The Lord of Vik-Lo: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 3) (39 page)

  “You tried to kill me before, Grimarr Knutson,” Thorgrim called, speaking loud enough for all of Grimarr’s men to hear, “and it did not go well for you. It went even less well for your men, who are now food for ravens. I know of no wrong I’ve ever done you. I laid eyes on your ugly face for the first time just three weeks back. So, before I kill you, I will let you tell me what has brought us to this.”

  Grimarr took a few steps forward as well, and his face was twisted in rage and he seemed to be struggling to gather enough control to speak again. And when he did speak his voice cracked and the words came out like a blast of heat from a blacksmith’s forge. “You killed my sons, you bastard! You murdered them in Dubh-linn!”

  This was the accusation that Harald had heard from Conandil, but still the pain and fury in Grimarr’s voice took Thorgrim aback. The charge was so ridiculous that Thorgrim had never really taken it seriously, but he could see that Grimarr did. It was as serious to him as his very life.

  Thorgrim spread his arms in genuine confusion. “How could I have taken…” he began, but Grimarr cut him off.

  “You sail their ship! You son of a bitch! That is their ship!” Grimarr said, thrusting his sword in the direction of
Far Voyager
. “You took it after you killed them and you sailed it right into Vík-ló where you can mock me with it, you miserable pile of shit!”

  Thorgrim felt like he had been punched. The ship. The two men who had come to kidnap Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill. Harald’s woman. Whom he had promised to protect. Who turned out to be a traitorous bitch, but that was beside the point.

  He could not recall their names, was not sure he had ever known them, but he remembered that they were big men. Not as big as Grimarr, but big. Young men. They had been killed fighting in the street as they tried to carry Brigit off. To carry her off to the ship that was now called
Far Voyager
.

 
Grimarr’s sons? The gods will have their fun…

  “This matter is between you and me, Grimarr. It does not have to involve these others. You and me. We will fight to end this, one on one.”

  “So you admit it!” Grimarr shouted, a hint of triumph mixed with his anger. “You admit you murdered my sons!”

  “Your sons came to steal my son’s woman. A woman I was honor-bound to protect. We fought them and it was a fair fight and they lost. There was no dishonor in that.”

  “And what of their corpses?” Grimarr roared. “What did you do with their bodies? Were they sent off in an honorable way?”

  Thorgrim saw it again in his mind. The bodies had been flung into the river on an ebb tide. He said nothing.

  “Ah, you son of a bitch!” Grimarr roared, the fury bursting out of him now like a damn giving way. He raised his shield, raised his sword and rushed at Thorgrim, the shout still on his lips.

  Thorgrim raised his shield as well. Iron-tooth was in his hand, though he was not aware of drawing it. Grimarr’s blade came down like an ax chopping wood, with all the power of the man’s massive arm behind it. Instinctively Thorgrim knew the blow would break Iron-tooth in two, well-forged though it was, so he took Grimarr’s sword at an angle, deflecting it rather than stopping it.

  Grimarr’s arm swept down and he stumbled as the brutal, ugly swing knocked him off balance. But he recovered too fast for Thorgrim to take any advantage, straightening and stepping away from Thorgrim’s counter-thrust. Behind him, Thorgrim saw the line of Grimarr’s men shuffling forward. He caught a glimpse of Bersi Jorundarson at their head. They were moving, but in a way that suggested they did not know if they should attack or not. Thorgrim had offered to fight Grimarr, one on one. Grimarr had launched his attack. He had given no orders to his men.

  And now Grimarr was in too blind a rage to even think of giving orders. He roared again and made a sweeping blow at Thorgrim and Thorgrim turned the sword aside with his shield. He thrust and Grimarr took the point with his own shield.

  And then the Irish came over the wall.

I felt my blood spilled

over my arched shoulders

by a corpse-net’s wielder

with his sharp sword.

                                                               Gisli Sursson’s Saga

They didn’t even notice the sound at first. It was far off, a quarter of a mile away at the western end of the longphort. With the clang of steel on steel, and the fight between Thorgrim and Grimarr drawing their attention like filings to a lodestone, no one even noticed that Vík-ló was under attack.

  It was the handful of people who had come from the town and were watching from a distance who first realized the danger. They were closer to the walls, and they were not so caught up in the drama on the river bank, and it was their shouts that drew the attention of the others.

  Grimarr’s men stood in a line by the river bank and Thorgrim could see they were no longer watching the fight. He could spare them just a glance as he braced himself for Grimarr’s next attack, but it was clear there was something happening, something beyond their lord’s battle that was attracting their attention. Men were shifting nervously, looking and pointing to somewhere off in the distance.

  Once again Grimarr came at Thorgrim, bellowing, hacking with his big sword. Grimarr was a man who was used to overwhelming any comers with his size and strength. Thorgrim had realized that in just the few seconds they had been fighting. There was no subtlety or art in the man. Thorgrim doubted he had even needed subtlety or art to stamp his enemies under foot.

