And the Irish shield wall was indeed crumbling. There was no doubt now. Thorgrim could see men falling back, men dying under Norse blades. He could see the line bending where Skidi Battleax was leading his men in a frantic push.
“Forward! Forward!” Thorgrim shouted. “At them!” He put his weight against his shield, shoving hard against the man who stood opposing him. And then he stumbled. One second there was resistance, the next second there was none as the man gave up, dropped his shield, turned and ran.
Thorgrim straightened fast, sword and shield up, ready for a renewed attack, but none came. All along the line the Irish were turning and running, up and over the crest of the hill at their backs and the Norsemen were on their heels.
“Men of Vík-ló!” Thorgrim shouted. “Hold your line! Hold your line!” The Irish had devolved into panicked confusion but he could not let his own men do the same. That would mean pissing away any advantage they had gained, giving the Irish the chance to fight on. He had to keep them together, keep them organized, attack the remnants of the Irish line and take them apart.
He looked left and right. Some of Ottar’s men were chasing after the Irish, but his own men were resisting the urge, strong though it was.
“Men of Vík-ló! Forward!” Thorgrim shouted and the crews of his four ships rolled forward, ready to hit the Irish again, to finish that part of the day’s work and move on to Glendalough.
And then the mounted warriors struck.
Chapter Thirty-Six
I fed his corpse to the blood-hawk,
My sword’s edge swung and cut…
Gisli Sursson’s Saga
The riders came from the right and Thorgrim cursed himself because he had forgotten they were there, which was what the horsemen no doubt wanted. They had stayed out of the fight, standing ready to hold the flanks against an attack, or to swoop in if the shield wall broke. And that was what they were doing now.
Thorgrim heard the shouts at the far end of his line and turned to see the mounted warriors, two hundred feet away, charging down on his men, swords rising and falling, horses snapping ugly yellow teeth and lashing out with their hooves. He saw a man fall, arms and legs kicking as the horse reared and came down on his chest. He saw a horseman chop down with his sword and saw the weapon come up again streaming blood.
“By the gods!” Thorgrim shouted. “Come with me!” His words were aimed at any of his men within earshot, but in particular Agnarr and Godi, and he ran off confident that they were with him. He ran toward the end of the line, where the horsemen were wheeling and hacking and prompting their mounts to kick and bite.
“Make a wall! Make a wall!” he shouted as he ran, closing the distance. The mounted warriors had timed this well. If the Northmen had had the chance to form up in opposition they could have stood firm against this attack. But the horsemen had hit fast and hard and the panic was spreading.
Thorgrim stopped. His men were not listening. “Godi, Agnarr, to me!” he shouted and the two stepped up on either side. If he could not get his men to form a shield wall then he would form one himself, even if it was only three men wide.
“Forward!” Thorgrim shouted and the three of them stepped off. The nearest horseman was twenty paces away, going sword and shield with one of Bersi’s men. The rider did not see Thorgrim coming until Thorgrim was nearly within sword striking distance. Then the man looked up, saw the three shield-bearers charging him. He spurred his horse forward, right at Thorgrim’s short wall, Bersi’s man forgotten. Ride right through them, that was his intention, scatter the three men and hack them down. But as he came on Thorgrim and Agnarr and Godi all lifted their shields together, swinging them up at the horse’s mouth and its wicked teeth.
Thorgrim felt the boss of his shield hit the horse and saw the horse rise up on hind legs, rearing in surprise. He felt a hoof strike his shield with power enough to drive it back into his chest, but he held his ground. The rider was hanging on, desperate to keep from being thrown. Godi’s ax came down and struck the man just under the left arm. The rider screamed, and in the process of pulling the ax free, Godi jerked him from the saddle. The horse spun in place and charged off, now panicked and rider-less.
Movement to the right and Thorgrim saw a few more Northmen come running forward, shields held ready, and they stood fast as another of the mounted Irish men-at-arms came down on them. They worked together, the men of Vík-ló, holding off the attack from horse and rider, striking out as the man wheeled and struck at them.
More men were racing to join this new fight, coming with shields up and blades ready. There were only about twenty or so mounted warriors still engaged at that end of the line. They had taken the Northmen’s flanks by surprise, hit them hard, but now the Northmen were sorting themselves out and soon they would form a real defense, effective and deadly.
One of the riders yelled something; it meant nothing to Thorgrim but clearly it meant something to the other riders because they all jerked their reins over and wheeled their horses and charged off down the far side of the hill. They were not fleeing; they were falling back. They had done what they needed to do. They had thrown the Norsemen’s line into temporary confusion and given the Irish men-at-arms a chance to put some distance between them and their attackers, give them a moment to reform their line before their retreat turned into an bloody rout.
Thorgrim lowered his shield and rested the tip of Iron-tooth on the ground and watched them ride away. He turned to see what was happening on the other parts of the field. The horsemen on the right flank of the Irish line had hit Ottar’s men just as those on the left had hit his, but they too were riding off, having inflicting what hurt they could.
