The Lord of Vik-Lo: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 3) (17 page)

  Thorgrim hesitated, just for a heartbeat, just enough to let Grimarr know that his cooperation was qualified, that he joined the raid not from any personal desire to do so, but to pacify his men. Then he took Grimarr’s hand and he held it firm and he shook in a way that told Grimarr, for all the anger Thorgrim might feel at being played like a flute, his word was good and his help would be genuine.

  “Thank you, Thorgrim,” Grimarr said, and again he felt that flush of optimism, a feeling that had been a stranger to him for many months. He turned and looked at the river and the ships pulled up there and the sea beyond. Thorgrim’s ship was upright now, and his men were fixing a cradle underneath that would keep it that way as it was pushed over the rollers and into the rising water.

  Grimarr realized he had never actually seen Thorgrim’s ship before.
Far Voyager
, he though.
That is what she is called
. He ran his eyes over her hull, bow to stern, with the same sort of admiration with which he might look at a beautiful woman, head to toe.

 
Good looking ship
, he thought. He liked her lines, the width of her beam in relation to her length, the sweep of her bow and stern. Whatever carvings Thorgrim had mounted on the stem and sternpost were removed now. No point in his leaving them in place when he was not trying to frighten men ashore, and when he might frighten any friendly spirits of the land instead, which was not at all what Thorgrim or any Northman wanted to do.

  The ship was black, painted with a mixture of tar and varnish, an unusual finish and not one Grimarr would choose, but it had its appeal. She was a decent size, pierced for a dozen oars per side. She looked fast and weatherly

  “A fine looking vessel,” Grimarr said, knowing there was nothing that might ingratiate him to a man quicker than admiring his ship, save perhaps for complimenting his wife or his son.

  “Thank you,” Thorgrim said. He did not sound grateful or pleased.

  “Would you mind if I have a look around her?” Grimarr asked.

  Thorgrim nodded. “Certainly, if you wish. It will be an hour at least before we start to move her. Then you are welcome to heave with the rest.”

  Grimarr crossed the flat, grassy place where the ship was hauled out. A gangplank ran from the ground to the starboard gunnel and Grimarr stepped up the wooden board, feeling it flex under his weight. His admiration for the vessel, he realized, came from a vague sense of familiarity. He did not think he had seen her before, necessarily, but rather that he had seen ships very much like her. He wondered if she was Norwegian built, or if she might have come from the hands of Danish craftsmen. He knew nothing of
Far Voyager
’s history, but if Thorgrim had bought her from Danes than that would explain her familiar form.

  There were no rowing benches on which to step, as Grimarr was accustomed to seeing, so he jumped the short distance from the head of the gangplank to the deck, coming down with an impact that made the deck shudder. Thorgrim’s men must use their sea chests as rowing benches, he figured. Not a bad system as it saved space, but it also exposed each man’s chest to the elements.

  The ship was little more than a shell. Everything that could be removed - benches, oars, mast, yard and rigging, beitass, stores, water, cargo - all had been taken ashore to make the vessel easier to move on dry land. Grimarr paused and looked around and the feeling that he knew this ship did not diminish, rather it grew more profound. He walked slowly aft. The shape, the dimensions were perfectly familiar to him, though he still felt that the ship itself was one he had never been aboard.

 
Danish built, she must be Danish built,
Grimarr thought. It was the only thing that could explain this odd sensation.
I must ask Thorgrim about that
. He was curious now.

  He continued aft, pausing at the mast step, the massive block of oak, rounded like the back of a whale breaking the surface of the sea. The hole that would accept the heel of the mast was gaping wide, like an oversized blowhole in the head of the whale, but the mast itself was ashore, waiting for
Far Voyager
to be floating once again. Two new knees, cut to perfectly fit over the step, had been added to reinforce those originally fitted in place. The wood had been treated with linseed oil but it was still much lighter than that of the older knees.

 
Interesting…
Grimarr thought. He recalled how his middle son, Sweyn, the boldest of the three, the finest mariner, commander of his own ship even at the age of twenty-one, had complained of the amount of motion in the mast step when the ship was working in a sea.
He was going to do just this thing, add new knees…
Grimarr thought.

  And then he saw something else. There was a cut mark in the mast step, it looked like a place where an ax had come down on the wood. Grimarr crouched on his heels and looked closer and he shook his head in amazement because Sweyn’s ship had had a nearly identical gouge where Sweyn’s younger brother, Svein, had cut away a sheet that had become fouled in a gust of wind and had threatened to take the mast down.

