Lochlánn thought to point out that Fintain was his man, not Kevin’s, and he could give him orders as he wished, but he did not want to wander down that road. He turned to Louis.
“No need,” Louis said with a wave of his hand. “We know where they are. They’re near, a day’s march from where we left them after the last fight. They’ll be here on the morrow. And then the fun will begin.”
Lochlánn pressed his lips together to contain his irritation. Louis had very much ingratiated himself with Kevin, who seemed quite impressed with the Frank’s pedigree. As a result, Louis had assumed a position of leadership, undefined but definitely recognized. It made Lochlánn want to mention to Kevin that when this was all over they would likely be hanging Louis by the neck, but he held that back as well.
He did not bother turning to Niall. That would be pointless. Niall would agree to any thought that Kevin had. If Kevin suggested they summon the wee people of the forest to come and fight the heathens, Niall would vigorously back that plan. So Lochlánn had gone to bed with no further knowledge of the enemy and no more than the hope that things would work out come morning.
The sound of servants getting breakfast together had woken him up, and he swung his legs off the raised platform on which he and two dozen others were sleeping in the big hall and set his feet down on the packed dirt of the floor. The fire was little more than embers, but in their light he could see one of Kevin’s people adding bits of kindling and blowing them into living flames. He stood and stretched.
The order that all should be ready for battle before sunrise had been given the night before, issued by Kevin himself and with no prompting from Lochlánn, who was happy that he did not have to argue about that, too. With that precaution taken, and the watchmen stationed on the walls, and fires set all around the perimeter of the ringfort to prevent an enemy approaching in the dark, Lochlánn was reasonably certain they would be prepared when Thorgrim appeared. If Thorgrim appeared.
Lochlánn ate a breakfast of oat porridge, pulled on his mail and strapped on his sword and took up his helmet. He stepped from the hall, with its oppressive smells of smoke and cooked food and men, into the clean, cool air of the predawn morning.
The grounds of the ringfort were crowded with horses tethered out. Under normal circumstances a smaller ringfort one hundred yards to the north of the one that encircled Kevin’s hall served as an enclosure for the animals. But the horses were too important to the coming action to risk leaving them so vulnerable, and so they spent the night just a few dozen feet from their riders.
Stable boys were weaving in and out of the lines of horses carrying great armfuls of hay, and others were struggling with buckets to fill the various water troughs. Lochlánn found his own mount and inspected it to be certain it was fit for the day’s work, and when he saw it was, he left it to the care of the boys and climbed up onto the earthen wall by the ringfort’s gate.
The sun was still down, but the sky was growing lighter in the east when he stepped out onto the space where the tall palisade wall was interrupted by the main gate and where he could have an uninterrupted view of at least half the horizon. There was little to see, just the dark outlines of the distant hills against the pale sky. He could hear nothing but the sound of insects and the insistent cry of birds as they, too, began their day. No sign of an enemy, no suggestion of anything but peaceful countryside.
He remained in that place for an hour, waiting patiently as the sun rose behind the cloud cover and spread its light across the open ground that stretched away from Ráth Naoi in every direction. It revealed no enemy, not even a hint of an enemy. Lochlánn climbed down from the wall and made ready to do the thing that warriors did best, the thing that warriors did most. He made ready to wait.
And wait Lochlánn did, Lochlánn and the host of restless men-at-arms within the ringfort’s walls. They waited as the sun climbed up overhead, just the suggestion of the sun, really, lost behind the thick overcast. They waited as the servants struggled to feed all the men and horses in that place and Kevin grumbled about the cost of it all and wondered out loud if the enemy was actually coming or if he was just wasting his precious silver boarding all those extra men.
Incredible, Lochlánn thought as he sat at the long table in Kevin’s hall with the others and listened to the rí túaithe complaining. Last night you were ready to shit your leggings you were so scared of Thorgrim Night Wolf, and now listen to you, you parsimonious bastard. Twenty-four hours’ exposure to Kevin mac Lugaed had not improved Lochlánn’s impression of the man.