He walked up the remainder of the slope. Bodies were strewn over the ground, some Northmen but mostly Irish, and of those they were mostly the poor spearmen who had been thrust out in front of the shield wall. Some were wounded and crawling pathetically away, some moaning and waving arms, but most were still.
At the crest of the hill he stopped and looked down the far side. The Irish line had retreated a few hundred yards, but now they were forming up again, remaking their shield wall. The mounted warriors had saved them from complete destruction, and now they were ready to take up the fight again.
Thorgrim looked past their lines. In the distance, less than a mile away, was Glendalough.
Glendalough….
He realized that after all this time, all the struggles to get to this place, Glendalough had taken on some mythic quality, like Asgard or Valhalla.
Glendalough.
It did not look much like a mythic place in real life, seen through the light rain that was falling, under the leaden skies. He could see the church, an impressive stone affair with a short, square tower rising up at one end, and a steep roof that had to be forty feet high at the peak. There was a scattering of buildings around it, and further away from the church, which seemed to form the center of everything there, were more squat, thatched buildings, a few roads crisscrossing between them, a few buildings bigger than the rest.
The homes of the local jarls, Thorgrim guessed. There would likely be hoards found buried in those houses, if they had time enough to search for them.
Beyond the cluster of buildings he could see a lake that wound its way into a sharp, narrow valley far off, and just behind the town a steep, humped mountain rose up. It was beautiful country, he had to admit as much. Almost mythical.
Thorgrim wiped the rain from his eyes and blinked. The monastery and the village did look prosperous, by Irish standards, and he guessed there was wealth enough to be had there. But first they had to get though the army of Irishmen which was reforming in front of them.
“You men, get in line, get in line, we must hit those Irish bastards before they can get themselves straightened out!” he shouted, and Bersi and Kjartan and Skidi took up the cry, and quickly the men of Vík-ló were hurrying back into some sort of formation.
We must link with Ottar, Thorgrim thought. He turne
d toward the left wing of their line and saw he was too late. Ottar was already charging down the hill, his sword held high. He looked like some sort of mad beast. Behind him his men were running as well, shouting, banging swords on shields, a great disordered mob flinging itself across the eighth of a mile that separated them from the Irish.
Stupid bastard, Thorgrim thought again, and realized how often those words came to mind when considering Ottar Bloodax. He looked over at the Irish. They were still broken and disorganized but they would not be for long. He could see captains pushing men into line, the milling men-at-arms quickly becoming a shield wall once again. If Ottar could hit them before they managed to restore discipline he would break them once and for all. If not, his wild attack would be suicidal.
This will be a close thing, Thorgrim though, but he did not think Ottar would be that lucky. They had driven the Irish line back once, but those men were not farmers, they were men-at-arms, and they would not be so easily pushed again.
“Let’s go!” Thorgrim shouted, holding Iron-tooth high and heading down the hill, making for the Irishmen at the far side of the field. Their line was not perfect, but it would do, and they could not wait any longer and let Ottar’s men be butchered. He did not particularly care if Ottar and his men lived or died, but if they were slaughtered now then there would be no possibility of taking Glendalough, and that Thorgrim cared about very much.
He heard his men cheer as they rolled forward, heard them howl and scream and bang their weapons in a din that would loosen the bowels of all but the hardest men. Ottar and his crews had halved the distance to the enemy, but already the Irish were falling into place, locking shields in a solid wall of multicolored circles, and behind the shields, conical helmets, shirts of mail, leather jerkins, swords and axes poised.
Once more Thorgrim wiped the rain from his eyes and spit out the water he had managed to get in his mouth. The ground was soft under foot, the light rain growing harder, as was his breath as he pushed to cover the distance. He was not running. He was moving at a pace somewhat short of a jog. He did not want his men winded and heaving as they came to grips with the Irish, though he wondered if perhaps he was thinking more of himself.
From his left he heard the renewed clash of weapons as the quickest of Ottar’s warriors reached the Irish line. Ottar was first among them; Thorgrim could see his massive head and shoulders rising above the others as he whirled his battle ax at the enemy. He saw Ottar tear a hole in the Irish shield wall with his weapon, but before he could step in more men were there to fill it.
Ottar, however, was all but alone, with most of his men just catching up. Rather that delivering a massive, shocking blow to the line, they were coming at it in ones and twos and Thorgrim could see they were being cut down as they came. And then the mounted warriors were there, sweeping around the far end of the Irish line and charging into Ottar’s flanks. He heard the screams of agony, the bellows of outrage and surprise. He saw men dying under the horsemen’s long swords.
Stupid, stupid, he thought, but that was all the thought he could give to Ottar, because he and his men had almost reached the right side of the Irish shield wall. Once again they would fight shield to shield in that packed killing ground, and if they could break the Irish again then there was a good chance they would be broken for good, and the way to Glendalough cleared.
Thorgrim paused and Godi paused and they let the line of men behind catch up and envelope them. They took their place with the others and pushed on. Thorgrim was breathing hard and he realized that his shoulder ached, and he guessed that he had taken a blow there but had not realized it until then. He did not think he was bleeding. He could not feel that familiar sensation of warm blood running down inside his tunic.
