Night Wolf: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 5)

by James L. Nelson

  Thorgrim began circling around the Irishman, Iron-tooth held low. He would let his enemy move first, gauge his skill. But the big man, as Thorgrim had guessed, was not one for subtlety. He lifted his sword over his head and took a step in Thorgrim’s direction, a battle roar building in his throat. But Thorgrim held up his hand and the man stopped in mid stride, his blood-lust turning to confusion.

  “Harald, ask him if he agrees to my terms,” Thorgrim said.

  Harald translated, still making his voice carry over the strip of sand. The Irishman replied, the sound more like a howl than a word. He took another step and slashed at Thorgrim and Thorgrim stepped back, letting the blade swish past.

  “He agrees, Father,” Harald said.

  Thorgrim continued to circle, stepping sideways, his eyes on his opponent, watching his face, his weapon. The Irishman held the sword high, ready to chop rather than slash or thrust. Thorgrim still held Iron-tooth low and at his side, inviting an attack, making the man angry with his seeming nonchalance.

  The Irishman swung again, a fast, hard strike, the weight of the sword negligible to one so strong of arm. Thorgrim leapt back as the blade came down. He heard the swishing sound as it cut air, and as it passed he darted forward, driving the tip of Iron-tooth into the man’s side an inch deep, leaving a painful wound, an enraging wound, but not a deadly one.

  How long do I toy with you? Thorgrim wondered. That was really the question here. How long should he let this fight go on? Too brief and the rest of the bandits might think he cheated somehow and attack Thorgrim’s men, their leader’s agreement notwithstanding. Too long and they might think Thorgrim and the rest were weak, and likewise attack.

  The big man had stumbled backward, away from Thorgrim and his fast blade. He pressed a hand to the wound, lifted it up to see the bright red blood on his fingers. Thorgrim saw the pain and the rage in his eyes, the expression of an untrained fighting man about to launch a savage and ill-conceived attack.

  And that was what the Irishman did. He let out a roar, or it might have been an insult; Thorgrim could not tell. He lifted his sword and charged, though he still had wits enough to use his longer reach to slash at Thorgrim before he charged into the arc of Thorgrim’s blade.

  In that instant Thorgrim made his decision. Time to end it.

  He did not give it any conscious thought, he just knew. As the Irishman’s blade came sweeping around, Thorgrim made a counterstroke with his own sword. He had no doubt as to what would happen when the man’s ugly, nicked and much-abused weapon came in contact with Iron-tooth’s fine steel.

  And it happened just as Thorgrim imagined. The two blades hit with a dull clanging sound, their motion checked for a heartbeat, no more, and then the Irishman’s blade snapped in two. Thorgrim had a glimpse of the broken end flying off to his right. The Irishman stumbled, his face all confusion and surprise. And then Thorgrim saw the first expression of fear as the man realized what had happened—and what would happen next.

  Thorgrim let the momentum of his stroke carry Iron-tooth back over his shoulder. His arm stopped, the blade cocked for a backhand blow. The Irishman straightened, his eyes wide, but there was no time for any reaction beyond that. Thorgrim swung Iron-tooth back and caught the man in the throat. He twisted as he fell, the spray of blood preceding him to the sand and making a red line that ran in a ragged trail for ten feet from the spot where he hit the ground.

  The Irishman did not die instantly, but close enough. His feet kicked some, his fingers dug into the sand. He made an odd gurgling noise. And then he was still.

  “Stand ready,” Thorgrim called to his men. He did not know what the Irish would do next, if they would be furious at their leader’s death and look for vengeance, or abide by the agreement he had made in his last moments on earth.

  He looked up. The outlaws had moved in closer during the few moments of the fight, apparently to get a better look. Now they stood motionless, staring down at the unmoving, dirty heap that was once the man who had led them. The smaller man with the red hair was closest, having come forward to join in talking with Thorgrim. He was the first to move, stepping up to the dead man and looking down at him with no discernable expression on his face. He put his shoe against the man’s shoulder and pushed and the dead man rolled over on his back, his eyes open and staring blankly at the gray morning sky, his throat a wash of blood.

