Bersi held out his hand and Thorgrim took it and shook, then he grabbed Bersi’s shoulder. “Well done, Bersi. You timed that well.”
Bersi shook his head. “No, Night Wolf, I did not,” he said, and Thorgrim could hear anger and regret. “I could not get my men to move, not at first. There were many who wanted to let Lorcan kill the lot of you, all you Norwegians, before we joined in. It…it was not a good thing.”
“You convinced them. You led them into the fight.”
Bersi shrugged. “There was one who was the loudest in calling for his fellows to hang back from the battle. Him, I killed. Put my sword right through him. Then, I just went into the fight myself. I had no idea if the others would follow. But they did.”
“Good,” Thorgrim said. He took up the hem of his tunic and wiped the blood from Iron-tooth’s blade. “That is what a leader does. He leads.”
“I knew I could lead,” Bersi said. “I was just not so certain the rest would follow.”
The two men looked around at the ugly scene before them. The dead lay piled by the wall and the living were relieving them of weapons, mail, arm rings, broaches, anything of value. Some of the wounded men were able to tend to themselves, and some were being tended to by their fellow warriors. Some cried out, or thrashed in agony, or lay quiet as the life drained out of them.
“Well, it’s done,” Bersi said. “The fighting is done.”
Thorgrim felt himself recoil at the words. He could only think of how Ornolf would have laughed to hear them, and how the old man would have reminded Bersi that the gods were never done toying with men.
And then he heard the sound of steel clashing against steel.
It was back toward the river, back down the plank road up which they had come. It was the sound of fighting – two men, sword against sword, and the dull thump of sword hitting shield – unmistakable, but from where they stood they could not see who it was.
“Now what’s acting?” Bersi asked. “Who could that be?”
“I don’t know,” Thorgrim said, which was true, but he had an idea, and he felt suddenly sick with fear. He sheathed Iron-tooth and ran off toward the sound of the fighting, back toward the place where he and his men had stood in the shield wall against the Irish. He hurt in a dozen places, and each footfall was agony, he was limping, but he pressed on, and his mounting fear drove him faster.
He was aware of others with him; Bersi, no doubt, but others as well, drawn by the sound, but he did not turn to see who was there, because he was concerned only with what was ahead. A small rise in the plank road hid the far end and the river beyond from view, but as Thorgrim came up to the crest of that rise he could see the fighting men, fifty yards away, circling one another, sparring amidst the heaps of the dead that lay strewn around. Grimarr Giant. And Harald.
Thorgrim paused only long enough to register what was happening, then he raced forward again. He tried to watch the combat as he struggled to cover the distance, wanting to cry out, unsure if he should, afraid he might distract Harald when his son’s very life depended on his concentrating on Grimarr’s moves, his sword and shield. Harald was stepping off to his right, circling, and Grimarr was following him around, both just beyond the reach of the other’s weapons.
Harald was tensed, sword held ready, crouching slightly. Grimarr was more erect, his sword held easy at his side. He did not seem overly worried about Harald, or in the least unsure of how the fight would end.
Thorgrim was twenty yards away when Harald made his attack, stepping in quick, distracting Grimarr with a swing of his shield and then coming at the Dane with his sword held high and aimed for the throat. Grimarr ignored the shield, which swept past him, and knocked Harald’s blade aside. It was no more than a flick of his wrist, but the force of the parry threw Harald off balance. Harald stumbled, arms out, and there was nothing but air between his chest and the point of Grimarr’s sword.
But Grimarr did not strike. He stepped back and once again let his sword drop to his side. He was toying with Harald, the cat playing with the mouse.
Harald recovered and came quickly back to his defensive posture. Thorgrim could see the fury and concentration on his face, and he knew that it was not good. Harald could not tolerate being toyed with, he could not stand the idea that anyone would not take him seriously as an adversary in combat. Such a thing would make him mad beyond words, and men who were that mad were men who made mistakes and died.
The two men continued to circle and now Harald’s back was to Thorgrim; Thorgrim could see Grimarr’s face and he saw that the man was smiling. It was a look of pleasure not happiness, but that, too, was bound to drive Harald’s fury.
