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

by James L. Nelson

  “I’ll take Vestar, he’s a quick one,” Starri said. “And I’ll take the Frank, Louis.”

  This surprised Thorgrim. “Louis? Really?”

  “Sure,” Starri said. “He’s quick as well, and he’s clever. And he speaks the language of these Irishmen, which could be handy.”

  “Yes, but he does not speak our language,” Thorgrim pointed out. “You can’t speak to him.”

  “Ah, you see, Night Wolf, that is the problem with being a lord such as yourself, on your high perch! You don’t speak to the lesser men. The Frank, he’s learning. He speaks our language like a child, to be sure, but he is learning and can make himself understood. Mostly.”

  Thorgrim nodded. Another surprise. He thought back to the last times he had spoken with Louis. The man had given some indication, once or twice, that he had picked up some of the Northmen’s tongue.

  Is that bastard holding out on me, acting as if he doesn’t understand my words? Thorgrim wondered. Maybe. He would have to be aware of that in the future, take care with what he said around the man.

  “All right,” Thorgrim said. “Vestar and Louis. Off you go.”

  Starri nodded. He was smiling. He darted away to round up his tiny, personal army and lead them forth. Thorgrim sat and accepted a skin of water from Failend and a hunk of barley bread. As he ate he became aware of the great weariness in his legs. In all of him, really.

  He watched Starri and Louis and Vestar racing off at a near run along the river. Thorgrim gave the men a bit more time to rest, then called them to their feet again. He told Failend to fetch the lord of the rath, who had been straggling near the end of the line and seemed to be having the hardest time of any keeping up. But of course he was also the least motivated of any.

  “Ask him how far we are from Ferns,” Thorgrim said. Failend translated, listened, translated the reply.

  “He says he thinks about five miles or so, but he begs to tell you he is not certain and begs you will not blame him if he is wrong.”

  Thorgrim grunted. “Very well, tell him he’ll suffer no harm. As long as this is indeed the Bann, and it is leading us to Ferns.”

  The column moved out once more, tight bunched at first and then spreading out as they followed the stream. Sometimes they could keep close to the river bank and sometimes they had to swing to the south to make their way around a stand of trees or some low, marshy area, but always the widening stream was off on their right.

  They passed a few ringforts, wispy columns of smoke rising from unseen fires behind the walls, but no people to be seen. There was no way to hide one hundred men moving across country in daylight. The Northmen would have been seen from some distance away, and any people in their path would have fled at the sight of them. They would not have known if the army was heathen or Irish—indeed it was far more likely to be Irish—but it did not matter. Men-at-arms meant trouble, regardless of whom they were ostensibly fighting for.

  The day was getting on when Vestar returned, coming around a stand of trees just as Thorgrim and Failend and Godi, at the head of the column, were coming around the other way. Vestar was red-faced and breathing hard, his hair, skin and tunic soaked with sweat.

  “About two miles beyond here,” he said when his breathing settled. “We could see the monastery in the distance, on the far side of the river. I think we can ford it there. Another two miles beyond.”

  “Good,” Thorgrim said. “Good. Did you see Bécc’s men-at-arms? Anything going on?”

  Vestar shook his head. “Me and Louis could see nothing much, beyond the buildings, far off. Starri said he could see people working in the fields. But no men-at-arms. No horses. Nothing like that.”

  “Good,” Thorgrim said again. He guessed that anyone in any of the ringforts they had passed would be too concerned with getting out of the army’s way to worry about warning the monastery. He thought of Bécc, somewhere to the east of them, back in the direction from which they had come, wandering with his men-at-arms all over the country trying to find the elusive heathens. At least he hoped that was where Bécc was.

  “Let’s press on,” Thorgrim said.

  Vestar was right. Two miles from where he had intercepted them, on the north side of the Bann,Thorgrim could see the spire of the church, the hump of ground that was, he knew, the circular enclosure around the monastic grounds. He had never seen Ferns from this side, but he recognized it readily enough.

