A Gathering of Ravens

by Scott Oden

  “We are all born, and we all die—be it from age and illness, like your people, or from battle, like mine. Everything between is what you make of it,” Grimnir said. “Do you know what hope is to a kaunr? That we die wreathed in glory; that songs are made of our deeds, and that our enemies remember who we were and tremble around their fires at the mention of our names.”

  From beneath her cloak, Étaín drew out Grimnir’s satchel. “I almost forgot.”

  Grimnir looked at it, its leather yet supple despite being older than any ten men around them, combined. “Old Gífr got that off a dead Roman,” he said. “Nár, keep it, foundling. I might come back for it.”

  Étaín nodded; she hugged the satchel to her and studied the plain before them, with its low ridge that sloped down to the sandy beach and the rolling surf of the Irish Sea. From just over the ridge he heard the faint sounds of men mustering. After a moment, she said, “Who will make your death song?”

  “My enemies,” Grimnir replied with unaccustomed gravitas. “I stand hard up against the long night of my people. The Nine Fathers are no more, and even half-breeds like Bjarki would rather embrace the world of Men. When I go to the great hall of my people at Nástrond to await the call of Gjallarhorn and the breaking of the world, my name and the tale of my deeds will go with me.”

  “Your name will not die, not so long as I draw breath,” Étaín said.

  Grimnir turned and looked at her, his swarthy brow creased with furrows. “Why? I have done you ill, foundling. Why would you do this?”

  “Those ills you’ve done me have also strengthened my faith. I have no veil of ignorance to hide behind, now, because of you. And I know my own destiny is bound to this wondrous island. I thank you for the ills you have caused me even as I mourn the dead you left in your wake. I meant what I said last night: you’re a fomenter of trouble, a murderer, and crueler than you need be, but you’re also devout, honest, and you scrupulously keep your word. It is not my place to judge you, but it is my place to remember you, be it for good or ill.” Tears sparkled on Étaín’s lashes; she looked down, her gaze fixed on the painted face of his shield. “May your gods and mine watch over you, son of Bálegyr.” And with that, she was gone, leaving Grimnir alone.

  “Faugh.” He picked up the helm off the rocks beside him. “And you, foundling,” he whispered. “And you.”

  Grimnir glanced up as a lone horn sounded. He arose and leapt to the ground. Around the great boulder, the sudden clamor of thousands of men making ready for the coming battle shattered the stillness of Tomar’s Wood. Battalions of grim-faced Gaels rose up from the dense undergrowth and girded their loins; rangy Scots and mail-clad Danes drew steel and made their peace with God. The horn called the ravens to war …

  2

  From the northern end of the plain of Chluain Tarbh, the three divisions of the high king’s army moved into position. The sun rose on their left hand, its golden light casting long shadows across the folds of the earth; it was a brilliant morning, with streamers of cloud drifting across a cornflower-blue sky, in sharp contrast to the fresh green of the plain. The stench of yesterday’s burning still hung in the air, but a freshening breeze off the sea helped drive the stink of it inland. Across this idyllic landscape, the war march of eight thousand men shook the foundations of the earth.

  The Dalcassians anchored the Irish left against the gray-green sea, those dark-eyed sons of Thomond whose axeplay was unrivaled, even among the Danes. They followed Turlough mac Murrough into battle; though he had only fifteen summers, already his reputation was such that his father and grandfather were confident of his ability to lead the ferocious war bands of Dal Cais.

  Murrough himself commanded the center division, the clansmen of Connacht and of Munster—half-wild fighters in wolf skins and rough homespun who relished the coming spear-grab the way other men relished a country dance; among them strode the Uí Ruairc of Lough Gill and their chief, Cormac, who howled and clashed sword on shield with reckless abandon.

  On the far Irish right, inland from the sea, came companies of Norsemen from Corcaigh and Hlymrekr—mail-clad sons of the North who sported crosses rather than pagan symbols; alongside them marched shock-headed Galloglas mercenaries from Alba, who wore quilted jerkins and steel caps and carried long Danish axes. Domnall mac Eimen was their chief and he strode forward in grim silence. But of the Meathmen and their treacherous king, Malachy, there was no sign.