Fifteen yards away Thorgrim drew to a stop. Grimarr looked up and saw him at last, and as Grimarr shifted his eyes from Harald to Thorgrim, Harald attacked. It was a good move, swift and perfectly timed, Harald leaping forward two feet, using his momentum to drive the point of his sword right at Grimarr’s face. And Grimarr’s eyes never left Thorgrim’s as he swatted Harald’s blade aside with his shield, made a quick slash at Harald’s head and kicked the boy to the ground.
“Thorgrim!” Grimarr shouted. “I told you I would kill your boy, like you killed mine! I grieved that I could not kill him before your eyes, but the gods have chosen to give me this gift. So watch as I spill this little bastard’s blood and then rip his heart from his chest.”
By the time Grimarr was done talking, Harald had regained his feet and had sword and shield at the ready. He was breathing hard and Grimarr had opened up a wound on his head that was starting to bleed, sending bright lines of blood down his forehead and into his eyes, which he was forced to wipe away.
Thorgrim felt like he was under water, trying to think clearly, struggling to keep the panic at bay. Harald was a good fighter - not as good as he thought he was, but better than most. Still, he was no match for Grimarr’s strength and experience. The wound Grimarr had just delivered to Harald’s scalp, making the blood run into his eyes, had not been just a lucky stroke.
Thorgrim took a step forward and Grimarr smiled broader. “Yes, come on, Thorgrim! Come rescue your boy! Fight his fight for him! See if you can get your sword out before I kill him!”
Harald attacked again, feigning high, going low, hoping to deliver a wound to Grimarr’s legs that would cripple him, or slow him at least. Grimarr swung his shield down and knocked the blade aside with its rim, then stepped up and hit Harald hard on the side of the head with the hand that gripped his sword. Harald was not wearing a helmet – he never did unless directly ordered to do so – and the blow sent him sprawling once again.
“Come on, Thorgrim!” Grimarr taunted. “I’m making sport of the boy now! Do you think you can draw your sword and come at me before I kill him? I beg you to try!”
Harald was back on his feet. He swiped the blood from his eyes and glared at Grimarr. “This is my fight, father!” he shouted. “I’ll kill this bastard myself!” Grimarr laughed, loud and raucous. And Thorgrim, a man who did not generally wrestle long with indecision, did not know what to do.
You son of a bitch, you son of a bitch, the words rolled around in his head as he fought with this question even as his son fought for his life. Grimarr was in complete control of the fight. For all Harald’s skill, Thorgrim did not doubt the Dane could kill him at any moment. Harald might be dead before Iron-tooth cleared its scabbard.
And there was more. Harald was no longer a boy. If Thorgrim stepped in and saved him, Harald would bitterly resent it. Given the choice, at that moment, of dying with his sword in his hand or being rescued by his father, Thorgrim had no doubt which Harald would choose.
To die with a sword in your hand… That was the Norseman’s greatest hope. Starri Deathless dreamed of nothing else. And for Thorgrim, so beaten down by the considerations of Midgard, the earthly realm, there was little that gave him more hope than the thought of a life in Odin’s hall with Harald at his side. Sure, he had never thought Harald would precede him to that place,
but if he did, what did it matter?
And what if Thorgrim stepped in and Harald was killed anyway? How would the Choosers of the Slain look on such a death?
“Very well, you cowardly dog,” Grimarr roared, “I’ll kill this boy first and then I will kill you!” He advanced on Harald, made a jab with his sword, not a serious effort, but it forced Harald to block with his shield and step back. Grimarr pressed the attack, driving him back again, and then again. Thorgrim felt his hands clench, his teeth clench. His head whirled.
Then Harald shouted, a cry of rage and hurt and frustration. He stepped in toward Grimarr with a fury he clearly hoped would surprise the man and throw him off guard, force him to present an opening, however small. Something Harald could exploit. He slashed down with his sword and Grimarr stepped back and turned the blade aside. Harald advanced again and Thorgrim felt a gleam of hope.
Kill him, boy, kill him…
Harald stepped in a third time and this time, rather than slashing, he lunged, putting his considerable strength behind the blade, driving for the center of Grimarr’s chest. Grimarr slammed his own sword down on Harald’s, snapping Harald’s blade in two. Harald stumbled forward and once again Grimarr hit him hard on the side of the head.
