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

by James L. Nelson

  And the people went. Slowly, with all the enthusiasm of prisoners going to their executions, they stepped through their wattle gates and made their way up the road to the hall, a handful of people, a sorry and inconsequential force in the face of Ottar’s warriors.

  Aghen frowned. He wanted to ignore this summons just to show that he would not be ordered around like a thrall. He wanted to make it clear that he was not willing to cooperate.

  “It’s pointless,” he said out loud. And it was. What did he think would happen, that Ottar would be cowed by his defiance? No, Ottar would welcome the chance to make an example of him, to show all of Vík-ló how he crushed defiance under his heel. The old shipwright sighed and headed up the plank road, his knees aching as he walked.

  Aghen reached the fringes of the crowd and stopped. He could sense the uncertainty and dread; it hung like smoke over the people as they waited. No one spoke. Ottar’s warriors were making a line across the gate, as if to suggest to those in the longphort that there was no way out. They did not carry shields and their weapons were sheathed, but that did not lessen the quiet menace of their presence.

  The cowed silence was just giving way to muttered speculation when Ottar came out the door of Thorgrim’s hall. He walked down the line of warriors, then stopped and looked out toward the cluster of men and women who had assembled there. His height was so great he looked as if he were standing on a platform, and when he spoke his voice was like a physical presence.

  “See here,” he called, and the crowd’s soft murmuring stopped instantly. “The men who sailed from here, under the command of Thorgrim, who you call Night Wolf, they’re all dead. Killed by the Irish. If they’d waited for us to come to their aide they might have lived, but they didn’t, so they’re dead. And now I am lord here. Those dead men don’t need their halls, or their houses, or any of their silver, and so I will take that for my men.

  “Now, I want to be fair about this, because I’m a fair man. We’ll divide it up, all of us, my men and you people. Equal shares for all. So I am ordering you, each and every one of you, to gather up any silver, gold, jewels, whatever hoard you have, and bring it to me in my hall. There my men and me, we’ll see every man here in the longphort has an equal share. Don’t anyone hold out or think you’ll cheat your neighbor. Go now. I want all of it before the sun is below the roof of my hall.”

  No one moved. No one spoke. Aghen shook his head and spit on the ground in disgust. My hall… All that horse shit about equal shares. Ottar had not even tried to sound like he was telling the truth. That was how little regard he had for the people of Vík-ló.

  Then the man who had summoned them to Ottar’s hall stepped forward again and in the same booming voice, a voice that was nearly the equal of Ottar’s, said, “You heard Lord Ottar! Go now! Gather your hoards and bring them here and be quick. And don’t think even for a moment that you’ll cheat your new lord!”

  That was enough to spur the people to action. They turned, they headed off to their homes and shops, moving quick or slow depending on how frightened they were or how enraged by this thievery. Mar was moving slow, bear-like, a deep scowl on his face. Aghen saw him coming and waited for him. Mar had amassed a considerable hoard of silver, Aghen knew. Blacksmithing was a profitable trade, particularly when you were the only blacksmith in the town.

  “Listen, my friend,” Aghen said. “This is a bad situation we’re in, but it could be worse. You could be dead.”

  “We’ll all be dead soon, mark my words,” Mar said.

  “If you try to hold out on this Ottar, you’ll be dead sooner than most,” Aghen said. “I beg of you, whatever silver you have, give it to him.”

  Mar stopped and looked at Aghen, his scowl deepening. “You’re not a man I would have thought was backward in his courage,” he said.

  In Aghen’s younger days, such words would certainly have ended with weapons drawn and blood spilled, but he was too old now for such nonsense. “I know Ottar’s sort,” he said instead. “He’s looking to make an example.”

  Mar grunted, and that was all he said by way of reply. He left Aghen on the plank road and pushed through the gate in his wattle fence and disappeared into the gloom of his small house.

  Don’t be a fool, Aghen thought and he stared at the open door to Mar’s house. With all that had happened already that day, the thought of watching Mar die was too much to bear.