 
How odd…
Grimarr thought.
I must tell Thorgrim about his strange thing.

  And then another possibility struck him, and he froze in place, motionless, as if he had just realized a wild beast was stalking him. He felt his stomach convulse. His eyes narrowed and he stood, slowly, as if afraid of being noticed, as if unwilling to break the spell that this new and horrible realization had cast over him.

  He looked fore and aft just as he had done before, when first stepping aboard, but he did it with new eyes now, and now he saw things that he had had not seen on the first inspection: an odd but familiar knot of wood in a larboard strake that looked like a man’s face, a lighter section of a frame where new wood had been sistered in, not by Thorgrim, but by other hands, at an earlier time. Danish hands. A worn spot he knew well where the brace ran inboard over the gunnel.

  Grimarr’s vision was blurred as if he had opened his eyes under water. His thoughts were clouded and disjointed, the way they had been after Lorcan hit him in the head with that iron spit. He could see, but everything was whirling around and he could not seem to comprehend what it was he saw. Here was his world, so familiar to him, and now here was another possible world, just showing itself, that was terrifying and confusing and unreal.

  He stumbled aft. Every curve of the ship, every sweep of the strakes was completely familiar to him, as if there was a hollowed out place in his mind and this vessel fit there perfectly. He stopped just forward of the raised afterdeck and fell to his knees and for a moment he just stopped there and stared down at the deck board. He was terrified. He had no doubt now what he would find there but he was terrified to find it all the same. If he lifted that board a terrible wound, nearly healed, would be ripped open again, and the world he had constructed over the past weeks would be torn apart as surely as if it had been set on by wolves.

  But he had to look. He reached down, his hands trembling so that he had difficulty getting fingers under the edge of the board to lift it. But he did at last, he picked the short plank up, just as his own son had done on a lazy afternoon a year or more earlier, a boy with a sharp knife and nothing better to do.

  Grimarr turned the flat-sawn board over. The runes were harder to see now, but they were still there, unmistakably there, the words etched in the wood.
Svein Grimarrson Carved This.

Here no one should harm another

Live for evil or work for death

Nor strike with a sharp sword,

Even if the killer of his brother he find bound.

                                                                    Grottasöng

Grimarr stared at the runes for half a minute, no more. Then he turned the deck board over and carefully set it back in place as though he was setting a sword by the body of his son in preparation for burial. He stood and he felt his thoughts start to clear, just a bit, like sediment swirling up from the bottom of a pond and then settling again.

  The sun was out now, the sky nearly cloudless, but that only added to the other-worldliness of the entire scene. There was Thorgrim Night Wolf, talking with Bersi and Hilder, the three of them talking as if nothing had changed, as if the entire world had not suddenly been inverted.

  “Thorgrim…” Grimarr said. He spoke softly, the word like a curse, like it might conjure up the most hideous of black magic. “Thorgrim…”

  Half a year ago an Irishman had arrived at Vík-ló, a young man with silver to spread around and an assurance of more to come. He was looking for men to sail to Dubh-linn, to make a prisoner of a young woman who was staying in the home of a blacksmith there. He did not say why, but the amount of silver he was willing to pay was indication enough that this girl was no thrall or low-born peasant.

  Sandarr had thought it a fool’s errand. Grimarr had been skeptical. But Sweyn and Svein had stepped up without the least hesitation. They were always eager for the main chance and were looking for a way to win glory of their own accord, not just at their father’s side. This was what Grimarr loved about the boys and despite his misgivings he gave his blessing to the expedition. Sweyn and Svein collected a crew, took the ship which had been Sandarr’s command before his injury, and sailed for Dubh-linn.

  Twenty-six men had sailed with his boys. Two returned. They had come by foot, after managing to disappear into the back alleys of Dubh-linn after the fight was lost. They had found a way out of the longphort and traveled three weeks overland to return home.

  They told the tale of the fight on the plank road. They had not been with Sweyn and Svein when they grabbed the young woman, but they told of how they had fought on the road, how they had nearly bested the girl’s defenders, how a second rush of men had come out of the dark and cut them down. They had seen Sweyn and Svein die with weapons in their hands. That was something, some comfort for Grimarr, some little bit of warmth in the frozen depths of his grief.

