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

by Nelson, James L.

  Thorgrim reached the near corner and rounded it and there, as he guessed, was the tall wooden gate, one hundred feet away. He closed the distance quickly, then stopped. They could climb the gate, but that would make it easier for any defenders on the far side to kill them piecemeal as they did. Better to open the gates and lead the attack as a solid line of men.

  “Starri!” Thorgrim called. “Go over the wall and…”

  That was as far as he got. Starri ran past him and charged for the gate and Thorgrim doubted he had even heard the words. He was going over that wall regardless of what he was told.

  Starri was stripped to the waist, as he generally was going into battle, and his two battle axes were tucked in his belt as he flung himself at the gate and his hands and toes caught what holds they could and he scrambled up.

  Good , Thorgrim thought. Starri would be enough to occupy anyone trying to defend the gate while other, more rational men, opened it up.

  “A few more, up and over and open the gate!” Thorgrim shouted. Godi and Harald raced ahead, as did Gudrid and a few others. Godi stopped and leaned against the wooden wall and linked his fingers and Harald put his foot in Godi’s hands. Effortlessly, Godi lifted Harald up until the boy’s hand could reach the top of the gate. Harald hoisted himself up and vaulted over, disappearing on the far side as Vali went next, and one of Jorund’s men behind him.

  Failend was last. Thorgrim had not even noticed her going forward, but now she put her foot in Godi’s hands and he lifted her aloft and, small as she was, she looked smaller still held in Godi’s massive hands. Godi seemed surprised as how light she was and he nearly tossed her right over the gate, but Failend caught herself and pulled herself up.

  But she did not go over. Instead she stood on the top of the gate, balanced there, then took a half dozen steps to the top of the wall. She stood there and drew an arrow from her quiver and knocked it and shot, the motion smooth and seamless and lovely, and Thorgrim did not doubt that some unseen defender on the other side of the gate was now writhing on the ground with an arrow jutting from some part of his body.

  Right in front he heard a creak, a loud groan, and the massive oak gate began to swing open, revealing the scene behind. Harald and Vali were pushing one of the doors, Gudrid and Jorund’s man the other, and behind them Starri Deathless was whirling his axes and screaming and shifting side to side, engaging five men at once, leaping easily over the three who already lay dead at his feet.

  The men who were fighting Starri, however, were not the only ones on that open ground in front of the church. There were more, many more, behind. Big men, bearded men, racing without hesitation toward the now-open gate.

  “Onward! Onward!” Thorgrim shouted. He raised Iron-tooth and raced forward and the men behind him raised a great cheer, like a physical thing, as they followed him through the gates.

  They rolled over the men whom Starri was fighting, cutting them down as they went, charged forward to meet the men behind, coming at them. They were not the men that Thorgrim had expected to see.

  A hundred at least, probably more. Most carried shields and most seemed to have swords, warriors’ weapons, and not the spears Thorgrim would expect to see wielded by farmers conscripted to fight. Some wore mail shirts and some wore helmets and they all wore tunics and leggings and not the long, brown robes of Christ priests. They were not fleeing from the screaming heathens as priests would have done, but rather charging at them, weapons ready for battle, meeting the heathens yell for yell.

  They were warriors, and all Thorgrim could think was, Where by the gods did these sons of whores come from?

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Within ‘twas full of wire-gold and jewels; a jealous warden,

  warrior trusty, the treasures held, lurked in his lair. Not light the task

  of entrance for any of earth-born men!

  Beowulf

  Thorgrim expected the warriors in the monastery to be swept away by the fierceness and suddenness of the Northmen’s attack, but they were not, and he was impressed. Instead they stopped in the headlong rush and tightened their line into something like a shieldwall and stood braced for the punch of men.

  The Northmen had lost what little cohesion they had, and Thorgrim cursed himself for his stupidity in letting that happen. He had not expected a fight. The Christ priests did not fight back, and he had never seen warriors in a monastery. But then, it had been two decades since he had last plundered a monastery in Engla-land.

