Glendalough Fair: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga) (Volume 4)

by James L. Nelson

  Lochlánn was beside him, sword in hand. His face was white like a corpse in the rain, his eyes wide, the fear in them as sharp as a fresco. But all he said was, “Should we advance now, Captain?”

  Louis shook his head. The timing was the thing here. The longer they waited, the more effective their attack would be, but they could not wait until Aileran’s men had all been killed. He turned his head and listened. He could hear the shouts of the men, the ring of weapon on weapon, the screams of the wounded, the sounds he knew so well. He felt a thrill run through him, felt himself pulled toward it like a hound on a fox’s scent, and he made a conscious effort to remain still.

  And then he knew it was time to go. “Let us advance, slow. Keep behind me,” Louis said. He stepped off along the riverbank, moving fast but cautiously, pushing the branches aside with the shield in his left hand. He did not want his men to be seen until he was ready for them to be seen.

  It was less than a minute before he reached the place where the trees and brush yielded to the wide muddy bank and the open field where the heathens’ camp was arrayed. Louis stopped there, right at the juncture of tree line and open ground. It was pandemonium before him, as he had hoped it would be. Men were shouting, running back and forth without direction. They were snatching up weapons and shields and racing off to the sound of the fight. Few wore mail – they had not expected to do battle that evening.

  The ground rose gently inland from the river, enough that Louis could not see the actual fight, but there were Northmen and Irish racing in that direction and he knew it was time to take some of the pressure off Aileran and his men.

  “Come on, now!” he shouted, drawing his sword and raising it above his head. “With me! Advance!” Louis felt his blood pumping. Excitement like St. Elmo’s Fire danced through him as he moved forward, building in speed. The weight of his mail shirt, the jingling, chinking sound it made, the snug fit of his helmet, the delicious feel of sword hilt in hand, it all took him back to that time before the great upheaval in his life, back when he had only to drink and whore with his fellows at night and kill Northmen by day.

  “With me! Advance!” he shouted again. He looked left and right. The men-at-arms were with him, just a pace behind, ready to slam into the enemy and cut them down without mercy, because mercy was not a thing the heathens understood or deserved. And Lochlánn was at his side, sword in hand, mouth open in a scream of rage, and Louis knew he would be fine now that the waiting was over and the fighting had begun. He would make a fine warrior, Lochlánn would, if he lived through the next hour.

  They reached the edge of the camp where a few score men were still in the process of arming themselves, some taking the time to drop mail shirts over their heads.

  “At them! At them! Kill them!” Louis shouted and the others took up the cry as he had ordered them to do. He wanted the enemy to know that they were there. He wanted them to know that now there were killers at their backs. Nothing would spread panic quicker than that.

  Louis was the first into the fight. The man before him – Irish, Louis realized, he could tell by the clothes - had time only to lift his sword in defense. It was a weak defense. Louis knocked the sword aside and drove the tip of his blade into the man’s stomach, felt that familiar sensation of resistance and then give and then the scream and the wrenching and twisting of the blade as the man collapsed.

  By habit Louis pulled the blade free before the man could fall on it, straightened and looked around for the next to take him on. A small man, wiry and red-haired, pale eyes wide, sword and shield in his hand, came charging up. Louis stepped toward him, adjusted the grip on his sword. And then Lochlánn was there, pushing right in front of Louis, swinging wildly at the Irishman.

  The Irish warrior took Lochlánn’s stroke on his shield. He drew his blade back as Louis stepped up and shoved Lochlánn aside, pushing him clear just as the blade darted forward. Lochlánn stumbled and Louis drove his sword into the red-headed warrior’s side, just below his arm. He felt the tip glance off bone and then keep going. The Irishman stopped and the blood erupted from his mouth and Louis pulled the sword free.

  Lochlánn was laying on the ground. “Don’t get in front of me, don’t ever get in front of me!” Louis shouted. Lochlánn, wide eyed, nodded, and Louis figured he was safe enough on the ground, so he turned back to the fight.

  The men-at-arms were fully engaged, and more and more of the Northmen were heading toward this second line of fighting. Louis could see Aileran and his men a hundred yards away. They had fought their way through the tree line and were making a bold stand on the edge of the open ground.

  Louis’s men had cut through the first of the disorganized enemy, but now the Irish warriors, Kevin mac Lugaed’s warriors, were forming and gathering and advancing. They were making an organized attack, after a fashion, some with shields, some without, a few wearing mail.

