Raider's Wake: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 6)

by James L. Nelson

  The afternoon had been quiet, just silent watching and anticipation, but with those words the silence was trampled by a hundred and fifty warriors swarming over four ships to get the sails set. It did not take long. The men had been anticipating this order for hours, once the afternoon breeze had filled in. They had cast off the lashings that bound the sails to the yards and the yards to gallows, had stretched out the halyards ready for hauling. There were men standing by the lines and more making ready to dip the ends of the yards under the shrouds and swing them around so they would set perpendicular to the ship’s centerline.

  “Heave!” Thorgrim heard Harald say and the men at the halyard pulled the rope aft with a short, hard jerk, readjusted their grips and heaved again. Foot by foot the big yard moved higher on the mast, the red and white oiled wool sail tumbling free as the spar rose.

  “That’s good!” Harald shouted. “Swing her around!” Eager hands grabbed onto the brace, the line that ran from the end of the yard, and pulled down, tilting the yard nearly vertical and then swinging the low end forward and around the shrouds, before easing it back to the horizontal. The breeze ran down the length of the cloth, making it ripple and gently snap, and Harald called for the men at the halyard to heave again.

  He wears his command well, Thorgrim thought. He was with Harald every day, nearly, and had been for two years or more, since they had first left Vik to go a’viking with Ornolf. It was difficult, sometimes, with such proximity to see the changes in the boy. But every once in a while he felt as if the gods gave him a chance to catch another view of his son, like noticing a new vista in an otherwise familiar landscape. This was such a moment, and he liked what he saw.

  Sea Hammer’s yard reached the top of the mast and Harald ordered the halyard made off, the leeward brace hauled aft and the yard swung around until the breeze filled the sail. It rippled once then filled again and stayed filled, bellied out in a gentle curve. The wind was light, just enough to keep the sail full, but Sea Hammer, like all Norse longships, was narrow and sleek and responded well to even the light pressure of the wind. Thorgrim felt her heel a bit, felt her gather speed, heard the growing murmur of water running down her side.

  He looked to leeward. The other ships, Blood Hawk and Dragon and Fox were setting sail as well, each a little behind Sea Hammer because Harald had made certain Sea Hammer would have her sail set first. That sort of thing was in his bones; he could not tolerate his ship not being first. Likewise, he could not tolerate not being the first man into a battle, though he never was, because, try as he might he could never get into a fight quicker than Starri.

  Thorgrim felt his spirits soar. The fleet was gathering way, stretching their legs as they built to a run. They were a pack of wolves, just like a pack of wolves, patiently waiting and then coming on with a frightening burst of speed. This is why those poor bastards will not run from us for long, he thought.

  By the time he looked back out to sea the merchant ships had their sails set as well, the wind nearly right astern of them and they seemed to be moving at a decent clip, faster than Thorgrim would have thought a wallowing, heavy-laden merchantman might sail.

  Harald had taken the tiller now and Thorgrim turned to him. “Head right for them, right for their wake,” he said. “But stay to windward, don’t let us get down wind. I think this breeze will hold steady now. We want to keep them between us and the shore, don’t want them running off to sea.”

  Harald nodded and his eyes moved from the distant merchantmen to Sea Hammer’s sail to the ships near astern, watching everything at once, like the good sailor he was. In the same way, Thorgrim’s eyes were everywhere, and he gauged the manner in which the other three ships were being handled, the set of their sails, how steady a course they held, and he found nothing wanting.

  Already Sea Hammer was stretching out a lead. She was the longest of the four, and probably the best built, though Blood Hawk was nearly her equal. Godi’s ship was only a hundred feet or so astern of Sea Hammer and seemed to be matching Sea Hammer’s pace, or nearly so. The others, shorter on the waterline, were dropping behind yard by yard. But if it came to it, if they left the others far astern, Sea Hammer and Blood Hawk alone should be enough to take three merchant ships with their small and frightened crews.

