“Ready…now! Ease the sheets!”
Larboard and starboard men unhitched the heavy ropes from the cleats, but they knew better than to just let them go. Instead, they slacked the ropes away fast, letting them snake around the cleats, easing them off, quick but controlled.
The sail bellied out and lifted, bellied and lifted and Harald felt the speed coming off the ship, but with the speed went control as well. He pushed the tiller away, swinging Blood Hawk toward Sea Hammer which was now no more than a dozen feet forward of the larboard bow. He saw the men of Sea Hammer bracing to jump and he knew they understood his intention.
But not just the men of Sea Hammer. There were others, more men than had sailed with his father.
Brunhard…Harald thought. Brunhard’s men must have climbed aboard, knowing that their own ship was sinking fast. No matter…if we live we’ll sort it out on the beach.
Blood Hawk and Sea Hammer rose together, lifted by the same wave, Blood Hawk surging ahead, her bow driving right at Sea Hammer’s stern. Harald pulled the tiller hard toward him, swinging the bow away before it slammed headlong into his father’s ship. Blood Hawk’s larboard side ran down Sea Hammer’s starboard and then the two ships slammed together with a crushing, keel-shuddering impact. Blood Hawk’s sheer strake was crushed and Sea Hammer’s upper planks collapsed at the beam in a horror of shattered oak.
But the men were jumping. Forward along Sea Hammer’s side the men were putting their feet on what was left of the sheer strake and launching themselves across to Blood Hawk, falling in heaps on the wet deck planks. Amidships, others were able to simply step across as the two ships ground alongside one another.
He could see Thorgrim, standing back from the ship’s side, nearly all the way aft, and he had a sudden fear that his father would not jump at all, that he would insist on riding his ship in to their mutual death.
Failend was by Thorgrim’s side, and Harald saw his father push her forward. She took two quick steps, got a foot on the sheer strake and leapt. She looked to Harald like a bird, flying over the space between the ships and coming down in a flurry of hair and tunic and leggings
“Father, jump!” Harald shouted, but instead Thorgrim grabbed Godi by the arm, jerked him forward, put a hand on his back and shoved him toward the rail. It was a symbolic gesture, Harald knew; if Godi did not want to be moved then Thorgrim was not going to move him. But Thorgrim would never leave Sea Hammer unless he was the last living man aboard. He could picture his father and Godi arguing over who should go last and he felt a flush of anger at that. He could only hope that they would decide and move in the next fifteen seconds, because after that it would be too late.
Right down the line, bow to stern, men leapt from the shattered side of Sea Hammer onto Blood Hawk, sweeping by. Harald could feel his ship starting to turn under him, the seas starting to turn it sideways.
“Sheet in the sail! Sheet it in!” Harald shouted and the men standing ready at the sheets began to haul away, leaning into the pull, legs braced, arms straining. The men of Sea Hammer, just come aboard, saw what was happening and they, too, joined in while Brunhard’s men and those Harald guessed were the Irish slaves stood watching.
The sail, bellied out until it was nearly horizontal, was hauled back down foot by foot and the effect was immediate. Blood Hawk began to surge ahead even as the last men leapt across the space between her and Sea Hammer.
And then it was just Godi and Thorgrim as Blood Hawk’s stern drew up alongside that of Sea Hammer. Harald looked over at his father across the twenty feet that separated them, each to his own ship. Godi took two lumbering steps toward the edge of the ship, stepped up onto the sheer strake, still intact at the after end, and jumped.
It was a clumsy jump but Godi had a lot of weight to get airborne. He came over Blood Hawk’s larboard side and hit the deck with his right foot and managed to stay upright as he stumbled amidships. Harald looked over at Sea Hammer. Thorgrim was at the side of the ship. He had run forward a few feet but now the curve of Blood Hawk’s hull meant the space between the ships was wider, too wide for Thorgrim to jump. They would sweep past and leave his father behind.