It all had an unreal quality to it – the men at his side, the men before him, the shield in his left hand, Iron-tooth in his right. Hadn’t they just been through this? Hadn’t they just driven a shield wall back? Was this the way the gods would curse him, make him stand in the shield wall, in the rain, over and over again, with never the feasting at the corpse hall after?
One last look to his left. He could not see much of Ottar’s men. There were too many others crowded into that small stretch of Irish meadow, but from what he could see, and what he could hear, Ottar and the others were not having a good time of it.
And then they reached the Irish men-at-arms, shields hitting shields with their dull sound like axes cutting into tree trunks. The Irishmen’s line staggered and bowed under the impact of the men from Vík-ló but it did not break, and once again Thorgrim’s world closed down to that spot of land, Godi on one side, Agnarr on the other, an enemy in his front. He was shouting, bellowing, working shield and sword in that tight place. His arm was tiring. His face was bleeding. He could feel the warm blood running down his cheek, though he could not recall the thrust that had cut him.
His foot slipped but he recovered in time to stop an ax blow with the edge of his shield. The grass under foot was being trampled into mud and that made the footing precarious. And still the enemy stood and wielded their weapons, and the shields pushed against each other, and the blows came slower, and they came with less force but still they came.
This cannot go on, Thorgrim thought. They could not stand there and flail at each other until one army or both collapsed to the ground in exhaustion. Something had to give way.
And then it did. Godi brought his ax down hard on the man to Thorgrim’s right, not for the first time, but now the man’s shield, already damaged, shattered under the blow. The Irishman looked at the broken wood boards with the sort of dumb amazement that comes from being exhausted beyond words, and then Thorgrim darted Iron-tooth forward and drove the point through the man’s shoulder.
The Irishman made a choking sound, part fury, part agony. He twisted and fell and he left a hole in the shield wall. It was just the chance for which Thorgrim longed. He stepped forward, into the gap, ready to beat it wider, to break the Irish line.
And then he stopped. Beyond the gap in the line he saw something he had not seen before, and he knew it was the end of the Northmen’s hopes.
More men. Fresh men, armed men, shields ready. They were not more than a hundred yards away. They were marching fast toward the battle ground. At their head flew a banner, what looked to be a raven on a green field.
Kevin mac Lugaed had come to join the fight, and Thorgrim did not think he was coming to fight on the Norsemen’s side.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Best have a son though he be late born
and before him the father be dead:
seldom are stones on the wayside raised
save by kinsmen to kinsmen.
Hávamál
Harald Broadarm was right on the verge of killing the player, Crimthann, or at least hitting him hard enough to shut him up, when he saw the two men-at-arms coming toward them.
The two of them, Harald and Crimthann, had been riding together on the seat of the wagon for a few hours by then, the wagon which provided the perfect solution to Harald’s dilemma. Having fought the Irish patrol, and allowed some to escape, Harald knew he had managed to alert the rest of the Irish army to their presence. He knew he could not continue toward Glendalough on foot. He was sure that other riders would be sent to hunt them down.
But neither could he go back to his father and admit defeat. It was then that he realized the gods had provided him with another way; they had brought him an answer to his plight, hauled it right up to him behind great teams of oxen.
Crimthann had been tending the fire that was burning in a ring in the center of the half-circle of wagons when the Irish had burst from the woods and attacked Harald’s men. When the fighting was over, and Harald’s attention turned once again to those fantastical vehicles, the man was still there. He must have seen the entire fight – it had taken place not one hundred yards from him – but he seemed to have not moved a bit, or reacted in any way.
The fighting done, Harald gather
ed his men. He ordered that those who were too wounded to walk be carried, likewise the one man who had been killed. The dead Irishmen were stripped of anything worth having and their bodies tossed in the tall grass. There was no time for anything more fancy.
“Come with me,” Harald said and he led his band across the road and over toward the man and his cooking fire. Oak Cleaver was still in his hand and the other men carried weapons unsheathed as well. None of them had any idea what to expect.
Of all the possibilities, Crimthann’s greeting was perhaps the most unexpected.
“Quite a show you put on!” he roared as Harald and his men approached. “I make it my business to offer the finest performances in all of Ireland, but I don’t know if I could do better. Come, come, sit, eat!” He waved a massive arm at the various benches and logs that made a circle around the fire pit.
And so after setting the wounded and dead carefully down, Harald sat and the others sat, and they ate, and Crimthann went on and on about the quality of the shows he staged and the places his players had been and the people, great and common, for whom they had performed. And all the time Harald ate and considered what to do with this man and his fellow players.
Besides Crimthann there were six other men that Harald could see, and three women. He took note as he shoveled stew into his mouth and Crimthann talked. He could kill them all, but he did not much care for killing men who had done him no harm or posed no threat. And he would be hard pressed to kill a woman. Quite the opposite, his tendency was to be protective to a fault.
But he could not let them go, either. Harald was looking to the wagons as a movable hunting blind and he could not have the players roaming the territory telling the Irish men-at-arms what had happened. And so that left but one choice.
Glendalough Fair Page 29