The horse turned, further blocking Thorgrim’s way. He saw the spear draw back and then dart forward. He saw it hit Agnarr’s chest, and the mail shirt Agnarr wore did not slow it in the least. It buried itself in Agnarr’s body, right up to the shaft. Agnarr’s eyes went wide and blood poured from his mouth.
The spearman pulled the weapon free and spun his horse away from Thorgrim and charged off before Thorgrim could avenge Agnarr or even think of doing so. He looked from the mounted man to Agnarr, who had sunk to his knees. His eyes were looking right ahead, blood was running down his beard, but his sword was still tight in his grip. Then he pitched forward, face down on the Irish sod.
Thorgrim spun around, Iron-tooth in front, looking for a man he could kill. He saw one of the mounted men-at-arms going sword to ax with Vali and he raced over. The rider did not even see him coming as he drove his sword into the small of the man’s back. The man arched, screamed, fell, as Thorgrim pulled the point free.
“Make for the woods!” Thorgrim shouted, putting all he had into his voice so that he might be heard above the melee. He had wanted to avoid a wild rush, one in which the riders could cut them down, but there was nothing else they could do now. Some at least would make it. But he would not. He would not even try.
Godi was with him again, and he saw Harald hurrying over. “The woods! Get to the woods!” Thorgrim shouted again, pointing with Iron-tooth, wondering if they did not understand. He saw Harald’s eyes go wide, his mouth open. He caught the shadow of a movement behind him and he spun around. One of the mounted men was charging down on him and it seemed all he could see was the massive head of the horse, the yellow teeth, the foam spewing from his mouth.
With two steps Godi was between him and the horse, his huge ax swinging like he was felling a tree. His blade struck the rider in the chest and flung him backwards, the ax head buried in his breastbone. The horse reared as the rider fell back, the reins still tight in his hand. It seemed to happen slowly, like moving underwater. Thorgrim saw the wicked hoof coming up in front of him and he moved to the side, or thought of moving to the side, as the hoof struck him on the head.
And then everything was black.
And then it was not.
He opened his eyes and he was not certain where he was or how long he had been asleep. It seemed like a very long time, but he could still see men’s legs and horses legs and he could hear the clash of weapons and the yelling of fighting men and screams of wounded men and wounded horses.
I’m on the ground, he thought. He was lying on his side, on the ground. But he could make sense of nothing else that was going on.
He felt hands on his arms and he was being lifted from the ground and he tried to guess whether or not his legs would hold him. He waited to be set on his feet, but instead he felt himself lifted and draped over a shoulder and he thought he could see Godi’s legging and he thought he could see Harald nearby, and then once more everything went black.
Chapter Forty-Two
[S]ix will not manage to swap
bloody blows of the battle-god’s
shield piercer with me.
Egil’s Saga
When Thorgrim opened his eyes again he saw only brush and ferns and the trunks of trees around him. He did not move - he was not sure he could move - save for his eyes. He listened. He could hear the sound of running water like a river. He could hear soft rustling noises, like men were nearby and making just the smallest of movements. He could hear a breeze blowing the tops of the trees. Nothing more.
Then he heard a louder rustling and Harald’s voice saying, “Father?”
At that he turned his head and suddenly Harald’s face was there, blood-smeared and anxious. “Father?” he said again. “Can you speak?”
Thorgrim thought about that and realized he could speak and he could do a damned sight more than that. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Help me to sit up,” he snarled.
“Are you sure…” Harald began but Thorgrim gave him a look that suggested further argument would be unwise, so he put his hands under Thorgrim’s shoulders and lifted as Thorgrim pushed himself up.
Godi was there, on the other side. “Get me to my feet,” Thorgrim said but Godi shook his head.
“We’ll lean you against this tree a bit, let the blood flow some,” the big man said and Thorgrim gave him the same look he had given Harald, but found it did not have the same effect on Godi. Godi and Harald pulled him back a few feet and eased him against the trunk of some massive tree. Thorgrim felt his head swirling and he closed his eyes and waited until it settled out.
