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

by James L. Nelson

  Thorgrim shook his head. “Not there. We took this one instead. He’ll tell us where Harald is. How did you fare?”

  “Well,” Godi said. “We attacked three times, from three directions. Moved in fast, made some trouble, and out again.”

  “Yes, out again,” Starri said, pointing with his thumb at Godi. “This great beast wouldn’t let me fight. Just as things got interesting, he drags me clear away. Three times.”

  “They didn’t follow you?” Thorgrim asked.

  “No,” Godi said. “I think they were more afraid of Failend’s arrows than they were of me and Starri. Us they could see and fight. But Failend’s arrows come out of the night, and from where they did not know. They didn’t dare move beyond their camp.”

  Thorgrim nodded. That was good. That was as he hoped it would be. “Let’s move,” he said. “Let’s put some distance between us and this place before the sun comes up.”

  They turned and fell into line and headed off the way they had come, the Irishman trudging along between Thorgrim in the lead and Godi behind him. Louis still wore his Irish helmet and carried his spear, prizes from the night, Thorgrim guessed. Exhausted as they all were, the energy from the fight was still pumping though them, and they moved easily and quick.

  The sky to the east was just starting to turn from black to the deepest gray when they found a likely patch of woods. They crashed through the undergrowth and in among the trees, quite hidden from the countryside beyond, and fell exhausted to the soft ground. They had covered half the distance, at least, between the enemy’s camp and theirs, and so far there was no sign of pursuit.

  Godi and Gudrid unslung the skins they wore draped over their necks and handed them around and everyone took a long and grateful drink, including the jarl, who, still bound, needed Failend’s assistance. Thorgrim could see that the night’s business had reopened the wound in his arm, and now the blood was soaking into his sleeve.

  Thorgrim wondered if this Irishman had been missed yet. Probably not. With night still mostly on them, no one would think it odd he had not been seen. Indeed, half the morning might pass before it occurred to anyone that he had not emerged from his tent. It was one of the advantages of being the man in command. The others were loath to disturb you.

  And that was good. That would give them time to get back to the camp they shared with Bécc, to plan what they would do next. But first, there was more immediate business.

  Thorgrim stood, suppressing a groan, and untied the gag that was still tight around the Irishman’s face. He turned to Failend.

  “Ask him where Harald is,” he said.

  Failend stood on her knees, looked the defiant Irishman in the eyes. She spoke in his language. For a moment the Irishman did not reply, just looked hard at Failend. And then he spoke, a few words, no more.

  Whatever he said, Louis apparently was not happy with the answer. He stood quick and hit the man a backhand blow on the cheek, enough to knock his head sideways. Louis spoke, his tone harsh and threatening.

  The Irishman looked up at Louis but there was still no fear in his eyes. He spoke again, and as far as Thorgrim could tell, he said the same thing to Louis that he had to Failend.

  Failend looked up at Thorgrim. “He says he does not know.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  In a wily disguise I worked my will;

  little is lacking to the wise…

  Odin’s Quest after the Song Mead

  Airtre was not the only one who did not know where Harald was. Harald himself did not know, either.

  He knew only that he was away from Airtre’s camp, several miles at least, lost in the dark of the cloudy night. He had been running hard for as long as he could, but he was walking now. There were no sounds he could hear beyond the ones he would expect: insects and the breeze moving distant branches and the occasional cry of some animal. There was no indication that he was still being pursued, and he felt reasonably sure that he was not.

  Not anymore. He had been pursued, even before he came clear of Airtre’s camp. But the pursuers had found only empty countryside.

  As he trudged along, Harald thought back over the long, twisted, bizarre events of that surprising day, and the days before. The treatment he had received at Airtre’s hands. Strange, and hard to understand.

  Harald had a good idea of how hostages should be treated. An exchange of hostages was a regular part of negotiating conflicts. He had seen hostages exchanged by his grandfather, Jarl Ornolf, and even his father on occasion. They had not been beaten with trenchers.

