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

by James L. Nelson

  Cónán was leader now. And he liked it. But leading a band of outlaws had its own problems, one of which was about to become wickedly clear.

  He stood in the shadows in the narrow space between two of the small wattle and daub buildings that served as both workshop and home and made up most of the monastic town of Glendalough. His feet were half sunk in some viscous ooze that might have been mud. He was motionless, absolutely motionless. He could hear the tiny sounds of the night, but nothing else. Nothing was moving save the rats rooting around in their hidden places.

  His men were secreted and spread out fifty feet in either direction. In the off chance that some townsman was out at that hour, a gang of twenty-five men milling about would cause immediate alarm, even if their weapons and mail were hidden. So he placed his men in alleys and in the shadows of houses and hidden behind fences. They were ready to move at a word, and until then they would remain out of sight.

  He had left two men at the wall to keep an eye on what was going on within the monastic grounds and to sing out if the Northmen were discovered and needed help. Otherwise they would all stay put until Thorgrim and his men returned with the plunder.

  Cónán, however, kept moving, stepping silently through the alleys and the muddy, beaten yards, speaking softly to his men. He listened for any disturbance, any little sign of trouble. Nothing. The night was still. Thorgrim and his heathen crew, he hoped, were silently and unobtrusively stripping the church of anything of value.

  He stepped out from between the houses and toward the wall that surrounded the monastery. He could just make out the looming bulk of the church a couple hundred feet away. He rested his hands on the top of the wall, which came up to just below his chin, and looked over it. Nothing moved that he could see. He had been to Glendalough a dozen times, half of those in the dark hours of night. Things looked no different now than they had then.

  He turned and walked along the wall, making his way to the place where he had left two of his men, Fothaid and Cerball, to keep watch on the grounds. Those two were as reliable as any in the outlaw band, which was not saying much. That was why Cónán felt the need to keep his eye on all of them.

  He ran his hand along the rough stone wall as he walked, his eyes sweeping the dark, his ears keen. He expected some soft challenge from Fothaid or Cerball as he approached, some indication of their vigilance, a sign that they were at least alert enough to notice anyone who might come up behind them and slit their throats. But he heard nothing.

  Another fifty feet and he was all but certain he had reached the spot where he had left them with strict instructions to keep their eyes trained over the wall. But there was no one there. Cónán looked at the ground, but it was too dark to see if there were any footprints that might indicate where they had gone.

  He looked up, turned in a half circle, and began to question whether he was in the right place when he heard a sound behind him, a small noise, but not a rodent noise. He turned fast, crouched, and his hand came up from his side with his dagger held lightly in his fingers.

  Two men. He could see them, just dim outlines, coming through the shadows in the fenced-off yard behind a house ten yards away. He moved quickly to his left, pressed up against a stack of peat, and knew he would be invisible in the dark. He waited. The two came closer, moving as if they had no worries at all. As they stepped into the dull moonlight Cónán could see the faces of Fothaid and Cerball. They were smiling. Pleased with themselves. Cerball held a sack filled with something. Something heavy.

  Cónán remained motionless as they passed, then stepped up behind them, making no sound. His left hand lashed out and clapped over Fothaid’s mouth and he jerked the man back as he pressed the dagger against his throat. He saw Cerball turn, eyes wide, but he had sense enough to not make a sound.

  “You stupid bastard, I ought to gut you like a fish, right here,” Cónán hissed in Fothaid’s ear. “I told you to stay put and keep watch.” Fothaid said nothing, the needle point threatening to pierce his throat. Cerball’s mouth opened and closed, which, ironically, made him appear very fish-like.

  “There’s nothing to see, there, over the wall,” Cerball protested, finding his voice. “And those damned heathens don’t need watching. But that over there, that’s a blacksmith’s shop. And you should see what we found in there!” He held up the sack for Cónán’s inspection, a dumb and happy smile on his face.