  But now Grimarr was in a fury and that was bound to make him even more reckless in his fighting. That, Thorgrim knew, would mean opportunity, as long as he did not let Grimarr get a hand on him, or a blade in him.

  Grimarr led with his shield, backhanding it into Thorgrim, clearing Thorgrim’s sword away, trying to knock him off balance before he came in with his own blade. Thorgrim let the shield push him back, and when Grimarr did slash at him Thorgrim was nearly beyond the reach of the sword’s tip. Thorgrim turned Grimarr’s sword aside, then stepped in quick and thrust. He felt Iron-tooth skim off chainmail, no hurt done, though Grimarr howled with outrage.

  And then Bersi was racing up from the line of men, twenty feet back, and calling “My Lord! Lord Grimarr!” Thorgrim’s eyes never left Grimarr’s face, but he stepped back and back again, retreating well out of the arc of Grimarr’s sword, not allowing himself to be distracted by whatever this new thing was.

  “You bastard! Get back here!” Grimarr shouted at Thorgrim as if he had not heard Bersi, and Thorgrim realized that he had not. Grimarr advanced again, but then Bersi was up with him, a hand on his arm, restraining him.

  Grimarr whirled around at this affront, but before he could speak, Bersi pointed to the town and shouted, “My Lord! Vík-ló is attacked! See! Lorcan is here! The Irish are coming over the wall!” Grimarr turned to look in the direction Bersi pointed. He had a dumb, confused expression on his face.

  “My Lord, we must fight them! Now!”

  Grimarr said nothing, just stared off toward the collection of low, thatched buildings. Behind him, his men had begun to advance, to take up their arms in a meaningful way. Thorgrim took another step back, and once he was sure Grimarr could not surprise him he turned to look.

  The Irish were indeed coming. The earthen wall that surrounded the longphort was visible here and there between the buildings, and where Thorgrim could see it, he could see men climbing to the top and stumbling, leaping, sliding down. He remembered the ease with which Starri had gone over that wall. The low barrier was useless without warriors defending it, and all of Grimarr’s warriors were there with him by the river. The Irish would open the gates if they had not done so already, and then all Vík-ló would lay at their feet.

  Like Grimarr’s men, the Far Voyagers were also looking off toward the town, the fight between Thorgrim and Grimarr a minor thing compared to this. The only ones not watching the Irish onslaught were the people of Vík-ló who were running toward the river, or more correctly, away from the attackers.

  With the close-packed buildings right in the way, it was hard to even guess how many men were coming over the wall. A lot, quite a lot, that much was clear. Some had helmets, some had mail or leather, all had shields and weapons glinting in the morning sun. The Irish. They had come at last, and they had come in force.

  “Damn them, damn them all!” Grimarr shouted and Thorgrim turned back to see him shove Bersi out of the way. “We finish this now!” He was looking at Thorgrim, pointing at him with his sword. “This Norwegian son of a bitch and me, we finish this now!”

  Thorgrim could sense the unease ripple through Grimarr’s men. This was madness, but clearly Grimarr had gone mad. And Thorgrim saw his chance.

  “Listen to me, all of you!” he shouted, holding his arms wide in a gesture that took in his men and Grimarr’s as well. “The Irish will butcher us like sheep if they find us standing here with our cocks in our hands! Let us stand shield to shield! Let us kill them all, before they kill us!”

  And with that, Grimarr’s men cheered, actually cheered, which was more than Thorgrim had ever expected. Their blood was up, they were ready for a fight, but not a bloodbath against the Norwegians for the sake of Grimarr’s personal vengeance.

  This was different. This was a fight that they knew was just, honorable and necessary, brought to them like a tribute by the Irish they loathed.

  “You men!” Thorgrim shouted to his own men who were just as eager as Grimarr’s to be at these newcomers and just as unwilling to stand there by the river and be overrun. “Follow me!” He raced forward, turning his back on Grimarr, ignoring him, a bigger insult than any verbal thrust he could have made. He wondered if Grimarr would come up from behind and stick a sword through his back. He did not think the Dane would do so dishonorable a thing, but neither did he think Grimarr’s mind was working quite right.

  He turned back to see if his men were following and to see what Grimarr was up to. The Far Voyagers were rolling forward, but Grimarr had not moved from the where he had been standing when Bersi told him about the attack over the walls. Sword and shield in hand, solid and motionless as a tree, Grimarr stood on his patch of ground, his mouth open, his eyes wide, as his men streamed past him and toward this new fight.

  Thorgrim’s men, by virtue of having been closest to the plank road, were now leading the attack toward the town. They were at a near run, but Thorgrim slowed them down, his sword held high as he slackened his pace. It would not do to go charging stupidly into this battle. That was what Grimarr had done in his attack on Thorgrim, and if he and Thorgrim had been allowed to go at it with sword and shield for another five minutes, then such recklessness would have cost Grimarr his life.