  The red-haired man pulled a dagger from his belt, bent down and cut the dead man’s purse away, not bothering to look to Thorgrim for permission, or even acknowledging the Northmen’s presence. He straightened and turned, heading back toward the line of men farther up the sand spit.

  “Wait,” Thorgrim called and the man stopped and turned. Thorgrim turned to Harald. “Tell him they can take their leader’s body,” he said. “Tell him we won’t stop them from giving him a proper funeral.”

  Harald said the words. The redheaded man listened. His expression did not change. When Harald finished, he shrugged and spoke.

  “He says they’ll leave him for the crows and the ravens,” Harald said. “He says no one much liked him anyway.”

  Thorgrim could not help but smile. Loyal sons of bitches, aren’t they? he thought. And then another idea came to him.

  “Tell this fellow that he and his men should join with us. Tell him they should come fight with us.”

  Harald registered a flash of surprise, no more, and then he rendered the words into Irish. The Irishman cocked his head and considered Thorgrim with a curious expression. He did not have the same dull, bovine look as the former leader. This one looked clever. With his red hair and the freckles on his face and his small but powerful-looking frame he seemed more the fox than the oxen. He considered Thorgrim’s words for a second before responding.

  “He wants to know why they should join with us,” Harald said.

  “Tell him because we have real weapons. Swords, shields, mail. Enough for all his men. They’ll have no need of those ridiculous clubs and knives. And we’ll teach them the use of these weapons.”

  Harald translated. The red-haired man looked more amused than tempted. He spoke again.

  “He says he’s very impressed with all the Northmen’s fine weapons,” Harald said, “but I don’t think he was serious. He wonders what we mean to do with these weapons.”

  “Tell him we mean to return to Glendalough and sack the monastery there, a thing he would not dare do on his own,” Thorgrim said. “Tell him we’ll divide the plunder evenly with him and his men if they’re with us.”

  This time Harald’s surprise was so great that he could not immediately recover. He looked at Thorgrim, eyes wide, mouth open. And that was no wonder. Thorgrim was improvising like a skald at a feast, creating his plans even as the words left his mouth.

  Chapter Four

  The miserable man and evil minded

  makes of all things mockery,

  and knows not that which he best should know,

  that he is not free from faults.

  Hávamál

  Aghen Ormsson was the first to see the ships returning to Vík-ló, but that was hardly a surprise. Aghen was a shipwright to his core, to the heartwood of his strong if aging body. When there were ships at the longphort, they were foremost in his thoughts. When they were away, his thoughts went with them, and his eyes turned toward the sea, waiting their return.

  It had been weeks since Thorgrim Night Wolf, Lord of Vík-ló, had sailed to the south with the intention of raiding the monastery at Glendalough. With him had gone nearly all the men from the longphort, the crews of the ships Sea Hammer, Blood Hawk and Fox, around two hundred men in all. Kjartan Thorolfson, captain of the fourth ship, Dragon, had left the longphort days before, bound to where, no one knew.

  Only thirty or so were left at Vík-ló, about half of them women. The men who remained behind were mostly those who were injured or sick or were too old to go a’viking. Some were skilled artisans who could not be spared, such as Mar the blacksmith. Some, such as Aghen,
were both.

  In his younger days Aghen had spent many summers raiding. His father was a ship builder, but Aghen, like all young men in his native Norway, dreamed not of building ships but of sailing them beyond that bright line on the horizon to whatever fantastical places and great wealth awaited those who were bold enough to take it.

  He had made half a dozen voyages under the command of a local jarl, raiding in England and in Scotland, and sailing up the wide rivers of Frankia. Some of it had been good, some had been nightmarish, but through it all, it was the ships, not the raiding, that had grabbed young Aghen’s imagination.

  He loved the sailing. He loved the play of wind and water on the lean oak hulls; he loved seeing how different ships behaved in different conditions, how a beamier ship would take the seas one way, a narrower ship another. When there were repairs to be made, it was Aghen, raised as a shipwright, who was called on to do the work, work for which he clearly had a gift.