  And now Thorgrim Night Wolf sailed their ship.

  Grimarr’s hand moved for the hilt of his sword the way a Christian priest might reach for his crucifix, but where he was accustomed to finding the weapon he found only air. This was something else that was not right, something else out of place in his world, because his sword was always there and his hand always found it. And then he remembered.

 
A gesture of friendship…
He felt the rage building now, a white-hot flame that burned the confusion out of his mind. He looked around for something, some weapon, an oar, a tiller, something with which he could beat Thorgrim to death.

  Then he saw Thorgrim’s son Harald crossing the open ground, walking toward Thorgrim quick and careless without a worry in the world. And Grimarr knew that Harald was the one who must die. He must die in front of Thorgrim’s eyes, Thorgrim must witness it before Thorgrim himself was killed in a manner so shameful that he would never see the inside of Odin’s hall.

  He whirled around, still searching for a weapon, but even as he did a candle-flame of reason flickered in the darkness of his rage. Bersi was there and would fight with him, and Hilder, too, but Thorgrim had his entire crew at his side, all his men. Armed or no, Grimarr would be lucky to fell either Harald or Thorgrim before he himself was killed, and that was no good. Grimarr did not fear death, but he would not throw his life away before he had avenged the murder of his sons.

  That was the reason he stopped searching for a weapon and pushed aside his desire to kill Thorgrim and Harald there and then, but it was not until sometime later that he would understand it. His thinking was not so sharp there on the afterdeck of his sons’ ship, his plans were not laid out clean like runes etched in a stone marker. They were more dream-like; vivid but still amorphous and unreal. He did not know what to do then, in that moment, that place, he knew only that he had to kill Thorgrim and Harald and still secure the Fearna plunder, and to do all that he would have to think it out.

  He stumbled forward and found the gangplank and managed to negotiate the narrow board back down to the ground. He could think of only one thing, only one clear goal, and that was to return to his hall, to get out of the mocking sunshine and into the dark gloom of his lair, to envelope himself in the dim light and the smoky, musty familiarity of that place.

 
What was done with their remains?
Grimarr wondered, the thought that plagued him most. They certainly had not received a send-off such as that of the men of
Sea Rider
. Grimarr hoped, he prayed to the gods, that they at least had been buried in a proper way, their weapons at their sides. In his low moments, when he could not keep his black thoughts at bay, he had visions of his handsome boys stripped naked and flung on a dung heap. He had dreams at night sometimes, dark and ugly dreams.

  His legs carried him swiftly toward the plank road. His eyes were down, his mouth set. He heard Bersi call his name as if from a great distance but he ignored him and he strode on, the need to be back in his own place growing stronger with every step up the hill. His thoughts whirled and began to settle again into rational and organized patterns.
Did Thorgrim know that the boys he had killed, Sweyn and Svein, were his sons? Was Thorgrim mocking him, taunting him by coming to Vík-ló? Or was this some sort of coincidence?

  No, it was not a coincidence, of that Grimarr was certain. Thorgrim, however, would not have come to Vík-ló to purposely taunt him unless he wished to die, and Grimarr did not think that he did. Therefore, either Thorgrim knew and wished to keep it a secret, or he did not know, and the gods had sent him so that he, Grimarr, could have the revenge that was his right. The more he thought on it, the more certain he was that the latter possibility was the correct one.

  With massive strides he covered the distance from the river to his hall, and as he did he began to see the patterns laid out before him. Thorgrim killed his boys; he had somehow he managed to best them and take their ship. He disguised the ship and tried to flee Ireland, but the gods would not have it, so they sent him limping into Vík-ló. Then they revealed to Grimarr just who it was they had placed within his grasp.

  Grimarr’s mind continued to clear and he saw that this was a gift that could not be ignored or wasted. He had to be clever. He had to exact his revenge in a way that would show the gods how much he appreciated what they had done for him. This was not a time for mindless butchery. It was a time to be clever. To think.

  He came to this understanding just as he reached the heavy oak door to his hall, and that was good because he needed the dark and the familiar in order to work through what he would do next. He pushed the door open. Some sunlight was coming in through the few windows, their shutters flung open to the unusual warmth, but mostly the space was still in deep shadow. He stepped in, and as he did he became aware that there were men there, men he did not expect.