  Grimnir walked alone. Around him, men shouted and cursed, bolstering their courage. Brazen horns howled; drums pounded like the pulse of some great war beast, stretching and making ready to rip its victim to shreds. As he came on, Grimnir glared at the mustering enemy across the plain in search of a sign as to where his foeman might be. Had the witch’s ruse worked?

  Thousands of mailed reavers poured from ships drawn up on the north bank of the Liffey and on the beaches of Dubhlinn Bay, near the fishing weir at the mouth of the Tolka; they formed two divisions that spread across the plain to the old wooden bridge, whose timbers groaned beneath the weight of the division that hurried across from Dubhlinn.

  There. Grimnir’s visage twisted with a grin of savage delight as he spied the ancient sigil of the Spear-Danes of Hróarr amid the banners of Dubhlinn: a dirty white scrap of cloth sporting a crude black hand. Under it marched the hunched and twisted giant Bjarki Half-Dane, a long, broad-bladed sword naked on his shoulder. A red rage washed over Grimnir; he loosed a frenzied howl that pierced even the din of the assembling hosts.

  The Norse of Dubhlinn and the rebel Gaels of Leinster formed their battle array on the right, their serried ranks ready to face the iron axes of Corcaigh and Hlymrekr; Maelmorda stood among the fianna of Leinster, bellowing threats and shaking his great spear at the high king’s army, his courage nailed to his spine with a mead horn.

  The enemy center was the demesne of Sigurðr of the Raven Banner, whose Orkneymen stood shoulder-to-mail-clad-shoulder with their cousins from the Hebrides and champions drawn from all the lands of the North: Hrafn the Red, Prince Olaf of Norway, Thorsteinn of the Danemark, Ámundi the White, Thorwald Raven, and many more besides. Sigurðr gleamed in a gold-scaled corselet as he took his place at the point of a broad fighting wedge.

  Hard against the sea that was their life’s blood gathered the Manx reavers of Bródir, eager to pit their axes against those of the Dalcassians. Their fell-handed chief stood forth in his dwarf-forged mail and called on his men to drag a Gaelic prisoner forward; there, in sight of the Irish host, Bródir drew his knife and sacrificed the man to the glory of Odin. Howls of rage washed over the sunlit plain of Chluain Tarbh.

  When only two bowshots separated the Gael from their hated foe, Brian mac Cennétig called a halt. There would be no parley between the two armies, no last chance to come to terms. Iron would decide the day. Grimnir saw the old king, now, mounted on his white stallion. He rode across the Irish front, his sheathed sword held up and inverted like a crucifix. He drew rein near the center of his army.

  “Men of Ériu!” The voice that came from the old king’s chest rolled like thunder, drowning even the clangor of the enemy, eager to come to grips. “Friends and allies! On your valor rest the hopes of your country today; and what surer grounds can they rest upon? Oppression attempts to bend you down to servility; will you burst its chains and rise as free men? Your cause is one approved by Heaven!” A roar erupted from eight thousand Irish throats. “You do not seek the oppression of others; you fight for your country and sacred altars. It is a cause that claims heavenly protection. Let every heart, then, be the throne of confidence and courage. You know that the Danes are strangers to religion and humanity; they are inflamed with the desire to violate the fairest daughters of this land of beauty, and to enrich themselves with the spoils of sacrilege and plunder. Witness!” The king spun his horse and leveled the cruciform hilt of his sword at the enemy. “The barbarians have impiously chosen the very day on which the Redeemer of the world died on the cross! Victory they shall not hav
e! From such brave soldiers as you they can never wrest it; for you fight in defense of honor, liberty and religion—in defense of the sacred temples of the true God, and of your sisters, wives and daughters! Such a holy cause must be the cause of God, who will deliver your enemies this day into your hands!” Brian mac Cennétig reversed his sword and drew it from its sheath, thrusting it aloft. “Onward, then, for your country and your sacred altars!”

  And so, to the music of brazen horns and hide drums, of skirling pipes and raw voices, the Battle on the Plain of Chluain Tarbh began …

  3

  Grimnir marched in the forefront on the Irish right, his red and gleaming eyes fixed on the thatch-bearded figure of Half-Dane. He came for blood; his jaws champed spasmodically, and slaver dripped from his yellowed fangs in anticipation. He fought the urge to dart forward and end this five-hundred-year dance of vengeance with a single spear cast. No, he wanted to savor it. He wanted to taste Daufi’s fear in these final moments of cursed life that remained to him.

