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

by James L. Nelson

  Sea Hammer was sideways now, sweeping down river. The ship like a shield wall, a solid and unbroken line pushing all before it, and the riders downstream of the ship were trying to get clear. They could see what would happen—their tiring horses would soon be unable to keep out of the vessel’s way. Sea Hammer, drifting out of control, would run them down.

  They peeled off from the fight, charging off at an angle, trying to get clear of the longship. Thorgrim saw a horse stumble, the rider jerking on the reins, but he was too late. The man looked up as Sea Hammer’s stern swung around and slammed into him broadside. Horse and rider went down and the ship swept over them as it continued unchecked downstream. Thorgrim glanced over the other side as they passed, but there was no sign of either the man-at-arms or his mount.

  But he was the only horseman who failed to get clear. The rest had all come around to the starboard side now and were pressing the fight home. Thorgrim’s men were lining the rail, shields in hand, swords, axes and spears flailing at the attackers. It was the oddest fight Thorgrim had ever seen: a shieldwall along a ship’s side fighting mounted men-at-arms.

  He pushed past Godi and one of the Irishmen and took his place, Iron-tooth held high, waiting for the next horseman to come at them, waiting for Sea Hammer to slip into water too deep for the horses to follow.

  Two of the mounted men charged the ship’s side, leading with their spear points. Thorgrim batted the spears away, lashed out at the riders, but they were beyond the reach of his outstretched sword. On either side the shoreline continued to sweep past. Then suddenly Sea Hammer shuddered, then heeled to larboard as the keel hung up on the bottom and the current pushed the ship over.

  “We’re aground!” Harald shouted.

  One of the mounted men-at-arms—the leader, the one who had tried to kill Armod—shouted something, raised his sword, and the rest turned and rode upstream, twenty yards. They stopped and turned again, facing Sea Hammer, making a line abreast. Their shields went up, their spears came down to form a row of iron points.

  “Stand ready, here they come!” Thorgrim shouted and Cónán shouted something as well, something in Irish, words to the same effect, Thorgrim guessed. The line of horsemen started forward, the current now helping them build their momentum.

  “Shield wall!” Thorgrim shouted. “Harald, tell the Irishmen ‘shieldwall’!” Harald shouted the words, his voice cutting through the din of yelling men, but Thorgrim had little hope it would do any good. To the Northmen, forming a shield wall was as natural as getting out of bed, but the Irish were not trained that way. The horsemen’s spears would break right through their defense and do great slaughter.

  And then Thorgrim had an idea.

  “Everyone, larboard side! Come on! Go!” he shouted, waving Iron-tooth and pointing to the downstream side of the ship, the side farthest from the charging Irish warriors. He saw men look over, confusion on their faces, but then Godi moved and Ulf moved and soon they were all rushing across the ship, over to the larboard side, the low side. Thorgrim heard the bilges scraping the bottom as the ship rolled further with the weight of all those men and women and the water piling up to starboard.

  He turned. The riders had not slowed in their charge, but now they were breaking right and left, sweeping around the bow and stern to get at the men, crowded and disorganized on the other side. They were shouting, and though Thorgrim could not understand the words, he could hear a victorious note to their voices. The hated fin gall ship was hard aground and the enemy trapped aboard. There was nowhere for them to go, save to their deaths.

  Odin, all father, Njord, lord of the water, please make this work, Thorgrim prayed as the first of the horsemen came sweeping around the bow.

  “Now, back to the starboard side! Everyone, go! Go!” Again he pointed with Iron-tooth and this time he led the way, charging up the steeply slanting deck toward the upriver side. “Get a leg over the side, get a leg over the sheer strake!” he shouted as the men once again crowded against the upstream side. He threw a leg over the sheer strake himself, to demonstrate his meaning, and the other Northmen, at least, understood now what he had in mind and they followed suit.

  “Cónán!” Thorgrim shouted. “Get your men over the edge, like this!”