  Aghen turned and continued down the road to his own home, a plank-built house with the floor dug two feet down into the earth. His was smaller than most because, unlike most, there was no workshop attached to it. Aghen’s work took place by the water’s edge, and that was where he kept his tools and his bench.

  But not his silver. That was secured in a small wooden chest and buried under the bench on which Aghen slept that was pushed up against the far wall by the hearth. He pulled the bench away from the wall and knelt on the cool earth floor. He pulled his knife from the sheath and used it to dig the dirt away.

  It was not a hard job. Aghen had unearthed the chest not long before, when Thorgrim had given him two silver arm rings to show his appreciation for the work done on the new longships. Now he cleared the dirt away once more and pulled the small chest from the ground. It was heavy, as a hoard should be, but not terribly so. Aghen was not a wealthy man.

  He stood and hefted the chest and stepped out into the gray light of the day. People were already heading back up the road to Ottar’s hall, carrying their wealth in their arms, some struggling under the weight, and some, like Aghen, bearing it easily.

  Ottar’s men were swarming over the town. They were searching the empty long houses, the homes of those who had sailed with Thorgrim and not returned. But it was not just the empty houses they were searching. They were going through the others as well, the houses that were still occupied, to be sure that no one was hiding anything to which Ottar laid claim.

  By the time Aghen reached the longphort’s gates, most of the people had returned to the twin halls. Ottar’s warriors were pushing them into a line where they could wait their chance to hand over all the wealth they had amassed to this stranger and his men. Mar was there, and the chest he carried appeared to be a substantial burden, and that gave Aghen some relief. It was, hopefully, for Mar’s sake, all the wealth he had hidden in his shop.

  One by one the people were ushered into Ottar’s hall, bearing chests and sacks. One by one they came out, empty-handed and red-faced with suppressed fury. Mar went in and was gone less than a minute. He came out again and pushed his way through the crowd. He made a point of shouldering one of Ottar’s men aside, nearly knocking him to the ground, but the man only threw a curse at Mar’s back as the smith stomped away.

  And then it was Aghen’s turn. He stepped through the door into that hall he knew so well: the sleeping benches, the hearth, the wattle wall that divided off the back end of the building from the main room. The day was getting on and a fire was burning in the hearth and it added an orange light to the room, which was still mostly lit by the last of the day’s sun.

  Ottar was seated at the table at which Aghen had so often seen Thorgrim. Now the table seemed dwarfed by Ottar’s looming presence; the bench on which he sat seemed barely able to hold him. A dozen armed men stood in a semicircle behind him, and at his feet was the cumulative wealth of Vík-ló, or at least all that Ottar had so far collected.

  With a wave, Ottar indicated that Aghen was to place the small chest on the table, and Aghen did. Ottar flipped the lid open, poked at the collection of silver coins and rings and brooches with a massive finger. He frowned.

  “This is it?” he said, looking up at Aghen for the first time.

  “That’s it,” Aghen said. “I’m not a wealthy man.”

  Ottar stared at him for a moment, as if trying to see what was inside. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Aghen. Aghen Ormsson.”

  “You were here with Grimarr Knutson. You went a’viking with him,” Ottar said, the words m
ore an accusation than a statement.

  “No,” Aghen said. “My raiding days are over. I’m a shipwright. I built the ships you took from Thorgrim Night Wolf.”

  Ottar squinted at him, and Aghen guessed he was remembering the words that had passed between them at the river’s edge. Ottar had only just learned Aghen’s name and it was clear he disliked him already. But being a shipwright, and the only shipwright in Vík-ló, offered Aghen a certain level of protection. A longphort could not function if there was no one who knew how to properly repair ships.

  “Shipwright, huh?” Ottar said. “Where are your tools?”

  “My tools?” Aghen said. “They are down by the river. Where we build the ships.”

  “Down by the river!” Ottar roared and slammed his fist on the table, making the small chest jump. The volume and intensity of the outburst surprised Aghen and made him jump as well. The men on either side of Ottar took a step closer.

  “Were you not told to bring anything of value to me?” Ottar continued, his volume barely diminished. “Were you not?”