  Cónán let Fothaid go. The man stumbled away, beyond the reach of Cónán’s dagger, and put a hand to his throat as if checking to see if it was unscathed. “I don’t give a damn what junk you found in that filthy smith’s shop,” Cónán said, as loud as he dared. “By God, if…”

  He got no further with his threat. Someone was shouting from somewhere beyond the wall, the words in Irish, and clear as the water of the Avonmore.

  “There! There! At them!”

  Cónán looked over the wall and felt his stomach twist. Men-at-arms. While he had been dealing with Fothaid and Cerball the warriors had crossed the grounds to the church, and now they had discovered Thorgrim and his band and they were going after them. Which meant that Cónán and his men, who had agreed to keep watch, had failed completely.

  Cónán lifted the dagger, pointed it at Fothaid and then Cerball. “You’ll regret this, I’ll make sure of it,” he said. “Now go and get the others before I kill you here and now.”

  The two men nodded and ran off in either direction, keeping well clear of Cónán in case he faltered in his restraint.

  Stupid, stupid bastards! Cónán thought. He had no great love for Thorgrim and his band, but he could not stand to appear wanting in the eyes of another warrior, or have another think he had failed to keep his word for whatever reason.

  Besides, Thorgrim and his heathens must have finished looting the church by now, which meant they had the plunder. If they were taken or killed, all this effort would be for naught.

  The need for secrecy was passed, so Cónán climbed up on the wall and stood. He could hear yelling and men running, the clatter of weapons off in the dark. He could see nothing. Whatever was happening was hidden from his view by the church.

  Behind him he could hear the sounds of his own men running to join him. They, too, had realized there was no need for quiet. He heard them calling out and trampling fences and knocking obstacles out of the way as they ran.

  “Come on! With me!” Cónán shouted. He leapt from the wall, came down on the soft ground beyond, and heard the sound of his two dozen men following behind. He stood and ran off, toward the sound of fighting men. He could hear the clash of swords now, the thump of blades on shields, the shouts of warriors in combat. It was a sound he knew, but not well. This sort of fighting was the province of men-at-arms and raiders from the north, not outlaws. Not men used to striking fast and then disappearing.

  The shouts and the clatter of weapons came louder as he raced over the open ground, the dark, hulking church to his left, the wall that enclosed the monastery running in a curved line one hundred feet to his right. He came around the side of the church expecting to see two dozen men locked in battle, but there was only the open ground. He could hear the fighting as loud as if it were right in front of him, but he could see nothing, and he felt a sudden fear wash over him. It was like an army of spirits were doing battle, engaged in a fight that was not for the eyes of mortal men.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Cónán whispered as he slowed to a stop and the men behind him did the same. And then he realized he was being a fool, that there was some other explanation for this. He ran his eye along the wall and stopped at a dark patch of vines and brush. The sounds seemed to come from there, and as he stared he realized it was not only vines, but that the vines framed a door in the wall, and the fighting was taking place on the other side of the door.

  He felt a rush of thoughts and they all collided in a great tangle: embarrassment at his senseless fear of spirits, rage at Fothaid and Cerball, and at himself, for letting this happen, suspicion t
hat Thorgrim had been trying to sneak out another way and leave them behind.

  He pushed all that aside and drew his sword. The weapon felt a bit awkward, unfamiliar. He had fought with nearly every sort of thing that could kill a man, from a club to a bow and arrow, but the sword was one of the least familiar to him. But he was getting used to it. And he liked it.

  “This way, this way!” he shouted, raising the sword and breaking into a run again, his eyes fixed on the door in the wall. He let out a scream, one that he saved for these moments, an unearthly cry he had practiced over and over, out of earshot of the others. He had perfected it to the point where he knew it would turn a man’s bowels liquid with the hearing.

  He could see through the door now, could see there was some sort of garden beyond and more walls. Ten feet away, and he could see men in the garden, weapons drawn, fighting. He could see shields and he knew those were not Thorgrim’s men, they were trained men-at-arms. And he knew that his own men, unaccustomed to such fighting, would not be able to stand up to them in single combat.

