Loch Garman: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 7)

by James L. Nelson

  “Gudrid and Louis, you’ll come with me,” Thorgrim said next. “Failend, translate this for Louis. Once the madness breaks loose we’ll go into the camp and find Harald, set him free. When you hear me give a wolf howl, that will mean we have him. We’ll meet back here. If you don’t hear me howl, then get back here once you’ve caused enough madness in the camp. See that Starri gets back, too. Then, with luck we’ll be off and hidden someplace by the time they know what’s happened and muster the courage to come after us.”

  He looked around, at each man’s face, and Failend’s. He saw determination and strength of purpose. He saw no fear. “Let’s go,” he said.

  Once again they moved toward the crest of the hill, with Failend and Godi and Starri heading off to the left, toward the far end of the camp where they would launch their surprise, and soon they were swallowed up in the dark.

  “Stand ready, wait,” Thorgrim said to Gudrid, who nodded. He wondered how he might speak with Louis. He looked over at the man. Louis’s face was calm; he wore no expression at all. He was waiting patiently and his manner suggested he knew exactly what was going on and what was expected of him. Thorgrim turned his eyes back toward the dimly seen rows of tents, the orange glow of dying cooking fires.

  Quiet was settling down once again, whatever excitement that had roused the men below ebbing away. There were fewer torches now, and Thorgrim could not see many men moving between the tents. He could hear the insects in the grass. It was, in fact, a very peaceful scene.

  And then, from the darkness off to his left, he heard a twanging sound, the softest of noises, one that would have been missed by anyone not listening intently. There followed a short cry from lower down on the hill, then a sound like a sack of grain dropped on the ground. Then quiet again.

  But not for long. A voice called out and then Thorgrim heard the twanging sound again, and another cry, louder, almost piercing, a cry of surprise and pain.

  And then the anthill was kicked over one more time. Shouts rang out from all over the camp, but primarily the west end, the end where Failend was meting out death from the night. Thorgrim could see men running now, converging on that end of the camp. He could see the dull gleam of weapons.

  He turned to Gudrid. “And now you will hear the most frightening sound you have ever heard,” he said.

  “What…” was all Gudrid managed to say when Starri’s war cry cut though the dark, the loudest thing by far on that formerly quiet night. Thorgrim thought he saw movement off to the left, but he could not be certain. Then he saw the lanky outline of Starri Deathless, one hundred yards away, racing toward the edge of the camp, the massive Godi struggling and failing to keep up.

  It was hard to see anything more than dark shapes, the occasional flash of steel catching the light of the embers and torches. Thorgrim tried to make out what was going on. The sounds that came up the hill, however, left him little doubt. He could still hear Starri screaming his terrifying, insane cry, half animal, half evil spirit.

  He could hear the shouts of terrified men, and the clash of weapons on weapons. He could see some men-at-arms running toward the fight, some moving slowly in the other direction. By the light of one of the smoldering cooking fires he saw a man jerk back and fall writhing to the ground. He could make out his screams through the growing cacophony, and he knew that Failend was still at it, spreading terror. Here was death delivered by an enemy they could not see, the most frightening of all.

  “That’s it, let’s go!” Thorgrim said, waving and standing, still at a half crouch, and running down the hillside, the other two at his heels. He reached across his stomach and took the familiar grip of Iron-tooth in his hand and drew the weapon. Louis and Gudrid had shields on their arms but Thorgrim had left his behind, not wanting the encumbrance as he searched the camp for Harald.

  The ground flattened out and they were fifty feet from the edge of the camp when they were spotted at last. A cry from somewhere ahead, a movement in the dark, and then Thorgrim saw one of the men-at-arms running at them from their left-hand side, could just make out another man at his heels. He raised Iron-tooth higher, ready to attack or defend as the five of them, Northmen and Irish, raced to close the gap.

  Ten feet away and Thorgrim made ready to bring Iron-tooth around in a sweeping blow when suddenly Louis the Frank ran past in a sudden burst of speed. Louis, who had to be Thorgrim’s junior by two decades and who, Thorgrim could see now, had been running much slower than he was able so that Thorgrim could take the lead.

