Fin Gall (The Norsemen)

by James L. Nelson

  “To arms! To arms! The fin gall has escaped and stolen the princess Brigit!”

  For a moment no one moved or spoke. They looked at Flann, stunned into silence as Máel Sechnaill had been. Flann could practically hear the reckonings going on in their thick heads. The man who rescued Brigit from the fin gall would certainly win her esteem, and Máel Sechnaill’s as well.

  The rí túaithe broke like surf on the rocks, leaping from their seats, vaulting over benches, calling for pages, armor, horses, for their men to turn to, to take up arms. Flann had never seen them move so fast, not even when the dinner bell was rung.

  It was not quite the twenty minutes that Máel Sechnaill had ordered, but near enough, when all of the men-at-arms at Tara were mounted up - those who had horses - or turned out armed for the march. Of the three hundred who had gathered for the attack on Leinster, nearly two hundred were left. Most of the levy had drifted away, back to their farms, but the professional soldiers and the rí túaithe had little reason to leave, when life was so bountiful and free at Tara.

  And now they were moving out. And the seriousness of their mission did not quell their excitement, pleasure, and their hope that it would end in great personal advancement and gain.

  Máel Sechnaill led the army. He wore the armor that had been put away when the attack on Niall Caille, rí ruirech of Leinster, had been postponed. Flann rode beside him, wearing helmet, mail and tunic, a cloak pulled over those. He was soaked through and miserable, though to be sure he would have been miserable in any weather.

  Brian Finnliath came pounding up on his horse, reined to a stop. Over his mail shirt was his trademark tunic, a green garment with a bold white and red cross on the front. “I have men with dogs off in every direction, Lord,” he reported. He was breathing hard and he had a desperate look on his face. Brian Finnliath loved Brigit like she was his own daughter. Indeed, he was often more a father to her than Máel Sechnaill. “But forgive me, Lord, it is hard going, tracking in this rain, that washes signs away.”

  Máel Sechnaill said nothing, and no one dared say anything more to him. He scanned the horizon. From his mount, on the high hill of Tara, he could see for miles, until the green countryside was lost in the rain and mist. Water dripped from the edge of his helmet like rain running off the eaves of a roof, but he seemed not to notice. He squinted into the rain, his pale blue eyes all but lost in folds of skin.

  Flann shifted in his saddle. He was starting to think he should say something when Máel Sechnaill finally spoke. “He will go to the water,” Máel said. “He is a Norseman and the Norsemen are drawn to the water. Master of the Guards!”

  “Sir!” Brian Finnliath tried to steady his horse.

  “Get your men and dogs, get them on the north road. Fan them out, cover as much land as you can. We will split up, follow behind. But as sure as my hope of heaven, they are making for the River Boyne.”

  At first, Harald did not hear the dogs. He came to in that warm, soft place where he and Brigit had so enjoyed each other. Still half asleep, he was aware of being wrapped in a wonderful sensuous feeling before he had any real idea of where he was.

  He felt the girl beside him, and that was the first memory to come back, and he found himself instantly aroused and ready to have her again. Indeed, that idea seemed to wipe out everything else, the desire so strong that no other rational thought could penetrate.

  He rolled over and gently pushed on Brigit’s shoulder and moved his body over hers. She had shown him a lot of fancy things before, things he had known nothing about, and while it was all undeniably good, now he just wished to get right to the central business.

  Brigit was still asleep but she made a little cooing sound that drove Harald wild and he thought he might explode right then. But for all that, as he became more awake, he became more aware of some ill-defined warning vying for attention with his lust.

  He ran his lips along the lovely line of her neck, moved his hand over her breast, and at that instant the voice in the back of his head broke through, loud enough to be heard.

  Dogs!

  Harald whirled around and sat up and stared into the dark. He felt Brigit stir, put her arm around his waist, and then push herself up on her elbow. He felt her eyes on him, but his focus now was beyond the wattle walls of their cottage.

  Dogs...