  “I was,” Aghen said, confused, but not liking the direction in which this was leading.

  “Well, your tools are a damned bit more valuable than this pathetic little box of trash you’ve brought me here,” Ottar said. “Go down to the river, get your tools, and bring them to me.”

  Aghen straightened and his hands curled into fists. “I can’t work on your ships if I don’t have my tools,” he said, forcing calm into his voice.

  “I’ll decide if you work on my ships!” Ottar roared. “You are nothing, you are a sorry thrall, unless I say otherwise! Now, gather your tools and bring them to me or by the gods you will live to regret it. But not for long.”

  Aghen turned without another word and left the hall. The crowd outside the door, the armed men, the deep shadows falling over the longphort, he saw none of it in his fury.

  My tools…

  Aghen felt about his tools the way a warrior felt about his sword, indeed the way he himself had felt about his sword in his raiding days. His tools were as much a part of him as his hands, just as integral, just as necessary. Until that moment he had never really appreciated the depth of that connection, because until that moment no one had ever threatened to take his tools from him, to defile them thus.

  He stumbled his way through the line of Ottar’s men and past the people still waiting to be called into Thorgrim’s hall. Ottar’s hall. He sat heavily on the stump of a tree used for splitting wood and stared off at the dull glow of the sun behind thick clouds to the west.

  My tools…what by the gods do I do now? he wondered. He had given up his silver. Not willingly, but he had done it. He would not, however, be turning his tools over to Ottar. That was not even a consideration. So, would he die at Ottar’s hands? Would he throw his tools in the river first? There was a boat down by the water, one of those Irish leather boats they called a curach. He could take that, load his tools aboard, make his way down the coast.

  He got no further in his considerations. There was shout from inside Ottar’s hall, the sound of furniture overturned, coins or some such spilling. Aghen heard the thrashing of struggling men. He stood, and from there he saw two of Ottar’s guards pulling Valgerd Unnson, the hot-headed, intemperate Valgerd, through the door. The young man shouted and cursed and struggled, but Ottar’s men were bigger than him and had him by the arms, and Aghen knew that Valgerd’s broken leg was still weak.

  They dragged him from the hall and pulled him in front of the watching crowd. One of Ottar’s men stepped up and hit him hard on the side of the head and his struggling all but ceased. The men holding his arms forced him to his knees, and Ottar stepped from the hall, a linen sack in his hand. He stood by Valgerd and held the sack aloft.

  “This!” Ottar shouted to the people who watched, silent and motionless. “This is what this whore’s son tells me is all he has. And yet my men search his house and they find two chests… two chests! Filled with silver!”

  Valgerd looked up. He spit blood at Ottar’s feet. “The chests are not mine!” he shouted, the words more defiance than defense. Even Valgerd could see that argument would do him no good now.

  “You’re lying to me and you’re cheating every man here!” Ottar shouted. He turned to a half dozen men standing nearby, not his men but men of Vík-ló who had stayed behind when Thorgrim sailed. “You lot, find a pole, half a rod long. Stand it up there.” He pointed to an open spot beside the hall. “We’ll see what become of liars and cheats.”

  Aghen looked away. Valgerd might well have been trying to keep some of his silver from Ottar’s grasp. It would be like him to do that. But Aghen also knew that Valgerd shared a longhouse with five other warriors, all of whom had sailed with Thorgrim, each of whom likely had a hoard buried in the floor.

  Speak up! Aghen said to himself. Speak up, you damned coward! But his lips remained closed, and all the rage and the loathing he felt would not open them. Nor would those feelings open the mouths of any other man there, every one of whom knew Valgerd’s circumstance.

  It took little time to find a pole and dig a footing for it and stand it upright in the open ground. The sun had gone behind the mountains and the longphort was in deep shadow. Torches were lit as Valgerd was tied to the upright shaft, cursing and shouting defiance. Then Ottar stepped forward, his massive sword in hand, ready to deliver the lesson he was so eager to give.