  So, after returning home from his sixth summer a’viking, he set aside his sword and his shield and took up chisel and saw and joined his father in the shipbuilding trade. Together they earned a reputation as two of the finest shipwrights on the Oslofiord, and when his father died, literally fell dead with an auger in his hand, Aghen continued on alone.

  At that time, many raiders were returning from Ireland with tales of the fine opportunities to be found in Dubh-linn. Others spoke of the quality and the abundance of Irish timber. Soon Aghen, who still had some of the young man’s desire to sail beyond the horizon, took ship to Ireland and set up shop on the banks of the Liffey. He remained happy at his trade, but he found Dubh-linn too big, too squalid for his liking, so he moved again, this time to Vík-ló. And he was happy there. Mostly.

  Vík-ló had been lorded over by a brute of a man named Grimarr Knutson, known as Grimarr Giant. Grimarr had not been so bad at first, a hard man but not an unjust one. Not the sort Aghen could befriend, but the sort he could respect, and that was good enough, but it did not last.

  Grimarr’s sons, his beloved sons, had been killed at Dubh-linn. Grimarr seemed to go mad with grief, like a wounded and cornered bear. And like such a beast, he lashed out wildly in every direction, trying to mitigate his hurt by inflicting hurt on others.

  Then Thorgrim Night Wolf and his men had arrived. They came limping in from the sea, their ship on the verge of sinking after running afoul of a floating log. And the ship they sailed, which they called Far Voyager, was the same ship in which Grimarr’s sons had sailed for Vík-ló. It had been painted black, and various other changes had been made, but still Aghen recognized her immediately. He said nothing. He did not think any good would come of Grimarr’s knowing.

  And when Grimarr did eventually realize that Thorgrim was sailing his sons’ ship, and that Thorgrim was the one who had killed them, he reacted just as Aghen guessed he would. The two men left a long and bloody trail of corpses in their wake.

  Aghen never understood entirely what had transpired. It had come down to a great fight, Grimarr Giant and his men against Thorgrim Night Wolf and his, and then an army of Irishmen as well. When the blood had stopped flowing, it was Thorgrim Night Wolf who stood as Lord of Vík-ló.

  And that was a good thing, as far as Aghen was concerned. He and Thorgrim had worked together to repair Far Voyager, and Aghen had already formed a favorable opinion of the man. And that good opinion only grew stronger as the winter months passed and he and Thorgrim built three new ships from the keels up.

  Thorgrim Night Wolf loved ships the way Aghen loved ships, and his skill and understanding of the trade nearly rivaled Aghen’s own. They had discussed every aspect of the building, the properties they wished to impart to the vessels, the tricks they would use to make them strong and light and flexible. They had not always agreed, but they had always respected one another, and by the time the ships had been rolled down the muddy banks and into the river, Aghen was proud to call Thorgrim friend.

  And for that reason he was delighted now to see the sails of Thorgrim’s fleet far off on the horizon, standing in toward Vík-ló at the mouth of the River Leitrim. It was hádegi, midday, and Aghen was down by the water as he so often was. He had spent the morning moving some of the spare timber out of the weather and sharpening and oiling his tools, but in truth he did not have very much to do. He was a shipwright in a longphort that had no ships.

  He stood on top of the earthen wall that enclosed the longphort and looked out over the water, off to the south where he had last seen the fleet sailing away. The distant ships appeared as tiny spots of color, no more. He squinted, not against the sun, because there was no sun, but to help him see better. He looked for a long time, until he was certain. Not part of the shoreline, not the flash of whitecaps. They were sails, he was certain. He had seen sails so many times from a great distance that he knew their look.

  His first instinct was to alert the longphort of the fleet’s return, but he did not. He told himself he wanted to be certain, though in truth he knew he just wanted to enjoy the moment. He had known the joy of standing on a ship’s deck and seeing his home slowly resolve out of the ambiguous shore. To stand on the shore and see the ships rise up out of the sea was nearly as good.