  Surprise, Cónán thought. Surprise them and overwhelm them. That was the reason for the scream: to frighten, to confuse, to put the fear of Satan and his minions in the hearts of the men they were about to attack.

  Cónán burst through the door and into the garden, taking in the situation as he ran, never faltering in his forward drive. Men with shields—they numbered far more than Thorgrim’s band. Northmen fighting for their lives. Statues. A wall holding them all in.

  He shrieked again and ran at the nearest man and had a glimpse of Thorgrim Night Wolf half hidden by a statue. Cónán lowered his shoulder and barreled into the man-at-arm’s shield. Cónán was not a big man, not nearly as big as the man with whom he collided, but he was moving fast and he was braced for the impact, and the other man was not. Cónán hit him and grunted and the other man grunted louder as he was knocked clean off his feet, flying back, shield airborne. Cónán stepped on his chest as he charged on, slashed at the man with his sword, felt the blade hit, but did not think he had done him any hurt. No matter.

  Surprise…overwhelm them…

  There was another man-at-arms, two more, fighting with the big Northman. And Failend. Failend was there too, the Irish girl whose presence, indeed whose very existence, Cónán could hardly understand. No peasant, judging by her speech. Running away with the Frank. No reason for her to come on this raid, and yet she had.

  She and the big man were fending off the men-at-arms, and they looked like a bear and a cat fighting side by side. Cónán shouted and one of the men-at-arms turned and the big Northman lashed out with his fist. He hit the man right where his neck joined his shoulders. The force of the blow sent him reeling forward and Cónán had to leap clear to avoid getting tangled with him as he fell.

  Cónán spun around. The rest of his men were in the garden now, spreading out, going after the men-at-arms, swords swinging wildly, every lesson that they had been taught over the last week completely discarded as they slashed and hacked. They would all have been dead inside five minutes if the men-at-arms had not been knocked on their heels by the shock of the sudden attack.

  But Cónán’s plans, such that they were—surprise, overwhelm the enemy—were working as well as he had hoped. And none of Thorgrim’s men were down, killed or wounded, as far as he could see.

  We might actually get away with this, he thought. Despite Cerball’s and Fothaid’s stupidity, we might get away.

  The men-at-arms, whoever they were, were clustering at the far end of the garden. It was the natural reaction to a surprise attack such as this: gather forces, seek safety in combined strength. Like a herd of deer set on by wolves. And the Northmen and Cónán’s men were doing the same, running and stumbling and limping toward the wall at the garden’s far end.

  Cónán turned to Thorgrim. “This is our chance. Only chance we get,” he said. “Over the wall with all of us, and let’s be gone.”

  Thorgrim nodded. Sweat was running down his face and threads of his long, dark hair were plastered to his skin. “All of you, over the wall!” he shouted, “Up and over, quick!”

  Cónán turned to his men and shouted the same, and thirty-five men and the odd Irishwoman put hands on the wall, hoisted themselves up, and dropped to the other side. To Cónán’s surprise there was one man already there, one who had gone over the wall before any order had been given: Louis the Frank.

  Cónán heard cries of outrage from the men-at-arms at the far end of the garden, on the other side of the wall, but he did not hear them rushing to follow and renew their attack, and that did not surprise him. They had had fighting enough for one night, he guessed.

  Thorgrim was there, at his side. He pointed to five sacks on the ground, the cloth so white they seemed to glow in the moonlight. Thorgrim’s men were lifting them and hoisting them over their backs. “From the church,” he said. “A good haul.”

  Cónán nodded. “Now we just have to get clear of here,” he said.

  Thorgrim nodded. “I’m sure you can get us back safe to our ship,” he said. “Any man so smart he can suddenly speak the Norse tongue when this morning he couldn’t should have no problem with that.”

