The Lord of Vik-Lo: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 3) (7 page)

  But when Grimarr was attendant on some death ritual, as he was now, and he was quiet and there was no violence with which to keep his feelings at bay, he could not help but think of them.

  The younger boys were not as clever as Sandarr, but that had never bothered Grimarr. Grimarr did not put too much stock in clever; a man could be too clever by half. Courage and honesty and strength, those were the qualities a man should have, and Sweyn and Svein had those in abundance.

  “You are thinking of my brothers,” Sandarr said. Grimarr had not realized he was standing so close.

  “I am,” Grimarr said gruffly.

  “Me too. I can’t help it. At such a time as this.”

  Grimarr grunted. He did not wish to speak at that moment. It was nearly half a year since Sweyn and Svein had been killed, but the wound to Grimarr’s spirit was still open and bleeding.

  “Fasti will join with Sweyn and Svein this day,” Sandarr said. “My brothers died in honorable combat. Sure they feast with the gods, as Fasti will.”

  Grimarr grunted again. Sandarr was right, and he was saying the right words, so Grimarr did not entirely understand why Sandarr’s words grated on him so. Perhaps he resented the fact that Sandarr had lived when the others had died, that Sandarr had chosen caution over boldness and that choice had proved the smart one.

  “Yes,” Grimarr said at last, feeling as if he had to say something. Like it or not, Sandarr was the only son left to him. “We may thank the gods that they were killed in honorable combat.”

  Grimarr stared vacantly at
Sea Rider
as her immolation come to its end. The rigging was burned through and it fell snaking and flaming down onto the deck. The mast seemed to be tilting a bit, though it was hard to tell with the air distorted by the intense heat. And then the tilting became obvious, the mast leaning aft bit by bit until the momentum built and it came down like a felled tree, and a great burst of flame and sparks roared up in its wake.

  The ship was lower in the water now and Grimarr guessed that the heat was opening up the seams. There could be little left but a charred shell, the earthly remains of her men turned into the spirits of the flames. She listed a bit toward
Eagle’s Wing,
revealing the
flames still consuming her deck and thwarts, the wood glowing bright orange. Of her men there was nothing to be seen; the flames were too bright to reveal what lay beneath, and Grimarr was happy for that.

 
Sea Rider
rolled a little further and she seemed to settle into the seas, like a tired man reclining on a soft bed. Inch by inch she went down, the water coming up her gracefully curved sides until just her sheer strake and her proud bow and stern could be seen. Then the water was over the strakes and with a great hiss and a cloud of steam
Sea Rider
slipped beneath the gray seas and was gone.

  For a long moment more the men aboard
Eagle’s Wing
continued to stare at the place where
Sea Rider
had gone down, the swirling water, the bits of debris, some still burning, that floated above the spot. Grimarr imagined the blackened hull sinking down, down, settled soft onto the muddy bottom.

  “Very well, let us get the oars out,” he growled, and slowly, quietly, the men pulled the oars down from the gallows and passed them along. Then from overhead, a young man named Otr called down to the deck. He was the most nimble of the crew and Grimarr sent him up regularly to search the horizon, because Grimarr did not care for surprises.

  “What is it?” Grimarr asked.

  “It’s a ship, Lord Grimarr,” Otr replied. “Some many miles away yet. But it seems to be making for us.”

A slaughter was inflicted on the foreigners at the islands of eastern Brega, and another slaughter of them at Ráith Alláin…

                           Annals of Ulster, 852

There was a dream that came to Lorcan mac Fáeláin every night, or nearly so. A golden chalice, heavy and bejeweled, sat on the top of a table. It was an arm’s length away, he had merely to reach out and take it up. There was no one around, no one to stop him. But when he stretched out his arm the chalice was just beyond his grip. He struggled and fought to extend his arm that last little bit but no matter what he did he could not grasp the prize.

  Lorcan did not need a priest or a druid or any reader of dreams to tell him what it meant. It was clear enough, a truth that he lived every day.

  Ruarc mac Brain’s authority grew weaker the more often he was gone, off with his little whore at Tara, where he now spent more time than he did at Líamhain, his seat of power in Leinster. The local
rí túaithe
were not happy about this, and Lorcan was able to exploit that fact. His influence was growing daily, thanks to his own strength and cunning. Rule of that part of Ireland could be Lorcan’s; it was there for the taking. Yet it remained just beyond reach. The frustration and anger Lorcan felt in his dream world was nothing compared to that which he felt when he was awake.

 
So close, so damned close!

