Lion of Ireland (13 page)

Brian scrambled to his feet and stood in front of Nessa with his head thrown back, his gray eyes alight. “I want to fight with the sword! It was Charlemagne’s weapon, and Alfred’s; I have always known it would be mine.” There was something grandiose and absurd in his youthful posturing, and Nessa was aware that he would laugh if some other lad spoke to him in that way. But a fire burned in this particular boy that kindled something in the older man. You could warm your hands by that fire, or a soul too long chilled with hopelessness and defeat.

Nessa nodded in reply to some voice within himself. “Come to me at sunrise tomorrow,” he said curtly,

“and bring a shield. I will tell Kernac that I have sent for you.”

It was acceptance at last, almost like an offer of friendship. A rush of warmth welled up in Brian as he watched Nessa walk away from him, acknowledging the respectful greetings of men on either side. You won’t be sorry, Brian said to Nessa’s back. I’ll make you proud of me.

The instruction with sword and javelin was more grueling than anything that had gone before. “We’re going to tie weights to your arms,” Nessa told him, “so that your muscles will be forced to work harder and grow. And I warn you—you will always be fighting for your life against me. I would be a poor teacher if I let you think battle is ever less than life and death.”

His words were true. On the day they began with the

sword he took a nick out of Brian’s shoulder and did not even stop but continued to press his advantage, driving Brian backward, criticizing him all the while.

“You let yourself look at my sword, Brian; that was your mistake. You must watch my eyes, always, the eyes. They will tell you my target. If you wait to see what my sword does it will be too late. Get your shield up, fool! I come right through!”

Nessa’s blade seemed to be everywhere at once, weaving dazzling patterns in the air. A crowd had gathered to watch Brian in his first swordplay. A low hum greeted the drawing of blood, but no one seemed to expect them to quit.

“Now, when I come close, twist your wrist and go for my armpit, so. That is the advantage of the short sword, you see? Never straight on, though, for the ribs will turn your blade more often than not. Aim for my throat or my belly if I don’t give you an opening to get under my arm.” Nessa danced forward and back, offering easy targets and then flashing away before Brian could complete his strike.

They circled one another. “Watch my eyes, boy!” he cried again, slamming Brian savagely across the thigh with the flat

of his blade.

Brian carried a swollen, purplish lump on his thigh for a month, but never again forgot to watch his opponent’s eyes.

There were also lessons with the javelin, whose balance and throwing range varied greatly from weapon to weapon. When he found a shaft that suited him he carved his name deep into the wood and carried it proudly about the camp.

He had to learn to manipulate the shield, holding the round wooden surface in front of him without spoiling his own effectiveness with weapons. It was heavy, and its weight interfered with the throw of the javelin; it was awkward, and got in the way of his sword.

“It’s got to become part of you, lad, like a growth on your arm,” Nessa insisted, “You can’t put it down to fight, for you would not live to see your enemy die. Carry it with you to meals, wear it when you’re running or doing chores, learn to piss while you’re holding it in front of your vitals. I don’t ever want to see that shield on the ground!”

Work was not limited to practice with actual weapons. Nessa gave Brian a blackthorn club and made him beat it against a boulder, jarred to his heels with every shock. He gritted his teeth and kept after it, day after day, as his wrists swelled and his muscles screamed. The time came when his body learned how to absorb the punishment, and he began to feel pain lose its power over him.

He lay in his blankets at night, aching in every joint, with an exultation slowly rising in him. The pain had become a challenge, and defeating it was its own reward. He could do it; he was doing it. He could run as fast as any man in camp now; he could hold his own in a fight; one by one, he was putting aside the limitations of his body. He felt a purely physical satisfaction that was intoxicating to him, and he gave himself over to it voluptuously, hungering for more.

“Nessa, I really want to fight now.” he told his instructor with an intensity fostered by impatience. “I hate this waiting around, I seem to spend all my time training for a fight I may never have.”

At that moment Ardan joined them. The slinger, a slim handsome man whose dark looks were in striking contrast to the ruddy coloring and stocky torso of Nessa, had been growing impatient as well. He longed to try Brian with a sling and stones, and felt a friendly rivalry with Nessa for the tutelage of the promising warrior. But something had just happened that made him forget about instruction and games, and he had hurried to share it.