  They settled into the chase, Harald ordering all idle hands up to the weather side and calling out for small and probably pointless adjustments to the trim of the sail. A long wake stretched out behind Sea Hammer and the other ships as they plowed along on the tail of their prey.

  Starri was still at the masthead and he let out a long whoop of exhilaration. “The hounds have a fair race now, after the fox!” he shouted. “There’s a fire under this bastard Brunhard!”

  Thorgrim frowned. Starri was giving voice to something that Thorgrim himself was thinking, something that was starting to irritate him, like a pebble in a shoe. These merchantmen were fast.

  We should have halved the distance with them by now, Thorgrim thought as he looked at the three ships ahead. They did not appear appreciably closer than they had when the chase had first begun.

  Maybe Kalf was wrong, he thought. Maybe they are not heavy laden with cargo. There were two things that made a merchantman slow. One was the shape of its hull, wide and deep, designed to carry as much cargo as it could. The other was the cargo itself, how much there was and how much it weighed. A fat ship loaded down with casks of ale or whetstones or ingots of iron would not sail fast. It certainly would not sail as fast as a longship.

  “Starri’s right,” Harald called from his place at the tiller. “These bastards have some speed on them.”

  “Yes,” Thorgrim said, stepping aft. “Kalf said they were fine ships. Maybe he meant they were fast ships.” From that distance they could see only the three square sails and the dark hulls below, the occasional flash of white water at their bows. Even Starri with his hawk’s eyes, perched at the masthead, would not be able to see enough to gauge their quality with regard to seaworthiness and speed.

  “He might have meant that,” Harald agreed. “Or maybe they’re sailing light. Or even unladen.”

  Thorgrim grunted. That could well be. And if they were unladen, carrying no cargo, he would look and feel like a fool. He and his men would have chased these ships all over the sea only to find there was nothing on board.

  But there was only one way they could discover the truth of that situation.

  “We’ll see,” he said at last.

  Thorgrim Night Wolf was known as a man of few words. That was his nature and it was also his choice. He had learned as a young man that the less you said, the less chance there was of saying something stupid or just plain wrong. For that reason, he did not promise Harald or anyone that they would catch the merchantmen. Because he knew he might not. And as it happened, they didn’t.

  The hours crept past and the water slid under their keel and the coast of Ireland sunk lower on the western horizon. Somewhere off to the west was Vík-ló, and as the day wore on Thorgrim was certain they had finally passed south of it.

  At least we’re going in the direction I wanted to go, he thought.

  They were gaining on the fleeing ships, he could see that, but gaining slowly, and the sun was sinking in the west much faster than they were overhauling their prey. Brunhard, if it was Brunhard, was heading offshore. Not directly out to sea, just tending away from the land. But Thorgrim did not think they would keep on that heading.

  He’ll be lost if he goes out to sea that way, Thorgrim thought. He needs the headland to mark where he should cross the ocean.

  A merchantman sailing to Frisia would generally sail south until he reached the great headland that jutted out to the east. That would tell him when he should turn and run for the coast of Britain. Thorgrim had spent enough time sailing those waters to know that. Just heading blindly out to sea, as Brunhard seemed to be doing, was an invitation to be lost or swallowed up by the sea, or something worse.

  He only wants me to think
that’s what he’s about, Thorgrim thought. Hopes I’ll give up the chase.

  And this time Thorgrim was right. The coast of Ireland was becoming a low and indistinct line on the horizon, and the men of Sea Hammer were starting to throw worried glances that way, when the merchant ships suddenly spun on their heels and began racing back for the protection of the land. They were still a mile ahead of Thorgrim’s ships, still nearly matching them knot for knot. The sun was now low enough that it was difficult to look to the west, which made it hard to see the ships they were chasing.

  But still they raced on, and now Thorgrim could see Brunhard was making for a headland to the south and he realized what they were about.

  Oh, you bastard, you dog! Thorgrim thought as he watched the merchant ships running for the shore. Brunhard had led them away from land as the sun was going down, but now with night coming on he was heading back. He was playing a close game, trying to time this thing perfectly.