  There is always an enemy, always an enemy , Thorgrim reminded himself. It was the stupidest of mistakes to assume there would be no one to fight back. It could be the last mistake.

  He reached the line that the English men-at-arms had formed. A spear thrust out at him from somewhere behind the shields and he batted it aside with his sword and thrust back, Iron-tooth meeting only the metal boss of an English shield. More of his men appeared on either side and without a word they overlapped shields and pushed forward, slamming into the Englishmen with no effect save for the clash of shields and the roar of angry men.

  Thorgrim could see them better now, the men in the shield wall against which they were pushing. He saw wild and unbound hair, he saw bare feet and men without leggings and some without tunics. He caught a glimpse of a warrior who had pulled his mail shirt over his bare flesh.

  We did surprise you, you bastards, Thorgrim thought as he thrust and hacked at the men in front. It was clear to him that these men defending the monastery had not been ready for them, had not been waiting to defend the place. They had been asleep when the bells had started to toll, they had leapt from their beds or wherever they were sleeping, grabbed up what they could and raced to the fight. They might well be suffering the effects of too much drink the night before.

  But for all that, they were trained men, experienced men. It did not take long to realize that. They stood with courage and discipline and pushed back against the Northmen, who greatly outnumbered them, who would soon run them over.

  Or not… Thorgrim thought. He had made the mistake once already of thinking there was no surprise waiting for them, and it might have been fatal. He would not do that again.

  He pushed hard against the shield ahead of him, slashing down again and again with Iron-tooth, forcing the men he faced to shy behind their shields to avoid the blows. Then, as the English braced for another stroke, he stepped back quick, stepped out of the shield wall and saw the men who had been on either side of him close the gap.

  Thorgrim did not like that, stepping back from the fighting, did not like it at all, but he knew that sometimes a leader had to do just that. His men could stand up to the English shield wall, beat it most likely, but not if the English had some surprise assault they were ready to launch.

  He moved back far enough that he could see most of the line of fighting men. The English were certainly outnumbered, that was clear, unless they had more men in hiding. Let these hundred or so get the raiders’ attention, and then hit them from another angle. It was what Bécc and done to him at Loch Garman, and he would not forget it.

  Thorgrim searched the far reaches of the monastery as best he could. He looked at the narrow places between buildings, and along the walls of the great stone church that took up the bulk of the space, but he could see no one, no mass of men waiting for their moment to launch an attack.

  Maybe this is it… Thorgrim thought. There might not be any surprise waiting. This might be all the warriors there were. If the English men-at-arms had expected an imminent attack from the sea they would not have been caught unprepared. And if they were unprepared, they probably had not had time to organize a surprise attack.

  Whatever reason these English warriors are here, it isn’t to fight us , Thorgrim thought next. Do they belong to the monastery? Do Christ priests have warriors?

  He raced off to his left. The shieldwall his men had formed was two and three men deep, a long line of shouting men, axes and swords rising and falling, and every once in a while a m
an staggering back from the line, blood streaming from a wounded head or arm, or spreading in a dark patch through the rent fabric of his tunic.

  “Spread out!” Thorgrim shouted to the men crowded there. “Shift to your left, shift to your left!” If they could extend their shieldwall farther than the English could, then they could wrap around the enemy’s line, start to squeeze in from two sides.

  The men heard him and they moved, shifting off to the left, extending the line. Thorgrim saw the English warriors shift as well, to keep in front of the Northmen, but they did not have the numbers and their line grew thinner, the shields farther apart as they moved. Thorgrim knew they could not spread out much more or they would collapse like a wall of reeds.

  And then a space opened up, just for a heartbeat, but long enough and wide enough for Thorgrim to get a look at the Christ temple beyond, and this time he did see something. Not warriors ready to join the fight, but something just as bad.

  He turned back to the shieldwall, where the men in back were jostling to get into the fight. He grabbed a man by the shoulder and pulled him back. It was Ulf, from his own ship, and Armod beside him.