  Grimnir laughed.

  A hundred yards separated the two fronts, now, and Grimnir was close enough to see the tremblers among the ranks of the enemy—piss-legged farmers who only played at war; pale merchants who thought dandling a brat on their knee was better than seeking a storied death; townsmen who only owned a hauberk because it made the whores wet. Bah! Grimnir spat. The iron-shod dogs at his back deserved a better enemy!

  At fifty yards, Grimnir drew breath. He meant to bellow a challenge, to call Bjarki out, when suddenly a one-eyed figure in black mail stepped out from the enemy ranks, blocking his view of Half-Dane. The man carried a bearded axe, and his shield was quartered red and black. His gray beard bristled as he threw back his head and loosed a challenge of his own.

  “Grimnir! Wretched skrælingr! Come forth!”

  The challenge elicited roars of approval from both sides. Nor did Grimnir shirk from it; he stalked out into the no-man’s-land between the two armies and answered: “Go back to your hearth, old man! Leave the fighting to your betters!”

  “We have old business, you and I! Or have you forgotten?” The mailed fighter made a savage gesture with his axe. “You killed me once before—”

  “I’ve killed many men, little fool! And those I send to Hel’s gates stay dead!”

  “We met on the road to Roskilde. We had words, and you left my corpse in a cave, or so you thought!”

  It took a moment, but roots of recognition finally found purchase in Grimnir’s brain. “So-ho!” he said, laughing. “Christ-Dane!”

  “Aye, I was a hymn-singer, then. Men knew me as Njáll, Hjálmarr’s son,” he replied, hefting his shield. “But no longer! Draugen, I am called, and the only hymn I will sing this day will be your death dirge, fiend!”

  Men chanted and clashed swords on shields; they howled for blood. Grimnir stalked forward, his spear low and ready as Draugen edged toward him. His eye caught the telltale signs of the blow the Dane intended to make—the tensing of muscles, the widening of his eyes, and the flaring of his nostrils prior to the explosion of pent-up fury.

  “Faugh! I will tell your precious foundling how you died a second time,” Grimnir hissed. “That will amuse her.”

  Draugen’s one good eye blinked. He flinched as though Grimnir had dealt him a physical blow. “Étaín?” He hesitated a moment; his shield dipped. “She … She lives? Where—”

  And in that moment, Grimnir struck.

  Powerful muscles propelled him forward, a pantherish leap that spanned the short distance between them; with a thunderous roar, Grimnir twisted his torso and slammed the iron-banded edge of his shield into the blind side of Draugen’s head. The blow rang on his helmet, bursting the straps that held it and ripping it from his head, along with part of his scalp. Sheeting blood, one-eyed Draugen toppled senseless to the ground.

  Grimnir straddled Draugen’s body. “Little Half-Dane!” he screamed above the warring shouts of approbation and censure. “Have you no greeting for your kinsman, Daufi?”

  Bjarki drew himself up to his full height, overtopping Grimnir by a head. “The day has come at last, snuffler,” he replied. “The Doom of Odin has caught up with you! The skein of fate is woven, and the Norns have decreed your end! The Allfather has chosen me—”

  “To die!” Grimnir slung his spear across the interval. It wobbled, iron head flashing, and caromed off Bjarki’s hastily raised shield to bury itself in the neck of the yellow-bearded Norseman at his side. The man staggered, pulled by the weight of the shaft. He spewed blood as he fell, and the red droplets hung like a handful of rubies cast up into air gone bright and still.

  Up and down the Irish front, Grimnir’s casting of his spear was like an axe cutting the yoke off a mighty beast—a beast that pawed the earth with iron claws as its great muscles hurled it forward, into the face of its prey. A deafening shout went up—the barrán-glaed, the warrior’s cry—and it rocked the foundations of Heaven. From the first kern of the Dal Cais on the left to the last thegn of Hlymrekr on the right, the divisions of the high king of Ériu surged forward like a storm-driven tide to crash into a bulwark of steel.

  Trumpets howled and shrieked over the din, but not to relay orders. This was no game of thrones where generals sacrificed and maneuvered on the backs of their soldiers; this was the most primal sort of conflict—Odin’s weather, the red chaos of slaughter—where men stood breast-to-breast and shield-to-shield, and dealt the same blows they took in kind.

