Éire’s Captive Moon (5 page)

“Wuhmuh!”

“I know it hurts, but it will feel better soon. When the bleeding stops, I can give you something stronger.”

Devlin grunted and allowed his brother to help him to his feet. “Go on,” Devin advised. “Rest yourself. I can see to the training this morning.”

Devlin shot back a rude gesture that made Devin laugh again.

In the brief moment of silence, Devin wrapped his arm around Charis’s shoulders. She leaned into him. Then the clatter of wooden weapons reached them through the thick air. “Sounds like your men are waiting,” the healer remarked.

“Let ’em wait,” Devin returned, pulling her around to nibble at her lips. “Cumhall could take them.”

She laughed softly and pressed against him. It never ceased to make her wonder, how she could love both men the way she did. They were different, for twins, but their love for her was equal.

Charis was ready to be led to their round, multiroomed dwelling when shouts came through the mists.

“Devin! Devlin! Come quick! Sail! Sail!” Charis felt a sheet of ice slice through her middle. She ran to the rise of land—too small to be called a cliff but too steep to be a proper beach. There to the east were the fabled red and white sails of the Northmen.
 

Chapter 3

Agnarr heard shouts come to him through the fog and his eyes glowed with the thrill of incipient battle. “So close, Tuirgeis! We could take them easily!”

“No,” the leader said, the command in the syllable unassailable. “We go to the place of their god-man. The church,” he clarified for those who had never come here to the Green Isle. “That’s the place with the wealth, men! Gold, jewels and precious metals.”

“Slaves, too,” Agnarr reminded them. “Good for sale. The men make good servants.”

“And the women?”

Agnarr winked. “They have their uses.” Tuirgeis led the way up from the shallows. Rocks seemed to reach for them as they worked to attain the solid ground of the beach. Sharp edges scraped through the toughened leather of their boots. Seabirds shouted their warnings overhead, making some of the men nervous, for who knew when the gulls were speaking for the gods?

The men gathered from all the
skipniu
, each captain and battle leader converging on Tuirgeis, who reviewed the plans with the
Ostmen
. They presented a colorful view, seen from outside their circle. Their long hair, in all shades of yellow, brown, red and gray, fell heavily on thickly muscled shoulders. Many weapons were strapped to their backs for ease of movement and easy access. The majority of the warriors had axes because they required little skill to construct and could be absolutely paralyzing to the enemy when used in attack. Spears were carried by most as well. Only Agnarr and Tuirgeis had swords—ancestral blades made at great cost and handed down from father to son. They weren’t as effective as the axe in some offensive respects, but defensively, Agnarr found a sword to be better. With a sword, a man could also carry a shield; something the axe did not allow.

Agnarr already knew these plans the others discussed, so he scouted briefly ahead, his sword drawn and shield at the ready. It was foolhardy to be otherwise in unknown territory. The blade of his sword was as long as his arm, set into a rune-bedecked hilt. It was named
Mjøllnir.
The sword had been his father’s and Agnarr felt the spirit of Halvard Erikson in its runes and heft. The round shield was Agnarr’s own, as his father’s had been shattered in the last battle Halvard had seen. The shield was painted red for vengeance, and it boasted a pointed steel center boss that could be used as a weapon in and of itself.

The
Ostman
cleared the slight rise that came up green from the rocky beach. Ahead and just off to the west was the stone of the monastery Tuirgeis wanted to raid. The land to reach it was flat, but a swell in ground began just beyond the low walls that surrounded the main building. Up the rise, Agnarr could hear a village. Shouts echoed from the top of the incline. Agnarr felt a pull in his gut toward the settlement. What did it mean? Had the
Norns
meant for him to go there, too? He eyed the road, but shook his head. No, he would stay with the plan. Time enough to think about raiding a village after the churchmen had been taken.

He moved forward toward the monastery, his legs reveling in the incline of the land and the work of the walking, after days at sea. He breathed deep, smelling brine and earth. Yes, he wanted this place for his own. There was the monastery; he could see it more clearly here on the other side of the dirt path. It was more elaborate than he thought it might be, in spite of all Tuirgeis had told him on their voyage. Gray stone made the building material. Man-high walls gave way to windows. It was a place of study, he had been told. It was natural they would want so many windows for light. But they were not good for keeping their treasures secure.

Before they would reach the building, they would have to get through a stone wall with a wagon-wide gate. As Agnarr watched, the gate swung open for two men to pass through. “Could it be any easier to breach?” he asked himself aloud. He had no need to hide himself, he felt. The village’s shouts of alarm would surely have alerted the men in the stone building if they had not already discovered that Tuirgeis’s men had arrived.

“Agnarr!”

He turned at the sound of his name, whispered loudly across the dirt path from the lip of the rise. It was Erik, the young man from the longship. Erik flushed at Agnarr’s raised brow, but he whispered—again, loudly—“Tuirgeis is ready. Have you seen anything?”

Slipping back down the incline, Agnarr shook his head. “Only the monastery letting in two unarmed men.”

Erik looked both apprehensive and eager to begin. “Well good! Tuirgeis is ready and I’m to be in your group on point.”

Agnarr nodded. Training up the younger warriors was the duty of all noble
Ostmen
. He could remember his own first raid, though it had been many years ago. He’d been sporting his first mustache, his shoulders had been as narrow as Erik’s, and he had thought he would be ready for anything. Scars on his shoulders and back attested to his inexperience and overconfidence. And they had led him to seek the blessing on his helmet. He had learned.