  Maybe the Irish have a different notion of hostages, Harald thought. He had thought it before, when he found himself under guard, when he found himself being fed on bread and water and accompanied by armed men when he had to relieve himself. And then his treatment had much improved, Airtre inviting him into his tent, giving him decent food. And then it had turned bitter once again.

  The beating was a genuine surprise. He had been in his tent, sleeping for lack of anything better to do, when the guards came for him.

  “You there,” the man called, nudging Harald with his foot. “You, come with me.”

  Harald sat up, still mostly asleep, unsure of what was taking place. He threw off the one blanket he had, stood, followed the guard out of the tent and into the dull light of the late afternoon.

  “Come along.” The man who had woken him jerked his head in the direction of Airtre’s tent and walked off, and Harald followed and to his irritation the guards who had been outside his tent followed as well. To Harald, the presence of guards meant that Airtre thought he might run off, and such a suspicion was an insult to his honor. The armed escort did little to improve his already sour mood.

  The interview with Airtre did even less. Harald tried to make sense of the rí tuath’s suspicions and building anger. Airtre and the others had gone to meet Thorgrim, as had been arranged, but something had happened. Something had gone wrong. What that was, Harald could not imagine.

  Airtre seemed to think that he, Harald, was a part of whatever had happened, that it had all been prearranged. But he did not give Harald leave to speak, or enough information to take a guess at why things had unraveled.

  In some ways, the first blow came as a relief. Right up until that moment, Harald’s mind had been filled with uncertainty and second- guessing, struggling like a man in the water to understand what was going on, who was playing what part here. But when Airtre had stepped up and struck him, then all doubt was gone, all ambiguity at an end. Harald knew in that instance who his enemy was and what he must do.

  The beating had gone on for some time, but Airtre and his men had not been terribly serious about it, and had done no permanent damage, no great hurt by Harald’s lights. His arms and legs were bound tight, too tight for him to wiggle free. As he endured the blows to his head and face he wondered what he would do if they suddenly became more serious about their efforts, if they decided that his usefulness was gone and his life not worth preserving.

  And Airtre, apparently, did indeed come to that conclusion, the dagger in his hand, the point hovering in front of Harald’s eye. Harald held the Irishman’s gaze and worked his wrists, but still the lashings would not yield, and he knew then that death might come for him, then and there. He wondered if the Valkyrie would look with any kindness on a man killed while bound and sitting. The Valkyrie were not known for kindness.

  But death had not come. Tipraite had stopped it. Tipraite, at least, seemed to understand that Harald was a hostage, not a prisoner, that he should not be killed, if not because it was a dishonorable thing to do then at least because he might be of further use.

  They lifted Harald up and carried him back to his tent, bound hand and foot like a calf off to the slaughter. They tossed him roughly inside, sprawled half on top of his bedding, still bound. And he lay there in the dark and let his mind sort through what he now knew.

  There were two things, at least.

  One was that Louis the Frank had been right
. Whoever the mooncalf was whom Airtre had given over in exchange for him, he was not Airtre’s son. Or, if he was, he was not a son about whom Airtre cared in the least. If a man was willing to do violence against a hostage he held, he could only expect the same to be done to the hostage he had given up.

  The second was that his own life was no longer of much value. Airtre seemed to think that Thorgrim had betrayed him in some way. Apparently he was not certain that was the case, but he seemed to think it was true. If so, Harald’s usefulness was at an end. Killing him would not even be a dishonorable thing.

  Once again, despite the pain, despite the terrific threat to his life, Harald felt a sense of relief at having his choices laid out in so clear a manner. There was nothing Harald hated more than uncertainty and confusion, and he seemed to experience more of it than he thought was quite right. But he was also coming to understand that the world was not always so unambiguous as he might wish it to be.

  He was learning. And part of learning was learning not to be as trusting as he once had been. His father, Thorgrim, trusted men, but never so much as to leave himself without options.