  Aghen watched it all, and if there was any consolation, it was that Valgerd died well, as well as any man could die in that manner. He did not beg for mercy or further plead his innocence. He died angry and defiant. But not quickly.

  They went at him with arrows first. Ottar’s archers lined up no more than a rod distant, close enough that they could not fail to hit where they wished. They shot for Valgerd’s shoulders, his legs, his belly. The arrows ripped into his body, one at a time, but the bowmen were careful to avoid any spot that would bring instant death.

  Valgerd twisted and shrieked and heaped curses on Ottar and his men. Aghen turned to look at Ottar, who stood by the bowmen, his face lit by the torches that ringed the scene. He was not scowling, he was not angry. Nor was he gleeful or triumphant. He was calm as he watched and listened to the vile words Valgerd spewed at him. He was enjoying it.

  Then Ottar stepped up, three quick steps, and he was in front of Valgerd. Valgerd cursed and tried to spit on him, but he could not because Ottar had stopped an arm and sword length short. Valgerd twisted against the bonds as if still trying to get at Ottar, despite the five arrows that jutted from his body. Then Ottar swung his sword in a wide arc, the stroke carefully aimed, the depth of the cut gauged perfectly.

  Valgerd’s tunic was split open across his belly and a bright red line appeared against the white skin beneath. Valgerd stopped struggling, stopped cursing. He sucked in his breath and his eyes went wide and then his belly seemed to erupt as his entrails, pink and gleaming wet, spilled from the wicked cut that Ottar had delivered.

  Then the real shrieking began, the terrible high-pitched screams of a man who has abandoned himself to the agony. The people who were watching, and that was all the people of Vík-ló, there by Ottar’s command, turned as if they had been physically struck. Ottar’s own men watched as well, but they had little reaction, if any at all, like men who had seen this sort of thing often enough to be used to it.

  The screaming continued as Ottar’s men piled brush and branches and heaps of wood chips collected from the shipyard at Valgerd’s feet. Valgerd shuddered. The last of his guts hung from the rent in his belly as the torches were tossed onto the brush and the wood chips, and the flames leapt up and wrapped themselves around the dying man. Valgerd shrieked once more, again and again, as his voice grew weaker and he began to cough. And then he stopped any noise at all, and Aghen hoped above all other hopes that the man was dead at last.

  It was full night by the time Valgerd’s body was reduced to a blackened and shriveled nothing and the people watching we
re allowed to disperse. Ottar said nothing more, gave no speech about what would become of anyone who did not do as they were instructed by their new lord. He did not have to. The point was made.

  Aghen staggered off into the dark. He had no thought as to where he would go, but his feet carried him down the plank road, down to the shipyard and the water’s edge. He stopped at the place where the grass yielded to mud and stared out into the blackness of the sea.

  My tools… He had forgotten, in the horror of watching Valgerd die, that he was supposed to render up his tools to Ottar. He slowly shook his head, side to side. That would not happen. He was filled with self-loathing at his remaining silent as they dragged Valgerd to his death. He would certainly die before he gave in to Ottar again. How could he ever hope to reach the corpse hall if he did not?

  It might already be too late. He might have already made himself unworthy in the eyes of the Valkyrie.

  No, he thought. No. I might die soon. I will likely die soon. But I will not die badly.

  Chapter Seven

  Let the wary stranger who seeks refreshment

  keep silent with sharpened hearing;

  with his ears let him listen, and look with his eyes;

  thus each wise man spies out the way.

  Hávamál

  Thorgrim Night Wolf sat on Sea Hammer’s afterdeck, using his teeth to rip meat from a beef rib, a remnant from the cow that Cónán’s men had stolen and roasted the night before. He watched as Louis the Frank came toward him over the sandbar.

  Here we go, he thought.

  This was a confrontation he had anticipated, though he had not been entirely certain it would take place. Louis the Frank was an enigma to him. He was not Irish, or so Harald had discovered. He seemed in fact to hate the Irish. Except when he didn’t. Thorgrim could not get a finger on where the man’s loyalties lay, a problem that was not made easier by having to speak to him by way of Harald’s interpretation.