A Vengeful Wind: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 8)

by Nelson, James L.

  Bécc bent over and found the hem of Faílbe’s tunic and wiped the blade of the seax clean and slipped it back into his scabbard. He would need no explanation for the blood that covered his hands and sleeves: every man there was covered in blood, his own or his enemy’s.

  He grabbed Faílbe’s legs and dragged the man off the trail and into the high marsh grass until he felt he was sufficiently hidden. Not that he was terribly concerned about that, either. Even if Faílbe’s body was found, Bécc doubted that anyone would even think to be suspicious. Dead men were no surprise in the aftermath of a battle, even when found where one might not expect.

  That done, Bécc trudged back to the path that led to Beggerin, and only then did the thought occur to him, My Lord, what have I done?

  He had killed Faílbe mac Dúnlaing, struck him down where he stood. Murdered him.

  I did not mean to , Bécc said. Didn’t think to do it .

  He had not planned to do what he did. His hand had moved as if moving on its own. As if some other force had directed it. As if God himself had directed the arc of the seax.

  Bécc fell to his knees and then lay prostrate on the ground. He felt the tears flow from his one good eye. He begged the Lord to tell him why he had done what he had done.

  And then, from behind, from down on the beach, he heard the heathens cheering, a multitude of voices calling out in the barbarous language of the North. And Bécc knew.

  God had directed his hand because God needed Bécc to fulfill his mission. He needed the heathens driven from those shores. The God of old did not hesitate to lay waste to cities, to armies, to nations, when his Holy Name was profaned. And surely these days were as dark and perilous as any written of in the Old Testament. Surely these heathens were as great a threat to the True Faith as any Philistine or Pharaoh.

  Bécc got to his knees and then to his feet. God had given him his answer, though in truth he had known it all along. And God had given him this army, and the means to see His will done. And that was what Bécc would do, or he would die in the attempt. He began to make his way along the path once more, and he felt a renewed power in his step.

  Chapter Fourteen

  My sword was stained with gore,

  but the Odin of swords

  sword-swiped me too…

  The Saga of Gunnlaug Serpent-Tongue

  It was not entirely clear to Thorgrim Night Wolf just when the fight ended. The Irish had drawn back to the dunes lining the beach and it seemed there was fighting there, but by the time Thorgrim managed to make his way over the sand, it was done. The Irish were gone, and none of Thorgrim’s men had followed, at least not that he could see.

  He could hear no fighting anywhere, just the familiar sounds that followed a battle: the moans of the wounded, the laughter of men who had lived through the fight, the bitter sobs of Starri Deathless who had once again missed his chance to be visited by the Choosers of the Slain.

  Thorgrim and Louis de Roumois turned and walked back toward the nearest of the fires, still burning, though no longer the roaring blaze that had been visible from Loch Garman. Thorgrim’s men were gathering there, and Ketil’s men as well, some of whom Thorgrim recognized, some he did not.

  Off in the night he heard men cheer, a ragged cry. He had no idea why they were cheering. Perhaps because the Irish had been run off. But he himself did not feel much like cheering, because he knew that the tenuous peace he had with the Irish was now shattered, and his whole world had just become considerably more complicated.

  Thorgrim paused by the fire and looked left and right. He saw Harald, around the other side of the pit. There was blood on his face, but it was probably not his. He was smiling, talking to a knot of fellow warriors standing near the flames. Thorgrim was relieved to see the boy, but he had other concerns, and continued to glance around.

  “Failend,” Louis said, with a hint of a smile. “I saw her, over there.” He nodded off into the dark. “Not hurt.”

  Thorgrim grunted. “Good,” he said. Louis’s smile grew, just a bit, a knowing smile that Thorgrim found infuriating. He wished, once again, that he had killed Louis long before.

  Godi came looming out of the dark, an ax still held in his right hand, the pole with Thorgrim’s wolf-head banner in the left. He jammed the butt of the pole into the sand deep enough for it to stand on its own.