  So Harald had made certain that he, too, had options, which he could use if the need be. But for the moment he lay still and let the pain subside, let his strength build again, let the nighttime settle over the camp and let the vigilance of the men-at-arms wane.

  He dozed and woke and had no notion of how much time had passed. Certainly it was fully dark, and judging by the blanket of quiet that lay over the camp, it was late, well past the time when everyone but the guards would be asleep. He lay still for a little while and listened. Nothing. Time to move.

  With some effort, and with lips pressed tight together to avoid any involuntary cries from the pain, he rolled on his side and dug under his bedding with the hands bound behind his back. He had worn his sword, Oak Cleaver, because he always wore it, and because it would be missed if he did not. But his knife he had removed from his belt and hid under the bedding. Because he was learning.

  His fingers, numb from the tight lashings, found the handle of the knife and drew the blade. Awkwardly he turned it around and pressed the edge against the lashings and sawed as best as he could. It might have taken some effort to cut the bindings free, but Harald’s knife was razor-sharp—indeed, he used the knife every few days to shave what whiskers he could boast—and he quickly felt the blessed relief of the cords giving way.

  Even before he cut his legs free he worked his stiff arms around and rubbed his wrists. He could feel the deep welts, slick blood in a few places, where the cords had cut into him. Then he took up the knife again and sat up and cut his legs free and massaged those sore places as well.

  And then he sat still, knife in his hand, and he listened and he considered what he would do. Get away, that much was obvious. But Oak Cleaver was in Airtre’s tent and he would not leave his sword behind any more than he would leave his father or one of his siblings behind.

  Oak Cleaver was an Ulfberht blade, the finest of Frankish weapons and the only thing Harald had of his grandfather’s. So retrieving the sword was the first job. Killing Airtre was the second and less important task and if he was not able to do that, so be it. Harald did not doubt that there would be other opportunities to kill Airtre.

  Though he couldn’t see them, he was fairly certain there were two guards on either side of the door to his tent. His choices were simple: avoid them or eliminate them. He considered each. He guessed he could eliminate them easily enough, and do it noiselessly, which would be crucial. But if someone happened to look in the direction of his tent and see them gone, that might raise an alarm, and the longer he could go unnoticed, the better.

  So, avoid them. He moved carefully to the back wall of the tent. It was rectangular in shape, a decent size, not quite as large as Airtre’s, but substantial, ten feet on the longest side. With each move Harald paused and listened. There was nothing, no response from the guards by the door that he could discern.

  Another two moves and he was at the back wall. He reached under the tight bottom edge of the tent, feeling back and forth. His hand fell on a wooden stake and he worked it back and forth until he could lift it free. He ran his hand farther along the tent bottom until he found the next and worked that free as well.

  Carefully he lifted the edge of the tent and he could see that with the stakes gone there was space enough for him to fit under. He paused again, and again heard no sounds of alarm. Head first he worked himself under the edge of the tent and into the cool night air.

  He stood carefully and looked around. There was considerably more light in the open than there had been in his tent. He could see the glow of smoldering coals in the fire pits, and a dull, barely discernable light from the moon behind the thick clouds. It was enough.

  The tents of the men-at-arms were set in a haphazard pattern all around him, stretching off a hundred feet or so in every direction. And beyond them was the dark of the countryside, open ground in which he could easily lose himself. Indeed, he could go right now, move off between the tents, keeping low, pass beyond the edge of the camp and put miles between himself and Airtre’s men before anyone even knew he was gone.

  But not without Oak Cleaver.

  He moved off to his right, moving in a crouch, eyes locked on the far side of the tent he had occupied a moment before. As he moved past he could see one of the guards standing by the door. His posture, slumped and leaning on his spear, suggested he might actually be asleep on his feet. Certainly he seemed no more alert than that.

  Harald edged past the point where the tent blocked him from view, stepping sideways, his eyes fixed on the back of the guard’s head. His feet made no sound on the soft ground and the guard seemed entirely unaware of the fact that he was now guarding an empty tent.

