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

by James L. Nelson

  Airtre had a seax in his hand—apparently it had been in the bed with him—and he swung it in a wild, desperate arc at Harald’s head. Harald did not even consider drawing Oak Cleaver. He was holding the weapon in his left hand, gripping the scabbard halfway down its length, the knife still in his right.

  There was no time to free his sword, but it could still be of use. Harald held it up, nearly vertical, and the edge of Airtre’s seax hit the sheath and stopped as if he had hit a stone wall. Harald pushed Airtre’s blade aside. He held the knife straight-arm and lunged. He was aiming for Airtre’s heart, but Airtre twisted aside, flinching from the blade.

  The point caught Airtre’s sleeve and passed on through. Harald felt it pierce skin, felt the resistance to his thrust, and then the white cloth of Airtre’s leine blossomed with red. Airtre shouted again and staggered back, beyond Harald’s reach, and much as Harald wanted to advance again, to drive the knife into a more vital part of Airtre’s being, he knew that his time was up.

  As if in response to that very thought, the cloth flap over the door jerked back and the first of the guards came rushing in, his spear held awkwardly in that tight space. Happily, in trying to get clear of Harald, Airtre had backed up nearly to the door and remained there, eyes on Harald, and now the guard had to struggle to get around him.

  It was all the time that Harald needed. He turned and with three steps was back at the slit in the tent and through, out into the night. He could hear voices now as sleeping men came awake to the sounds of shouting. Before him was the open ground around Airtre’s tent and beyond that, dimly seen, the random smattering of tents.

  The way was open, but Harald did not run. Instead he stepped aside and pressed himself against the wall of the tent and wondered if the guards would follow him through the slit or run around the outside.

  They did both, as it turned out. The man who had charged into Airtre’s tent came kicking his way through the opening Harald had made, while the other guard who had been at the door came running around the far side. Harald pressed himself back as the man-at-arms came, spear-first, through the long tear, stepping through, looking out into the dark beyond the tent, never thinking to look back over his shoulder.

  Harald debated killing him. It would be easy enough, but once again he opted for stealth over force. The second guard came around the far side of the tent, calling, “Where is he? Where did he go?”

  “Don’t know,” the first man said, his back still turned toward Harald, no more than four feet away. He nodded toward the tents in the distance and the two of them ran off, spear tips at chest height, searching for the lone Norseman even as they ran directly away from him.

  “To arms! To arms! Turn out!” he could hear Airtre calling from the other side of the pavilion. The rí tuath had apparently gone out the door and now was rousting the camp, calling all his men to arms. He had been tricked, he had been stabbed, and now he would want revenge as much as Harald did.

  Harald took a quick glance around, then ducked back into Airtre’s tent, through the rent that was hanging open now after the guard’s none too careful exit. He moved quickly across the space, belting Oak Cleaver on as he did. He adjusted the hang of the sword and felt an immediate sense of relief, a surge of confidence with the weight of his familiar and beloved weapon once again on his hip.

  He stood for a moment, and then another, just inside the door and to one side, pleading with the gods to send Airtre back in. But he would not be so lucky as that, and he could actually hear the rí tuath’s voice growing more distant as he moved through the camp, calling the men and no doubt searching for his escaped hostage.

  Once more, it was time to go.

  The camp was well awake by then, even if many were still not sure why they had been roused from sleep. Harald stepped to the side of Airtre’s tent and looked around. He could see men running in different directions and in various states of dress, some holding spears, some swords. More concerning, some were holding torches, and he could see others being lit around the camp.

  He stepped quickly away from the tent and across the open ground. He was making for a cluster of tents nearby, hoping to lose himself among them. He made it halfway there before he heard a voice, behind him, surprised but not afraid.

  “Hey! You! Stop, there!”

  He turned. It was one of the men-at-arms, the real warriors, not one of the sorry farmers who filled out the ranks. A big man with helmet and spear and a seax at his side. He wore a padded tunic such as one might wear under a mail shirt, but he wore no mail.