  “A half-dozen of our men wounded, as far as I can count,” he said as he wiped the edge of his ax on the hem of his tunic and thrust the handle into his belt. “Hallorm took a sword in the belly. He won’t be long for this life. The rest should mend if the rot doesn’t set in.”

  Thorgrim nodded, but before he could reply, another man emerged from the night, and this one Thorgrim did not know.

  “Jarl Thorgrim?” the man asked. “Thorgrim, the one they call Night Wolf?”

  “Yes,” Thorgrim said, his tone neutral. The man was a little taller than Thorgrim and maybe ten years younger. His hair hung long from under a steel helmet and his beard, just as long, was twisted into two braids that hung down over a mail shirt. There were a half-dozen silver arm rings on his right arm and a fair amount of blood clogging the links of the mail and drying there.

  “My name is Jorund. I was second to Ketil. I suppose.”

  “Was?” Thorgrim asked. “Where’s Ketil?”

  “Dead,” Jorund said. “Don’t know when he was killed, or who killed him.”

  “Wasn’t it the Irish?” Thorgrim asked.

  Jorund shrugged. “Might have been,” he said. “His body was down by the water.” He held up a small leather bag. “This is his purse, it was on his belt.” With no further comment Jorund tucked the purse into his own belt.

  “So you command here, now?” Thorgrim asked.

  Jorund looked left and right, as if searching for the answer. “I suppose,” he said. “I command that longship,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the four ships pulled up on the beach. “Next to last. The big one. Called Long Serpent . The ship beyond it is Oak Heart . We were sailing together and we joined up with Ketil and his men.”

  Thorgrim nodded. “Why?” he asked.

  “More men, the greater the places we might raid,” he said. “And we thought Ketil might be a lucky man.”

  “Was he?”

  Jorund shook his head. “Ketil was not a lucky man,” he said.

  Thorgrim nodded. From the bedraggled, shattered look of the men he had seen on the beach the day of their arrival, they did not look as if luck had been with them.

  “You didn’t come here to sack the monastery just over the marsh there?” Thorgrim asked. There were a number of things about which he had wondered, and now it seemed he would be able to get answers.

  “No,” Jorund said. “We came to repair our ships, tend to our wounded. We didn’t even know there was a monastery there.”

  “I see,” Thorgrim said. Not a lucky man.

  “We didn’t think there was any around here who would dare attack us like that,” Jorund went on. “Particularly at night. I don’t know who those men were.”

  “I do,” Thorgrim said. “Irish men-at-arms, from a monastery nearby.”

  “The one over the marsh?” Jorund asked.

  “No. Another. Called Ferns. About fifteen miles to the north.”

  Jorund shook his head, as if astounded at the number of things Ketil had not known.

  “They’re led by a man named Bécc,” Thorgrim went on. “One of these Christ priests, but he used to be a man-at-arms and he knows his business.”

  “He surely does,” Jorund said. “He’d have killed us all if you hadn’t come. Though only you and the gods know why you did, with the words Ketil spoke to you when you were here last. But anyway, you did come and fight, and we owe you our lives.”

  “You owe me nothing,” Thorgrim said. “I didn’t come for you. I came because I didn’t want Bécc to think he could kill Northmen and pay no price.”

  “Whatever the reason, you have my thanks. And that
of my men. Ketil’s men, too, I reckon.”

  More men were gathering around now, Thorgrim’s men and the others. Failend stood off by the edge of the fire. She had a torn bit of cloth wrapped around her left calf. Blood had soaked through the fabric, making a dark and irregular shape, but she did not seem much hurt beyond that.

  Thorgrim turned back to Jorund. “Where were you going, after you had repaired your ships here?” he asked.

  Jorund grunted. “Vík-ló,” he said. “We heard from some others that there were only a few folk left there, mostly just the ones you left behind. Ketil had a mind to go there and make that his own longphort. That’s why he wasn’t happy to see you. He had an idea to be a lord there.” He paused, then added, “Ketil was no lord. Didn’t have it in him to be lord of a pig sty. We were just figuring that out.”