  Cónán nodded, clearly bewildered, but with sense enough to follow orders without questioning them. He shouted to his men in their native tongue and they, too, crowded up to the larboard side, and as they did, Thorgrim felt Sea Hammer come up on a more even keel. He felt her shudder under his feet and, to his profound relief, he felt her move.

  The mounted warriors were all downstream now, having swept around to the far side of the ship only to find their enemy had once again run to the other side. They were shouting and wheeling their mounts around when Sea Hammer gave another, more pronounced lurch and her keel came free of the river bottom.

  Even Thorgrim Night Wolf, to whom the Irish language sounded like so much meaningless animal noise, could not miss the change from victory to alarm in the shouts of the mounted men. Once again the big ship was sweeping down on them, driving them along as they tried desperately to get clear.

  Those closest to the bow and stern were able to pull their mounts around and charge off for the riverbanks. Those amidships turned and raced down river, but Thorgrim could see the water getting higher and higher on the horses flanks as they left the shallows behind. He could see men looking over their shoulders as they sheered off toward the shore and kicked their mounts to move faster.

  Sea Hammer bumped again and then Thorgrim could feel she was floating free. She began to spin in the current, turning to larboard this time, turning so her bow was heading downstream.

  “Man the oars!” Thorgrim shouted. “Get some men on the oars!”

  Harald and Vali, farther aft, turned and leapt for the looms of two of the oars that were dragging in the water, and the other two oars were manned as well. To the Northmen the work of rowing was as ingrained as walking, and without a word they fell into the rhythm and Sea Hammer gathered way again. Thorgrim looked aft. Godi had taken up the tiller and was turning the bow further downstream.

  The mounted warriors were astern of them now, sitting atop their horses and watching the ship moving away. There was nothing else they could do. Sea Hammer had passed over the shallows and was now once more in water too deep for a horse to go, save to swim. The Irish could not carry on the fight if they wanted to, and Thorgrim did not think they wanted to.

  Cónán stepped up beside him. “I don’t know what you did, but it worked, and we may thank God for that.”

  “You may thank my gods,” Thorgrim said. “I don’t think your God would side with us in that fight.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Cónán said. They were quiet for a moment as they watched the horsemen receding into the distance.

  “Do you know who they were?” Thorgrim asked, nodding toward the mounted men.

  “I don’t,” Cónán said. “Not for certain. But I believe they’re the men we fought at Glendalough.”

  “Glendalough? Really?” Thorgrim said, and Cónán nodded.

  “The shields,” Cónán said. “I recognized some of their shields.”

  “They followed us all this way?” Thorgrim asked. “Waited until now to spring their trap?”

  “It would seem so,” Cónán said. “Crafty bastard, that one leading them.”

  “He is that,” Thorgrim said. “And persistent.”

  “He is persistent,” Cónán agreed. “Which means we’ve likely not seen the last of him. And we’ll likely not be as lucky the next time. Or maybe your gods will not be so kind.”

  At that Thorgrim could do nothing but nod his agreement.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Long is the round to a false friend leading,

  e'en if he dwell on the way:

  but though far off fared, to a faithful friend

  straight are the roads and short.

  Hávamál

  There was some brouha
ha going on by the earthworks that surrounded Vík-ló, down near where the wall met up with the river. A crowd of men had gathered. There was shouting. People were racing off in various directions, others hurrying to the spot.

  Aghen Ormsson watched it from his shipyard, a couple hundred feet away, glancing up from his work every now and then to see what was going on. He showed no interest beyond that. He had a pretty good idea of what had caused the commotion.

  He was looking through his tool chest for an auger bit when he saw the bulky form of Mar the blacksmith coming up over the rise and heading in his direction. The man seemed not to be in much of a hurry, but then he never did. He was more the whale—slow, ponderous, powerful—than the shark.

  Aghen found his bit, slipped it into the handle, and looked up as Mar approached.

  “Lord Mar,” Aghen said and Mar gave a weak smile at the jest. He nodded his head toward the crowd of men by the wall.

  “Big goings-on,” Mar said. “Have you heard?”

  “I’ve been watching them scurrying around. Haven’t heard what it’s all about.”

  “No?” Mar asked. “Not curious at all?”