  All that Harald got in the few heartbeats’ space time he stared; then he turned and ran. He ran for the tents and the darkness between them and he heard the footfalls of the man as he ran after him.

  Harald dodged the first tent, came between it and the second, turned and crouched. The man-at-arms was twenty paces behind, no more, but far enough that he managed to lose Harald in the dark. He came charging in where he had seen Harald disappear and Harald leapt to his feet, leading with his right fist, the strength of his arm and the momentum of his accelerating body all going into the force behind the punch.

  He hit the man-at-arms square in the face, careful not to connect with the man’s helmet. He felt something give under the force of the blow and the man grunted and seemed to fly backwards, coming down on the flat of his back. His body came to a jarring rest and he did not move again.

  Helmet, Harald thought. If he was wearing a helmet and carrying a spear it might help him to go unnoticed. He bent down and took the helmet from the man’s head, his face nearly lost under the sheen of blood from his nose and mouth. He set the helmet on his head and snatched up the spear and stood.

  He looked out toward the edge of the camp, finding the shortest route to the dark country beyond, but there were men searching there, not fifty feet away, moving slowly tent to tent. One had a torch. In the dark, Harald knew, he might go unnoticed, but seen in the light his clothing would give him away. He moved further into the shadows between the tents.

  The searchers moved on, and Harald could see they were not doing a poor job, but rather were looking into each of the tents, using the torch to fill the dark places with light. He remained motionless, silent as they passed by. He took a step toward the edge of the camp, and then another.

  Most of the activity was on the far end of the camp, as Harald had hoped. The searchers would assume that he had run as directly away from Airtre’s tent as he could, which was why Harald had not done that. But he knew that someone would guess at what he had done, and soon. He took another few steps. And then he was seen.

  Once more the voices came from behind, and not too far away, and Harald wondered why he had not seen them coming. Looking in the wrong direction, you fool, he thought. He had been looking at what was ahead of him, not what was behind.

  He turned now. Four men running toward him, one carrying a torch, the other two with swords. The fourth was Airtre.

  “Get that bastard, get him!” Airtre shouted.

  Harald did not hesitate. He hefted the spear in his hand and flung it. The shaft flew straight and true and struck the nearest of the men-at-arms in the chest. The strength of the throw and the speed at which the man was running combined to drive the point of the shaft in and send the man flying back as if he had reached the end of a tether.

  Harald pulled Oak Cleaver, the familiar blade dancing at the end of his arm, and he smiled, he actually smiled, at the feel of it. The other sword warrior was there, slashing at Harald, and Harald caught the blade with Oak Cleaver, turned it aside, leapt closer and shoved the man, hard. But Airtre also had a sword, and Harald could just see him bring it back over his shoulder, ready to cut down like he was chopping wood.

  He stepped up, grabbing Airtre’s leine with his left hand, jerking the Irishman close and bringing his helmeted head down with a snap on Airtre’s forehead. Airtre howled and staggered back and Harald raised Oak Cleaver to stop the blow from the other sword warrior who was coming at him
again. Harald once more parried the stroke of the man’s blade, then lifted his foot and kicked him square in the stomach, doubling him up and sending him sprawling back.

  The man with the torch was the only one still standing. He swung the flame at Harald’s head and Harald just managed to lean back far enough to let the burning end pass by, so close that he could feel the heat on his face. He lashed out with his left hand and grabbed the shaft of the torch and jerked it from the surprised torchbearer’s hand.

  The torch man, now empty handed, backed away, but Harald was not interested in him. He turned and looked down at Airtre, sprawled on the ground, up on his elbows, looking up with a desperate expression. There was more shouting and it was close. He could hear men running.

  Harald tossed the torch, tossed it as if he expected Airtre to catch it, but of course he didn’t, and Airtre, in his surprise, did not even try. The torch landed on the Irishman’s chest and his leine burst immediately into flames. Harald heard him scream, a high-pitched scream, saw him grab at the torch and start to roll over to smother the fire, but that was all he managed to see.