  As he continued to edge sideways, the second guard came into view, and he looked no more alert or attentive than the first. Harald stole a glance to his right. He was coming up on another tent, and with a few long, careful strides he put that between himself and the men who were ostensibly guarding him.

  Again he paused and listened and looked around, and as far as he could tell he remained undetected. Not too far off, perhaps a hundred feet, he could see Airtre’s tent. There was a soft glow about it which meant he had a lamp still lit, which in turn made Harald wonder if the man was still awake. If so, it would make this considerably harder.

  He moved around the tent shielding him from the guards and made a wide sweep through the camp, circling in toward Airtre’s tent, keeping low, crouching beside each tent he came to to listen and watch. He could hear soft snoring and insects buzzing out in the night, the shuffle and low whinny of the horses staked out beyond the camp, and nothing more.

  He reached the last of the tents before the open ground on which Airtre’s pavilion stood. He had come around the back of Airtre’s tent, as he intended, the tall linen structure shielding him from the guards at the door. And once again he had a choice to make: stealth or force?

  He could come around the front of the tent, behind the guards, kill them both before they even knew what was happening. Maybe do it quietly enough that he wouldn’t even disturb anyone. Duck into Airtre’s tent, retrieve Oak Cleaver. Kill Airtre? Perhaps. It would depend on circumstances. If Airtre woke up and tried to stop him, then certainly, but he would not murder him in his sleep. There was no honor in that.

  But it was unlikely he could do all that and never raise an alarm. There was just too much potential for noise. And then the camp would be awake and men would be running to the sounds. He could fight his way into Airtre’s tent, but could he fight his way out? He was outnumbered by something like one hundred to one. Even Harald found those odds a bit daunting.

  Stealth, then, he thought. Which meant he would have to find some way into the tent besides the door.

  One last glance around and Harald moved quickly across the twenty feet of trampled grass to the back wall of Airtre’s tent. Again he crouched and pa
used and heard nothing. He pulled his knife from the sheath and slowly stabbed it into the cloth of the tent, about the height of his chest. He paused. No sound. He swept the knife slowly down, the cloth parting easily in the wake of the sharp blade.

  Once he had opened up a foot of cloth, he spread the slit wider and looked in. He could see the chair to which he had been tied and the table with the trencher and the lower end of the camp bed and Airtre’s legs as he slept.

  I’m going to beat his face in with that trencher, Harald decided. Even if I decide not to kill him, I’m going to beat him good.

  He put his knife back in the slit and pressed it down and the side of the tent split open like gutting a fish. Harald eased a leg through the slot and, crouching low, stepped through, slow and silent. He paused when he was fully in the tent, still standing in a crouch. No sounds other than Airtre’s soft breath. Harald took a tentative step forward.

  A single oil lamp was burning on the table. I guess Airtre doesn’t care much for the dark, Harald mused. He looked down at the man, stretched out on his camp bed. He had shed his tunic and was wearing a leine in the Irish fashion, a blanket half covering him. His eyebrows were partially knitted, despite being asleep, and his lips, encircled by his trim, light brown beard and moustache, were downturned in a frown.

  Maybe I should relieve you of those earthly concerns, Harald thought. His knife was still in his hand and he felt his fingers tighten on the grip.

  No, he thought. Another time.

  He glanced around and at first he could not see Oak Cleaver and he felt a sudden surge of panic that Airtre might have given the sword as a gift to one of his favorite captains. But then his eyes fell on the familiar hilt, the leather sheath, the belt like a coiled serpent, leaning against the chest by the back wall. Two steps and he was there, reaching out, his hand around the weapon’s cover.

  “Bastard!”

  The shout, right at Harald’s back, was as staggering as if it had been a blow. He spun around just as Airtre was struggling up from the camp bed, the blanket falling away, the word coming from his throat as an involuntary response to his great surprise.