He opened his eyes again. Harald had gone back to doing what he had apparently been doing a moment before, which was wrapping a torn cloth around an ugly cut on his forearm. Half of Godi’s face was a wash of blood, but Thorgrim guessed it was from a scalp wound which looked far more dramatic than it was. Olaf Thordarson was there, as was Ulf and a few others. Ten, by Thorgrim’s count. They all had wounds of some description.
“Where are the others?” Thorgrim asked. He saw Harald and Godi exchange glances and he knew the answer.
“They didn’t make it,” Harald said.
Thorgrim nodded. He remembered Agnarr, with the spear in his chest, Vemund felled by a horse’s hoof. All the others he had seen fall. He himself should have been left to die, but he would not chastise his son or Godi for that mistake.
“The Irish?” Thorgrim asked.
“They bought our men’s lives dearly,” Harald assured him.
“We made a slaughter of them,” Godi said. “Killed near half, I would think. But they were still too much for us. You called for everyone to run for the woods and we fought our way here. Hard fighting. This is all that made it.” He indicated the handful of men sitting or leaning on trees around that dim-lit patch of wood.
“They didn’t even try to hunt us down,” Harald said. “We reached the woods, ran in deep as we could. We could see them riding along the tree line but they never even tried to flush us out.” He was looking for some bright spot in that disastrous morning, Thorgrim could see that. It was what men did.
For some time they remained where they were, silent, vigilant. Those who had been dressing wounds finished their work and sat with blood-soaked hands and clothing and faces and stared off into the dark places in the woods.
Finally Thorgrim was certain he had strength enough to stand. He leaned forward and pushed himself off. He heard the start of a protest in Harald’s throat but it died there. He stood and felt the blood rush to his head and his legs and for a moment it was all he could do to keep himself from toppling over, but he resisted the urge to steady himself on the tree.
Having set that example he said, “Are you men able to move on? Any too wounded to walk? We must see what’s become of our ships.”
One by one the men stood, a few resting hands on their fellow’s shoulders as they regained their balance. Thorgrim gave them a minute to find the strength in their legs. He looked from man to man. None of them looked good, but they did look as if they could make it the mile or so back to where Sea Hammer lay tied to the bank. Or had the morning before, at any rate.
Thorgrim pushed his way through the woods. He planned at first to keep to the trees as they made their way down the river, but ten feet of fighting through the brush convinced him that it was pointless to try. He worked his way back toward the edge of the woods. When he was able to see the open ground, he paused and held up his hand for the others to do the same.
He scanned all the country he was able to see and he saw nothing moving save for a few hawks circling high above. He stepped out and advanced cautiously through the tall grass. Nothing. He turned to the others.
“Come on,” he said. It seemed the Irish had greater concerns than hunting down a pitiful band of survivors.
They walked along the edge of the trees, sticking to the open ground when they could, but kept close to cover in case they heard the sound of horses in the distance. They did once, the sound dull but distinct e
ven with the soft wind blowing. They ducked back into the trees and watched as a patrol of a dozen mounted men passed down the road. They moved slowly and Thorgrim could see them scanning the surrounding country as they rode by.
“Guess they’re not done with us after all,” Godi said in a soft voice. Once the sound of the horses was lost in the distance they started out again, their ears more alert than ever for any indication that the riders were returning, but they did not hear or see them again.
They came at last to the place where they had left the river the day before. The grass was still flattened where two hundred and fifty warriors, strong and eager, had passed on their confident way to Glendalough. Now the ten who returned walked back over that same beaten grass and up the slope to the river bank.
The river itself remained hidden, but Thorgrim could see a single mast rising in the distance, which meant one ship at least was still there. He was one hundred paces away when he knew for certain it was Sea Hammer with her distinctive weather vane at the masthead. He felt a trace of hope, the first he had allowed himself in more time than he could recall.
He climbed up on the bank. From there he had a view of the river and the shoreline, two hundred feet in either direction, and his hope died a quick and silent death. Sea Hammer was there, her bow resting in the mud, but she was filled with water from her afterdeck all the way to the mast step. She must have been stove in someplace aft, filled and settled to the bottom. If her bow had not been run ashore she would have been entirely submerged.