Erik would learn, too.

“Let’s not keep Tuirgeis waiting,” Agnarr suggested, lightly shoving Erik between the shoulder blades to propel him back to the men. To his credit, the young man kept his balance, axe leveled in front of him, down the rise and took his place among Agnarr’s group of warriors.

They nodded to him, some younger ones offering him the salute of an uplifted hand, in deference to Thor, Agnarr’s favored god.

Agnarr jogged back to the longship for his spear, splashing water on the way. He would only carry the one spear. The shaft of it came to his shoulder, the leaf-shaped blade extended for a handspan above that. He’d named it Foe-Piercer. It was inspirational.

Erik returned to his side, like a particularly persistent itch. Agnarr held in a sigh. He’d been young once.

The young man’s face was drawn, suddenly, and his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists around his weapons. Agnarr nodded his head to indicate Erik could speak.

“Well, I’m worried,” Erik confessed.

“Would you let your fate go unmet? Your
wyrd
will not be avoided,” Agnarr cautioned, speaking of the destiny that each man had been given by the
Norns
in the beginning.

Erik straightened, gripping his axe more securely. “I would see Valhalla!”

Clapping him on the shoulder, Agnarr inclined his head sharply. “Good man. Back to your place.”
 

Tuirgeis instructed Agnarr to advance slowly, allowing the men from all the boats to gather behind him. The mists were thinning, and they wanted to make a rush of strength to overpower the men in the monastery, not to give them waves of weaker forces. “I will wait,” Agnarr said, glancing to see the other warriors lining up behind his men. He led them up the incline again and over the dirt path to continue to wait.

“Agnarr! They have no guards?” Erik asked.

Agnarr studied the gate. “They think their god will protect them.”

“Like Odin?”

Remembering what he had heard of the Islanders’ religious practices—eating the flesh and drinking the blood of their god every day—Agnarr shook his head briefly. “Odin’s priests are civilized.” No longer were humans sacrificed to the One-Eyed One. He was content with animals and ritual. This island needed to meet Odin in his power.

A glance back showed him that all the men were ashore, lined up, and ready to run. He raised his left arm, fist high, and pulled it back to his shoulder again in the signal for attack.

Agnarr led the way to the gate. He signaled to Thorvald, his second, to take the archers to the outer walls. They would send arrows through the defenseless windows. Soon the rest of his men would follow, but the gate had to be breached first.

He kept his men silent as they ran. The gate that guarded the monastery barred them from their prize. Didn’t the monks know that wood could be burned? Foolish men.

Agnarr and his warriors were the first to reach the gate. He presumed that the villagers who had sighted them earlier would have warned the monks, and that the gate would be locked. Those two who had entered unarmed must have been villagers, Agnarr decided. Even so, Agnarr told Erik to test the gate.

The dull sound of old oak on iron echoed in Erik’s helmet for all to hear, for he had gone in head-first. Looking dazed, but determined, Erik made to try again.

“Enough!” Agnarr said, pulling him back. “Listen!”

Shouts vaulted the protective stone walls. “Let’s try again,” he demanded, shouldering the door himself. “All of us. Ready? One, two—!”

With the creaking explosion of splintering wood, the gate gave way.

“For Thor!” Agnarr roared. Other men shouted the names of Odin, Frigg, and Hel. Still others chanted to the ancestors who awaited the fallen in Valhalla, home of the valiant.

Agnarr thrilled to the coming of battle. His body tensed, his heart soared as he met the first of the monks.

A stalwart man with thick jowls and little hair stood before Agnarr. His stave measured one body length and more. The words he spoke made no sense, but they conveyed melodic defiance.

Agnarr lifted his bared blade. “Out of my way! You’re no good to me dead, but dead you’ll be if you don’t move.” Agnarr didn’t want to waste a strong back.

The stave went into motion. Agnarr fought back. One heavy slash told the
Ostman
that the stave was more dangerous than he had thought. Another slice of the blade rendered the monk headless. His life’s blood pulsed red onto the beaten earth beside the dropped stave. Such futility, death without Valhalla.

Agnarr shook his head before moving beyond the dead defender.

“So none of it’s yours, Agnarr?” Tuirgeis jested after the monastery had been taken.

“The blood? Not hardly,” Agnarr returned with only slight exaggeration. He had taken a hit by a blond man with a full head of hair and a heavy staff. That hair made the man stand out among the religious men of the monastery. The strength and craftiness of the staff fighting had encouraged Agnarr not to wound him seriously; the man would make a good worker. He was even now helping a kinsman or some fellow.

“Good,” Tuirgeis said, his eye on the captives. “That fellow there, the one you nicked? Have you found out why he’s not got the half-head of hair?”
 

Agnarr chuckled. “No, but my guess is that he’s not a . . . what did you call them? A monk. He fought well. And look at him, he’s not worrying over himself or the treasure we’ve taken.” Agnarr gestured to a growing pile of gold and precious gems that the men had gathered from within the stone edifice. Gold chalices, huge ruby rings, golden emblems of their dead Man-God. All of it good for worthy trades. Tuirgeis had every right to the smug expression that lit his dark brown eyes.

Tuirgeis indicated they should go question the captive, so they stepped across the scarred and bloodied ground to where the man in question was talking to his companion, a dark-haired, half-bald young man with a mangled arm.

Agnarr was surprised—truly surprised—for the first time that day when Tuirgeis addressed the captive. In another language.

“
Nomen tuus?”
Tuirgeis said, nudging the alert captive with the tip of his boot.