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

by Nelson, James L.

  Thorgrim saw the men at the center of the Irish line pause as Starri charged and the line fell out of order. A spear flew from over the shields, straight and true at Starri’s chest, but Starri batted it aside with an ax as if he were playing some game, and then he was on them, axes swirling so fast they seemed like little more than dark blurs in the rain.

  The blade of one ax embedded itself in an Irish shield and Starri yanked down, pulling the shield away, revealing the surprised soldier behind it, surprised for just an instant, and then the second ax was down on his helmet, cleaving the iron plate in two and continuing on.

  The Irishman fell, probably dead on his feet, and Starri jerked the ax free but the helmet was still embedded on the blade. He swung it sideways like a club, hit the man next to the dead man in the side of the head, sent him staggering into the next in line. The shield wall was just starting to come apart when Thorgrim’s men slammed into it, head-on.

  With a grunt Thorgrim felt his shield hit that of the man in front of him and his forward momentum stopped. Down the line he heard the familiar sound of shield slamming shield, the shouting, the clang of weapons, the nearly pointless orders called out over the din. He pushed against the man in front, felt his feet sliding on the slick ground. He looked over his shield as the big Irishman facing him raised a sword and thrust it right at Thorgrim’s face.

  The move was no surprise. Thorgrim leaned to one side and the blade slid past. He knocked it aside with his mail-clad arm, then straightened the arm as he thrust Iron-tooth back at the man. The tip hit the Irishman’s helmet with a clanging sound and glanced off and Thorgrim jerked his arm back.

  Thorgrim had no sense for time passing—moments, hours—it might have been either. The rain beat down and blinded him and soaked him and the dirt was churned to mud as the two lines pushed against one another to no effect. The weapons rose and fell, thrust and block and counter-thrust. The shouting and the noise seemed to be coming from some other place, close but not very close.

  And then something did change. The noise. The shouting. Now it was coming from some certain place, and that place was behind them. Thorgrim chanced a quick glance over his shoulder. It was the farmers, those who had survived the barricades. Rallied by some experienced man-at-arms, inspired or threatened to plunge back into the fighting, they were massed and rolling forward. A disorganized mob, but they had shields and spears and they were shouting their blood lust as they charged right for the backs of Thorgrim’s men, who were now caught between them and the men-at-arms.

  Thorgrim pressed his lips together. He had to do something, but he genuinely did not know what.

  Fight… That was all that came to mind. Fight, die, there in that makeshift longphort. Because sometimes that was the only choice.

  He slashed at the man-at-arms in front of him, the one with whom he had been exchanging blows for more time than he could remember, though he knew it must have been moments, no more. He stepped back, calling for the others to do the same, hoping they would see his move and follow. They could not just let the farmers drive spear points into their unprotected backs. Perhaps half his line could fight the men-at-arms, half the farmers, but he had no way of organizing that.

  He held his shield up, half turned to see the men from the barricade racing toward them, screaming now, spears held low like lances. He saw his own men doing as he was doing, trying to fight both sides at once, trying to gauge which was the biggest threat, and how they could avoid being crushed between these two Irish lines.

  Through the driving rain, across the open ground, he saw Harald, standing like a tree-trunk, shield in front, his grandfather’s sword, Oak Cleaver, held level with the ground. He was shouting something, but Thorgrim could not hear it. The Irish spearmen from the gate were charging the backs of his men, too, while the men-at-arms in the shield wall were pushing forward, hitting Harald’s line again and again, like waves pounding a beach.

  And then the Northmen did the one thing Thorgrim had not even considered they might do. They broke and ran.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Woe for that man who in harm and hatred hales his soul

  to fiery embraces — nor favor nor change awaits he ever.

  Beowulf

  Harald Thorgrimson, known as Harald Broadarm, felt his feet slipping as he pushed against the Irish shield wall. He tried to dig his toes into the muddy ground for more grip, but it did no good. None of his considerable strength of arm and leg could be directed toward pushing his enemy. But neither was he himself being pushed, so he knew the Irish were having difficulty, too.

  What now, what now? he thought even as he thrust Oak Cleaver at the man-at-arms he could only glimpse between the gaps in the shield wall. How to end this?

  This shield wall was his to command, his and Godi’s really, and the new men, Halldor and Hrapp, who also ended up with them. It was a little unsettled, actually, this question of who among them was in command. But that uncertainty did not much matter to Harald, who was not really one for nuance anyway.

  Son of Thorgrim Night Wolf, he would assume a leader’s place because he was born to it, and his father would expect it, and because the only thing on earth he really feared, other than elves and spirits and such, was disappointing his father.

  He and his men were pushing against the Irish shield wall, hacking and thrusting with swords and axes and spears. The Irish were pushing back, wielding weapons as furiously and as skillfully as were the Northmen. Neither was gaining, neither was staring at defeat. But the Northmen were outnumbered, and Harald knew that might soon make a difference.

  His mind was tumbling over how to change things up, how to gain an advantage. He was trying to think clearly, but it was hard, with the shouting and the clash of weapons and the need to fight and the rain pouring down like he had never seen before, even after two years and more in that remarkably rainy country. The water ran down his face, cascaded into his eyes. He blinked furiously, but it did little good.

