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

by James L. Nelson

  “I don’t know what your fight is with this man,” Broccáin said. “But I see you’ll not let him go, and my pleading for him won’t change that. Very well. But I’ll stay with you as well.”

  “You’ll leave your people…to stay with the Frank?” Harald asked.

  “Yes,” Broccáin said. “And because Brunhard has my wife, still. I would never go safe ashore and leave her to that fate.”

  “Good,” Harald said. “I understand that.”

  “Another thing,” Broccáin said before Harald could turn and leave. “My men, many of them are warriors. Skilled fighting men. If you want them, some of them or all of them, to go as well, they’ll do as I say.”

  This was something Harald had not considered, but he considered it now. Fighting Brunhard and his men had never been a concern. They were a handful of merchant sailors against four longships filled with warriors. But now, through cunning and surprise, the crews of two of those ships had been killed. Blood Hawk was undermanned. Even if the Norse warriors were still enough to kill all the Frisians, there was rowing and sail handling to consider. They needed strong arms and plenty of them.

  “Very well,” Harald said. “Pick your ten best men and they’ll come with us. The rest can row ashore.” Harald was happy to have the help of the Irish, but he did not need so many aboard that they could be a threat if they chose to be.

  He felt the wind on his face again and once more turned his head into it. It was a bit stronger now, and it seemed to have more easting in it. Thorgrim, he knew, had developed a keen sense for the manner in which the winds worked on the Irish coast. He would know exactly what to expect.

  Harald’s sense for such things was not as keen, the attention he paid to them not as strict. But still he had learned a few things. And from that knowledge he guessed that this wind would only blow harder, and before things got better, they would get quite a bit worse.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  [H]ast thou a friend whom thou trustest well,

  fare thou to find him oft;

  for with brushwood grows and with grasses high

  the path where no foot doth pass.

  The Counseling of the Stray-Singer

  Sea Hammer was positioned exactly where Thorgrim Night Wolf wanted her to be. That much he knew. He did not know if that was also the best place to catch Brunhard and his fleet before they left the coast of Ireland and headed out across the open water. For that he could only guess.

  He stood on the afterdeck and felt the ship moving under his feet, swooping up on the rollers coming in from the horizon, rolling and pitching, fore and aft, side to side. His face carried no more expression than one of the carved wooden figures that adorned the homes of wealthy Norsemen—less, actually—but his thoughts were a great fury of activity.

  So far it had played out as he hoped. Dragon had sailed off to find Fox and go after Brunhard, drive him south and east. He had left Harald in charge of Blood Hawk, coming up behind. He had taken Sea Hammer far offshore, far enough to get ahead of Brunhard’s ships unseen.

  Thorgrim had ordered them to sail through the night, not a popular decision. But between Thorgrim standing grim-faced on the afterdeck and the huge Godi making his presence felt in all other parts of the ship, no one felt much inclined to make vocal objection.

  There had been little wind, which was just as well. Being at sea at night, with all the unseen spirits and creatures that lurked in the depths, was troubling enough. To also know that the wind is setting you down on an unseen lee shore or perhaps blowing you beyond the sight of land was just another level of concern that no one relished.

  But as it was they were under the power of the oars, and Thorgrim kept them at it, pulling with an easy, almost lazy stroke as they made slow progress south. The sky was clear, the stars prominent enough that Thorgrim could keep Sea Hammer on course while, hopefully, Brunhard and his men spent the night somewhere ashore.

  Brunhard’s last night in Midgard, the world of men. Hopefully.

  There were many worries on Thorgrim’s mind that night, but the cape was foremost. He had been told by various men, knowledgeable mariners, that this cape existed, that it was to the south, and that it was the mark that sailors used to indicate the place where they should turn east and make the crossing to Wales. But he had never seen that piece of land himself.

  He was concerned now that he might not recognize it, despite having been told it was unmistakable. He was afraid he might miss it in the dark, or, worse yet, pile up on the rocky crags rising unseen from the night sea. He did not sleep that night.