  “Come with me!” Thorgrim shouted. He grabbed another man. That one he did not know, one of those who joined at Loch Garman. “With me!” Thorgrim shouted and the man nodded and Thorgrim grabbed two more as well. He waved Iron-tooth overhead and charged off. He saw Failend standing off to the side, an arrow knocked in her bowstring, looking for a target, and he waved to her to follow.

  They charged off to the left, flanking the two fighting shield walls, running clear of the fight, unnoticed, moving at an angle toward the stone wall and the big Christ temple. Once they were clear of the others Thorgrim got a better look at what he had seen: a wagon standing by the big doors at the front of the church, a horse in its traces, a stream of brown-cloaked priests emptying the place of anything the heathens might want to steal.

  Thorgrim and his band were halfway across the open ground when the priests saw them coming. One was standing at the back of the wagon, his arms full, and Thorgrim could see the glint of silver over the brown cloth of his sleeves. The man turned and looked right at Thorgrim and his mouth fell open and despite being a foot from the wagon he dropped his burden to the ground, turned and fled, his feet kicking the back of his long robe in an almost comical way.

  The others did the same, dropping whatever they had in their arms, turning and running, some back into the church, but most off to the far side, as directly away from the Northmen as they could.

  Save for one man. That one turned and threw his armload into the back of the wagon and raced for the seat in front. He practically leapt up in place, snatching up the reins as he did. He snapped the leather cords and yelled. The horse gave a surprised whinny, jumped a little, then started to run.

  Thorgrim could feel his breath coming fast, could feel his legs starting to tire. He wanted to tell the others to go on ahead, to stop the wagon, but he could not gasp out words, so instead he pointed and nodded and hoped it would be enough.

  And it was. Armod, young and quick, raced off past him, running as fast as he could, his legs reaching out in long, deer-like strides. The priest driving the wagon turned and looked back, then snapped the reins again as he saw Armod closing the distance. The horse ran fast but, incredibly, Armod ran faster still. The gap between Armod and the wagon was closing, and the gap between Armod and Thorgrim was opening up fast.

  Failend stepped up beside Thorgrim, an arrow on her bowstring. She raised the bow and drew back, just as Armod reached out and grabbed the back of the wagon and vaulted onto the bed. He staggered as the driver swerved in hope of knocking him off, which he nearly did, but Armod grabbed the wagon’s side as he fell and regained his balance.

  Failend lowered the bow. “I have no shot,” she said.

  Thorgrim smiled. She could have put her arrow right between the man’s shoulders, he was sure of it. She had shown considerable skill and little hesitation in dropping any of the many enemies they had encountered, but she was not willing to kill a priest.

  As Armod worked his way forward, horse and wagon raced off with surprising and alarming speed, rocking violently. Armod moved cautiously, one hand on the wagon’s side to steady his precarious footing. The wagon was nearly at the edge of the church and lost from sight when he reached out and grabbed the priest by the shoulder.

  The priest kept the reins in one hand as he reached back to fight Armod off with the other, but with his attention divided he was no match for the Northman. Armod grabbed up handfuls of the priest’s robe and yanked him up and threw him sideways. The priest flew from the wagon seat and hit the ground and rolled, a disorganized tumble of brown cloth and bearded face.

  The wagon disappeared around the corner of the church as the priest pulled himself to his knees and faced the rest of the Northmen coming at him. Ulf reached him first, drawing his sword and raising over his head as he closed the last few feet, and Thorgrim had just enough breath to shout, “No!”

  Ulf stopped and turned, sword still raised, as Thorgrim came stumbling up. “Worth more alive,” Thorgrim managed to gasp and Ulf nodded and sheathed his sword, happy with that explanation. But Thorgrim knew it was not the real reason he had spared the man. This priest had been brave while the others had fled. Thorgrim respected that. He could not bear to see the man cut down, no weapon in his hand, just because he had been the only one with courage.