“Harald!” Godi shouted and Harald shifted his eyes to the big man, just recovered from his leap. “Turn to starboard! Starboard!”
And Harald did. Once again he acted without thought, just knowing somehow that Godi was right, that turning to starboard was what he had to do. He thrust the tiller forward and Blood Hawk sheared away from Sea Hammer’s side, and as she did her stern swung in close to the very spot where Thorgrim stood.
Godi was taking no chances that Thorgrim might decide his place was with his dying ship. He took two quick steps to the larboard side and reached a massive arm across the narrow gap between the ships, grabbed a fistful of Thorgrim’s tunic and half pulled, half dragged him over, with Thorgrim himself giving the minimum of help with the effort.
Thorgrim’s landing aboard was even less spectacular than Godi’s as he all but fell in a heap on the deck, Godi’s hand still holding him by the collar. Harald could not help but smile, and then he felt Blood Hawk shift again under him and he turned his attention back to the tiller and the ship’s heading.
They were still sheeting in. The sail was pulled halfway home, the men still leaning into the ropes, fighting for every foot. Blood Hawk lifted on a wave and surfed forward, leaving Sea Hammer and the remains of Brunhard’s ship astern. Harald heaved back on the tiller, fighting to keep the ship stern to the breaking seas.
The wave passed under Blood Hawk’s keel and the stern sank down and struck bottom, sending a tremor though the fabric of the ship. The men forward looked wildly around as if looking for the source of the blow. Harald grit his teeth and pushed the tiller forward again.
They were less than a hundred yards from the beach now, the seas rising up on either side of the ship, curling over in tumbling, breaking waves. The stern came up. Harald spared a glance down to see if there was any visible damage, though he knew any stove planks would be hidden by the deck boards.
Not long now…he thought. They had only to live through the next few sets of waves and then they would be on the beach, one way or another.
The men were hauling in the last few feet of the sheets when the stern came down again, hitting with considerably more force, making Harald stagger and cling to the tiller for support. The sail collapsed, just for an instant, then snapped out with the full force of the wind behind it and with a crack like a whip it blew apart, seeming to dissolve into so many tendrils. The lines of men hauling on the sheets tumbled backward over the sea chests and along the deck as they suddenly had nothing to pull against. Blood Hawk began to turn sideways to the sea.
Harald heaved back on the tiller, trying to bring the stern around, and he met with only limited success. The waves had the ship now, and without the driving power of the sail the steer board had little effect. The helm answered, a bit, the bow swinging back nearly perpendicular to the beach. And then the wave below dropped away, dropped the bow down as if it was an unbearable load. The bow struck the bottom, driving into the sand, and the mast quivered and the shrouds snapped taut and Harald was certain the whole thing was coming down.
He opened his mouth to shout a warning forward, but before he could get the first word out, the waves lifted Blood Hawk’s stern and pivoted the ship on her still-grounded bow. In the time it took for Harald to pull the now-useless tiller toward him, the ship turned sideways to the breakers. The incoming wave reared up over the larboard side, curling and menacing, and then broke against the ship and dropped its tons of water down onto the deck.
Men, oars, weapons, sea chests, they were all swept away in the massive onslaught of water, crashing over the deck planks and surging across the ship, tumbling all in front of it. Blood Hawk staggered and rolled in a sluggish, heavy way, near half filled with water. The next wave lifted her—she was parallel to the beach now—and tossed her forward. She struck again, not on her bow or stern t
his time but on the full length of her keel. Harald felt the blow up through his legs and in his teeth as he alone remained upright, holding fast to the tiller.
The next sea lifted the ship sideways, lifted and rolled her, and Harald felt her going over, her keel still fast in the sand, the waves pushing her from below like a man turning a table over. He held to the tiller and did not know what to do because there was nothing at all he could do except stand there as his ship rolled in the waves like a log.