  Starri Deathless and Louis the Frank were seated on a rotting log and they stood as Thorgrim came into sight. “There, Night Wolf!” Starri said eagerly. There was that look in his eye, and he spit his words out in the way he did when he was growing excited about some pending action. “The monastery. It’s like some ripe fruit. Just waiting to be picked.”

  Thorgrim looked back at the line of men, slumping where they stood. He looked back at Starri. “Yes, and it will still be hanging there in the morning,” he said.

  Starri frowned. “We’re not going to move on the place now?”

  “No,” Thorgrim said. “In the morning. We’ll move up in the dark, get over the wall at first light. When they are least ready.”

  Starri’s frown deepened. He looked around, first to his left, then to his right, as if looking for an argument, but seemed to find none.

  “Whatever you say, Night Wolf,” Starri said at last. “You are the one blessed by the gods.”

  Starri did not sound convinced, but Thorgrim knew his decision was right. The men were tired. They had walked a long way with little rest, food or water. A night spent watching Ferns from a distance would give them more reassurance that the place was undefended. Starri might be disappointed, but the others would not be.

  After all, we’re not all berserkers, Thorgrim thought.

  Louis de Roumois felt someone shaking him to wake him up, but he was not actually asleep. His eyes were closed and he was lying on his side, but he was, in truth, wide awake, his mind tumbling along like a dried leaf in the wind.

  It was the night before combat, the hours before battle. How much of a battle it might be, Louis did not know. They had seen no men-at-arms and no sign of them, no tents, no horses, no columns of smoke from cooking fires. Thorgrim and the heathens might well breach the walls of Ferns and find no resistance whatsoever. It was what Thorgrim hoped, he knew that, and the man had reason to hope as much.

  And that, to Louis, was the problem. Tomorrow he would do something he had never done before. He would willingly take part in sacking an Irish monastery. He would take up arms at the side of heathens and with them lay waste to a Christian church. All his adult life he had been fighting the Northmen, and now he would stand shoulder to shoulder with them.

  He had explained it to Failend, how he felt no loyalty to any of them—Irish, heathens, Franks—how he wanted nothing but to get back to Roumois and make his brother pay for his treachery. And he meant it. It was how he felt. But feeling that way while talking to a woman beside a fire in camp was one thing. Believing those words when you had to raise a sword against fellow Christians was another.

  So Louis was not sleeping when he felt the shake on his shoulder. He opened his eyes. It was still fully dark, and Louis wondered if it was time to move up toward the walls at Ferns. But he wasn’t sure. It did not seem as if he had been lying there long enough for it to be time to move.

  He rolled over and in the dim light he could see the thin, wiry form of Starri Deathless standing over him, jostling him with his foot. Starri was an odd one, as odd as they came. The others had all harbored a deep resentment about Louis’s escaping from them near Glendalough. It had taken them some time to come around to accept him, to the extent that they did. Louis could sense the conflict in Thorgrim, and in Godi, and to a lesser extent in Harald.

  But not Starri. Starri did not seem to care at all. Louis was not even certain Starri understood why the others were all so wary of him.

  “Louis,” Starri said in a harsh whisper. He pointed out into the dark, not toward Ferns, but i
n the direction from which they had come. “Us…look…men,” he said.

  That was how Starri talked to Louis, like he was talking to a child, or someone extremely dim-witted. Louis found it irritating, but at the same time he had to admit his command of the Norse tongue did not allow for more sophisticated intercourse. About half the time he understood what Starri was getting at. At least, he thought he did.

  Now Louis nodded. Starri was suggesting they do some more scouting, make certain there was no one sneaking up on them from the east, Bécc’s army or scouts that Bécc had sent out. At least, that was what he thought Starri was suggesting. Either way, it sounded better than lying there and letting his guilt consume him.