The midday meal was done and those men-at-arms lounging around the ringfort were just beginning to think the enemy would not come at all—Lochlánn could overhear their murmured speculation—when the first warning sounded.
It came from one of the men stationed on the wall, a young man with sharp eyes who called, “There’s men on the far hill!”
Lochlánn sat upright, jerked his head in the direction of the watchman’s voice. The man on the wall was pointing toward the west, still shouting. Half the men-at-arms leapt to their feet and snatched up weapons as if the enemy were bursting through the gates at that very moment.
Lochlánn hurried to the ladder that ran up to the wall, but he was not alone, and he yielded to the unspoken hierarchy. Kevin was there and they all stepped aside to let him go up, then Niall behind him. Louis de Roumois stepped up next, but Lochlánn stepped in front of him and took his place behind Niall.
Get as puffed up as you wish, Lochlánn thought as he climbed the rungs, you’re still my prisoner, you Frankish son of a bitch.
It was crowded on the wall, in the narrow space where the palisades did not interrupt the view, but they managed to position themselves where they all could see. There were indeed men on the far hill, tiny figures moving here and there, and the larger shapes of horses, though only a few. There were little spots of color in the gray and dull green day and Lochlánn recognized those as shields. The Northmen were making ready for battle.
“How many are they?” Kevin asked.
“Somewhere around sixty, lord,” answered the lookout who had first seen them, “but they’re so far, I can’t know for certain.”
“Sixty?” Kevin asked. “Does that seem about right?” There was a quickness to his speech that suggested fear.
Still worried about the cost of all these men? Lochlánn thought.
“Seems about right,” Niall said.
“There were near sixty with Thorgrim when I escaped,” Louis said. “The heathens that joined him numbered thirty or so. Take away those we killed and wounded, and some I would guess ran off, and I would say sixty’s about right.”
“And we have more than one hundred, and all our men are trained and well-equipped and mounted,” Kevin said, as if calculating out loud. His voice sounded more buoyant now. “Good, good.”
They watched as the men on the far hill formed a loose line and that line began advancing down the slope of the hill, sweeping forward toward the open ground before Ráth Naoi.
“We’d better mount up and meet them before they get too close,” Lochlánn said, and the others made noises of agreement. They went down the ladder in the reverse order they had ascended, save for Kevin, who remained on top of the wall.
Not joining us? Lochlánn thought when he saw that Kevin was making no move for the ladder. He had assumed Kevin would lead the men-of-war into the fight. That was the proper role for the rí túaithe, as far as Lochlánn was concerned, but Kevin apparently did not see it that way.
Just as well, Lochlánn thought. You stay here and watch in safety and stay out of our way. He crossed the grounds of the ringfort toward where his men were gathered, calling orders as he did, and Niall did the same, yelling for the men-at-arms under his command. Five minutes later they were armed and mounted. The big gates swung open and the hundred and more horsemen came pounding out of the ringfort, spreading out into a line abreast seven hundred feet long and calculated to give pause to the heathens and ragged bandits fac
ing them on foot.
Niall rode at the center of the line with Louis and Lochlánn on either side. They rode hard, the horses galloping over the flat ground. They wanted to put fear into the invaders’ hearts and to put some distance between the fighting and the ringfort.
They were a quarter mile from the walls of Ráth Naoi when Niall called for a halt and reined his horse in and the men along the line followed suit. The heathens and Irish bandits had reached the bottom of the hill and were advancing across the open ground, an ideal place for mounted warriors to ride them down and kill them.
“They’re making this easy,” Niall said. “We’ll wait here, see what these sorry bastards have in mind, and then we’ll advance and begin the day’s slaughter.”
“Recall,” Louis said, “we don’t want to fight them, we want to drive them. We want to drive them right into Ottar’s arms.”
“I won’t be shy about killing any if the chance is there,” Lochlánn said dryly. “Perhaps, Louis, you have become such great friends with the heathens you can’t bring yourself to do them any hurt.”