  His eyes began to accustom themselves to the half-light of the room and the men seemed to resolve in front of him, as if materializing from the smoke. One was Hrafn, the man he had sent with Lorcan’s messenger to see if Sandarr was in fact alive. Seated in front of him were two men Grimarr did not recognize, men dressed in the Irish fashion, warriors by the look of them. They were not armed, but Hrafn was, as were the dozen or so of Grimarr’s men who formed a loose half-circle behind them.

  Grimarr paused, not sure what was expected of him. He had been so completely lost in consideration of Thorgrim and his dead sons and the revenge he would have that he was now finding it difficult to change the direction of his thoughts.

  “My Lord Grimarr?” Hrafn said, stirring Grimarr from his mental exile. “I’ve returned from Lorcan’s ringfort.”

  Grimarr looked at Hrafn, looked at the Irishmen and then once more at Hrafn. He forced himself to consider this new problem, to set the other aside. “What did you learn?” he demanded, stepping further into the room, closer to Hrafn and the two Irishmen. “What of Sandarr?”

  “Sandarr lives, my Lord,” Hrafn said. “I spoke with him. He is not hurt. The thrall, Ronnat, his red-headed thrall, is with him.”

  Grimarr looked up, sharp. “His thrall is with him?”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  Grimarr turned and stared off into the darkness at the far end of the room.
That bastard, that traitorous, disloyal, god-forsaken bastard…

  Sandarr was his first-born, his oldest son, but for all that, Grimarr had never much liked him. There was something unwholesome about the boy, as if he was too clever by half, always looking for a way to wheedle or intrigue. The kind who was happier to plot behind a man’s back than face him with sword in hand. His brothers, Sweyn and Svein, had not been like that. Not at all. They were young men whose word could be taken as an oath. Reckless, headstrong, to be sure, as young men should be, but they were not the intriguing sort.

  And now they were dead. And Sandarr, Grimarr’s only remaining son, had betrayed him.

  “My Lord, Lorcan holds Sandarr prisoner,” Hrafn said, interrupting the silence.

 
Idiot
, Grimarr thought. He turned quickly and took two steps toward Hrafn and the Irishmen. “A man who is taken prisoner by the enemy does not bring his thrall with him,” he said, his voice wavering as he struggled to keep his fury in check. “Sandarr has betrayed me.”
  “My Lord,” Hrafn continued, though his voice carried less conviction now, “Lorcan says these men are to escort the girl back to him or next he will send you your son’s head.”
  Grimarr laughed at that, a short, ugly laugh. “Sandarr is safe as long as Lorcan thinks he is useful, and Lorcan will think him useful until the Fearna treasure is in his hands or mine. Let Sandarr look to his own head.”

  The door opened. Bersi and Hilder came in. They appeared to be out of breath, as if they had been running to catch up with Grimarr. Their eyes fell on the two Irishmen. Bersi said, “Lord Grimarr, do you need to speak with these Irish? Shall I send for the Norwegian boy, Harald?”
  “No!” Grimarr snapped, louder and more angrily than he had intended. He saw Bersi startle at the outburst. The mention of Harald had rekindled Grimarr’s rage and he felt it consuming him. “No!” he shouted again, no longer even trying to contain himself. “No, I will not have that whore’s bastard here!” He grabbed the edge of the heavy oak table and lifted and pushed, flipping it like he was turning over the page of a book. Drinking bowls and jugs and plates and food scattered across the packed dirt floor.

  He turned and looked at the stunned faces of the men watching him and he hated them all. He looked down at the two Irishmen, eyes wide, frightened and unable to follow what was happening. Lorcan’s men. Sent by the man who had killed Fasti, who wanted to take the Fearna treasure for himself, and drive Grimarr into the sea.

  Grimarr felt a growl build in his throat, a low animal sound, and it grew louder and louder and became a shout of rage. Grimarr’s sword belt and sword were hanging from a spike driven into one of the beams of the wall. He grabbed the hilt of his sword and yanked it free and spun on his heel, all one fluid motion, coming around like a whirlwind, judging perfectly the length of his arm, the length of his sword, the distance he stood from the nearer of the Irishmen.

  The blade of Grimarr’s sword, flawlessly honed, hit the man’s neck and barely paused in its arc as it cut clean through, sending the man’s head spinning off, his body slumping over. The spouting blood looked black like tar in the dim light and the men standing behind turned their heads and stumbled back and held up hands to fend off the spray.