  For the better part of an hour Aghen watched the ships come on, saw their sails changing from barely discernable points of color to genuine rectangles, pitching and rolling with the ships they drove through the dull gray sea. Eight of them. Which was cause for some concern, since Thorgrim had sailed with only three.

  Aghen climbed down the rough ladder from the wall and walked up the plank road to where the two dozen or so sundry shops and homes were huddled together. Some were built in the wattle and daub style of the Irish, some in the timber style of the Norse, but none were particularly grand or luxurious.

  The largest and most substantial of the buildings were the twin halls near the gate at the far end of the longphort, one built for Grimarr Knutson, the other for his second in command, Fasti Magnisson. Both men were dead now and the halls stood empty, though Aghen guessed they would soon be filled again by their new occupants, Thorgrim Night Wolf and Bersi Jorundarson and their households.

  Halfway down the plank road stood the home and shop of Mar the blacksmith. Aghen found Mar at work on his anvil under the thatch roof that covered his workspace in the trampled yard.

  “Mar!” Aghen shouted, waited for a break in the clanging of iron hammer on molten iron, then called again. “Mar!”

  Mar, whose hearing was not good after so many years of enduring the ring of iron on iron, looked up after the second shout. “Aghen! What news?”

  Aghen stepped through the gate in the wattle fence. “The fleet’s returning,” he said. “They are some ways off still, but I see them bound for the river mouth.”

  “Ha!” Mar shouted. “That’s good news. They’ll have weapons in need of repair, and ships too, and they’ll have silver to pay for it.”

  “It might be good news,” Aghen said. “Or it might not. I can see eight ships, I’m nearly certain.”

  “Eight?” Mar asked.

  “Eight. I think Blood Hawk is one. She had that red-and-black-checkered sail. But she’s far off and my eyes are old.”

  Mar nodded. “Well, maybe they’ve taken more plunder or met with others who wish to join us here.” Mar was a jovial and optimistic fellow, as Aghen had observed blacksmiths often were. He wondered if all that pounding worked the unpleasantness right out of them.

  “We should tell the others,” Aghen said. Mar nodded and set his hammer down. They continued up the plank road, calling into the houses, spreading the word, giving warning.

  By the time the handful of people remaining in Vík-ló had gathered by the water, the fleet was considerably closer, making for the river mouth and visible from the shore, not just the top of the wall. They could see the individual ships, and even the patterns on their sails were discernable to the younger eyes.

  “Blood Hawk for certain,” said Valgerd Unnson, a
man of twenty years who’d had the bad luck to break his leg a week before the fleet put to sea. Actually, it was not so much bad luck as Valgerd’s famous bad judgment, in this case his decision to try to balance on the top of the palisades at a time when he was so drunk he could barely stand on the plank road.

  “I can see her checked sail,” Valgerd continued, shielding his eyes from the dull sunlight overhead. “And Fox, with the black stripes, to the east of her.”

  “What of Sea Hammer, do you see her?” Aghen asked. “Her sail was red stripes, bold red stripes.”

  “I know what pattern her sail had, Aghen,” Valgerd said, “and I don’t see her. But she might be astern of the others.”

  Aghen frowned. Thorgrim Night Wolf would not let Sea Hammer sail in another’s wake. Nor was there another ship that could outpace her. Sea Hammer was their pride, he and Thorgrim, the last ship built, the culmination of all they had learned about the quality of the wood they had taken from the high country, the best use to be made of the tools and materials at hand. They loved Sea Hammer, both of them. Thorgrim would not let her fall astern of another vessel.

  “Those other ships, I have no idea,” Valgerd said. There was a murmur of speculation among the others, but Aghen remained silent. No reason to waste time and breath guessing when an hour or so would reveal the truth.

  The ships were still half a mile off when they began to lower their sails and stow them, then run their long oars out of the row ports for the final pull to the shore. By then Aghen knew for certain that Sea Hammer was not among them. He felt sick, his stomach rebelling against this knowledge. It seemed impossible that his beloved Sea Hammer was gone. He could barely tolerate the thought of it.