  Thorgrim eased his advance to a walk and then he stopped. “Hold a moment!” he said, and behind him the sound of marching fell abruptly to silence. Most of his men and Bersi’s were hidden from the town by the tall grass and the contour of the ground. The enemy could not see them but Thorgrim, at the head of the line, could see the enemy. Or at least that small part of their force that was showing itself. He could see men here or there, among the houses, but if the rest were drawn up in a shield wall, or gathered together for a single assault it was in some place hidden from his sight.

  He looked back once more. His men were stopped, faces grim but ready, shields on arms. Behind them stood Bersi’s men, similarly arrayed, but with a more impatient quality as their way was blocked by the Far Voyagers. “Bersi!” Thorgrim shouted and gestured for Bersi to come to him. He genuinely did not know how the man would react to that, and was somewhat surprised to see Bersi jog through the crowd of men and up to where he stood.

  “Listen, Bersi, it’s pointless for us to all rush in and hope for the best,” Thorgrim said, pointing with Iron-tooth toward the plank road and the cluster of buildings that flanked it. “These Irish are like to outnumber us, maybe seriously outnumber us.”

  Bersi nodded. He was looking past Thorgrim toward the town and the parts of the wall that were visible. No more men were coming over. They were all inside Vík-ló’s defenses now.

  “What are they doing?” Bersi asked.

  “My guess is they were expecting a fight at the wall, and now they’re wondering where we are. It looks like they’re searching some of the houses.”

  “You think they outnumber us,” Bersi said, “but I see only a handful.”

  “There are more,” Thorgrim assured him. “They would not have come over the wall if they did not have men enough to finish the work. They know how many men are usually at Vík-ló but they do not know how many are here now. They’re probably gathering for an attack, getting ready to sweep through the town.”

  Bersi nodded again but said nothing more. Thorgrim guessed he was the sort who preferred to not make decisions, and that was fine, because Thorgrim was the sort who did.

  “They’ll form up in some sort of line, or swine array, I’d wager,” Thorgrim continued, “and they’ll come down the road, looking for us. They’ll want a stand-up fight, shield wall to shield wall, because they’ll have numbers and they’ll reckon they can slaughter us that way. And they likely can. So we’ll need to set some sort of trap for them, and here’s what we’ll do. You split your men in two and have them work around to the north and the south, out of sight.”

  Thorgrim swung Iron-tooth to the left and right, pointing at the worn paths that ran off in either direction, and then pointed back toward the plank road. “We’ll form a shield wall here, across the road, where we can be seen from the town. With any luck they’ll think we’re all the men here. They’ll attack us directly, and when they do, you hit them from behind, from both directions.”

  Bersi nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Good.”

  Thorgrim almost laughed. Bersi did not question why Thorgrim was giving orders, and he did not hesitate to obey them. Rather, he seemed relieved to not have to make any decisions on his own. He turned and pushed his way back to his men.

  Thorgrim pulled his eyes away from Bersi and looked to his own men. “Form a shield wall, here,” he said, pointing to a spot twenty feet up the plank road. His men advanced and they formed a wall, Harald and Ornolf in the center, and Agnarr, Godi and the others taking their places. It was a good spot, with marshy, weeded ground on their flanks which would discourage men from attacking there. The wall formed quickly, and the Far Voyagers stood bold and ready, each shield overlapping its neighbor, swords, battle axes and spears held ready. But they were a small force, and lined up in that manner they looked smaller still, as if it would be little problem for Lorcan’s men to roll right over them.

  Only Starri and Thorgrim did not take a place in the line. Thorgrim wanted to stay back, to be able to keep an eye on the entire shield wall and be ready to jump in where he saw weakness, or to fill a gap where a man had been cut down. Starri did not take his place in the wall for other reasons. One was that he had no shield. He never carried such a thing into a fight, for the same reason he never wore a helmet or mail. He had no interest in protecting himself.

  What’s more, no one wanted to stand next to him. A shield wall depended on every man holding his ground, keeping his shield overlapping his neighbor to form a near solid defensive line. But Starri could not be counted on to stay put. When the battle madness was on him, no one knew what he would do. He might well break from the line and fling himself at the enemy; fine behavior for a berserker, not for a man in a shield wall.

  Now Starri was whirling around like a dancer, arms out, a battle ax in each hand, the sort of frenetic, mindless activity he did when his insanity needed some outlet, when a fight was in the offing but the bloodletting had not yet begun.

  Thorgrim needed no such outlet. He stood nearly motionless, eyes everywhere, though in truth his mind was whirling as madly as Starri’s arms. He watched Bersi’s men head off, crouching a bit to keep themselves hidden by the tall grass and the low, rolling ground, and he wondered if they would fight. It was a risk, a great risk.

  He could have insisted they stay and stand in the shield wall and then there would have no way for them to shirk the battle. Instead, he had ordered them to slink away and to enter into the slaughter only after it had begun. And he had no doubt it would be slaughter. If Bersi timed it right, the Irish would have a hard time of it. But Bersi might decide that the right moment to advance was the moment when all of Thorgrim’s men had been killed. The temptation to do so would be strong.