  And then something changed. There was a new layer of sound, a new surge of human voices. Harald looked back over his shoulder, the quickest of glances, but long enough to see the spearmen from the barricades formed up and charging him and his men from behind, spears leveled, shields up.

  He had forgotten all about them. Not the most formidable enemy, but an enemy nonetheless, quite capable of driving an iron spear point into the Northmen’s backs, and he had quite forgotten they were there.

  Oh, by the gods… he thought. They had to turn and face this new onslaught, but if they did, the men-at-arms would cut them down. He did not know what to do. He secretly wished that Godi would take charge, would give some order that would get them out of this intractable mess, and then he felt a flush of guilt for thinking such a thing.

  He stepped back, holding his shield at arm’s length to ward off any attack from in front, turned sideways so he could see this new threat. A spear point came sailing over the iron rim of the shield and Harald instinctively leaned back as the shaft flew past, inches from his face and he knew he could not turn his eyes away for much longer.

  “Watch your backs! The spearmen! Watch your backs!” he shouted, but he could think of nothing more constructive to say, no firm orders he might give. And if he tried, no one would hear him anyway. He did not know if his warning had even been heard.

  But apparently it had, or perhaps the others in the line had heard, as he had, the shouting from behind. He could see men half turning to the new threat, fighting, twisting, unsure what to do. Godi was bellowing something, but Harald could not make out the words.

  I’ll charge at them , Harald thought. I’ll run right at these bastards and see if the others follow . Maybe scare the spearmen, maybe put some distance between his men and the shield wall, win them a moment to fight clear. It was the best he could come up with.

  And then it was over. It was as if some signal had sounded. One moment the Northmen were fighting for any advantage against the Irish shield wall, bracing for this
new attack from behind, and then the next they were in flight, racing away over the muddy ground, leaving the Irishmen watching in surprise as they fled for the ships, floating and tethered to the beach.

  “No! You bastards! No!” Harald shouted, but there would be no turning the men back now. He had seen routs before, seen them from both sides, and he knew once men started running there was no stopping them.

  He looked to his right. Godi was there, like some giant of legend, shouting and wielding his ax and slamming men sideways with his shield. The Northmen were streaming around him. Some were tossing weapons aside as they ran.

  The Irish shield wall was still more or less intact—they had not had time to react to the collapse of the Northmen’s line—but Godi was battering his section of the wall. But he could not keep that up long. Soon the spearmen would be on him, and the men in the shield wall would envelope him and even the mighty Godi would go down under their combined weapons.

  “Godi!” Harald shouted. “Godi, we must go!” He looked off to his left, toward the other fighting men. Like his, Thorgrim’s men had fled for the ships, leaving only the startled Irishmen in their wake. He looked for his father but could not see him, lost in the chaotic press of men.

  “Godi!” Harald shouted again, but they had waited too long. The spearmen were on them now, a hoard like stampeding animals racing forward, spears leveled. It was too late to turn and run. He would get a spear in the back if he did that. So instead he stood, feet as firm as he could make them in the soft earth, and raised his shield and sword.

  It was like standing on the edge of the sea and waiting for a cresting wave to break over him. The Irish rushed on, mouths open, screaming in triumph and something else. Madness. They were blinded by the sight of an enemy in flight, driven by their vision of an easy slaughter.

  The first spear reached out toward Harald as its bearer rushed forward, but the man did not seem even to be trying, as if he expected Harald to just stand still and be skewered. Harald, however, had a different vision. He batted the spear aside with his shield and as the startled Irishman took another step forward he thrust Oak Cleaver right through the man’s throat, then jerked it free before it became stuck there.

  The Irishman made no more than a gurgling sound and his momentum carried him right past where Harald stood, spraying blood as he stumbled. Harald did not see him hit the ground as he was already bracing for the next man who was also charging at him with a blind insanity.

  This time Harald took the point of the spear right on the face of the shield, which stopped the weapon dead, but not the man holding it. He careened forward and slammed into the shield with a blow that visibly jarred him. Harald pushed hard, pushed the man back so there was space enough to use his sword, and then he did just that, driving the tip right into the spearman’s gut. He wore no mail—he was no man-at-arms—and the sword went in and out with the slightest of effort.

  And then Harald was alone. All of the other spearmen had raced past in their headlong pursuit of the fleeing Northmen. Where a moment before there had been a great crowd of armed men, now there was only the familiar dirt walls of the longphort and new made barricades and the smashed gate and a great litter of dead and wounded men.

  He looked to his right. Godi was still standing in the same spot, three dead spearmen at his feet, a confused look on his face. The Irish shield wall was gone now, the men-at-arms having followed the spearmen off in their rush to get at their fleeing enemy.

  Harald looked to his left. Men racing for the ships, more dead and wounded. And his father, lying on the ground, half propped up, cradled in Failend’s arms, Louis de Roumois kneeling beside him.