The broken end of Harald’s sword flew from his grip, his shield flew off in the other direction as Harald hit the ground. Grimarr met Thorgrim’s eyes and grinned and stepped up beside Harald who was still sprawled on the ground. And Thorgrim realized in that moment that he wanted his son to live, that it was not yet his time to go to Odin’s hall. He took a step in Grimarr’s direction, but he was too late.
From his left and somewhere behind, Ornolf the Restless burst from the watching crowd. He roared as he shoved the men to his left and right aside, spilling them to the ground, and charged the ten yards to where Grimarr stood. He had his battered red and yellow shield in his left hand, Oak Cleaver in his right, and despite his years of debauchery there was something powerful, even frightening, in his charge.
“You cowardly bastard!” Ornolf shouted at Grimarr as he thundered toward him. “Fight a boy, will you? Why don’t you fight a man, you pile of horse shit!”
Ornolf swung Oak Cleaver in a brutal, back-handed down stroke and Grimarr barely had time to get his shield up to deflect the blow. This had been Grimarr’s act, he had commanded the stage from the beginning, but now for once he looked surprised and uncertain. Ornolf stepped in and shoved with his shield and drove Grimarr back, then once again made a powerful stroke with his sword which Grimarr managed to turn aside.
Grimarr stepped back and held sword and shield in a more serious and determined way than he had while fighting Harald. Ornolf was old and fat, but he was not weak, and he had learned a few things about single combat after years of battles and raids. Underestimating the man could be a fatal mistake.
They circled around, Harald all but forgotten. “Ornolf, you silly old man, you’ll have me kill off the whole family?” Grimarr jeered. “You, Thorgrim, Harald? It will be my pleasure. I’ll end your whole filthy line right here.”
“I have many grandchildren,” Ornolf said. “But you don’t, because two of your sons died at Thorgrim’s hands. Died squealing like pigs and we pissed on their corpses! And the other betrayed you, you pile of shit.”
Ornolf’s blade had missed but his words struck home. Grimarr shouted something incomprehensible and lunged at Ornolf. Ornolf dodged sideways, quicker than anyone might have imagined he could, and hacked down with Oak Cleaver. The sword bit into the mail on Grimarr’s arm and Grimarr jerked back as if he had been burned, the chain mail rent in the wake of Ornolf’s blade.
“Bastard!” Grimarr shouted, and went in shield-first, knocking Ornolf aside, swinging for his throat. Oak Cleaver met his blade and the steel rang out in the morning air. Ornolf pushed Grimarr’s sword aside and lunged and Grimarr took the point on his shield.
The two men drew apart and stared at one another. Both were heaving for breath. Their faces were red and sweat ran down their brows like the blood from Harald’s scalp. They blinked, mouths open, eyes wide.
“Come on, you whore’s whelp,” Ornolf said, so spent the words were barely audible. He pushed off, hitting Grimarr with his shield, and Grimarr stepped back. Ornolf did not follow, but rather stood his ground, arms spread, chest exposed, daring Grimarr to come in for the attack. And he did.
Grimarr hefted his shield, adjusted his grip on his sword, closed the distance to Ornolf with one step and lunged. Ornolf, his arms still spread wide, let him come. Grimarr’s blade shot like an arrow at Ornolf’s chest. It was just inches away from piercing the mail when Ornolf knocked it aside with Oak Cleaver. Grimarr’s arm went wide and Ornolf stepped in and drove his foot into Grimarr’s stomach.
With a gasp Grimarr doubled over and the shield fell from his hand. Ornolf stepped in, Oak Cleaver held high and ready to come down like an ax on Grimarr’s head, when his foot caught on Grimarr’s lost shield. He gave a strangled cry and stumbled forward and fell, landing on hands and knees. He pushed himself off and came up on his knees. The look on his face was one that Thorgrim had never seen. Not anger, not fear, not outrage. He looked like a man who knew it was over and knew that that was all right.
Ornolf was still bringing his sword and shield up when Grimarr thrust, a thrust that was straight and true, full of power and finality, right at Ornolf’s chest. The point took him just below the breastbone and went right on through, tearing out from Ornolf’s lower back, until Grimarr could drive it no further.