Then the keel came free from the sand, the grip of the sandy bottom broken, and Blood Hawk lifted again as the next wave flung her in toward shore. She rolled back to an even keel, rolled beyond that, and the next wave broke onto her deck, filling her even beyond what the first wave had done, knocking down those men who were just now struggling to stand.
She lifted again and again she was flung toward the beach, and Harald wondered how long she could endure this pounding, when she would just roll or break up. He knew what was coming and he held fast to the tiller as the ship’s keel slammed down onto the sand. He could hear wood breaking that time, something below giving way.
He was used to the rhythm now: hit, lift, roll. He saw the next wave coming on and he waited for it to pick the ship up and roll it again, maybe clean over at last. He saw the water breaking along the larboard side, saw it rushing past the bow. Blood Hawk rocked a bit, but she did not move.
Harald looked out to sea. He looked toward the land. The waves had cast Blood Hawk so far up the sand that she was now beyond their reach, too far from the deep water for the rollers to lift her any more.
They were ashore. And they were still alive.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Spear-wielder, my brooch-goddess
is born to an inheritance.
Egil’s Saga
Conandil figured she had only one thing left to live for, and that was killing Brunhard the slaver.
As Broccáin mac Bressal’s wife, Conandil had tasted the first real happiness she had ever known, and Brunhard had helped crush it and turn that all into an endless nightmare. He had taken her freedom, given his men leave to rape her. He had killed her husband. She had actually saved Brunhard’s life, convincing the freed Irishmen not to kill him and the other Frisians. In return, Brunhard and his men had attacked them the first opportunity they had, had killed half their number at least.
Conandil figured that any reason she once had to live was gone now, and she was ready for it to be over. She just had one last task to perform.
They had been in a stand-off, Brunhard’s men and the Irish, each keeping to their patch of deck, weapons held ready, when the ship first struck bottom. Conandil felt the hull come down as a wave passed under it, a motion she was accustomed to, but then the bottom hit, making the half-sunk ship shudder in a way that seemed as if it would fall apart at any moment.
The Norsemen’s ship was still resting on the stern, and when Brunhard’s ship hit, the longship came down on it like a hammer blow, crushing the aft end further, letting the water flow even more freely on board.
Conandil was crouching a short ways behind the mast, the crowd of Irishmen who had survived the fighting formed up between her and the Frisians at the bow. No one was speaking or moving, but when the ship struck, Conandil heard curses and gasps and even a few screams. She could see the men look wildly around, eyes wide in fright, the terror like a physical presence.
The ship hit again and the deck under the longship buckled and the Irishmen shifted nervously. Conandil could see they were looking for a place to run. But there was only one option: the heathens’ ship. She could see eyes turning that way, could almost hear the desperate choice in each man’s head—stay aboard the slaver as it broke up, or fling themselves into the lair of the Northmen.
When Brunhard’s ship struck again, Conandil could feel it start to come apart underfoot, as if it no longer had the strength to hold itself together. And that decided things for the men on board. As if following a single command, they turned and rushed aft, scrambling to get to the Northmen’s ship while it was still within reach. The Northmen might kill them all, or they might not, but the sea would most certainly swallow them up, given the chance.
Conandil was caught up in the rush. All of her thoughts had been centered on killing Brunhard, but when the men began to run aft, she ran with them. They crowded in the stern, swarming around the side of the longship, some pulling themselves up through the gap made by the falling mast, others leaping up and grabbing the edge of the ship and hoisting themselves over.
She stood in the middle of that crowd, not even certain she could reach up high enough to grab a handhold, not sure she wanted to. And then she felt hands on her arms and waist and she was hoisted up and men already on the longship reached down and pulled her aboard.
Another wave lifted the ships and dropped them and she felt the longship grind against the dying slaver below. She looked around to see how the Northmen would react to this invasion of their ship, but they seemed not to care, and Conandil guessed they had more pressing things to think about. She had assumed the Norsemen’s ship was mostly intact, save for its resting on Brunhard’s ship, but she realized that might not be the case. Perhaps it was mortally wounded as well. Perhaps they were no safer aboard her than they were on the slaver.