  Thorgrim scowled in frustration. He said nothing, but he did not have to. Every man aboard was mariner enough to see how this would play out.

  Failend stepped up beside him. “What is he doing, this Brunhard?” she asked. “Why is he sailing toward land? Won’t that give us a chance to catch him?”

  Thorgrim smiled, despite himself. While every man aboard might understand, Failend, a stranger to ships, did not. “You see that point of land, sticking out from shore?” he asked, pointing. “Brunhard’s trying to get in around the headland and disappear from our sight just as night falls. He’s guessing that we won’t dare follow him in close to shore. That we’ll think it’s too dangerous to risk chasing him in the dark.”

  “Well, he guessed wrong, didn’t he?” Failend said.

  “No,” Thorgrim said, “he guessed right. I’ve never sailed this stretch of coast, never been this far south. I don’t know what’s around that headland. But I know there are ugly rocks enough off the Irish coast that I don’t wish to go blundering around where I can’t see.”

  “But if Brunhard can sail there safely, can’t we?” Failend asked.

  “Not necessarily,” Thorgrim explained. “If Brunhard knows that stretch of coast well he might be able to get through a channel, or he might know some clear passage. Once he gets around that point he’ll be out of sight to us, so we won’t know what course he sails. It would be madness for us to try and go after him.”

  “I see,” Failed said. For a moment the two of them watched the three merchant vessels, a mile ahead. Then Failend spoke again. “That’s very clever of him, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Thorgrim said, grudgingly. “Yes, it’s very clever. This Frisian bastard is a better seaman than I had expected.”

  They stood on, Brunhard’s ships, and in their wake and a mile behind, Sea Hammer, with Blood Hawk only a cable length astern and the smaller ships, Dragon and Fox, now a half mile behind them. The sun touched the horizon and the western sky grew orange and red. The distant mountains seemed to blaze and Brunhard’s ships reached the point of land jutting out to the east and disappeared from view.

  “We’ll stand on,” Thorgrim said to Harald, loud enough to be heard across the deck. He wasn’t ready to give up yet; he would at least get around the headland and see what was there. He looked to the west. The sun was half gone behind the hills. There would probably be light enough for them to make it around the point and see if they might still get at Brunhard’s ships.

  Then the sail fluttered and snapped and then filled again. Sea Hammer sat up on a more even keel and then heeled again as the sail bellied once more. “Oh, by the gods…” Thorgrim muttered. The evening breeze was dying away.

  Sea Hammer was just regaining her momentum when the breeze failed again, puffed and then failed for good. The ship sat upright, her sail hanging limp. Darkness was spreading out over the water, the sun lost behind the mountains, the brilliant reds and oranges fading quickly.

  “The wind has gone,” Failend observed.

  If any of the men had said that, Thorgrim would have taken it as irony and in his present mood might have punched him in the head. But Failend, he knew, thought she was making a sincere and insightful observation.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it has.”

  “So now what do we do?” she asked.

  Thorgrim looked at the shore of Ireland, quickly being lost in the gathering dark. He looked out to sea. The horizon to the east was just visible, the sea and sky fading to a deep, deep blue that would soon be black as tar.

  “We go out to sea,” Thorgrim said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The miserable man and evil minded

  makes of all things mockery…

  Hávamál

  Louis de Roumois stood on Wind Dancer’s afterdeck looking back along the ship’s track to the four Norse raiders sailing in their wake. The longships had been clumped together when the chase began, sometime after midday, but now they were spread out, the two largest ships in the lead, the others trailing behind.

  It was exhilarating, this effort to run away from a powerful enemy, knowing that losing the race would mean a bloody fight to the death. The thrill of the thing had almost blotted out the disgust Louis felt watching Brunhard murder the Irish slave.

  Almost, but not entirely. Louis had been genuinely disgusted. But he had also seen enough of the cruelties that men inflicted upon men, and enough of the pointless violence that went on in the wicked world, that he was not particularly shocked. And, grotesque as it was, he understood why Brunhard had done it.