  Before Thorgrim could say another thing the wagon reappeared around the corner of the church, now moving at a reasonable speed, the horse panting but calm, Armod holding the reins. He pulled to a stop and Thorgrim looked down into the wagon bed. Silver candlesticks and silver and gold chalices, silver plates and bowls and incensors, and some of those odd, bejeweled boxes in which the Christians kept the withered body parts of their dead leaders. In all a fortune that had nearly slipped away.

  The shouting behind had not died off, if anything it had grown louder. Thorgrim looked back toward the fight, shieldwall against shieldwall. The English, outnumbered as they were, were fighting like demons, not yielding a foot, countering the Northmen blow for blow. But they were paying a price for that bold stance. Thorgrim could see dead men at their feet, the bleeding bodies of their comrades on which the living were stepping as they held the raiders back. And though he could not see from there, he had no doubt that many of his own men were wounded and dead, and in that chaotic fighting more would fall.

  “Come along, back to it,” Thorgrim said. They had managed to get behind the English line, and now they had a chance to hit the enemy in the back, in a way the English would not see coming. Thorgrim was only sorry there were so few of them, just him and Armod and Ulf and a few others. Even a dozen more could have done real damage.

  And then he looked back at the wagon.

  “Everyone in!” he shouted, leaping up onto the seat beside Armod, who seemed to have a knack for driving the thing. Ulf and Failend and the rest swarmed up into the bed and Thorgrim pointed at the fighting men. “There, Armod! Right into the English shield wall, roll them right up!”

  Armod nodded and snapped the reins and snapped them again and once more the skittish horse leapt ahead. Thorgrim braced himself. He heard a shout from behind and turned to see one of the men, the one whose name he did not know, tumble from the bed and lay sprawled on the ground. But like a sailor overboard in a storm, there was no going back for him.

  They were less than a hundred yards from the fighting, and the horse covered the distance fast. Thorgrim saw movement behind him, and then he saw Failend, standing and leaning against the wagon side. She had an arrow on her bowstring and as she braced against the movement of the wagon she drew back and let fly, then snatched another arrow as she did.

  Thorgrim looked ahead again. He had no doubt that Failend’s arrow had taken one of the English down, but in the growing pile of bodies he could not tell which one. They had halved the distance to the line and Thorgrim could see that Armod under
stood what he wanted—not to drive straight into the English, but to hit them at an angle, to run right up the length of their shieldwall.

  “Good!” he shouted. “At them!” He looked back over his shoulder. “Stand ready!” He recalled that Harald had done something very much like this, during the fight at Glendalough. It had worked very well then, and Thorgrim hoped it would again.

  They were twenty-five yards away when the closest of the English warriors saw them coming, then more men looking up with surprise on their faces. Thorgrim could see them backing away and in a few instances, their attention diverted, they were struck down by the swords and spears from the Northmen’s shieldwall against which they were pressed.

  Armod shouted and flicked the reins and the horse, which seemed to be once again in a full-on panic, ran harder still. Those men in the animal’s path could see that they would be run down by the crazed beast and the wagon it was pulling behind if they stayed where they were. They were blocked by the Northmen in one direction so they took the only course left to them: they turned and fled in the other.

  One by one, and then nearly all at once, the English broke and ran, not in any coordinated way but in a mad frenzy, fleeing the wagon and the Northmen who were close to overwhelming them. They flung shields aside as they stumbled and pushed their way clear of the wagon, and as the wagon passed, the Northmen took off in pursuit.

  The English were in full flight, and most kept running, though some stopped to face their enemy rather than take a sword or spear in the back. Thorgrim saw his men slamming the English with the fronts of their shields, sending them sprawling, or hitting them on the side of the head with the flats of their swords and axes and knocking them to the ground. He did not see his warriors cutting or killing men who were fleeing or giving up. He had reminded them of the value of hostages and slaves and his men had taken that to heart.