  He turned and ran. He bolted off between the tents, racing for the dark beyond the edge of the camp. He could hear the frenzy behind him, but the men around Airtre were more concerned about the flames that threatened their rí tuath than they were about Harald. The only one for whom Harald was the main concern was Airtre himself, and he was rolling on the ground trying to extinguish his clothing.

  Harald reached the edge of the camp and kept running, running hard. He pulled the helmet from his head and flung it aside. He ran up the sloping ground that he had seen to the south of the camp and once he reached the top and began down the far side, he turned to his left and ran off that way.

  It was not as directly away from the camp as he could run, but he knew when the Irish finally managed to assemble a patrol to give chase they would ride off in the direction he had run, so it made sense that he should run in an entirely different direction. That he did, for as long as he was able, which was a fairly long time. He slowed at last to a jog, and finally came to a stop, bending over, gulping air.

  He had heard some noise as he left the camp in his wake, shouting that might have been men organizing a hunt. But with the sound of his own breathing and his footfalls he could not tell for certain. Later he might have heard horses, but again he could not be certain, and if they were riders, they were not at all close to him. He walked on, and the dark night closed around him, shielding him far better than the strongest shield wall could do.

  And he thought to himself, Now what?

  Chapter Twenty

  They [the heathens] were most troublesome to this land,

  & continued putting their cruelties in execution…

  The Annals of Clonmacnoise

  Airtre. That was the Irishman’s name, or so Failend told him. Airtre. Thorgrim worked on the name, like chewing on a gristly piece of meat.

  Thorgrim considered hitting this Airtre, this Irish jarl they had taken, harder than Louis had. He considered pulling his dagger and threatening him with worse than the laceration he already had on his arm. It was a threat he would follow through with, and gladly, if Airtre did not provide the answers he was looking for.

  He says he doesn’t know… Those were Failend’s words, the answer to his question about Harald’s whereabouts. He says he doesn’t know.

  Thorgrim was about to draw his knife and make his intentions clear, but the expression on his face, apparently, did that job for him. Failend was questioning the Irishman again, and more emphatically, even before Thorgrim could open his mouth.

  They went back and forth, jabbering in the strange speech of the Irish, and Louis, too, got a few questions in. The Irish jarl spit his answers out, his tone still defiant. But he was talking, and did not seem to be holding back.

  Finally Failend turned to Thorgrim. “He says Harald told him the leader of the Northmen was a man called Thorgrim. He says Harald told him that Thorgrim would join with them in sacking Ferns, and to make sure, they exchanged hostages. When he saw the Northmen with Bécc he thought he had been betrayed. He questioned Harald about it. Later that night Harald escaped the camp. He says Harald gave him the wound on his arm. He says there are burns on his stomach which were also Harald’s doing.”

  Thorgrim frowned, though a part of him wanted to smile, proud as he was of his boy. A few thoughts came immediately to mind. There were many different ways to “question” someone, and Thorgrim suspected that if Harald felt the need to escape, then Airtre’s questioning had not been the gentlest kind. And if Harald’s escape had involved enough violence to leave such a wound on Airtre’s arm, and burns on his stomach, however that had happened, then none of it was as benign as Airtre was trying to make it sound.

  There were two likely truths here. One was that Harald had escaped as Airtre described, fighting his way free of his captors, which meant he could not be too badly hurt. The second was that Airtre had in fact killed Harald, and was lying about his escaping. If that was true, Thorgrim knew he would find out soon, and then Airtre’s life could be immediately forfeit.

  “Tell this whore’s son we’ll find out the truth, quick enough,” Thorgrim said. “Tell him we still have his son as a hostage, and if we do not get Harald back we’ll kill his son, slowly, while he watches.”