  Now the young man pushed past, shield up, just as the first of the Irishmen was on them, his sword whipping around. Louis drove his shield into the man’s chest, darted the tip of his blade forward as the Irishman fell. Thorgrim heard the scream, had a glimpse of the man falling, but they never broke stride in their race for the tents.

  The second of the men-at-arms was there now, coming on from the right hand and this time Gudrid was there, shield and sword meeting shield and sword. The steel rung out as their weapons met and Gudrid’s forward momentum was checked.

  No time for this, Thorgrim thought, spinning around as he ran, whipping Iron-tooth around in a wide circle and catching the Irishman’s back and arm with the tip. He shouted, dropped his sword and shield, clapped a hand on his torn flesh. Thorgrim ran past and he thought of how lucky that bastard was that they had no time to stop and finish their work.

  The ankle-high grass yielded to more trampled ground as they crossed the invisible border between the countryside and the encampment. A few more paces and they were among the tents and Thorgrim pulled to a stop, catching his breath while trying not to appear to be catching his breath, and looked around.

  No one, save for the two men they had just dispatched, seemed to have noticed their arrival, and no one was paying any attention to that end of the camp. Thorgrim could hear frantic shouting from the far side, shouting in Irish and Starri’s cry and what he thought might be Godi’s booming voice. And screams of the men who had fallen to their blades, and to Failend’s arrows.

  Don’t fight them, attack and run, Thorgrim thought, hoping that the two men were doing as he had ordered, resigned to the fact that there was nothing he could do about it now.

  He looked around. The big pavilion, the jarl’s pavilion, was off to his left, but that was not his concern. To his right was the smaller tent where he felt certain Harald would be, if he was still there. If he was still alive.

  “Come along,” he said and hurried off in that direction. Men were running past, some only a dozen yards away, but they were paying the Northmen no attention. They were running toward the sound of the fighting.

  Harald’s tent was not far away, and as Starri had seen from the hill, there were no guards there. Thorgrim felt an ugly sensation in the pit of his stomach. This moment, with chaos breaking out in the camp, was when guards who knew their business would not abandon their post. Which meant there was likely nothing there to guard.

  Thorgrim raced up to the door of the small pavilion and flung the cloth back. It was dark inside, dark like a solid thing, and no sign of life.

  “Harald!” Thorgrim shouted. “Harald!”

  He saw a light to his left and turned. Louis was there with a burning torch in his hand. Where he had found it, Thorgrim could not imagine, nor did he care. Louis thrust the torch into the door of the tent. The orange light illuminated the space, dancing on the cloth walls. There was bedding on the ground and a pot to piss in and half a loaf of bread. There was nothing else.

  “Oh, may the gods take these bastards!” Thorgrim said. He slid Iron-tooth back into its sheath and stepped back from the entrance to the tent. Louis dropped the torch to the ground and stamped it out. No point in having the light falling on them, revealing them for Northmen. The dark was their ally now.

  “Come on!” Thorgrim said, waving an arm toward the others. They moved forward, spread out, looking into the smaller tents, moving fast. There was still shouting from the far side of the camp, though Thorgrim h
ad not heard Starri in a while, which meant either he was dead or Godi had managed to drag him clear of the fighting.

  They swept along the camp, checking each tent as they raced forward, ducking into the shadows when any of the panicked Irish men-at-arms came too close. They looked in the jarl’s pavilion. The man himself was not there, and the burning lanterns revealed that no one else was, either.

  And then they were at the far end of the camp, where men were standing on the edge of the trampled grass, staring out into the dark, not daring, apparently, to go beyond that. Others were carrying the dead and the writhing wounded back to some less exposed place. Thorgrim could see arrows jutting from some of the men. If any of them looked in the Norsemen’s direction, Thorgrim could not tell, but if they did they saw only the dark shapes of men, unidentifiable in the dark.

  “He’s not here,” Gudrid said, standing at Thorgrim’s side.