  Not a great hunting pack, but more than one, that was certain. A mile away? Perhaps. Maybe closer.

  Harald flung the blankets off and leapt to his feet, searching out his clothes in the dim light. He found his trousers lying in a heap where he had kicked them off. He snatched them up and danced around the room, pulling them over his legs.

  Brigit was looking at him now, wide-eyed. He pointed to his ears and pointed to the wall and nodded and she nodded as well. He picked up her dress and tossed it to her and made a gesture of hurry, which he hoped she understood.

  He grabbed his tunic and slipped it over his head. It was damp and cold and uncomfortable. He had lost the chance to dry it over the peat fire, but he had been in no position to think of such things when he had flung it to the floor.

  He moved across the cottage, snatched up a spear, and opened the door, just a crack. The yard was lit in a dim, blueish light and a heavy mist was falling. Harald was disoriented, there was a dream quality to everything. What time of day was it? Morning? No. It had been morning when they arrived at the cottage. They had slept through the afternoon. Evening, then.

  He felt better now that he knew what time it was, but the dogs were getting closer, much closer. He turned to Brigit. “Hurry!” he urged, and was rewarded with a glance at her naked body as she pulled the dress down over her head.

  Harald picked up the monk’s robe, the two knives and the second spear. Brigit was flinging her cape around her shoulders. There was a loaf of bread and some meat on the table by the fire. He pointed to those and Brigit nodded and picked them up.

  Harald headed for the door, gesturing to Brigit as he walked, and she followed, a hunted and wary look on her face. They stepped out into the cool, wet evening. The dogs were just over the far rise, judging from the sound. At least Harald did not have to think about how they would escape. He already knew that, knew it the second he had laid eyes on the cottage.

  Half running, Harald led the way around the cottage, past the white, bloated bodies of the three bandits. He tossed the monk’s robe and the spears into the boat pulled up on the shore. It was a curious looking thing, a twenty-foot long wooden frame covered in sewn hide, unlike anything seen in the Norse countries. But still it was a boat, and as such it gave Harald a measure of optimism and hope.

  Brigit was there with him. He could see the fear in her face. “It’s all right, it will be all right,” he said, hoping the tone at least would covey some comfort, but as far as he could see it did not.

  He took the bread and meat from her, placed it on one of the thwarts. The dogs were louder, and clearly headed for the cottage. They were hunting dogs, and Harald had no doubt the dogs were hunting for them.

  Harald scooped Brigit up in his arms. She gave a little gasp of surprise and he lifted her over the gunnel and set her down beside the bread and the meat. He grabbed the gunnel and shoved. The boat began to slide toward the water, but it was harder going than he had anticipated. He realized he should not have put Brigit in first, but it was too late, and he did not want to appear foolish, taking her out again.

  He pushed. The boat slid half a perch. And then the dogs broke over the low hill to the south and came tearing down at them, at Harald and the boat.

  Harald looked at the dogs, looked at the river, looked back at the dogs. He could not take Brigit out of the boat now, not with the dogs there, and he could not get the boat in the water before the dogs were on him.

  Kill the dogs first, Harald decided. He snatched the spears out of the boat. He hated dogs. Why did these damned Irish have so many dogs?

  The first of the pack was two perches away and racing for him with open mo
uth and lolling tongue. The light was fast fading and it was difficult for Harald to see. He wiped the water from his face and eyes, dropped to one knee and held the spear in front, the butt end of the shaft against his foot. It was a boar hunting technique, but it worked on the over-eager dog, as the animal charged right onto the point, impaling itself and dying with never a sound.

  Harald released the spear, grabbed up the second one, swung the butt end like a club at the next dog. He hit the animal, made him cry in pain and surprise, but that dog and his fellows were not as eager as the first. They kept their distance, barking and snapping, as Harald thrust and swung with the spear.

  He was backing away toward the boat when he heard the sound of hooves. He was not surprised. Packs of dogs of course would be followed by riders, men who were determined to run him and Brigit to ground. They were the hunted, now.