  But when dawn came, it brought with it a great wave of relief. There, to the south and west, was the cape: long and low, sweeping out into the sea at a near right angle to the north-south running coast of Ireland. Unmistakable.

  “Vestar,” he called out to one of the men on the crew, one of those not at the oars at that time. Vestar was one of the younger men, wiry, spry and strong. “Get up to the masthead and tell me what you see.”

  Vestar nodded and without further word grabbed onto the shroud and headed aloft, gripping the tarred rope with hands and feet. He was quick and the climb seemed all but effortless, though it lacked Starri’s manic enthusiasm. And Vestar, young and able as he was, lacked Starri’s eyesight. Most mortal men did.

  Thorgrim watched Vestar climb, but his thoughts were with Starri. When Starri had opted to go with Harald, Thorgrim had been struck by an odd riptide of emotions. Surprise, for certain. All loyalties aside, Thorgrim did not think Starri would opt to stay aboard the ship that was lumbering along under oars, probably a day or two behind any fighting that might take place.

  But Starri had felt something in his gut, and that in turn made Thorgrim wonder what was happening aboard Blood Hawk, if their journey was as dull as he had thought it would be. He wondered if all was well with them.

  As the surprise had ebbed, relief came in its place. Starri, barely domesticated, could be a genuine bother. One never knew what he would do or say, and his ramblings could get tiresome. And all of that was exacerbated on a sea voyage, when Starri was trapped on a relatively small vessel with little to do.

  But in the end, relief was not what Thorgrim felt. He missed Starri. He actually missed the man’s unpredictability. Starri kept him sharp, he realized, kept him on edge. There was no chance for complacency when Starri was aboard. There was always a sense of anticipation, wondering what the berserker would say next.

  And of course there were the more practical considerations. There were only a few things that Starri was good at, such as fighting and going aloft as lookout, but for those things there was no one better. No one even close.

  Thorgrim pulled his eyes from the low green cape off the starboard bow and looked aloft. Vestar was settling in at the masthead and Thorgrim gave him a few moments to scan the horizon. He was about to call up when Vestar called down.

  “I see nothing, Thorgrim!” he called. “No sails, anyway! The cape is to the south west, and I can see the shore beyond that. Nothing on the water at all, that I can see.”

  “Very well,” Thorgrim called. “Stay up there for a while; come down when you’re tired.” Starri, of course, could remain aloft for hours, but it was asking too much of another man to do the same.

  He turned back to his silent contemplation of the headland. It rose sharply up from the sea and then leveled out into a long, flat arm of land tending off to the west; not jagged and threatening as much of the Irish coast could be, but more pacific and inviting. Much of that coastline seemed to be fringed with beaches, Thorgrim had noticed, a good and convenient thing, though beaches could be as deadly as rocks to wooden ships when they were flung onto the sand by massive pounding seas.

  They were still some distance away from shore, ten miles or so, it seemed. The base of the cape was not visible from Sea Hammer’s deck, and the eastern shore of Ireland was lost beyond the horizon. This was where Thorgrim wanted to be. With their sail furled Brunhard would not see the s
hip until he was too far from land to pull some clever trick along the coastline he apparently knew quite well. They would meet on the open ocean. And while Brunhard might consider that his territory, he would soon discover his mistake.

  Thorgrim turned to Godi, who was standing at the other side of the aft deck. “Godi, let the men have their breakfast and some ale. We can leave off the oars for now. I think we’re about where we want to be.”

  “Very good, Thorgrim,” Godi said and he ambled off forward, giving orders as he went. Thorgrim could see the expressions of relief on the men’s faces as they slid the oars inboard through the oarports and laid them out lengthwise along the top of the sea chests. They had been rowing leisurely, but it was still rowing, and it was still hard labor.

  The momentum came off the ship and she turned slowly broadside to the waves as she drifted, but the motion was still not so bad. The seas were coming in in slow, lazy rollers and not very high, giving Sea Hammer an easy, cradle-like rocking side to side. Thorgrim suspected half the men would be asleep in ten minutes. The others ten minutes after that.

