindered them in the job they had to do. They looked scared.
“Yell!” Thorgrim shouted. “All of you, make a noise, make a noise!” Thorgrim led the way, sending up a terrifying howl from deep in his guts, sending it up to the gods and raising his sword as his speed built. Godi made a great noise as well, and all up and down the line the men shouted and shrieked and howled and cursed, and Ottar’s men did the same. It was a sound from the underworld, and it drove the Northmen on to greater and greater speed, their pace becoming a fast walk and then a jog as they rolled on uphill.
The spearmen took a step back. Thorgrim could see mouths open, eyes wide in panic. It took men who were trained and experienced and well-motivated to stand fast in the face of such an onslaught, and these men were none of those things.
“Kill them! Kill them!” Thorgrim shouted, holding Iron-tooth high as he charged on. The sound of five hundred feet building to a run made a base note under the higher, louder keening of the manic Northmen. The Irishmen with the spears took another step back, and another.
Then the two lines hit, Northmen and spearmen. A man stood directly in Thorgrim’s path, an older man with a milky eye and an unshaved face and a look like he was fighting down panic and losing. His good eye met Thorgrim’s and he lunged forward with his spear, the black dagger tip coming right at Thorgrim’s face.
Brave bastard, Thorgrim thought. With some training he might have made a good warrior. But that was never going to happen. Thorgrim caught the spear with Iron-tooth and turned it up, out of line, and without breaking stride took another step and brought the blade down on the spearman’s leather-clad head.
The look of surprise remained frozen on the Irishman’s face as he died and Thorgrim wrenched the sword free, felt his foot step on the man’s corpse as he pushed past.
That was enough for the Irish spearmen. If they managed to kill any of the Northmen, Thorgrim did not see it, but as the screaming shield wall rolled over them they reacted as he knew they would. They panicked.
All along the line he saw spears tossed aside and spearmen turning and fleeing the five yards back to the protection of the shield wall. But now the Irish men-at-arms could not let them through, because doing so would have meant making gaps in the wall just as the enemy was on them. So they held their shields together and the panicked spearmen pulled and clawed at them, desperate to get through, desperate to not be caught between the two shield walls.
But it was too late for them. The armies came together like ships colliding, crushing the men between them. Thorgrim saw one of the Irish men-at-arms do the most sensible thing; he brought his ax down on the spearman’s head and killed him before the man could pull the shield wall apart. But the panicked men had done their damage. In their desperate attempt to get to safety they had staggered the Irish shield wall, thrown it into disarray just as the Northmen slammed into it with all the momentum they could muster.
Thorgrim’s whole world closed down. Seconds before his thoughts had covered the entire length of the Northmen’s line, but now he was concerned only for what was happening within a sword’s length of himself, because that was all he could see and it was all the area over which he had any control.
His shield came hard against that of the Irishman in front of him, and Thorgrim’s forward momentum was stopped, but the force made the Irishman stagger. Thorgrim drove Iron-tooth forward, right through the gap over the two shields in front of him, but the warrior there – a young man, but hard looking, no fear on his face – twisted sideways and the blade missed by inches.
Something hit the bottom of Thorgrim’s shield, a sword blow, low, looking for his guts or his thighs. He brought his shield down, felt it hit the blade, and then went over the top with Iron-tooth. This time he caught his opponent, drove the tip of his sword into the man’s shoulder and felt it bite.
The man jerked back, tried to bring his sword up, and would have died on Iron-tooth’s point if the man to his right had not driven his own sword at Thorgrim and forced him to fend off the blade.
The Norsemen were jammed together, shoulder to shoulder, and pressed against the Irish in front of them and it was hard to move, hard to work a blade. At least it was for Thorgrim Night Wolf, or any other man of average height. Godi, at his side, rising like one of the nearby mountains above the line of fighting men, had no such problems. His choice of weapon was a battle ax, a perfect choice for a man who could loom above the others and strike down like he was chopping kindling.
He did that now. With a roar he brought the ax down on the shield wall in front of him. The blade hit the rim of a shield with a ringing sound and kept on going, breaking the iron, splitting the wood. Thorgrim saw the look of surprise on the Irishman’s face, but the
man beside him, the man who had gone for Thorgrim’s legs, did not hesitate. He turned his shield toward Godi and drove his blade at Godi’s chest and might have killed him if Thorgrim had not moved quicker still.
Iron-tooth struck like a snake, straight at the man’s throat, driving in right below the strap of his helmet and never pausing as it passed on through. Thorgrim pulled the sword back in a shower of blood and the man went down and a hole opened in the shield wall.
“Forward!” Thorgrim shouted but the men around him recognized the opportunity even before he spoke, and they pushed hard, shields leading, weapons lashing out as they forced the Irish back.
Thorgrim looked up and down the line. It was hard to see what was happening, but he had a sense that the Irish defense was crumbling, that their shield wall was coming apart. The panicked spearmen had begun that process, and now the ferocity of the Northmen’s attack was driving it on.
“Keep your shields together!” Thorgrim shouted. He did not want his own shield wall to crumble, did not want this to turn into three hundred individual fights. He wanted to get the Irish running, and butcher them as they did and then move on to Glendalough.
Their own shields were still overlapping as they pushed through the Irish shield wall and hacked left and right at the enemy. There were no reinforcements that Thorgrim could see, no men in reserve to fill the holes as they appeared. The commander of the Irish line had cast his lot, had put all his men into the shield wall. But of course the Northmen had as well.
A man stood in front of Thorgrim now, an ax in one hand, shield in the other, and a look of unadulterated fury on his face. He hacked down with the ax and Thorgrim caught it with his shield and the blade buried itself in the wooden boards. Thorgrim twisted the shield, hoping to jerk the ax from the man’s hand, while the man jerked the ax in the other direction, hoping to pull Thorgrim off balance.
For an instant they stood motionless, opposing forces balanced one against the other. Then the Irishman let go of the ax handle. Thorgrim staggered and his opponent came at him with a short sword he had snatched from his belt.
Glendalough Fair: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga) (Volume 4) Page 28