  And so, when the Northmen had appeared to the west, Louis’s attention had shifted to this new threat. He had watched with interest as Brunhard fought to get every bit of speed he could out of his ship and those in company with him. He would not have thought the insouciant Frisian would have been good at much of anything besides drinking and whoring and telling lies, but as far as he could tell, the man was a damned good sailor.

  Not that Louis really knew enough to judge. But he watched Brunhard’s focus, and the careful adjustments he made to sail trim and the steering of the ship, and he was impressed by how exacting the man was. And the final proof of his skill was the fact that Brunhard was able to keep out of the clutches of the notoriously fast longships.

  “You still see them, Louis the Frank?” Brunhard called from where he stood by the ship’s mast. “Those Norse swine, they’re still there?”

  “Yes!” Louis called. He could still see the lead ship, the big one with the red and white sail. The others, farther behind, would soon be lost to sight behind the headland that Brunhard had rounded after turning back toward shore. And even the closest of the Norse ships was nearly swallowed up in the increasing dark of twilight.

  Wind Dancer turned slightly more to the west. “Oh,” Louis called, “now I’ve lost sight of them! Behind the land, there!”

  “Good!” Brunhard called. “They won’t have the balls to follow us here, witless curs. No one has balls like Brunhard!”

  Louis turned and looked forward. The sun was starting to disappear, but there was still light enough for him to see a number of massive, jagged rocks jutting like dragon’s teeth from the water close to shore, the swells breaking white around their bases.

  Aren’t we going to wreck on those? Louis thought to himself. He opened his mouth, called, “Brunhard! Aren’t we…” and then thought better of it. He knew nothing of such things and Brunhard clearly did. Asking that question would only make him sound like a fool, and Brunhard and the sailors already considered him an idiot, as all sailors did anyone who didn’t follow the sea.

  I’ll just hope Brunhard wishes to live as much as I do, he thought.

  The wind was failing, the sails starting to flog and go limp, but the sailors had apparently expected this. They were already lowering the yard away and passing the oars to the slaves seated on the rowing benches and chained by their necks to one another. The yard was swung fore and aft and lowered to the gallows and Áed stepped to the afterdeck.

&nbs
p; “Run out your oars, you swine!” he shouted, and the rowers, accustomed now to this work and this treatment, did as they were told.

  “Now you listen,” Áed shouted next. “We’re running in through those rocks and every one of you had better row like the devil has you by the throat, because by God he does! Make one mistake and every one of you is dead, right to the bottom with the chains around your necks! Now pull!”

  The slaves leaned forward as one, set the blades of the oars in the water, leaned back, and Wind Dancer began to gather way. Astern of them, the other two merchant vessels fell into line, their sails stowed, oars run out.

  “Pull!” And once again the rowers moved in near perfect unison and the ship moved faster still.

  Brunhard was up in the bows now, one hand on the tall stem, looking forward. Louis could not see his face, but from what he had seen that day he could picture the furrowed brow, the slight frown all but lost in beard, the squint of his eyes as he turned his attention like a spear thrust toward the problem at hand.

  He could hear the surf breaking around the rocks. Wind Dancer seemed to be heading for two of the pillar-like outcroppings, the space between them hardly wide enough for the ship to pass through under oars. To the south there was a wider gap between rocks, and Louis nearly called out to bring that to Brunhard’s attention, but again he thought better of it and kept his mouth shut.

  “Starboard, hold your oars!” Brunhard called in Frisian, the volume and pitch of his voice suggesting he was not as calm as he looked. Áed translated the words into Irish, even louder and more pointed than Brunhard had spoken them. Louis had been nervous before, but now, realizing how tense the mariners were, he was lapsing into genuine fear.

  “Pull! Pull, you bastards! Pull together!” Brunhard shouted next and Áed was translating even before Brunhard was done speaking. The sailors prowled the centerline of the ship, smacking the rowers with rope ends, a pointless and even stupid gesture in Louis’s mind, but still he said nothing.