  Thorgrim nodded, but his mind was elsewhere.

  Vík-ló…

  He had been thinking about Vík-ló, thinking about the longphort more and more over the past few weeks. They had fought hard to make it theirs, and spent a brutal winter working on the neglected defenses and the houses and halls within those walls. By the time they sailed away, Vík-ló was a small but substantial and well-found ship fort.

  And why had they left it? For no good reason, other than Thorgrim’s frustration with staying in one place, and the difficulty of keeping men such as those he commanded satisfied without the lure of raiding and plunder. The gods had told him to go, and so he went. But it was clear—had been clear for some time—that the gods did not intend for him to leave Ireland. He seemed no more able to leave that accursed island than a dead man was able to free himself from Niflheim.

  All this Thorgrim had been thinking about as he worked on Sea Hammer , shaping planks and caulking seams to make the ship ready to take to the water again. It was his destiny to stay in Ireland, he knew that now. But he and his men could not just sit idle in some port: men, like ships, would rot and molder away if they were not put to the task for which they were intended. But going a’viking did not mean they could not have a home to which they might return.

  Vík-ló. He had made it his home, seen it rebuilt to his own standards, just as he had seen that Sea Hammer and the other ships were repaired to his satisfaction, and he was a demanding overlord when it came to such things. So why not return to Vík-ló, make it his home once more, just as his farm in East Agder had once been his home?

  He had all but decided that very day, and if ever he had hoped the gods would give him a sign that he had decided well, then here it was. Ketil and his men, more men than Thorgrim commanded, had been on their way to take Vík-ló for themselves. But the gods had flung them up on the beach and sent the Irish after them, and seen to it that Ketil was struck down in the bargain.

  “This might have been better for Ketil, a quick and honorable death,” Thorgrim said. “You see, we’re bound for Vík-ló as well. I intend to take my place there once more.”

  He heard a muffled sound of surprise from Godi and saw Gudrid, who had also joined them, give a quizzical look, but both men knew better than to say anything. Thorgrim was glad that Starri was not there, as he would surely have voiced his surprise.

  “You…were bound for Vík-ló?” Jorund asked.

  “That’s right,” Thorgrim said. “We’ve been raiding along the coast, but now it’s time we returned. Once we’ve refitted properly and taken our rest at Vík-ló, then we’ll see what other places hold promise.”

  Jorund nodded. He seemed hesitant, and he looked around as if for support. A few men, Jorund’s men, Thorgrim imagined, were standing by him, and that seemed to inspire him to speak further.

  “Here’s the truth,” Jorund said. “Since you showed up the other day, there’s been a lot of talk here, among the men. My men and Ketil’s. Most weren’t happy that Ketil didn’t accept your offer to shift over to your longphort. Even Ketil’s men weren’t happy. ‘Cause Ketil, like I said, was not a lucky man. But Thorgrim Night Wolf…your name is known along this coast. You are known as a lucky man. And I think Ketil hated you for it.”

  “I see,” Thorgrim said, and thought, Me? A lucky man? He could not imagine how anyone would think that, but here it was. Before he could inquire further, Jorund was speaking again.

  “There were some here who thought we should join with you. Swear an oath to you. Of course Ketil threatened to kill any man who spoke that way. But he couldn’t stop them talking. And he might not have stopped them from doing it, if the Irish hadn’t come.”

  Godi took a step forward. “Doesn’t much matter now what Ketil wanted,” he said. “I suppose Jarl Thorgrim might accept your oath, if you were to ask.”

  Jorund nodded. “Ketil’s men have no leader,” Jorund said, “and I guess they would be happy to join you.”

  “And you?” Thorgrim asked. “You command the crews of two ships.”

  “I swore no oath to Ketil, and I don’t care to swear an oath to any man,” he said.

  Thorgrim nodded. He could appreciate that sentiment. He had sworn an oath to Jarl Ornolf once, and had been loyal to him for as long as Ornolf lived, but he would never swear an oath to another.