There were dead men everywhere. Thorgrim could see bodies floating in the shallow water of the river’s edge. He could see men flung aside on the gravely beach where they had made their last camp on the voyage up river. He could see men in the grassy bank where they had crawled in the final agonizing moments before their deaths.
These were the guards who Thorgrim had left behind, men who probably did not think they would have to defend the ships against fellow Northmen. It was likely that they had not even drawn their weapons when Ottar and Kjartan and their men arrived and began butchering them.
Ottar’s ships were gone, and so were Fox and Blood Hawk and of course Kjartan’s Dragon. Thorgrim pressed his lips together and let the anger and the fury and the raw hate, hate such as he had never felt before, fill him until it overflowed. He realized that his hands were trembling. He gripped the hilt of Iron-tooth and made his way down the steep bank.
At the edge of the river he ran his eyes over Sea Hammer. She seemed to be in tolerable shape, aside from the fact that she was filled with water. If the hole that had sunk her was not too large there was a chance they could get her floating again, if the Irish gave them time enough. But he did not think they would.
He spared only a second for his ship, because, love her as he might, there were men who had died protecting her and they needed to be looked to. It was even possible that some were yet alive. He had half expected to see Starri’s corpse splayed out on Sea Hammer’s deck or floating in the water that filled her hull, but he was nowhere that Thorgrim could see.
He turned and walked slowly down the river bank, the rest of his men following behind. The dead were strewn around. Some were Ottar’s men but mostly they were his own guard. He saw the faces of men he knew well, men with whom he had fought side by side and suffered through the long winter at Vík-ló. Men with whom he had felled trees and built ships and gone to sea. Now their skin was bluish gray and the eyes that were still open stared unseeing at the horror around them, and their mouths gaped in frozen screams.
You are in the corpse hall now, brothers, Thorgrim thought, and he was sure that was true, though he could see more than a few had died with their swords still in their scabbards, cut down by men they thought were their friends.
Then he heard a sound, a groan, off in the grass to his left, and he felt a flush of dread, like he was hearing a call from the grave. But then he realized it was a wounded man making a feeble cry. He hurried over, his men still following behind.
The gravel beach melded into the grassy bank and Thorgrim walked in the direction of the sound. There was someone lying in the grass, a man, flat out, face hidden from view. Thorgrim stepped closer, looked down at the figure.
Kjartan.
“You bastard,” Thorgrim said, his voice flat and even. Kjartan’s hand was on his stomach and Thorgrim could see the gleam of intestine under his palm. His mail and leggings were torn and soaked with blood. It was a wound that would be fatal, but not quick. Thorgrim had seen this sort of thing before. It might take Kjartan many agonizing days to die.
But Thorgrim would not give him that chance. He wanted to see Kjartan die and he did not have time to wait. And more important still, he would not let Kjartan die of a wound had in honorable battle. Much as he would love to see Kjartan suffer through his final days in Midgard, he would be happier to think of him suffering until the end times in Hel’s icy realm.
He pulled Iron-tooth from its sheath. Kjartan’s sword lay five feet away, half hidden in the grass. Kjartan would die now and he would die with no weapon in his hand, a coward’s death, and the Valkyrie would spit on his corpse.
Then Kjartan opened his eyes and he looked into Thorgrim’s. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “I tried, Night Wolf,” he said, and his voice was stronger than Thorgrim expected. “I tried.”
“Yes, you tried,” Thorgrim said. “And now you die.”
Then Thorgrim heard another voice, and it called, “Night Wolf…” A strangled voice, and again Thorgrim felt a flush of dread at this sound from the grave. He turned and saw Starri Deathless pulling himself to his feet. His tunic was torn and bloody, and his face and hair and scraggly beard were matted with blood. He looked as if he might fall over, but he didn’t, and Harald and Olaf rushed over to hold him up. They grabbed his arms and took his weight and for a second Starri just closed his eyes and let his head loll.
