The Lord of Vik-Lo: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 3) (41 page)

  They were trading blows back and forth, Grimarr’s sword against Lorcan’s shield, Lorcan’s ax against Grimarr’s shield. Splinters of wood flew from the faces of the shields, but Grimarr’s was getting the worst of it, the blade of Lorcan’s ax digging deep, ripping the guts from the wood bounded by the iron rim.

  To his right, on the edge of his vision, Thorgrim caught a motion and he turned to see one of Lorcan’s warriors break through the line, sword held high, his leather armor hacked and bloody, his eyes wild. He came on quick and reckless and Thorgrim easily turned his blade aside with what remained of his shield and darted Iron-tooth in. The leather was no match for the well-honed blade and he died on Thorgrim’s sword-point.

  Then Thorgrim remembered Bersi.
Son of a bitch!
Surely Bersi should have hit the flanks by then. He looked left and right. The shieldwall had all but broken down and the defense had devolved into a hundred individual fights. Men lay dead. Men dragged themselves from the field. Men lay thrashing and screaming. There was no sign of Bersi.

 
Son of a bitch!

  Lorcan and Grimarr were standing five feet apart, eyes fixed on one another, heaving for breath. Grimarr’s back was to Thorgrim, but he could see Lorcan’s face was smeared with blood, a wound to his scalp, probably not deep but it would bleed like mad. Head wounds did.

  The two men stood motionless for what seemed a long time in that frantic world. And then a growl built in Lorcan’s throat and he came at Grimarr again, any finesse quite forgotten. He came at Grimarr with ax raised and shield against his chest. He hacked down and Grimarr stopped the ax again with the last bits of wood left in his shield, which fell apart under the force of the blow.

  Now Grimarr roared and slashed at Lorcan and his blade was turned aside. And then Bersi’s men hit Lorcan’s flanks.

  Thorgrim was not sure at first what was happening, but there was some great change in the tenor of the struggle, some panic that seemed to rippled in from the edges of the fighting. Then he was aware of shouting, the battle cry of fresh men coming into the fight and the Irish seemed to stumble over one another as they pressed toward the remnants of the shield wall and away from this new onslaught.

 
Bersi, you bastard
…Thorgrim thought, but in truth he had no sense for the time that had elapsed. They may have been fighting there for an hour or a minute for all he knew. Bersi might have been holding back, or he might have judged the moment perfectly.

  But he was there now and the effect on the Irish was devastating. Their enemy was at their back, the nightmare of all fighting men. They turned, but that put Thorgrim’s men behind them, and that was no better. Thorgrim could hear shouts now that sounded more like panicked screams than the cries of warriors in battle.

  Grimarr had thrown his shattered shield away and was treating Lorcan with considerably more caution, keeping just beyond the arc of his ax stroke, stepping sideways, looking for an opening. Lorcan had the upper hand but he was not foolish enough to think that Grimarr was any less dangerous for the loss of his shield. Five feet apart the two men faced one another, their faces red and soaked with sweat, the hate that had built up over years shining in their eyes.

  Then from out in the chaos of the battle someone shouted, and it sounded like an order. The words were Irish; Thorgrim had no idea what was said. But Lorcan did and he jerked his head in that direction and he shouted an order of his own and in that instant of distraction, Grimarr lunged.

  Lorcan had time enough to register his mistake, time enough to start turning his face back toward Grimarr when the tip of Grimarr’s big sword struck. It hit Lorcan right where his beard yielded to the bit of his face that was visible, just below his left eye. Grimarr, no doubt recognizing he would only get one such chance, put every bit of remaining strength into the thrust. The sword went through Lorcan’s face like it was a pile of straw, and without the least pause erupted from the back of his head in a great spray of blood and bits of skull.

  The expression on Lorcan’s face could only be called surprise. His mouth hung open. His eyes went wide, and then they rolled back as the force of Grimarr’s thrust knocked the Irishman, who was doubtless dead already, right off his feet.