  “Odin, All-father, I could surely use your help!” Harald shouted out into the mist. He backed away, took a last swing at the pack, and then swung himself up into the protection of the boat, the sides too high for the dogs to clear.

  Brigit looked more frightened than ever. She looked at him with a question on her face and he wished to all the gods in Asgard he could speak her tongue, but he could not. He grabbed her by the cloak and pulled her down onto the bottom of the boat, hidden from view, and half laid on top of her, pulling the monk’s robe over them both. He lifted himself up, just slightly, and peering over the gunnel.

  It was only one rider, and Harald gave a thanks to Odin, as this was certainly the best he could have hoped for. The horse followed the path the dogs had taken, the rider reining to a stop in the muddy yard. One man, wearing a green tunic with a big red and white cross on it, the symbol of the Irish Christ God.

  Harald ducked low again, out of sight. It was not a question of hiding - the dogs were baying all around the boat - it was just a matter of gaining a tiny bit of surprise.

  Harald could see nothing. His nose was full of the smell of the wet wool. He heard the horse moving closer, cautious steps toward the boat. He readjusted his grip on the spear, shifted his foot to get a better purchase on the bottom of the boat.

  The horse made a snorting sound, very close by, and Harald judged the moment. He threw off the monk’s robe, leapt to his feet with a shout. The rider was there, just half a perch away, and he wheeled his horse in surprise. Harald cocked his throwing arm. Brigit pushed herself up from the bottom of the boat. She shouted, “Master Finnliath!” and Harald threw the spear.

  It was a good throw, straight and strong, but the horseman was ready for an attack. His shield was up and the sharp spear point embedded itself in the wood. The horseman was knocked off balance with the impact and Harald leapt from the boat and landed in the soft mud.

  The dogs were nipping at his legs and he kicked at them as he raced for the man on the horse. The spear, still embedded in the shield, was swinging wildly around. Harald grabbed hold of the shaft and pulled, yanking the rider clean off the horse.

  One of the big knives was in Harald’s hand and he stabbed down at the man’s throat but the man caught his wrist and held it. Harald tried to force the knife down, but the man on the ground was very strong, stronger than he was, Harald could tell. He reached around for the other knife, and suddenly he was knocked sideways, knocked right into the mud, the knife flying from his hand.

  Dog... was all he could think, one of the dogs had leapt at him. He grabbed the second knife from his belt, scrambled to his feet, crouched low and ready for an attack. Brigit was standing over the man on the ground, and it appeared that it was she who had knocked him down, but that made no sense.

  “No!” Brigit cried. She shook her head. “No!”

  Then Harald remembered. He remembered the guards at the gate, how Brigit did not want them killed. She could not bear to see her fellow Irish killed. Fair enough.

  The man on the ground was half up, struggling to his feet, still off balance from his fall from the horse. Harald stepped up and kicked him hard in the stomach. Through his soft shoes he could feel the mail shirt under the tunic and he knew his blow would not be very effective, but it was good enough, tossing the man back to the ground. It would gain them seconds.

  “Come along!” Harald shouted, waving and running for the boat, but Brigit did not move. “Come along!” he said again, with more authority to the order.

  “No!” Brigit said. She used that word a lot, and Harald was beginning to wonder what it meant. Perhaps that she was afraid. It was the gate all over again.

  He advanced on her and this time she hit him, hit him hard, right on the jaw. It surprised him, and it hurt, and without thinking he started to hit her back, swinging his fist around in a reflex reaction, stopping just inches from her face as he realized what he was doing.

  Brigit had her face in her hands, shying from the blow, and she did not see it coming when Harald scooped her up again and tossed her over his shoulder.

  The horseman was on his knees, sword drawn, and he swung the blade in a wide arch, but Harald sidestepped him, raced for the boat with Brigit over his shoulder, screaming, pounding his back and kicking her legs. The dogs were leaping and barking and snapping but they did not bite.