  “New lords here in Vík-ló, and I think curiosity is not always healthy.”

  Mar smiled at that. “No, it’s not.” He looked around. “Where’s your boy? Your spy?”

  “I don’t know,” Aghen said. “He’s not one to be here bright and early, but he’s not usually this late.”

  Mar nodded. He glanced over at the men by the wall and back at Aghen. “You really don’t know what’s going on over there?”

  Aghen shook his head. “No. I get the idea they might have found someone dead. But it seems like a lot of fuss for something like that. Do you know? Being Ottar’s dear friend, and all?”

  “They did find someone dead,” Mar said. “And I think they’ll be asking you about it.”

  Aghen felt a flash of panic, but he held his face firm. “Me? Why would they ask me about it?”

  His mind tore through the events of the night before, trying to recall something that might have given him away. Did someone see him at Ottar’s hall, speaking with the man who now lay dead? He was pretty sure that no one had. Was one of the iron teeth Mar had made for him found in the man’s neck? No, before hiding his special instrument he had checked that they were all still there.

  “They’ll talk with you,” Mar said, “because the man’s throat was torn out. By a wolf, it seems.”

  “A wolf?” Aghen asked, sounding suitably surprised.

  “You’re surprised?” Mar asked. “Didn’t you say you saw a wolf?”

  “Yes, I did. I said that.”

  “And you did see a wolf? You honestly saw a wolf in the longphort?”

  “Yes,” Aghen said, and this time there was no lack of conviction in his voice because this time he was telling the truth. “By all the gods I swear I saw a wolf. Here. Not twenty feet from here.”

  Mar nodded. “I don’t doubt you. I don’t think anyone doubted you. No one I’ve spoken to, anyway. What Ottar and his lot think, I don’t know.”

  “A wolf…” Aghen said, as much to himself as to Mar. He scratched at his long, gray beard and then shook his head in disbelief. “Was he…torn up, at all? Eaten?”

  “No,” Mar said. “Not from what I hear, though despite what you say I’m not exactly in Ottar’s inner circle. All I heard was his throat was ripped out and the bite looks much like the bite of a wolf. That was it. There were no other marks on the man.”

  Aghen shook his head again. “Well, it was damned strange, I can tell you, seeing that wolf. Why the beast didn’t rip my throat out I can’t imagine.”

  “I can’t either,” Marr said, and there was something in his voice that Aghen did not like. “Anyway, that’s why I thought Ottar’s men would want to talk to you. Because you saw the wolf.”

  “No, no one has spoken to me yet,” Aghen said. “Ottar and his men, they don’t speak to me much at all, and I’m happy about it.”

  “Sure,” Marr said. “They don’t speak much to me, either. ‘Sharpen these swords, make arrow heads, we’ll pay you if we feel like it’—that’s about all the talk I get from them.”

  They were silent for a minute. “Even Grimarr was a better lord than this Ottar,” Aghen said, his voice dropping.

  He thought about telling Mar what he was doing, how he had staged the wolf attack. Having an ally, someone to talk to, would be a great relief. But even as he considered it, he knew that he could not confess his crime. There were two reasons. One was that doing so would put Mar’s life in as much risk as his own. The other was that he really did not know what he was doing. Mar would ask him why he had done the deed, what he hoped to achieve, and he had no answer for that.

  “I was wondering,” Mar said, breaking into Aghen’s thoughts, “about those nails. Did they work out as you hoped?”

  “Oh, you know, I haven’t even had the chance to try them,” Aghen said. “I have them up at my house. I haven’t had the chance to put my idea to the test.”

  “Really?” Mar said. “You seemed in such a hurry to get them.” Now Aghen was certain the man was probing. Mar, he guessed, had a sense that something was going on, but had no idea what it might be. Aghen was not much worried that he would figure it out, or if he did, that he would tell anyone. Mar could be as dense and inflexible as the iron bars he pounded.

  “Ha!” Aghen said. “You know how that goes! You think you’ll have time to do a thing, and you’re eager to get at it, and then a hundred other things come along to get in your way.”