  Spears cracked and shivered. Shields split. Links of woven mail parted beneath the edge of an axe. Swords flashed in the rising dust, and blood dampened the earth. Thunderous cries mixed with piteous howls. Men struck and reeled; the dying clasped the knees of the living like a lover refusing to be put aside for another. The air—so bright and clear only moments before—reeked now of iron scraping iron; it was redolent with the coppery stench of spilled gore, with the hot stink of vomit, and with the fetor of riven bellies.

  Grimnir was in his element. Laughing, he came at Bjarki low and fast; his axe sang clear of its moorings, lashed out, and rebounded from the face of Half-Dane’s shield. There was little room to swing a broad-bladed sword, so Bjarki tried thrusting it at Grimnir’s face … only to nearly lose it, and his hand, to his kinsman’s riposte.

  Breath whistled between clenched teeth. There was no time for speech, no time even for taunts. Grimnir let the blade of his axe speak for him. Again and again he smote Bjarki’s shield, hammering at the black sigil of Hróarr like a smith working a stubborn lump of ore. Splinters flew from its face until Grimnir was certain the arm beneath must be broken—and if not, he would break it soon enough. The spine-twisted Half-Dane tried to fall back, but the press of men pushing forward from the rear gave him nowhere to turn and Grimnir, a snarling knot of hate, gave him no respite. The axe blade flashed and thudded; Bjarki’s rim-warped shield cracked like an eggshell, and the bastard son of Hrungnir bellowed in agony.

  “Odin!”

  But it was not the Allfather who leapt to Half-Dane’s defense. A trio of Norse mercenaries from Dubhlinn, their heavy mail standing them in good stead against the spears of the blood-maddened Gaels, came at Grimnir from his unshielded right.

  As much as Grimnir wanted to deal one last, fatal blow to his hateful kinsman, his sense of self-preservation proved stronger than his thirst for vengeance. Screaming in rage, he shifted and brought his shield to bear in time to deflect an axe blow; a spear licked out, ripping through the leather and iron rings at the top of his shoulder to crease the swarthy flesh beneath.

  “Swine!” Grimnir spat. His short-hafted axe struck the lead Norseman across the eyes; he clutched his face and reeled away, gagging on bloody froth. A dying Scotsman lunged forward and snarled the legs of the second man, giving Grimnir an opening to stave in the Norseman’s skull. Grimnir wrenched the blade free of the ruin of bone and brain even as the third of Half-Dane’s defenders drew back to strike … and died choking on the head of a Hlymrekr spear. Grimnir whirled ba
ck around and cast about for his foe, but to no avail.

  In the scrum, Bjarki Half-Dane had managed to slip away.

  Grimnir howled like a stung wolf; he stamped and slashed and swore in the harsh tongue of his kind. He slung his shield to the ground, ripped his seax from its sheath, and let go of the last vestiges of his sanity.

  Flanked by Scots and allied Danes, he led a murderous spike into the heart of the Dubhlinn Norse …

  4

  Anxious faces lined the northern walls of Dubhlinn, watching in earnest as the Battle of Chluain Tarbh unfolded. The broad parapet, part stone and part timber, echoed with the distant shouts, the brazen horns. Wives suckled babes at their breasts and fretted if the end of the day would see them widowed, their children made fatherless; gray-haired matrons went about their spinning as though this were just another day, their stoic silence tempered by experience—fall fair or fall foul, the sun would rise tomorrow. Old men crouched in the lee of the walls and swapped war stories, revisiting old glories that were as fresh in their minds as if they happened yesterday. Men of the garrison leaned on their spears and listened; occasionally, their eyes wandered to the higher parapet of the castle, where King Sitric stood apart from his remaining nobles, his mother at his side.

  Kormlada and her son did not speak for the better part of the morning, preferring to watch in silence as events unfolded on the distant plain. The king remained pride-stung. Generations to come would remember this day, when the cream of Ériu spent itself on the field of Chluain Tarbh, when the iron heel of the North crushed the neck of the high king, once and for all; songs would commemorate the deeds of valor, the glory of the fallen. Heroes would spring from the tongues of skalds. But who would honor the king who watched from afar?

  “How did he know?” Sitric said, breaking the long silence between them. “How did Mac Cennétig know we would launch our attack this morning? How did he see through Bjarki’s ruse?”