“Watch what you say to me, boy,” Louis said. “I won’t stand for your insinuations. Kevin does not want to lose men for no reason, and any captain with a turd’s worth of experience knows you don’t throw lives away. Let Ottar do our work for us.”
“Here, see,” Niall said, interrupting the heated exchange, nodding toward the men in the distance. They had stopped about three hundred yards from where the horsemen were formed up and were assembling themselves into a shieldwall of sorts, but not one that was terribly impressive.
“Half of Thorgrim’s men are these bandit vermin,” Louis said. “They have no training or experience in this sort of fight. I tell you, our biggest problem will be catching them all when they bolt.”
“Our biggest problem may be underestimating them,” Lochlánn said. “It has bit us in the ass before today.”
Louis made a derisive noise, but Niall interrupted him, calling down the line of horsemen in a voice that could be heard from one end to the other. “The twenty men on either flank, you’ll ride around the ends of their shieldwall and get behind them. Us in the center, we’ll go right at them. Kill them if you can, but what we really want is to get them running off to the east!” All of this had been explained before. Lochlánn understood that Niall just wanted to be certain that it was not ignored in the coming excitement.
Niall looked at Lochlánn and then at Louis. “You ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” Lochlánn said. “Damned ready.” Louis nodded his head.
“Let’s go,” Niall said. He put his spurs to his horse and bolted ahead of the line and on either side of him a hundred horsemen did the same. The riders pounded forward, loud and unstoppable. Spears held upright came down to the horizontal. The terrible iron points were leveled at the wavering line of shields ahead and the promise of death came thundering down on the Northmen and the Irish, on Cónán’s men and those of Thorgrim Night Wolf.
Chapter Thirty-Five
A skirmish at Loch Cuan between the fair heathens and the dark heathens,
in which Albann, king of the dark heathens, fell.
The Annals of Ulster
The midday meal was usually a boisterous and much relished affair in Ottar Bloodax’s camp. But this time it was not, and Ottar could not help but notice. The men were quiet for the most part, and when they were not quiet they were muttering, which was worse, much worse. They talked low so only those few around them could hear, not a good sign at all.
Ottar ate in his tent. He wanted no part of that, and he wanted no part of the ugly looks thrown his way. Men were sewing discontent; he knew it. There were half a dozen of them he was ready to butcher, the half dozen most responsible for this plague of sullen anger.
Those six Ottar wanted to tie to stakes and rip out their bowels and burn them alive as they shrieked their last, and he was pleased with himself for having not done so. He took it as proof of his good leadership that he recognized that such a course would not solve the problem. It might, in fact, make it worse.
He knew what he needed to do. He had to decide whether to continue pressing on to Kevin’s ringfort or return to Vík-ló. Those were his choices, but he knew they were not really choices at all. He could not return to Vík-ló having accomplished none of the things he had so loudly proclaimed he would do: find and kill the traitor Aghen, plunder Kevin’s stronghold and see the Irishman tied to a stake as well. If he went back to the longphort with none of those things done, then the talk would grow much louder, and soon it would be more than talk.
He tossed his wooden bowl aside, the contents splattering against the side of his tent. He felt like the cloth walls were squeezing in on him and he stood with a roar of frustration and threw back the flap and stepped out into the camp.
There were dozens of men close by, some standing, some sitting, some lying down, and they all looked over at Ottar as he emerged. None of them spoke.
How many of you bastards are loyal to me, really loyal? Ottar wondered, casting his squinting eyes around the camp. Thirty? Forty?
Of those who had originally sailed with him from Hedeby to the lands to the east, and then around to Ireland, there was only one ship’s crew left, about fifty men. They were loyal, sworn to him. The others? He had picked them up here and there. They had been loyal enough when he was winning them silver. The plunder from Vík-ló had sated them, even though Ottar had kept the far greater share for himself and his closest men. But now they were getting restless.