  Thorgrim glanced over at Louis and Louis shrugged and shook his head. “Let’s go,” Louis said, his pronunciation of the Norse words so mangled that Thorgrim could hardly understand. But still he was impressed. Louis must have picked those words up just recently.

  Thorgrim shook his head. He pointed toward the jarl’s tent, a hundred feet away. “If Harald’s gone,” he said, “then someone else will come with us to pay the price.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Let none put faith in the first sown fruit

  nor yet in his son too soon;

  whim rules the child, and weather the field,

  each is open to chance.

  Hávamál

  Thorgrim had a plan, even though it might look to Gudrid and Louis as if he was making things up on the spot. He had worked it out as they swept through the camp, searching the tents. The more it became clear that they would not find Harald, the more Thorgrim understood that he could not leave without discovering the truth.

  But how would he do that? He had no way to talk to any of the Irishmen there, not without Failend to translate. And since he could not bring Failend to him, not at that moment, he would have to bring one the Irishmen to her.

  Most likely any of the Irish soldiers in the camp knew what had become of Harald, or had a good idea, but Thorgrim understood without even thinking on it that he did not want any man. The one who sheltered in the big tent, the jarl, or whatever he was, that was the man Thorgrim wanted.

  He led Gudrid and Louis back the way they had come, back through the tents, moving at a fast walk, a pace that would draw no attention to themselves. There was still dark and confusion enough that they went unnoticed, and when they reached the door of the pavilion Thorgrim pulled the flap back and looked in. Its occupant had not returned, the man busy with the madness at the far end of the camp.

  Thorgrim turned back to the other two. Louis had picked up the helmet and spear from one of the fallen Irish men-at-arms. He set the helmet on his head and pointed to the spot beside the door of the pavilion. Thorgrim frowned, unsure what Louis meant. And then he understood.

  Louis, dressed as he was, helmet on his head, spear in his hand, could pass easily for one of the Irish men-at-arms. He had guessed Thorgrim’s plan, and added an element of his own. He would pose as the guard at the entrance.

  Thorgrim nodded. Then he and Gudrid ducked into the tent and positioned themselves on either side of the door. They stood, motionless, and Thorgrim let his breath settle and he strained to hear whatever he could hear in the night.

  The fight was over. The sounds told him that. Or more accurately the absence of sounds. There was no shouting, no yells of surprise or clash of weapons or panicked orders. Every once in a while he could hear someone call in a loud voice, but the tone was more in the manner of an order given than a warning or cry of alarm. He could hear talking now, and the low moaning of the wounded.

  He looked around the dim-lit interior of the pavilion. A folding bed and a table, a jug of wine and a half-eaten meal. An oil lamp flickering beside the wooden trencher. A chest pushed against the side of the tent.

  It occurred to him that maybe he should look closer, see if he could find anything that might tell him something of Harald. He actually took a step toward the chest when he heard Louis, on the other side of the cloth flap, clear his throat, a soft sound but as clear a warning as a ringing bell.

  Thorgrim stepped back and pressed himself against the wall of the tent and he saw Gudrid do the same. He felt his muscles tense in anticipation. And then the flap of the tent was pulled back and he saw the dark shape of a man brush past, and behind them, still outside the tent, he heard a dull thud, a grunt, the jingling sound of chain mail.

  The man who had stepped through the door turned at the sound and his eyes went wide as he saw Thorgrim standing in the shadows. He jerked upright, opened his mouth, but that was all the reaction that Thorgrim allowed him.

  Thorgrim had worked this out in his head beforehand, but he had imagined spinning the man by the shoulder. He never thought the man would be so accommodating as to turn of his own accord, but he did. If he had been wearing mail, Thorgrim would have gone for the jaw, but he wasn’t so Thorgrim took two steps forward and rammed his fist into the man’s stomach.

  He felt the man’s hot breath on his face as the blow drove the air from his body and he doubled up around Thorgrim’s hand. He stood there, bent double, until Thorgrim pulled his fist back and gave the man a shove, sending him sprawling to the ground. Then the flap of the tent opened again and Louis was there, waving Gudrid over to him. Gudrid disappeared through the door and a second later he and Louis pulled a second unconscious man into the tent.