  The dubh-gall were a thorn in his side, but they had their uses, such as their sacking the monastery at Fearna which Lorcan intended to turn to his advantage. The loyalty of the
rí túaithe
could be had in many ways, but the easiest was to simply buy it with silver, and silver they had at Fearna in abundance. Lorcan had intended to sack the monastery himself, but when he received word that the dubh-gall were bound for that place he saw his opportunity. Let Grimarr Giant and Fasti Magnisson carry out the raid, then take the silver and gold from them. That would spare Lorcan any repercussions from preying on his fellow Irish (though it happened often enough he did not think there would be any great outcry) and enhance his reputation as one who would stand up to the heathens.

 
So damned close…

  After the dubh-gall had finished with Fearna, Lorcan and his men followed the longships from the shore. Happily their progress was slow, the winds light and contrary. One of the ships, it seemed, had started taking on water, so the dubh-gall had beached it, and from his concealed spot Lorcan watched as all the plunder was loaded aboard the second vessel which sailed off on its own. This was too good, a gift from God. Lorcan had anticipated attacking both ships at once, resulting in a hard fight of evenly matched sides. But now it would be two to one.

  Lorcan continued to follow the ship’s progress, watching every foot of her voyage - or so he thought. He had sprung his trap with perfect timing, had cut down the dubh-gall bastards as they came. He had personally split Fasti Magnisson’s skull like firewood and taken great pleasure in doing so. But the plunder from Fearna was not on board. Lorcan had not had the chance to tear the ship apart in his search, but he had seen enough to be sure it was not there.

  Fasti must have stopped somewhere along the way and hidden it ashore. It was the only explanation. Where, though, Lorcan had no idea. The only ones who might have told him where it was were the Irishmen and women taken captive at Fearna. They must have been aboard when the treasure was hidden but Fasti’s men had killed them all as the curachs swarmed toward the longship.

  Lorcan mac Fáeláin had raged over the missing plunder, and over the untimely arrival of Grimarr Giant. But Lorcan was not the sort of man who let rage slow him, nor did he temper it with drink or pointless vengeance or despondency. Rage only made Lorcan redouble his efforts, which was why, in his thirty-eight years on earth, he had risen from second son of an insignificant
rí túaithe
, a man no better than any of the bedraggled peasants he ostensibly commanded, to someone on the cusp of ruling over most of Leinster. He did not intend to stop there.

  After failing to secure the Fearna treasure, Lorcan and his men returned to the ringfort at Ráth Naoi. The fort formed the epicenter of his rule, just a few miles to the northwest of the Viking longphort at Vík-ló. As soon as they had gained the shelter of the heavy-framed wattle and daub building with its high-pitched thatch roof that served as Lorcan’s hall, the only rectangular building in the ringfort, save for the small stone church, before they had even removed their soaked outer garments, Lorcan informed his men that those who had not been severely wounded during the attack on the longship would accompany him on a cattle raid once the worst of the storm was past. To the north, a prosperous farmer named Fearghus was offering some resistance to Lorcan’s growing influence. It was Lorcan’s intention to show him just why that was inadvisable.

  The following day was spent in tending to the wounded, burying those who did not survive, and preparing for the raid. Dawn was still hours away when they set out the day after, the storm still near full strength. Twenty of Lorcan’s men, those most able and trusted - and least wounded - rose, ate, donned fur robes and hats, mail, helmets, and weapons. They knew better than to think Lorcan might postpone his raid for so minor a thing as a blinding storm, despite driving rain and wind that pulled at capes and beards.

  There was no real sun-up, just a general lightening in the skies, a grayness that revealed the incessant rain and the gusting wind as the band of raiders moved north. Lorcan and some of his lead men were on horseback but most were on foot, spears in hand, bows and quivers over backs, swords hanging from belts. The going was slow as the soaked earth pulled at their shoes and the wind and the rain made it difficult to see.

   It was approaching mid-day when they came to a rise that overlooked miles of rolling countryside and Lorcan called for a stop. Beyond the distant hill, smoke was rising in several columns that remained visible until the wind tore them apart and scattered them into something indistinguishable from the general grayness.

  “That is Fearghus’s home,” Lorcan pointed to the smoke. “Two ringforts. One surrounds his buildings, the other is for his cattle. A second ringfort for cattle is over there.” He gestured to another hill to the east.

  Fearghus was of the
aire forgill
. In Ireland’s stratified society the
air forgill
ranked just below the
rí túaithe
. They were not of the nobility, but were considered lords of superior testimony, with twenty free farmers and twenty who paid them rents, amounting to hundreds of cattle per year. That made Fearghus powerful enough to be a problem if he chose to be.

  Beside Lorcan, also on horseback, was Senchan mac Ronan. Senchan served as Lorcan’s second in the absence of Niall mac Faelan, who had suffered a vicious wound to his leg in the fight with the longship.

  “Will we raid that one, then?” Senchan asked, pointing toward the east.