  Grimarr maintained his grip on the sword and likely thought it would pull free of Lorcan’s skull as the man fell, but it did not. Like some last bit of defiance, the blade remained stuck in Lorcan’s lifeless head. Grimarr was jerked forward and with a shout of outrage he fell across his enemy’s corpse.

 
Kill him, kill him, kill him!
Thorgrim heard the command in his head. Here was a chance that would not present itself again. Grimarr, lying at his feet, back to him. Two steps and he could drive Iron-tooth through the man’s neck.

  He looked up. The Irish warriors close at hand had seen Lorcan die, a thing they might not have thought was possible, and it had taken the fight out of them. Some were fleeing now, those who could get away, and their flight was infectious. More and more men broke off and fled, some throwing their weapons aside. Here and there men kept up the fight. Others tried to surrender, some with success, others not.

  “After them, after them! Drive them to the wall!” Thorgrim shouted. He leapt over Grimarr’s thrashing form and with a wave of his sword led him men forward, driving the defeated enemy toward the earthen wall, built to keep them out, which would now serve to pen them in, like sheep driven to the slaughter.

It’s ill for men

to endure old age;

it snatches from them

sight and sense.

                       The Saga of the Confederates

It was a rout. Thorgrim had seen them before, but he did not think he had ever seen one so complete. The death of Lorcan and the attack launched by Bersi’s men coming at almost the same moment marked the end of the Irish assault. Once the panic took hold it spread, building like flames in a thatch roof, and soon any Irishman who could run was running.

  And they had reason to run, because Thorgrim’s men and Bersi’s men were not about to just let them go. Rather, they followed in pursuit, eager to cut the fleeing enemy down, to kill them to a man. The Irishmen had to be punished, taught the folly of attacking the longphort. Any living Irishman was one they might have to fight again.

  And while that was true, few of the Northmen were actually thinking it. Most were not thinking at all. Just as the Irish were in a blind panic, so the men of Vík-ló were blinded by their blood lust.

  Thorgrim ran after them, his mind still working somewhere above an animal level. He considered trying to stop his men, to form them up in some way, to restore order. There was little that was as dangerous as rushing undisciplined into a fight. If Lorcan had not known that before, he learned it in the last few moments of his life.

  But this was not a fight. The Irish would not stage any sort of organized defense. Panic was like a rock rolling downhill. It moved faster with every second, its momentum becoming more and more unstoppable. And the same was true of blood lust. Thorgrim did not think he could stop his men if he wanted to.

  He raced after them up the plank road. He had caught a glimpse of Harald just before the Irish ranks broke. The boy had been wielding sword and shield with the calm and determined quality of a seasoned warrior, a thing he was fast becoming. Thorgrim lost sight of him in the press of men, but that was alright because he knew the boy lived and the worst of the fighting was over.

  They pushed on. Thorgrim felt himself falling behind, his legs tiring, the half-healed wounds across his chest throbbing, the blood that seeped from the gash left by Lorcan’s ax still running down his arm and dripping from his fingertips. He was breathing hard.

  The retreating Irish charged up the plank road, flanked left and right by the low, ugly daub buildings that made up the town of Vík-ló, their trampled and muddy yards delineated by wattle fences that were themselves now trampled in the panicked flight. Behind them, the screaming, crazed Norsemen pushed them on.

  The crowd was well ahead of Thorgrim by the time he caught sight of the end of the plank road and the tall oak gate in the wall, flanked by Grimarr’s hall and Fasti Magnisson’s. The Irish had run out of places to flee. They were pushed up against the inside of the wall surrounding Vík-ló. Some had turned and were fighting to the last, others were boosting themselves up and over. The Norsemen were hacking at them and stabbing into the crowd of trapped men with their long spears. The air smelled of blood. The only noise was the shouts and screams of men, and it filled the longphort until Thorgrim thought he could stand it no more.

  The big gate in Vík-ló’s defensive wall, thrown open by the Irish, was still open, and Lorcan’s men began to push their way toward it, fighting their way past the Norsemen for the chance at life that the open gate offered. The swords and the axes of the Norsemen rose and fell, but there was not the same enthusiasm now, not the same mindless, wild quality. They were tired. They were sated. They had won.