The morning was silent, like all of Vík-ló was holding its breath. The two men did not move, Grimarr with sword arm extended, Ornolf motionless, pinned on Grimarr’s blade, sword and shield still in hand. Grimarr stepped up and cocked his arm to draw the blade free, and as he did Ornolf dropped his sword and his shield and wrapped his two powerful hands around the hilt of Grimarr’s sword and the hand with which he held the weapon.
Grimarr jerked back but Ornolf did not let go. Ornolf opened his mouth and blood spilled out and in a strangled voice he called “Harald…” Grimarr pulled harder and the blood ran down Ornolf’s long beard but he did not loosen his grip on the sword’s hilt.
Harald scrambled to his feet. Everything that Ornolf wanted to say to his grandson seemed to have been carried in that one choked word, and Harald seemed to understand every syllable of it. He snatched up Oak Cleaver from the ground, and as he did, Grimarr realized his danger.
With a frantic jerk Grimarr broke Ornolf’s grip on his hand and Ornolf tumbled over on his side, sword jutting from his chest. Grimarr took a step back and began to raise his mail-clad arms, his only defense, but he could not raise them fast enough to block the big, powerful sideways blow that Harald delivered.
Oak Cleaver’s edge sang as it parted the air, caught Grimarr in the neck and did not slow in its flight. The blade of the Frankish sword, honed by Starri Deathless to a razor edge, cut clean through Grimarr’s spine. Blood sprayed like surf pounding a rocky cliff. The big man’s body fell to one side, his head to the other, and the only sound in all the longphort seemed to be the two parts of the now-dead Lord of Vík-ló hitting the ground at almost the same instance.
Harald did not pause in his turn. He let the momentum carry him around, full circle, and he dropped to his knees at his grandfather’s side. With a deft motion he flipped Oak Cleaver around and pressed the grip into Ornolf’s hand. From ten feet away, Thorgrim saw Ornolf the Restless’s fingers wrap around the leather-bound grip and tighten, just for a second. Then Ornolf let out a loud and prolonged sigh and his whole body seemed to relax, but the sword did not drop from his hand.
Epilogue
Goddess of golden rain,
who gives me great joy,
may boldly hear report
of her friend’s brave stand.
Gisli Sursson’s Saga
The next week was given over to feasting and funerals.
The Irish dead were piled on carts and driven out into the
hills and left there on the muddy road. The survivors of Lorcan’s army, once they were certain it was not a trap, came and took them away. They were buried by whatever rights the Christians observed. Or so Thorgrim guessed. He had no way of knowing and he did not care.
His thoughts and his hours were consumed by considerations of his own dead. They would be sent off in the proper way, Ornolf Hrafnsson, known as Ornolf the Restless, foremost among them. Ornolf had helped them win a great victory, but because part of the price of that victory had been Ornolf’s death, they could find no joy in it.
Thorgrim and Harald, keeling on the plank road beside Ornolf’s lifeless form, had wept bitterly and openly. They did not care at all that such weeping might be looked on as weakness. They wept to know that such a man as Ornolf would no longer walk the earth. They wept for themselves, knowing they now had to go on in a world that did not contain Ornolf the Restless.
Harald took Ornolf’s death on his own shoulders, and it pressed him down with a weight he could hardly bear. But Thorgrim made it clear, emphatically clear, that such was not the case. All men die, Thorgrim reminded his son, and for Ornolf there was no better death than in defense of the one person he loved above all on earth. Harald’s final act on his grandfather’s behalf, pressing the sword into the palm of his hand, was the greatest act of love Thorgrim had ever witnessed. He told Harald as much, and he meant it, because it was.
Harald’s actions made it certain that the Chooser of the Slain would lift Ornolf from that bloody field and whisk him away to Valhalla. Ornolf would feast in Odin’s hall, and never was a man and a place more suited to one another. It made Thorgrim wonder why he wept. Ornolf, his beloved Ornolf, was now more content than ever he had been. He was eating and drinking in the company of men such as himself, and the chaffing and burden of the earthly realm no longer rubbed him raw.
It’s not Ornolf I’m weeping for, Thorgrim concluded.
The Lord of Vik-lo: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 3) Page 37