  “No! Oh, no!” Harald shouted. “Godi, here!” He raced off across the open ground. He tossed his shield aside and slid Oak Cleaver into his scabbard as he ran. Failend was supporting Thorgrim as he sat up, his legs sprawled at odd angles, his head lolling back. She looked so tiny next to him.

  The rain had not eased, not a bit, but Harald did not notice it now, in his panic. There was something odd about his father, but he could not make it out until he had closed half the distance, and then he saw. There was a spear embedded in his gut and lying across his legs. Harald could see the red blood coming from the wound and joining the rainwater as it flowed to the ground.

  “Harald!” Failend cried, a note of desperation in her voice. Harald ran the last few feet and fell to his knees at his father’s side.

  “We didn’t know…what to do…” Louis said, his tone both worried and apologetic.

  Harald nodded, but his eyes were on his father, his mind whirling. Thorgrim groaned and rolled his head and Harald made himself look at the wound. It was not in Thorgrim’s stomach, which was good, but it was just to the side and it was deep, the spear point sunk in nearly to the socket.

  “Very well, very well…” Harald said. “We’ll…we’ll…”

  Then Godi was there, looming over them. He looked down at Thorgrim and frowned. “We’ll have to carry him,” he said. “The spear has got to go.”

  “Sure,” Failend said, “But we thought…”

  Godi did not let her go on. He reached down and wrapped a massive hand around the shaft of the spear and yanked it free. Thorgrim shouted and gasped and his eyes flew open, but the reaction gave Harald hope. There was still life in his father; it had not all washed out with the blood.

  “I’ll carry him,” Godi said. He straightened and looked toward the water and the others looked that way as well. They could see their fellow Northmen clambering up over the low sides of the ships. Many, but not all of them. The Irish had reached the water’s edge and now there was more fighting as the Northmen tried to climb aboard without being killed in the process. “We’ll have to cut our way through, and quick, or we’ll be left behind.”

  Harald and Louis stood and they helped Thorgrim to his feet and Harald was relieved to see that his father was able to help in that effort, that he still had strength in his legs.

  “Starri!” Godi roared, loud enough to be heard over the rain and the thunder and the shouting. Twenty feet away Starri Deathless was slumped on the ground. Harald had not seen him there, and now that he did he wondered if the berserker was at last dead.

  But he was not. At the sound of his name Starri looked up with a quizzical expression. He looked around as if he had come to in some strange land.

  “Thorgrim’s hurt!” Godi shouted. “We have to get to the ships!”

  Starri nodded and leapt to his feet, his two axes still in his hands. A gust of wind slammed into his side and made him stagger and the rain, blown sideways, lashed them all. Starri regained his balance and trotted over to where they stood.

  The storm, intense from the start, had turned into a gale and Harald had to speak loud to be heard even by those around him.

  “We’ll try to reach Sea Hammer !” Harald said. He knew his father would want to be aboard his own ship, and the men on Sea Hammer were not likely to leave without him.

  “Good!” Godi said. He had already discarded his shield, and now he thrust his ax in his belt. He leaned over and wrapped an arm around Thorgrim’s waist and stood with Thorgrim over his shoulder, as easy as if he were taking a lamb to be slaughtered.

  “You bastard, put me down, I’ll rip your lungs out!” Thorgrim yelled, and though his voice was weak, there was still force in it, and genuine anger, and Harald was happy to hear it.

  “Just stand fast, Father,” Harald said and realized that was a silly thing to say, but it was too late. Of course his father was not happy. It was not the most dignified way to board one’s ship, but it was also necessary. They would have to hack their way to the water’s edge, and they could not do that if they were supporting Thorgrim as well.

  Harald turned to Failend to tell her to retrieve Iron-tooth, but he saw that she already had the sword in hand, holding it by the grip as if she intended to put it to use, which he guessed she did. He felt a moment’s hesitation, unsure if his father would approve
of someone else, and a woman at that, wielding his sword. But he also knew of Thorgrim’s affection for Failend, and his respect, and guessed it would be all right.

  “Keep a good hold of that; don’t lose it,” he said to her, and then to all of them, “Let’s go!” He hurried off toward the water’s edge at a jog, Starri on one side, Louis on the other, Failend and Godi behind. Just five of them to fight their way through four hundred or more Irish warriors to get to their ship.

  But they had a few things at least in their favor. The Irish did not see them coming. They had their backs to Harald and the others as they fought with the men struggling to get to their ships. The other was that the fighting madness seemed to be building in Starri once again.

  Bécc’s men and the water’s edge were only a few hundred feet ahead of them when Starri could control himself no longer. He howled and burst into a run, axes held over his head. Even over the sound of the battle in the surf and the screaming of the building wind, Starri’s cry was both piercing and terrifying.

  The Irishmen closest to him turned at the sound and Harald saw their eyes go wide. They had seen Starri in battle already and they wanted no more. They began to back away but in the press of fighting men they could not go far, and in an instant Starri was on them, howling and slashing with his axes. A spear reached out, it’s black point aimed at Starri’s chest, but Starri snapped the shaft in two with a stoke of an ax. The spearman died with the remains of the weapon in his hand, and the man beside him went down as well.