  The gates hung open as the last of the Irish warriors fought their way through the crowd, clear of the longphort, and raced off for the hills. Some of the Northmen pursued, but none more than a dozen yards or so. Their fighting madness was ebbing and the land beyond the walls of Vík-ló was unknown and frightening. They had spent so long sequestered in the longphort, surrounded by a people who wished them gone or dead and whatever unearthly things inhabited that strange land, that none of them were eager to venture far beyond the gate.

  Thorgrim stopped and let Iron-tooth’s tip rest on the ground. He had already discarded his shattered and useless shield, and he let his wounded shield arm hang limp. He could feel the sticky blood that coated his fingers and hand, but he could feel no more blood dripping off, so he counted that a good thing.

  “Thorgrim!” He looked over and saw Bersi approaching. There was blood on his face and hands, his helmet was gone, and there was a great rent in his mail shirt. He was limping, just a bit. He looked like a man who had been in a fight.

  Bersi held out his hand and Thorgrim took it and shook, then he grabbed Bersi’s shoulder. “Well done, Bersi. You timed that well.”

  Bersi shook his head. “No, Night Wolf, I did not,” he said, and Thorgrim could hear anger and regret. “I could not get my men to move, not at first. There were many who wanted to let Lorcan kill the lot of you, all you Norwegians, before we joined in. It…it was not a good thing.”

  “You convinced them. You led them into the fight.”

  Bersi shrugged. “There was one who was the loudest in calling for his fellows to hang back from the battle. Him, I killed. Put my sword right through him. Then, I just went into the fight myself. I had no idea if the others would follow. But they did.”

  “Good,” Thorgrim said. He took up the hem of his tunic and wiped the blood from Iron-tooth’s blade. “That is what a leader does. He leads.”

  “I knew I could lead,” Bersi said. “I was just not so certain the rest would follow.”

  The two men looked around at the ugly scene before them. The dead lay piled by the wall and the living were relieving them of weapons, mail, arm rings, broaches, anything of value. Some of the wounded men were able to tend to themselves, and some were being tended to by their fellow warriors. Some cried out, or thrashed in agony, or lay quiet as the life drained out of them.

  “Well, it’s done,” Bersi said. “The fighting is done.”

  Thorgrim felt himself recoil at the words. He could only think of how Ornolf would have laughed to hear them, and how the old man would have reminded Bersi that the gods were never done toying with men.

  And then he heard the sound of steel clashing against steel.

  It was back toward the river, back down the plank road up which they had come. It was the sound of fighting – two men, sword against sword, and the dull thump of sword hitting shield – unmistakable, but from where they stood they could not see who it was.

  “Now what’s acting?” Bersi asked. “Who could that be?”

  “I don’t know,” Thorgrim said, which was true, but he had an idea, and he felt suddenly sick with fear. He sheathed Iron-tooth and ran off toward the sound of the fighting, back toward the place where he and his men had stood in the shield wall against the Irish. He hurt in a dozen places, and each footfall was agony, he was limping, but he pressed on, and his mounting fear drove him faster.

  He was aware of others with him; Bersi, no doubt, but others as well, drawn by the sound, but he did not turn to see who was there, because he was concerned only with what was ahead. A small rise in the plank road hid the far end and the river beyond from view, but as Thorgrim came up to the crest of that rise he could see the fighting men, fifty yards away, circling one another, sparring amidst the heaps of the dead that lay strewn around. Grimarr Giant. And Harald.

  Thorgrim paused only long enough to register what was happening, then he raced forward again. He tried to watch the combat as he struggled to cover the distance, wanting to cry out, unsure if he should, afraid he might distract Harald when his son’s very life depended on his concentrating on Grimarr’s moves, his sword and shield. Harald was stepping off to his right, circling, and Grimarr was following him around, both just beyond the reach of the other’s weapons.

  Harald was tensed, sword held ready, crouching slightly. Grimarr was more erect, his sword held easy at his side. He did not seem overly worried about Harald, or in the least unsure of how the fight would end.