Then he opened his eyes again and looked up. “Yes, Night Wolf, I still live,” Starri said in a voice much weaker than Kjartan’s. But Thorgrim was relieved to hear it, and to hear Starri’s assurance that he was still alive, because from the look of the man Thorgrim was not entirely sure to which world he now belonged.
Starri took a step closer and Harald and Olaf moved with him. “Kjartan and his men, they did not abandon you. They did not come to steal the ships. They came to stop Ottar,” Starri said.
Thorgrim frowned. He looked down at Kjartan, who was trying to sit up. Kjartan clenched his teeth and a shudder went through him. Then Godi stepped around Thorgrim and helped him, putting a massive hand on Kjartan’s back for support.
“Last night,” Kjartan said, “I guessed what Ottar would do. Not before that. Forgive me, Night Wolf, I told him. Back at the mouth of the river, when I thought I might join with him, I told him about Vík-ló and the wealth you had left there. The longphort, how it was all but deserted, only women and old men…”
And Thorgrim understood what the man was saying. Vík-ló. Ottar had abandoned them to their deaths so he could take the ships and sail to Vík-ló, now undefended, claim it all for himself. Thorgrim did not know what to think; he could not even tell what he was feeling. Rage, fear, a need for vengeance. It flailed him like a lash, over and over. He thought he might vomit.
“I took my men and tried to stop him,” Kjartan said. “I was too great a coward to tell you what I’d done. I thought if I could stop him it would set things to right.”
Thorgrim looked over at Starri. “He tells the truth, Thorgrim,” Starri said. “He and his men, they fought Ottar. I fought with them. Ottar slaughtered them all.” Starri gave a weak smile. “But he did not kill me, because I am Starri Deathless.”
Thorgrim nodded. Maybe Starri really cannot be killed, he thought.
Then Starri spoke again. “Kjartan cut a hole in Sea Hammer’s bottom,” he said. “Sunk her where she sits. That’s the only reason Ottar did not take her when he took the others. That’s the reason Ottar did not give Kj
artan a quick death.”
Thorgrim looked down at Kjartan. He did not know what to do.
“Godi, help me stand,” Kjartan said. Godi reached his hands under Kjartan’s shoulders and lifted him as if he was a child and stood him on his feet. Kjartan sucked in his breath and pressed his hand tight against his side and closed his eyes. When the surge of pain had passed he opened his eyes again and pointed to his sword.
“Godi, my sword. Please.” Godi leaned down and picked up the weapon and Kjartan took it by the grip. He turned to Thorgrim.
“Night Wolf, for what I have done I owe you my life. You owe me nothing. But still I’ll ask this of you. We fought once, and we did not finish that fight. Let us finish it now.”
Thorgrim looked into the man’s eyes. Kjartan was all but pleading with him. He did not want to spend his last days dying in agony, and he did not want to die with such dishonor to his name. Thorgrim slipped Iron-tooth from his scabbard.
Kjartan gave a weak smile and lifted his sword to waist height, which was as far as he could lift it. Thorgrim extended Iron-tooth in a pantomime of a lunge and Kjartan parried it with a feeble gesture. Thorgrim drew Iron-tooth back, bringing the blade up over his left shoulder for a powerful back-hand stroke. Kjartan was still smiling, just a bit, and he did not flinch at all as Thorgrim swung the blade and took his head clean off at the shoulders.
Epilogue
There is much sorrow everywhere;
there is a great misfortune among the Irish.
Red wine has been spilled down the valley.
Annals of Ulster
When the Irish men-at-arms returned from riding down the Northmen, from the indescribably butchery of smashing the square and cutting down the fleeing men, Lochlánn did something he had not done in some time. He prayed.
Certainly he had prayed many times during the years he had been at the monastary. Many times a day, in fact. But it was not something he did by choice, and he was grudging and sullen about it. But now it was different. This was real prayer because he meant it. He was genuinely looking for divine guidance.
Glendalough Fair: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga) (Volume 4) Page 35