  He kicked off the blanket that covered him and climbed to his feet. He picked up his belt with his sword and dagger suspended from it and strapped it around his waist. Starri was moving restlessly from one foot to another when Louis nodded and they headed out into the dark.

  They moved quickly, jogging at an easy pace through the knee-high grass, heading mostly east, back the way they had come. Starri was fast and seemingly tireless, but Louis was young and naturally athletic and had no problem in keeping up with the Norseman.

  To the north they could hear the tumbling water of the Bann and Starri headed off in that direction, leading the way up a low hill before they reached the water’s edge. There he stopped and Louis stopped and they surveyed the country around them.

  There was a bit of a moon, but not much, and most of what lay below them was lost in darkness. Starri pointed to the river, sweeping his hand upstream.

  “Boat?” he said, and shrugged. Louis guessed he was referring to the boat they had seen earlier, the one they had hoped would come down to them but did not. Louis shrugged. Starri nodded.

  They turned to continue on when Louis stopped and put a hand on Starri’s arm. Louis tilted his head back, drew in a long breath through his nose. He could smell the remains of a fire. Not the warm smell of burning wood or peat, but the acrid smell of a fire that has been extinguished, or let to burn down to nearly nothing.

  Louis pointed to his nose and Starri nodded. He smelled it as well. Starri pointed to a place a little ways upriver, to the place from which he thought the smell was coming, and Louis nodded. Then together they moved down the far side of the hill.

  When they got to the low ground beyond the hill they slowed, moving stealthily. This sort of thing, this scouting, was the perfect sort of work for Louis and Starri Deathless. The language barrier was little problem, because the work required silence. It needed two men who understood one another without words, who could communicate through gestures and anticipate the other’s reactions. And much to Louis’s surprise, he found that his mind and that of the heathen madman seemed to be well in tune with one another.

  He was not entirely comfortable with that realization.

  The smell of the smoldering fire grew stronger as they closed with the river and then followed along the bank, and they knew they were heading in the right direction. The fire might belong to the men in the boat they had seen, or it might not. Either way it meant there were men in the rear of Thorgrim’s army, and if they were a threat they had to be found out and eliminated.

  Starri was two steps ahead of Louis when he stopped and held up a hand. Louis was half a step from colliding with Starri like some drunken fool when he saw him and stopped as well. Louis stepped up to Starri’s side, and Starri, staring ahead into the dark, pointed just a bit off to the left. There was a patch of brush by the river, or what Louis guessed was a patch of brush, a darker shape against a dark background. A place where men might hide themselves for the night.

  The two of them, Louis and Starri, stood absolutely still and let the sounds and smells of the night envelop them. The tangy odor of the fire was strong, and with it Louis could catch the faint smell of men. He heard the tumbling of the water and the occasional trill of an insect and the breeze rustling the leaves. And something else. Breathing. Snoring. He was sure of it.

  He turned to Starri and nodded and Starri nodded as well. They both drew daggers from their sheathes and crouched low, Louis moving off to the left, Starri off to the right. This was the moment when words were completely useless, and only a mutual understanding, a shared instinct, would keep their actions coordinated. But Louis had no doubt that he and Starri were working as one now.

  Louis reached the edge of the brush—it was indeed brush, as he had guessed—and paused. The snoring was louder and seemingly undisturbed. If these were men-at-arms, or anyone with any sense, they would have posted a watchman, and Louis knew he had to assume they did. He moved forward a foot, two feet, pushing the brush gently aside as he did. He had no idea what was on the far side of the bracken, if it was a couple of traveling merchants or a dozen men, armed and ready to fight.

  Another step, and another, and then he could see through the brush and clear to the bank of the river, twenty feet off. A few bright orange spots marked where the last embers of the fire were dying away, and the sleeping men appeared as dark heaps strewn randomly about. Louis saw four or five, no more. He could see no watchman, which meant either there was none, or the man was smart enough to keep himself hidden.