  “No,” Lorcan said, and there was finality in his tone. There usually was. “We will raid the one that stands by Fearghus’s home.” He offered no explanation and Senchan knew better than to question Lorcan’s decision, so he was careful to make his next words sound more like an observation.

  “Fearghus’s men will be nearby,” Senchan said. “And sure they’ve seen us approach. These cattle raids are often done in the dark. By men less bold than you, of course, Lord Lorcan.”

  “Damn the dark, and damn Fearghus and his men,” Lorcan said. “I don’t do this just to gain a few miserable cows. I do it to teach a lesson and no lesson is learned if Fearghus does not know who has impoverished him. I only pray his men have the courage to come out and fight so that we may reinforce the lesson by killing some of them.”

  That was all Lorcan intended to say, so he dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and moved on. The weary, rain-soaked men in his company did likewise. They slogged down the long slope of the hill and up the next, and as they crested the rise they could see the two brown earthen rings that made up the protective walls of Fearghus’s farm. One was two hundred feet in diameter at least and contained within it a large round house and a number of smaller buildings. These were the homes of Fearghus and his family and his laborers, all of whom enjoyed the dubious safety of the ringfort. Smoke came twisting and swirling from the holes in the roofs, mixing together and whisking off down wind.

  The second ring was much smaller, but still substantial, and from their high spot Lorcan and his men could see the cattle moving about, maybe one hundred and fifty or two hundred head. They would be kept there during the night, safe from wild animals and cattle raiders who were less bold than Lorcan. From that distance the cattle appeared as no more than dark spots on the brown trampled earth within the walls.

  “There,” Lorcan said. “Let us go. Fearghus is not to be harmed, is that clear?” His men shed their fur cloaks and hats and anything that might impede their ability to fight. Generally a raid such as this was a clandestine affair, but Lorcan’s men understood now that he meant it to be very public, that taking the cattle was the least of his concerns. It would not, however, be the least of Fearghus’s concerns. In Ireland, where coins and other treasure were rare, cattle was currency, and one hundred and fifty head represented great wealth.

  Lorcan kicked his horse into motion again, heading down the last hill at a quicker pace than he had moved before, Senchan and the other mounted men keeping pace, the rest falling behind. They had halved the distance to the ringfort when they finally saw some activity there, the wooden gate swinging open, a handful of men emerging. Their hesitancy, their uncertaintcertainy was obvious, even from a quarter mile away.

  Lorcan slowed his horse to a walk and turned its head until the animal was making not for the cattle pen but for the men who were emerging from the ringfort and spreading out along the open ground to meet the coming threat. His own foot soldiers caught up with him and Senchan and the others on horseback and fell into step, keeping back, allowing Lorcan to take the lead. He could see Fearghus had managed to collect about fifteen men under arms, but the closer he came, the less of a danger they appeared. They were not fighting men, they were farmers with weapons. And they were afraid.

  “Fearghus!” Lorcan called, and drew to a stop ten feet from the man. “You live well I see!” He nodded toward the ringfort. The top of the roof of Fearghus’s home was visible above the wall. “Perhaps I’ll stop for a visit. You have a fire lit, by the looks of it, a good thing on such a morning. You would not mind if me and my men warmed ourselves?”

  Fearghus stepped forward and Lorcan had to admit that he at least did not look frightened. Furious, ready to kill, but not frightened. All the more reason he needed Fearghus on his side.

  “What do you want, Lorcan mac Fáeláin?” he demanded.

  “Your loyalty, Fearghus, nothing but your loyalty. It will cost you nothing.”

  “It will cost me a great deal. Ruarc mac Brain rules here and he will brook no threat to his supremacy.”

  “Ah, Ruarc mac Brain, is it?” Lorcan asked. He took an exaggerated look around. “Is Ruarc here to protect you now?”

  There was a long and ugly silence as the two men stared at one another. “No, I thought not,” Lorcan said. “In any event, I see you and your men are here to do battle, so we will not disappoint you.” He twisted around in his saddle, shouted to the men behind him. “At them, men, at them! They are a fearsome lot!”

  With a shout, Lorcan’s men rolled forward, spears leading the way. They rushed pell-mell at Fearghus’s men, the sort of disorganized charge that would have got Lorcan’s entire force slaughtered had they been going against fighting men of courage and experience.

  But they were not. Fearghus’s men raised their weapons, took a step toward the charging men, wavered, then flung their weapons aside and fled. The gate of the ringfort had sensibly been closed and barred, so the now disarmed warriors raced off in every direction. Lorcan tried to call them back, but he was laughing so hard he could not form words. Three of Fearghus’s men were dead on the muddy ground before Lorcan was able to put an end to the fight. Only Fearghus himself held his ground, but Lorcan’s men ignored him.