  With his left arm and shoulder Harald heaved on the boat, pushing it toward the water, and now, free of Brigit’s weight, it began to move faster. Brigit twisted around and began hitting Harald on the back of the head.

  “Odin and Thor, what a burden these women are!” Harald shouted in frustration as the stern of the boat hit the water and it began to float free. He tossed Brigit over the gunnel, into the bottom of the boat, aware that he was not being as gentle as he had been before.

  The horseman was on his feet and charging for the boat. He shouted something that sounded very much like “Brigit!” and swung his sword at Harald’s head.

  Harald ducked and felt the blade swish past. Hands on the gunnel he leapt, both feet off the ground, and kicked the man hard in the chest, sending him sprawling. There were more riders now, Harald could hear the hooves pounding as they rode hard, but he did not have time to look. He shoved the boat farther out into the river. Brigit had picked herself up and was looking over the side of the boat, down into the water. Harald gave one last shove and swung himself over the gunnel as the boat floated free.

  The man on shore was shouting something and now Harald could see the other riders charging up, he could see their armor gleaming dull in the fading light. But it was too late for them.

  The boat drifted further from the shore and then the current caught it and swirled it away down river. Harald felt a great sense of relief. He was afloat. He never had any doubt, ever, during his captivity, that his father would come for him. Thorgrim Night-wolf would hunt for his son and bring him home. And he would come by water. It was the Viking way. And now he, Harald was on water too, and could go to a place where he and his father would meet.

  Harald caught his breath, then looked over at Brigit, who was sitting on a thwart. He smiled at her, and she flung the piece of meat at his head.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  You have not often fed

  wolves with warm flesh.

  Egil’s Saga

  T

  he Red Dragon put out to sea, driven by her long oars and then the makeshift sail, after Ornolf’s men yielded the beach to the Irish. Soon the ship was engulfed by the dark and the rain. The land was lost entirely in the gloom, save for the three torches on shore, and soon those too were swallowed up.

  Morrigan stood aft, where she generally stood, because that was where Thorgrim stood and so it was the only place on the longship she felt at all safe. She stared out into the dark. It was an odd sensation, this sailing through the night. Morrigan had little enough experience with ships. She had never been at sea in the dark before. There was something frightening and wonderful about it, all at the same time.

  She looked forward. She could just make out the Norsemen sitting on their sea chests or leaning on the s
ide of the ship. They did not look particularly happy, and she imagined that they were worried about the trolls and the sea monsters and whatever other nonsense they conjured up in their thick pagan skulls.

  Morrigan made the sign of the cross and knelt down. In a soft but strong voice she began the Lord’s Prayer, which she knew would do more to protect them than all the spitting and sacrificing and appealing to false gods that the fin gall could muster.

  She was about to move on to one of the Psalms when she became aware of a certain restiveness. She looked up. Most of the men were shooting angry looks back at her. She crossed herself again, quickly, and stood.

  Stupid heathen fin gall... she thought. She found a place on the deck near where Thorgrim stood at the steering board and went to sleep.

  She woke to a morning of heavy overcast and gray, marching waves, capped with curling white water, but the rain was mostly gone. She pulled herself to her feet and stood, gripping hard to the ship’s rail. The motion was unlike anything she had ever felt, a swooping and rolling and pitching and her stomach heaved with every twist of the ship.

  She looked around the edge of the sail but there was nothing to see but water, inhospitable gray ocean sweeping clear away to the edge of the world. She looked to the right, peering at the horizon, but still there was nothing but water and Morrigan began to panic.

  What are they about? Are they leaving Ireland, and me with them?

  Morrigan whirled around. There, on the larboard side, several miles off, was the shoreline, dark gray and green and low down in the sea.

  Most of the crew were awake already, moving around the deck, engaged in various shipboard tasks. They looked more relaxed now, even cheerful, despite the fact that they were so far from shore and the waves, to Morrigan’s mind, seemed alarmingly big.