“King Mahon has decided that we will take up our weapons and attack a Norse settlement to the south, on the road to Cork!” he exclaimed, his dark face alight with joy. “You will see action at last, my friend!”

Brian’s heart was suddenly hammering wildly in his chest. He grabbed the slinger by the arm, pinching with hard young fingers whose strength he did not know until he saw Ardan flinch. “Oh, Ardan are you sure? Are we really going to attack the Northmen? Am I to go?”

”That’s what they told me. You’re to be given a new sword, still unblooded—if Nessa can find one for you. And I would be proud to attach a sling to your belt, just in case.”

“I have my own shield all prepared already!” Brian told them happily. “Wait here, I’ll show you!” He ran to get something hidden beneath his pack and blanket, and returned proudly exhibiting a shield of yew wood. It was not new, but he had stained it himself with blackberry dye to form an inaccurate outline of three lions (recognizable only to him), a standard he had chosen after much thought.

Nessa and Ardan exchanged glances. “He’s ready, all right,” Nessa said, and smiled.

On a soft morning of gray and mist they started the march southward. At least Brian was mounted once more, and the feel of the mare beneath him elevated his spirits to the last possible notch. Briar Rose caught the infection from him and pranced exuberantly.

“Keep that mare still, or you don’t deserve to have her!” Olan growled at him. The old campaigner’s florid face was a mask of disapproval. Brian glanced toward Mahon, but the king’s attention was elsewhere. The time had begun that he liked least; the time when a man must work himself into the frame of mind for leading men into battle, and perhaps into death. Mahon’s eyes were remote, and his lips moved in silent prayer.

The land rolled before them, mottled greens and golds. Birds flew up under their feet and game tempted the few bowmen among the Dalcassians. Brian rode, with the other nobles, a few paces behind Mahon, but he was surrounded by a large circle of dead air. Mahon’s captains talked companionably among themselves, and the king and Olan exchanged words occasionally, but no one spoke to Brian at all. An untried youth of noble blood, he was neither soldier nor officer. He was an unknown quantity, even to himself.

They had begun the march before sunup; they reached the Norse settlement in the afternoon. It seemed to be only a cluster of thatched roofs almost hidden in the folds of the land. It was a rude outpost from which to launch raids on the surrounding countryside; not a community, merely a fortress of sorts, but well-manned. Brian, looking down at it from the vantage point of a rise in the ground, thought it would be a mistake to launch a straightforward attack in daylight in open country. When he tried to say as much to his brother, Mahon turned on him in anger. His eyes were bloodshot and his expression was one Brian had never seen.

“How dare you question my strategy?” he demanded in a booming voice that carried clearly to the foot soldiers “Who do you think you are, you insolent puppy? I have fought the Northmen since you were a child, without your advice, and I know how to deal with them. I make the decisions here, and if you doubt my authority, you can leave your horse and go!”

Brian tightened his grip on the mare’s reins and met Mahon’s eyes with an unflinching stare.

Looking at him, remembering the bright child he had been, Mahon was suddenly struck to realize how far he had come. This was no boy, sitting easily on the prancing horse, but a young man whose hard and slender body vibrated with nervous energy. The softness had melted from his cheeks even before the beard began to cover them; the planes of his face were angular, hawklike. His gray eyes were hungry.

Mahon saw a brief mental image of a predator bird.

The gentleness had been stripped from the boy, leaving a tough core, and Mahon felt a momentary regret. “Brian, I ...” he began, but then he broke off and did not complete the gesture of reconciliation he had intended to make. Something in Brian’s face warned him. He realized that, if the situations were reversed, Brian would never apologize to him.

He wheeled his horse abruptly and gave the signal to the

waiting men to take up their positions. Following Mahon’s plan, they marched on the fortification, and the Norsemen came swarming out to meet them.