  Let them sleep, Thorgrim thought. With luck they would need their strength, and soon.

  I should sleep as well, he thought next.

  As soon as the thought came to him he realized how very tired he was. He had spent the night pacing the deck, scrutinizing the stars, staring off toward the west for some sign of land: a fire on a beach, the flash of waves in the moonlight breaking against the rocks. He had strained his ears to hear anything that might indicate if they were safe or if they were standing into danger.

  He looked aloft at Vestar, still clinging to the masthead. He fought down the urge to call out. Vestar was no fool, he would have called down if there was anything to see, and Thorgrim’s calling to him might be looked on as a lack of confidence, both in Vestar and in himself.

  Instead he turned to speak to Harald, who, if he was not busy with one thing or another, would generally be seated on the edge of the afterdeck. Thorgrim had actually opened his mouth to speak before he remembered that Harald was not there, that he was off on Blood Hawk somewhere far beyond the watery edge of sight.

  It was Failend sitting there, wearing her boy’s tunic and leggings, her thick brown hair tumbling down her shoulders. She sensed Thorgrim’s looking at her and she looked up at him and smiled and he smiled back. “You should sleep, Thorgrim,” she said. “You’ve stood the deck all night.”

  “All the men have been up all night,” Thorgrim said.

  “No,” Failend said. “The others slept when they could. You are the only one who’s been awake all this time.”

  Thorgrim nodded and looked out to sea once more. He sensed Failend standing and then she was at his side. The top of her head was about level with his shoulder and he looked down at her. She was a beautiful girl, and strong, clever and hard when she had to be hard. He cared for her very much. But she had not long been part of his life.

  “Is there something I can get you?” she asked. There was a touch of concern in her voice, and Thorgrim guessed she had picked up on this strange mood that had come over him.

  “A cup of ale would be welcome,” Thorgrim said.

  Failend gave a faint smile. “A cup of ale it shall be,” she said and headed off forward where the barrel of ale was stashed. She was light on her feet and now that she had found her sea legs moved easily despite the odd rolling of the ship.

  Thorgrim watched her go, but his thoughts were still with Harald. He felt a sadness wash over him, much as he had when reflecting on Starri’s absence, but much more profound than that.

  It was more than two years since they had sailed from Vik aboard Harald’s grandfather’s ship. More than two years, and Thorgrim could count on his two hands the number of days they had been apart in that time. He himself had grown two years older, two years grayer, two years and many battles worth of broken down.

  Harald, too, had been changed in those two years, but he was moving in quite the opposite direction.

  He had been a boy when they had sailed, barely able to serve his time at the oars. He had never been in a fight beyond brawling with his older brother or some of the other boys on the farm. But that boy was gone now.

  In his place was a man, several inches taller, many pounds heavier, with muscular arms and shoulders, long blond hair tied behind his head, thick and calloused hands. Sometimes his eyes were still those of a curious boy, and sometimes they were those of a warrior who had seen more bloody fighting than most would see in a lifetime. Together they had fought for their lives against men and the sea. They had been destitute and surrounded by enemies. They had been, and were now, in possession of great hordes of silver and gold.

  But they were not together. Thorgrim had sent Harald off to take command of Blood Hawk.

  He sighed and looked out toward the north, toward where Blood Hawk should be, almost as if he expected his son’s ship to come up over the horizon. And indeed he knew that in his heart he was desperately eager for that to happen.

  Did I make a mistake, sending Harald off in Blood Hawk? Thorgrim wondered. What he had told the boy was the truth. Harald was born to be a leader, but first he had to learn a leader’s lessons. He had to have command of a ship and its crew. He had to learn that preference should not be shown to one’s self or one’s kin.

  Failend returned, a cup of ale in her hand. She passed it to Thorgrim and as he took it he realized he was as thirsty as he was tired, and he wondered where his mind had been that he should not even be aware of himself. He thanked her and drained the cup.