  Failend translated. Airtre shook his head and spoke. “He begs you not to do that,” Failed said. But Thorgrim had been watching Airtre’s face as he spoke. The words might have been those of a father who feared for his son, but the Irishman’s reaction, or lack of it, told Thorgrim that what he already believed was true—the fool sent as hostage was not someone about whom Airtre was in the least concerned.

  Thorgrim stood and the others stood as well. Time to move again.

  They crossed back over the country they had traveled in the dark the night before. They could see the occasional rath, far off, sorry little farmsteads boasting a handful of cattle and fields just starting to show some enthusiastic growth. Trails of smoke rose up from some place behind the circular walls. They ignored them, and moved past. They could see small clusters of cows, but never another human.

  The sun was near the noon hour when they finally returned to the encampment that Thorgrim’s men shared with Bécc. The midday meal was cooking and that spawned sundry comments from Thorgrim’s band, who were famished now, having had only a little bread and cold beef since the day before.

  “Go, eat,” Thorgrim said. “Except for Failend,” he added, turning to the woman at his side. She had a weary look on her face, and her steps were growing clumsier with exhaustion, as were the others, but he needed her for a bit longer. “You must help me as I speak to Bécc. As we question this turd Airtre.”

  They crossed the flattened grass to Bécc’s large tent, Thorgrim all but pulling Airtre along with them. There was a guard at the door, and his eyes flickered over Airtre as they approached, and Thorgrim saw a bit of surprise on the man’s face. Failend spoke to him, then to Thorgrim.

  “The guard says Bécc is at midday prayers,” she said.

  “For all the praying he does, it’s a wonder he finds the time to feed himself,” Thorgrim said. But he knew there was nothing for it. Bécc would not be interrupted, and so they remained outside the tent and waited.

  It was not too long before the door to the tent was pulled back and Bécc stepped out, dressed in his long brown robe. His one good eye moved from Thorgrim to Airtre and back, and he betrayed no surprise at seeing Airtre there, though Thorgrim did not doubt he was surprised indeed. He nodded toward the door of his tent, then turned and led the way in.

  There was a twilight quality inside the tent, despite the bright but overcast day outside. Bécc had set up some sort of altar against the back wall, with two candles burning and various religious objects: a silver cross with the Christ God crucified on it, another silver device like a candle stick, but with a design like the sun at its top. Thorgrim recognized those thing
s, though he had no idea of their use. The cross with the crucified Christ, he guessed, was akin to the small statue of Thor he carried with him, a visual reminder of the god he worshiped.

  Bécc gestured to chairs in a loose array around a table. He spoke. Failend translated. “Brother Bécc asks, would it be all right if we remove Airtre’s bonds?”

  Thorgrim nodded. Before he sat he pulled his knife and with a quick motion cut the strips of cloth free that had been binding the Irishman’s hands since they had hauled him from his camp. Airtre rubbed the red welts on his wrists and squeezed his hands into fists to get the blood flowing again.

  They sat, Bécc and Thorgrim, Failend and Airtre. Bécc still did not look pleased. He spoke again.

  “Brother Bécc asks that you tell him how Airtre mac Domhnall comes to be with you,” Failend said.

  Why does she call him “brother?” Thorgrim wondered. He was sure they were not related. Certainly she would have mentioned it if they were. Maybe another one of these Christ man things. He would have to ask.

  “Tell Bécc this man is the leader of the enemy we’ve agreed to fight. He had my son, Harald, hostage. I went to get my son back. He wasn’t there, so I took this one instead.”

  Failend translated, but before Bécc could answer, Airtre spoke. Thorgrim looked over at the man. The surprise on his face was unmistakable.

  “Airtre says you are Thorgrim Night Wolf? And Harald is your son?” Failend said. Thorgrim glared at Airtre but did not respond. Instead he turned back to Bécc, waiting for his answer.

  Bécc spoke. “Brother Bécc asks why Airtre was holding your son hostage,” Failend said.

  “Because my son made an agreement with Airtre that we Northmen would help him sack Ferns. My son gave himself up as a hostage to seal the bargain. He didn’t know about the agreement I had with you.”