Many of the foreigners wore body armor, and all were helmeted, in conical caps of leather and iron, with nose guards. Most of them were taller than the Irish and heavier of bone. They wielded their two-handed axes with a ferocity Brian had not envisioned, though he had heard men speak of it in camp. Wherever the ax struck a spray of blood arose and a man died shrieking.

Briar Rose reared and plunged, excited by the swirl of shouting men, and Brian spent his first few minutes of battle in trying to subdue her. A glance showed him Mahon’s horse plodding staunchly forward until at last Mahon swung from his back and handed him to a horse holder. Brian looked around for the man assigned to his mare, but there was no sign of him, so he stayed mounted rather than turn her loose to run wildly about, an easy victim.

He urged her forward toward the whirring axes, feeling his own enthusiasm for fighting slip further behind with every step.

“Get off that damned horse and fight!” he heard someone yell to him, in a voice that might have been Nessa’s.

The Northmen had spotted him and were closing in on him, knowing that the horse would hamper his movements in close combat. With a moan of despair Brian flung himself from her back and released her.

He balanced his sword in his hands the way Nessa had taught him, planted his feet in the fighting stance, and waited for the first man to reach him.

Gunnbjorn Bluescar, having drunk less ale the night before than his comrades, was in the forefront of the force that met the Irish. He head been congratulating himself al morning on his clear head, and enjoying the groans and retchings of those less fortunate than he. He had even delivered a little lecture to Guthrum’s son, Snorri, on the wisdom of vomiting one’s stomach clean before falling asleep—a lecture Snorri had not taken to heart.

Ahead of him a red-haired lad was just sliding off a lathered black horse. The boy was almost beardless, not really a man’s age yet, but Gunnbjorn’s ax liked one throat’s blood as well as another, and an easy kill was a good way to begin the battle. He marked Brian for his own and ran forward, howling to terrify him.

The moment Brian saw Gunnbjorn headed toward him, he knew the man had chosen him. To kill.

Everything else in the world ceased to exist for him then, leaving only the Northman, facing him across a sea of grass.

“Christ be with me,” Brian murmured. The random thought crossed his mind that perhaps there were other—older—names whose aid he might invoke, if only he knew of them; then he shrank from the idea, fearing God would punish him instantly for such blasphemy. And the punishment appeared to be at hand.

The Northman looked enormous. Broad-shouldered, with arms the size of Brian’s thighs, he carried his battle ax in front of him as he ran, locking eyes with his intended victim.

Brian had expected to be afraid, although he had tried not to dwell on it. What he had not expected was the paralyzing force of his fear, which held him rooted and still while Death came running. He felt cold all over, though the sun shone on him brightly with late summer heat.

What good was his short, light sword against the Norse ax? The monstrous thing would surely split his shield at the first blow and then all would be over with him. Before any of his dreams ever came true.

It was that thought that broke his trance. The fear of death chilled him, but being robbed of his dreams enraged him. He had fed on them too long to surrender them so easily. “NO!” he screamed, and launched himself at his attacker.

Gunnbjorn had seen that the lad was frozen in shock, and been pleased. It was tribute to his own terrifying aspect. Two more strides and all would be over. Then, startingly, the Irishman came to life with a yell quite as loud as his own and leaped forward. Gunnbjorn did not check his stride, he was too experienced for that, but his heart jumped. Then Brian was on him.

He had thrown himself forward with a ferocity he did not know he possessed, forgetting the ax, forgetting everything but his rage. The ax whirled and smashed down, but he was already inside its arc, eye to eye with the surprised Northman. The short sword lay horizontally between them, all Brian’s young weight behind it, and at the last instant he dropped his elbow and twisted the blade upward.

It slid smoothly into Gunnbjorn’s throat, as a knife goes into overripe meat. Brian felt it grate against the neck bones and saw the blue eyes bulge outward, in astonishment rather than pain. He took a step backward and the man came with him, impaled on his sword, hot blood flowing down the incline of the blade.

Brian freed it and let him fall.

As easy as that, his numbed mind said. He is dead and I am not. He wanted to feel it, that peak moment, as he had wanted to feel the experience of his first lovemaking, but once again there was no time. No sooner was his sword free than another man was on him, also carrying a sword—much longer than his own—and slicing at him with it.