  “Godi,” he called and the big man came walking aft, his steps a little unsteady on the rolling deck. “I am going to sleep some. You may let the men do the same, if they wish. You, too. No one slept much last night. Send a man up every hour or so to have a look around for Brunhard or for one of the other longships.”

  Godi nodded. “You look like you could use some sleep, Thorgrim,” he said, half grinning.

  “I feel like I could use a sword thrust through my heart,” Thorgrim said. “I’m not sure anything less will do me much good.”

  He pulled out one of the bearskins he kept stored under the afterdeck, shoved it against the side of the ship in a big pile, leaned against it. He closed his eyes and the swooping and rolling of the ship seemed even more pronounced. He lowered his chin to his chest to keep his head from swaying and soon he was fast asleep.

  What woke him, he was not sure. Some time had passed, a substantial amount of time. The sun, which had been near the eastern horizon when he had gone to sleep, was now nearly overhead. Godi was standing beside him, shaking his shoulder. The motion of the ship had changed. It was more pronounced now, the rolling quicker, livelier.

  “What is it, Godi?” Thorgrim asked, but in his mind he heard two names: Harald? Brunhard?

  “It’s the wind, Thorgrim,” Godi said. “The wind’s come up a bit while you’ve slept.”

  Thorgrim took his eyes from Godi’s bearded face and looked up. The tail ends of the lashings holding the sail to the yard were dancing in the breeze. The sky had turned from the light blue of a clear dawn to a uniform gray that stretched to every point on the horizon. The sea now picked up that color as well, gray like unpolished steel.

  He turned and faced in the direction from which the wind was blowing, felt the breeze move over his skin and ruffle his hair and beard. Thorgrim considered himself a mariner, even more than he did a warrior or a farmer. He loved every aspect of seafaring. Much of it was fairly simple: the way a ship moved under sail or oar, the effect of current and wind on headway, the manner in which the mast and sail was supported by the rigging.

  But weather was another thing, a vastly more complicated thing, and so Thorgrim reveled in the study of it. Predicting weather meant vigilance and observation, noting the size and types of clouds, the direction and strength of wind, the behavior of birds at sea or animals on shore. It meant remembering all of that and looking for patterns and recurring pheno
mena. It meant learning to trust instincts. And even with all that, it was still generally a pretty imprecise thing. But not always.

  “It will be blowing harder soon,” Thorgrim said with absolute certainty. “When the wind comes around easterly like this, it means it will blow harder.”

  “And a lee shore,” Godi said.

  “A lee shore,” Thorgrim agreed. “But we are far enough now that it is no great concern.”

  No great concern for now, Thorgrim thought. He knew how quickly such things could change.

  Sea Hammer took a wicked roll, enough to make Thorgrim and Godi and Failend stagger and nearly fall, their arms and legs coming out in a comical manner to steady themselves.

  “We can’t wallow in the trough of the waves anymore,” Thorgrim said. The rising wind had brought with it a bigger sea. Sea Hammer was no longer rocking with an easy motion but rolling with increasing force and violence. “Let’s set a sea anchor. That will hold us stern to the seas and slow our drift. We’ll remain here, see if Brunhard shows up.”

  “I’ll see it done,” Godi said and headed off forward. Soon the men had wrestled out a length of strong rope and lashed some spare boards to the end. That would be set over the stern, and as it dragged through the water it would keep Sea Hammer perpendicular to the rollers.

  The sea anchor was lowered over the side and the rope paid out, then made fast to a cleat near the stern. As the tension came on the line, Sea Hammer turned a quarter circle where she sat, turned her sharp stern into the oncoming seas, and suddenly the entire motion of the ship changed. Rather than the flaccid and listless rolling side to side, now she was being lifted by the stern, pitched forward just a bit, then the stern was sinking as the seas passed under and lifted her bow high. There was something more alive and deliberate about the motion, and it buoyed Thorgrim’s mood a bit.

  And then there was nothing left but to wait.