She pushed her way through the press of men to a place in the clear, where she could see better. The Frisians were following the Irish onto the Norsemen’s ship and Conandil thought, This won’t end well for you, you Frisian dogs. Irish or Northmen, someone will kill you all.
But neither Northmen nor Irish seemed too worried about the Frisians just then. Except for Conandil. She was still thinking about them, and about Brunhard. She was not worried about making it to shore because she really didn’t care about her life beyond the next five minutes. There was just the one last task to finish.
The knife she had snatched up to cut the sheets of Brunhard’s sail was still in her belt and she pulled it free now. She felt certain that she could cut Brunhard down right there, right in front of his own men and everyone else, and no one would give one damn about it. No one seemed to be giving much thought to anything but his own personal survival.
The Northmen had retreated to the stern, the others, the Irish and the Frisians, huddled together near the bow getting as far from the Northmen as they could. She ran her eyes over the men, peeking through the clusters, trying to find Brunhard. He would certainly be hiding among the Frisians; he would know both the Irish and Northmen wanted him dead. But she could not see him there.
Cautiously she moved to the larboard side, shifting the angle of her view, but still no Brunhard. There was some commotion aft, something happening that sent a wave of excitement through the Northmen, but Conandil did not know what it was and she did not care.
She inched forward, closer to the bow. She could see the Irishmen and the Frisians in their discreet groups, standing clear of one another, both terrified and uncertain. But no Brunhard.
Could he have stayed behind? Conandil wondered. She turned quick and looked down at the half-sunk hulk of Brunhard’s vessel. And there he was.
Brunhard had stayed behind, but he seemed to have no intention of dying with his ship. He was on his knees as far forward as he could get, as far from the water that washed over the deck as possible, and he was working fast. He had six oars and he had lashed them together to form a square with an X running diagonally from each corner. He had lashed loose planks to the square as a sort of deck and tied a long rope to the frame, with a baulk of wood made fast to the other end, for what reason Conandil could not imagine. But she knew perfectly well what the rest of it was—a raft to float him to the beach.
It seemed a flimsy affair for the massive breaking waves that were pounding the vessels and rolling in toward the shore, but it was probably the best he could do in the short time he had, and it was something that would float, something to which he might cling. Something that might bring him safe to shore and give him th
e chance to run off, and that meant it was something he could not be allowed to have.
Conandil ran to the gap in the Norsemen’s side left by the falling mast, slipped through the open section and dropped easily to the deck of Brunhard’s ship. The after end of the merchantman was half sunk, the water nearly up to her waist, but there was still deck below on which to stand.
A wave surged over the shattered side and hit her like a fist, knocking her down. She snatched at a rope that was twisting in the water, prayed that it was made fast to something. She tried to stand but felt herself swirled off by the powerful sea, slamming hard against the side of the ship, submerged, pinned by the water. She pulled furiously at the rope but found only slack. Her lungs were bursting but she could not push herself off against the force of the water.
And then the rope came taut and she was able to pull against it, pull herself away from the ship’s side. She got a foot down on the deck and pushed herself upright, coming clear of the sea, gasping for breath. Then, perversely, the ship rolled the other way and the water drained off and Conandil made her way forward, uphill, up to the bow where Brunhard was struggling with the last lashings of his raft.
She reached around behind her and was relieved to find the big knife still secure in her belt. She pulled it free, settled the grip in her hand. Brunhard’s back was to her and he had not yet seen her coming. She took a step, and another, moving cautiously, but with the great roar of the wind and the pounding of the seas, the creaking of the half-sunk ships, the yelling of the men, she knew that the sound of her steps would not give her away.
Brunhard’s shoulders were rising and falling, his arms seemed to be flailing as he worked the lashings around and hauled them tight.
Raider's Wake: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 6) Page 36