  Off to his right Louis saw a flicker of movement, like a shadow sweeping over the ground, and he knew Starri was coming out of the brush. He, too, stepped forward, easing the branches away from him so they would make no sound. He kept low, carefully planting each foot, listening for any sound that he might make, or the sleeping men might make, or the cry of a watchman hidden in the dark. Nothing.

  He moved toward the nearest man, dagger in hand, wondering as he did what he would do when he reached him. Not kill him, at least not kill him in his sleep, of that he was certain. They were there to find out who these men were, if they were any threat to Thorgrim’s army.

  Suddenly there was a muffled cry on the far side of the fire pit and Louis saw one of the sleeping men struggling to stand and another figure, swift as a cat, leaping for him. The man in front of Louis sat up, spun around just in time to see Louis take two steps up and kick him in the side of the head. Louis felt the impact right up to his chest as the man tumbled sideways.

  Louis spun around, knife held low and in front. Two more men were coming up from the ground, but Louis could see no weapons, no shield, nothing more than dark shapes against a darker background. He moved forward, hoping to knock the next man down, ready to kill him if need be.

  And then a voice called out in the dark, loud, excited but not frightened. Whoever called spoke in Norse, not Irish, and though Louis could barely understand, he thought the man said, “Don’t kill them!”

  Then everything seemed to pause, as if the world was holding its breath. And Starri Deathless, no more than a shape to Louis a dozen yards away, called, “Harald Broadarm?”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Alas, o holy Patrick

  That your prayers did not protect it

  When the foreigners with their axes

  Were smiting your oratory!

  Annals of Ulster

  Thorgrim Night Wolf did not sleep and he did not try. Not really. As the sun set he lay down with Failend beside him under their blanket and he closed his eyes, but he was as awake as he ever could be, the thoughts coming and going like surf in his mind. Finally he stood, and wandered off, away from the camp, and looked out into the dark.

  It was not the black mood. He knew that. His mind was sharp and his temper even. It was something else, some disquiet. It was as if he could hear someone shouting a warning, but from far off, the words not really discernable.

  The gods have shown you favor, he said to himself. And that was true. The escape from the gully, the ringfort, their march to the Bann well ahead of any pursuit from Bécc, that had all played out just as Thorgrim had hoped.

  There it is, Thorgrim thought. There’s the problem. It made him nervous when things were going well. And he knew from long experience that there was good reason for that.


  He walked slowly, the River Bann on his right-hand side. He and his men had advanced along the river bank until the monastery was in sight on the other side of the stream, and then Thorgrim had led them back half a mile, far enough away from the walls and towers of Ferns that they would not be seen. Now Thorgrim was retracing those steps. He did not think he would get within sight of Ferns, and he knew he would never be able to see anything of worth in the dark even if he did. He was just walking.

  We saw no sign of Bécc and his army, Thorgrim reminded himself. They are to the east of us, wandering around, searching for us like sheepherders looking for a wayward flock. It was his silent response to the man who was calling the warning from far off.

  And if he is not, it makes no difference, he thought next. Thorgrim Night Wolf did not mind fighting. He just didn’t care for surprises.

  Finally he stopped. He looked out into the dark. He listened to the rolling water, the trill of insects. He looked down at the ground, the soft earth just visible at his feet. Will I be buried in this earth? he wondered. When my body rots away, will it be in Irish soil? There was a time, a year or so ago, when he would have said emphatically no. But now he was not so sure.

  Whether he did or not, he knew at least that it was not his choice, and he felt some small relief to understand that such a burden rested on the shoulders of the gods, and not his.

  He turned and began walking back the way he had come. The night was well on by then. How long until the sky began to grow light Thorgrim did not know and had no way to know, but he felt in his bones that it would not be long. He sensed that now was the moment to get the men up and armed and moving toward the monastery, ready to break over it like a storm-driven wave when there was finally light enough to see.