  “If you want to join with me, I’d welcome you. You need swear no oath. If you want to part ways any time, that’s your decision.”

  “I’d hoped you would say that,” Jorund said. He turned and called to his men, and they came over, shuffling toward the fire, wounded men, exhausted men, dispirited men. And with them came the remnants of Ottar’s men, those who had sailed with Ketil when they left Vík-ló with Ottar’s stiff, pale corpse aboard their ship.

  But not all of Ottar’s men had left. Many had stayed and sworn allegiance to Thorgrim, and some of those now greeted their old shipmates, or ignored those with whom they had quarreled. It was like the households of two brothers coming together after a long estrangement.

  “Listen to me,” Jorund said in a voice loud enough to carry to the edge of the firelight. “Jarl Thorgrim and I have been talking.”

  Jorund had the attention of every man whom Thorgrim could see, and he recounted to them the conversation they had just had, the talk of how some had wanted to shift over to the longphort, how Ketil had feared Thorgrim, how Thorgrim intended to return to Vík-ló, where he had been jarl before. He told them how he himself intended to join with Thorgrim, and how Thorgrim said he would take the oath of any man who wished to give it.

  It was a good talk, and mostly accurate, and Thorgrim could see nodding heads and determined looks on the faces of those who listened. When Jorund finished his speech he called out, “Who would join with Thorgrim Night Wolf?”

  They cheered. The men gathered around the dying fire cheered and raised weapons and yelled as loud as they could. Exhausted as they were, wounded as they were, they cheered because they were stuck on a foreign shore, and they were surrounded by enemies, and they had no agreement among them as to what they would do, or who would lead them, and now they saw an answer, they saw a path. It was Thorgrim Night Wolf, who, apparently, had a reputation as a lucky man.

  Thorgrim knew he should say something, but he could think of nothing so he just nodded as the men yelled.

  There it is, he thought. I have just doubled the men and ships under my command. And there was a great deal he could do with such an army, if Bécc did not return first to slaughter them all.

  Chapter Fifteen

  He minds him of hall-men, of treasure-giving,

  How in his youth his gold-friend

  Gave him to feast. Fallen all this Joy.

  The Wanderer

  Early Anglo-Saxon Poem

  A road ran north out of Somerton, an ancient road, rutted and uneven. Dry now, though in the winter and spring it was often a muddy quagmire. It had been built in ages past by the Romans, and Oswin imagined it had been a marvelous thing then, like all the marvels that the Romans had left in their wake.

  He imagined the road had been smooth and even and paved over in some fashion. Some parts
of the old road showed signs of that. But there was no one now who had the skill, wealth, or will to keep the roads up as they had been.

  The shire reeve’s gaze was resting absently on the long, straight stretch of the ancient way, which he could see from his place at the crest of the hill over which it climbed. His gloved hands rested on his saddle, the reins of his horse held loosely in his fingers. Behind him he could hear the restless sounds of the other mounts, four horses bearing four men, the best of his troops.

  For some time he had watched the small caravan approach. There were five wagons which, from a distance, appeared to be no more than dark points moving slowly along, drawing closer, always closer. They were still more than a mile and a half distant, and at the rate they were moving he wondered if they would reach him by nightfall.

  Heavy loaded… he thought. They moved slowly because they were bearing a considerable cargo. And that was good.

  Oswin had seen them for the first time an hour before, but he knew who they were and what they carried. He was the shire reeve. Nothing of any size or significance moved in Dorset without his knowing it.

  He wasn’t worried about anyone in the distant caravan seeing him and his men. They had been careful to position themselves near a stand of trees which would make them all but invisible from that distance. But they would have to move soon, and Oswin did not want them seen when they did, so he waited.

  The road, the ancient Roman road, ran mostly straight, jogging left or right only when it met some impassable obstruction, and even then it only altered course a little.

  How did they do that? Oswin wondered. He tried to picture the men who had staked out that road, and who had built it, and he wondered what sort of geniuses they must have been, what now-lost knowledge they held. But he could not imagine it.