Greedy bastards…never satisfied, Ottar thought. The worst of the lot, those he trusted the least, he had sent off with Aghen and Einar because he did not think, deep down, that they would be coming back, and that proved to be a good decision.
But now it left a question in his mind: what had become of them? Killed by enemies? Every last one of them? Or was the wolf out there, the wolf that was more than just a wolf? Until he knew the answer he could not summon the will to advance further into the hills.
How will I discover what it was? Ottar asked himself. His thoughts were bordering on despair, when he heard a cry from the far edge of the camp, a shout of surprise, a sound that said something extraordinary was happening.
Ottar stood straighter and he frowned in the direction of the noise. His view was blocked by tents and horses on a tether and he could not see what the commotion was about. But he felt a spark of hope, like this might be a gift from the gods, a reward for his bravery and sacrifice over the years. It might be the gift he wanted above all else: an indication of the proper way forward.
A dozen men came from behind the row of tents, heading in Ottar’s direction. Two of the men in the center of that crowd were supporting a third who stumbled and slumped and seemed as if he would collapse into the mud if the men holding him up were to let go.
They came up to Ottar and stopped in front of him. Ottar looked hard at the man being supported by the other two. He was in bad shape, his hair wild and matted, blood streaking his face, his mail ripped and gaping open in several places, his torn tunic and torn flesh visible through the rents. He was splattered with mud, and his leggings were in shreds.
Ottar looked at his face. I’ve never seen this man before, he thought, and even as he thought it he realized that was not true. He knew him, though he could not recall who he was. And then suddenly the man’s name came to him.
“Jorund,” Ottar said. Jorund was one of those who had been sent with Aghen’s party, Ottar recalled, and the implications of this washed over him like the sun breaking through clouds. This man, this man would know exactly what had happened out there.
“You whore’s sons!” Ottar roared at the others. “Get Jorund something to sit on! Get him some ale. The man’s half dead, can’t you see that?”
In less than a minute, Jorund was seated on a stool with a cup of ale in his hand and that was all the respite Ottar was willing to grant him. “The lot of you,” Ottar roared at those still crowded
around, nearly all of the camp by then. “Be gone, give us some room here, the man’s not to be gawked at!” The men grumbled, and reluctantly they dispersed.
Ottar sat on a stool of his own, facing Jorund, and leaned in close. “Tell me what happened,” he said. He spoke softly. He wanted to hear the tale himself before he let anyone else hear it. It might not be something he wanted generally known, in which case he would have to kill Jorund then and there.
“It was Aghen, Aghen the traitor,” Jorund said. He took another long swallow of ale. “He led us all over the countryside, trailing that stinking bloody haunch, pretending he was hunting for the wolf.”
“The wolf!” Ottar said. “Did you find it? Find any sign of it?”
Jorund shook his head. “There was no wolf. It was Aghen the whole time. But we didn’t know that. Not until Galti showed up and told us all.”
“Galti found you? Where is he?”
“Dead. Once he told the truth and tried to seize Aghen, the old man turned on him and killed him. The rest of those traitorous bastards were on Aghen’s side. There were some who weren’t. Like me. The others went after Einar, too. That’s how I got these wounds. Me and some of the others, we fought to save Einar’s life, but it was no good. We were too few. They killed Einar and took me prisoner.”
Ottar leaned back, frowning and looking into Jorund’s face, but the man was too battered and weak to react to Ottar’s gaze. Ottar let those things float around in his mind. Aghen and the rest killed Einar and Galti…I knew they were disloyal cur, the lot of them. Then another question came to him.
“Why didn’t they kill you, too?” Ottar asked, suspicion suddenly inflamed.
“Some wanted to,” Jorund said. “But some were my friends, men I’d sailed with. They decided to take me prisoner. Me and two others who had fought for Einar. I escaped in the night. I’ve been wandering around for two days now, looking for you.”
Ottar was silent again. This was all very interesting, but there was only one thing that really mattered, one bit of intelligence that he really cared about.
Night Wolf: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 5) Page 34