  At that Mar nodded knowingly. He was about to speak again when, to Aghen’s relief, Oddi appeared on the plank road, hurrying toward them. Aghen nodded in his direction and Mar turned to see who was coming.

  “Your watchdog,” Mar said.

  “Oddi’s not so bad,” Aghen replied. “I’ve learned more from him than he or Ottar has from me.” Aghen’s voice dropped again. “Oddi’s no great friend of Ottar, and it seems many of the others aren’t either. Ottar has his household guard, and the others who’re close to him, but a lot of these men joined him not long ago, before they knew what he was, and they don’t have much love for him. Ottar thinks they are more loyal than they are.”

  Oddi was nearly within earshot so Aghen stopped talking and he and Mar turned to watch the young man approach. What Aghen had taken to be a cap of some sort on his head he could now see was a bandage. A red spot on the cloth marked the location of the wound underneath, just above Oddi’s right eye.

  Before Aghen could ask about it, however, Oddi started in. “Have you heard about what’s happening there?” he asked, jerking a thumb toward the men by the wall. Mar began to reply, but Aghen cut him off.

  “We’ve heard some things. Rumors. What do you hear?”

  “Well, Thorlaug Gyduson was killed,” Oddi began, words tumbling out. “Killed last night and it seems killed by a wolf! Probably your wolf, Aghen.”

  “Really?” Aghen said. “And who’s Thorlaug Gyduson? Or, who was Thorlaug Gyduson?”

  “He’s one of Ottar’s household guard, one of those closest to him,” Oddi explained. “I don’t think Ottar would have much cared if it was someone else.”

  Aghen and Mar made grunting sounds of acknowledgement. The three of them turned and looked toward the knot of men by the wall. Someone had brought a large piece of cloth and four men were lifting it by the corners. In the sling of the cloth was, they imagined, the unfortunate Thorlaug Gyduson.

  “Ottar was not happy about this?” Aghen asked.

  Oddi shook his head, his eyes growing wider with the recollection. “No. He was near insane. Ranting like a lunatic. I’ve never seen him like that. I haven’t been with him long, you know, but I’ve still seen some pretty lunatic behavior with him. But nothing like that.

  Interesting, Aghen thought. Did he love this Thorlaug Gyduson so much?

  “What happened to your head?” Mar asked, nodding toward the bandage and the pat
ch of blood. “That have anything to do with Ottar and his madness?”

  Oddi flushed a bit with embarrassment. “Yes, it does,” he admitted. He said no more, apparently hoping the subject would be dropped, but he was not that lucky.

  “Well?” Mar demanded. “What happened?”

  “Ah, well,” Oddi began. “I was at Ottar’s hall. I am there sometimes, you know….”

  I know, Aghen thought. And I can just imagine why Ottar wants you there.

  “And of course, all the talk was about Thorlaug Gyduson and how he was killed and your wolf, Aghen, and all. And then I remembered what you told me, about the old lord here, Thorgrim Night Wolf.”

  “What of him?” Mar asked.

  “Well, Aghen told me…and I suppose it was well known…he told me that this Thorgrim…was thought to be a shape-shifter. That he could turn into a wolf.”

  “Bah!” Mar said. “Stories to scare children.” He did not sound so sure of that, however.

  “So, I told Ottar that,” Oddi continued, ignoring the blacksmith. “I told him what you said, about Thorgrim. He listened, and he made me say it again. He was real quiet and I repeated the story. And then when I was done he went absolutely mad. You’d have thought I poked him with a red hot iron. He jumped up, turned a table over, started screaming. He threw a cup at me, hit me here.” He pointed to the bloody spot on his forehead.

  “Then what did he do?” Aghen asked.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t stay around to see. I was out of there like a rabbit.”

  “Smart,” Mar said.

  “Did you mention my name?” Aghen asked and Oddi’s flustered embarrassment grew considerably more pronounced.

  “Ah, yes, I think I did. I had to tell him who told me, so he would know it was not just some fool babbling away. I didn’t think he’d carry on like that. I’m sorry.”