  Huh…Thorgrim thought as he realized what those other sounds had been. Two men had been heading for the tent, and Louis had disposed of the second before he had stepped through the door, a blow to the side of the head, Thorgrim guessed. The man was limp, motionless, but Thorgrim did not think he was dead.

  He looked down at the one he had punched in the gut. He was lying on his side, his legs kicking, his mouth opening and closing like a fish in the bottom of a boat, desperate to catch a breath. Thorgrim glanced around the tent, but there was nothing he could see with which to bind the man, so he grabbed the hem of the man’s tunic and pulled his dagger from his belt.

  Thorgrim saw the man’s eyes widen at the sight of the sharp, narrow blade glinting in the lamplight, but he still did not have breath enough to scream or even speak. Then Thorgrim slashed strips of cloth from the man’s tunic and shoved him flat onto the ground. He grabbed his arms and pulled them back and with that the man let out an agonizing gasp.

  The sound surprised Thorgrim and he looked up and saw there was blood on the right sleeve of his tunic, wet and glistening in the lamplight, though the sleeve itself was not torn. He must have changed his clothes since getting that wound, and not so long ago. The laceration was still bleeding.

  Who gave you that wound? Starri? he wondered. Godi? But Thorgrim did not have time to give it any more thought. He bound the man’s hands with one of the strips of cloth and used the other as a gag. He stood and he and Gudrid pulled the man to his feet. He was recovering from the blow, though he still could not quite straighten all the way. But close enough. He would be able to move fast, and that was what was needed just then.

  The second man, lying in a heap on the floor, gave a low groaning sound and turned his head slightly. Thorgrim considered slitting the man’s throat but saw no advantage in doing so. Instead he kicked the man on the side of the head, his soft leather shoes striking with enough force to silence him once more, but probably not kill him. That would do.

  He turned to Gudrid. “Let’s go,” he said. They each grabbed one of the jarl’s arms and pushed him through the door of the tent. Louis was still standing there in the loose attitude of a soldier on monotonous duty. The night was quieter still; there was no sound of alarm. Thorgrim could sense the camp settling back down after this last violent and inexplicable attack, quiet but still on a knife’s edge. He could feel the wariness, the exhausti
on and fear.

  He looked around. He could see no one, no one was watching them. And if there were they would see only the vague shadows of three men and a guard at the door of the tent.

  The jarl who stood between him and Gudrid was recovering from the blow to the gut and he began to twist in their arms and to make sounds through his gag. Thorgrim pulled his dagger once again and pressed it into the man’s back, piercing the cloth and, judging from the short gasp of pain, piercing the skin as well. But not deep. Just enough to let this fellow know what his choices were.

  He pushed the dagger a tiny bit harder and the man started forward and he and Gudrid did as well, keeping to either side of him. He heard the soft footfalls of Louis the Frank following behind. They moved quickly through the scattering of tents, moved toward the edge of the camp where the grass remained untrammeled. Still no shouts of alarm.

  When they reached the edge of the taller grass, Thorgrim crouched and pulled his prisoner down with him and Gudrid and Louis did the same. They waited for a long moment, silent, listening. Nothing. Thorgrim stood and the others followed suit. He pressed the knife into the prisoner’s back and the four of them raced across the open ground and up the side of the hill down which Thorgrim and his fellows had come not so long ago.

  The grass was wet and Thorgrim could feel it soaking through his shoes as he jogged, half pushing and half dragging the prisoner. They reached the top and kept on going, partway down the far slope, and then Thorgrim pulled the Irishman to a stop and Gudrid and Louis stopped as well. They waited, just a moment, and then Starri and Godi and Failend materialized out of the dark.

  Starri was smeared with blood, as he so often was after a fight, but there was no telling if it was his, or someone else’s, or both. Either way, he did not move as if he was injured, nor did any of the others.

  Godi looked at the Irishman, then back at Thorgrim. “Harald?” he asked.