  Thorgrim was twenty yards away when Harald made his attack, stepping in quick, distracting Grimarr with a swing of his shield and then coming at the Dane with his sword held high and aimed for the throat. Grimarr ignored the shield, which swept past him, and knocked Harald’s blade aside. It was no more than a flick of his wrist, but the force of the parry threw Harald off balance. Harald stumbled, arms out, and there was nothing but air between his chest and the point of Grimarr’s sword.

  But Grimarr did not strike. He stepped back and once again let his sword drop to his side. He was toying with Harald, the cat playing with the mouse.

  Harald recovered and came quickly back to his defensive posture. Thorgrim could see the fury and concentration on his face, and he knew that it was not good. Harald could not tolerate being toyed with, he could not stand the idea that anyone would not take him seriously as an adversary in combat. Such a thing would make him mad beyond words, and men who were that mad were men who made mistakes and died.

  The two men continued to circle and now Harald’s back was to Thorgrim; Thorgrim could see Grimarr’s face and he saw that the man was smiling. It was a look of pleasure not happiness, but that, too, was bound to drive Harald’s fury.

  Fifteen yards away Thorgrim drew to a stop. Grimarr looked up and saw him at last, and as Grimarr shifted his eyes from Harald to Thorgrim, Harald attacked. It was a good move, swift and perfectly timed, Harald leaping forward two feet, using his momentum to drive the point of his sword right at Grimarr’s face. And Grimarr’s eyes never left Thorgrim’s as he swatted Harald’s blade aside with his shield, made a quick slash at Harald’s head and kicked the boy to the ground.

  “Thorgrim!” Grimarr shouted. “I told you I would kill your boy, like you killed mine! I grieved that I could not kill him before your eyes, but the gods have chosen to give me this gift. So watch as I spill this little bastard’s blood and then rip his heart from his chest.”

  By the time Grimarr was done talking, Harald had regained his feet and had sword and shield at the ready. He was breathing hard and Grimarr had opened up a wound on his head that was starting to bleed, sending bright lines of blood down his forehead and into his eyes, which he was forced to wipe away.

  Thorgrim felt like he was under water, trying to think clearly, struggling to keep the panic at bay. Harald was a good fighter - not as good as he thought he was, but better than most. Still, he was no match for Grimarr’s strength and experience. The wound Grimarr had just delivered to Harald’s scalp, making the blood run into his eyes, had not been just a lucky stroke.

  Thorgrim took a step forward and Grimarr smiled broader. “Yes, come on, Thorgrim! Come rescue your boy! Fight his fight for him! See if you can get your sword out before I kill him!”

  Harald attacked again, feigning high, going low, hoping to deliver a wound to Grimarr’s legs that would cripple him, or slow him at least. Grimarr swung his shield down and knocked the blade aside with its rim, then stepped up and hit Harald hard on the side of the head with the hand that gripped his sword. Harald was not wearing a helmet – he never did unless directly ordered to do so – and the blow sent him sprawling once again.

  “Come on, Thorgrim!” Grimarr taunted. “I’m making sport of the boy now! Do you think you can draw your sword and come at me before I kill him? I beg you to try!”

  Harald was back on his feet. He swiped the blood from his eyes and glared at  Grimarr. “This is my fight, father!” he shouted. “I’ll kill this bastard myself!” Grimarr laughed, loud and raucous. And Thorgrim, a man who did not generally wrestle long with indecision, did not know what to do.

 
You son of a bitch, you son of a bitch
, the words rolled around in his head as he fought with this question even as his son fought for his life. Grimarr was in complete control of the fight. For all Harald’s skill, Thorgrim did not doubt the Dane could kill him at any moment. Harald might be dead before Iron-tooth cleared its scabbard.

  And there was more. Harald was no longer a boy. If Thorgrim stepped in and saved him, Harald would bitterly resent it. Given the choice, at that moment, of dying with his sword in his hand or being rescued by his father, Thorgrim had no doubt which Harald would choose.