  Cónán smiled. He had meant to keep that secret a while longer, but in the chaos of the fight he had forgotten. His second mistake of the night.

  “I can’t wait to see what surprise you come up with next,” Thorgrim said.

  “Neither can I,” Cónán said. He turned and headed off toward the high ground that surrounded the monastic town of Glendalough.

  Chapter Twelve

  Less good than they say for the sons of men

  is the drinking oft of ale:

  for the more they drink, the less can they think

  and keep a watch o'er their wits.

  Hávamál

  Raven Eye was sinking.

  She was Ottar’s own ship, biggest of the fleet at Vík-ló, and she had water coming in somewhere just aft of the mast step. Her bow was run up on the mud, and when Aghen came down to his shipyard two days after Valgerd’s brutal death, he could see she was noticeably down by the stern.

  One of Ottar’s men had told Aghen the names of the ships, including those that Aghen himself had built and Ottar had renamed. Now, for a long while he just stood there, hating Raven Eye, hating them all.

  Let the cursed thing sink, Aghen thought. Let it become a sacrifice to Njord. Let Jörmungandr devour it.

  It was early, the sun just breaking the horizon, and most of the longphort was still sleeping off the night’s drunk. Finally, grudgingly, Aghen approached the vessel. He walked slowly, still not certain he was at all interested in her fate. He stepped into the mud and looked over the sheer strake toward the stern. The water was over the deck boards, some of which were floating. Raven Eye rocked with each incoming swell, the motion making little waves that swept back and forth over her deck and broke against her rowing benches aft.

  Aghen sighed. He did not care about the fate of Ottar’s vessel, but neither could he simply let a ship sink there on the riverbank. He did not think the gods would look on him favorably if he did. He was quite certain that Ottar would not.

  Still, he felt no hurry about it. And he doubted there were any of Ottar’s men who were sober enough or had heads clear enough to get the ship hauled out on rollers so he could begin the work of fixing her. He did not even know if Ottar wished him to mend the leak, or if he had his own shipwright among his men. He did not know if Ottar would allow him to keep his tools.

  Aghen sat on the stack of white oak and ate his breakfast, which he had brought down to the river with him, wrapped in a piece of cloth. He chewed on dried fish and bread and looked to the north, at the sea glittering to the bright horizon and the mountains surrounding Vík-ló. The sun climbed higher and the long shadows drew themselves in.

  At last he sighed again and stood. Raven Eye was down by another strake aft and he knew he had better make someone aware of it. He wiped his mouth
with his sleeve and turned and headed up the plank road to the big hall that had once been home to Thorgrim Night Wolf.

  Mar was up and about, pumping his bellows to get his coal glowing orange, hot enough to make iron soft for working. Normally, Aghen would have expected a wave, a friendly smile, some ribbing about something or other. But not this morning. Mar did not look up, did not acknowledge the existence of anything beyond his forge. Even from the road Aghen could see the scowl on his face.

  Aghen knew that the blacksmith, his friend, was furious. He was furious that the wealth he had accumulated through a decade or more of pounding iron had been taken from him with a single command from the new lord. Mar felt like a trapped animal, set upon, ready to fight, yet with no meaningful way to get at his tormentors. Aghen knew he felt that way because he felt that way himself. Even after all his grand thoughts about dying soon, but not dying badly, he had no idea of what he would do. What he could do.

  At least Ottar had not taken his tools. Aghen had not offered them up, of course, and Ottar had not called for them again, not after his initial demand. Aghen guessed he had changed his mind or, more likely, lost sight of what he had said in a blinding fog of mead, wine, and ale. Aghen did not feel much compelled to remind him.

  He continued on up the plank road, his shadow stretched out on his right-hand side. Shadows were not too common in Ireland. The bright sun that dried the wood and made it easier to work, and made the work easier to see, that warmed old bones and made joints less stiff, would have normally given Aghen a sense of optimism at the start of the day. But he was not optimistic now. He could hardly recall the feeling.