  “Men of Glendalough, with me!” Louis shouted. He lifted his sword, looked around. They were with him. He advanced on the Irish line, his men making a blunt dagger-point of warriors with himself at the tip. They were screaming when they hit the enemy, their swords, shields and battle axes in motion. The Irish stood their ground, fought back, met them sword for sword where they could. But there was a great difference between going into a battle prepared and doing so after being taken by surprise, and the stunned Irish fell under the weapons Louis’s men wielded.

  They fell, but not all, and those who did not stood their ground and closed the gaps in the line and fought with a determination that impressed Louis, enough that he almost regretted the mortal shock he was about to visit on them.

  “Spear-men! Advance! Advance!” he shouted and now it was the farmers’ turn. Louis knew that fighting brought on a kind of madness in any man but the most cowardly. Once the weapons began to clash fear was set aside, compassion and reason swept away, and each man thought only about driving his weapon into his enemy’s guts. He hoped it would be thus with the bóaire, once they had seen the men-at-arms do battle. And it was.

  The farmers were screaming as they charged into the fight, spears held level, passing between Louis’s men-at-arms and driving into the Irish beyond. The effect was shocking and bloody. Men who a second before had been fighting sword and shield against men-at-arms were skewered by the long iron-tipped ash shafts striking fast and unseen. Men dropped, clutching their guts, others slashed wildly at the spear points. And as the Irish made their flailing defense against this new threat, the men-at-arms kept up their deadly work.

  Lochlánn was on his feet again, standing shoulder to shoulder with Louis, working his sword and shield as Louis had taught him. His face was streaked with blood but his movements seemed unimpaired, so Louis figured he was in no bad way.

  “At them!” Louis screamed again, making his voice as loud and manic as he could. He did not know if he had screamed in Irish or Frankish but it made no difference. The enemy were on the verge of panic, he could see that, and that last wild banshee scream had pushed them those last few inches. As Louis’s men surged ahead the men before them broke and ran, dropping weapons and shields, stumbling over the dead, racing to someplace of safety.

  That’s it, Louis thought. That was all he wanted to do. They had hurt them, they had shown them that the sacking of Glendalough would be no easy thing, that they faced an enemy of real fighting men. He had planted doubt and recrimination.

  Lochlánn was starting to chase after the running men and Louis tried to grab him but he did not have a free hand, so he shouted, “Lochlánn, stop!” and happily Lochlánn heard and stopped.

  “Your horn,” Louis shouted. “Now!” Lochlánn looked at him for a second with stupid incomprehension. And then the words filtered through the fog of the boy’s momentary insanity and he nodded and grabbed the horn he wore hanging around his neck. He put it to his lips and blew, a long, sharp, clear note. It was the only note he could play on the thing, but it was all they needed, a call to retreat that would cut through the battle
noise, that he and Aileran’s men would hear equally well.

  The men-at-arms formed up and stepped back, colliding with the spear-men who were still too dazed from the action to recall what was expected of them.

  “You men, let us…” Louis began, turning to face the men behind, and then stopped. Ten paces behind the spear-men stood Failend. Her hair was wild, her face streaked. It might have been dirt or blood. She held a short sword in her hand and it was glistening red. One of the Irish warriors lay at her feet, writhing in death agony, and before Louis could speak Failend lifted the sword and plunged it down into the man’s neck.

  Mon Dieu… Louis thought and then Lochlánn was prodding him, shouting, “Captain, Captain!”

  Louis turned back again. There were more of the enemy heading toward them. He had hoped to break off the fight, to find a minute or two to get his men back to the trees while their foes ran in panicked retreat, but he would not get his wish.

  Heathens… Louis thought. These were not Irish but Northmen, and they carried shields and they wore mail. One of them, a great hulking mountain of a man, carried a red swallow-tail banner bearing a grey device of some sort.

  “Form a line, form a line!” Louis shouted. “Spear-men to the back!” They had struck the heathens as Louis had planned, they had wounded the bear. Louis had hoped to withdraw as fast as they came.

  But now he could see it would not be so simple.

  Chapter Twenty

  Don’t say, “It’s been a good day” till sundown

  Hávamál

  So ready was Thorgrim Night Wolf to drive his sword into Ottar Bloodax’s guts that the first sounds of the attack did not even penetrate his blinding red rage. Everyone had leapt to their feet when the weapons came out, but Thorgrim ignored them. His eyes never left Ottar’s and Ottar’s never left his.

  Ottar moved first, darting his blade in, looking for a quick wound, an open belly, a slash to the groin, something that would put Thorgrim down in the first seconds of the fight. But Thorgrim was as quick as Ottar and he swept Iron-tooth from right to left and knocked the blade aside, then stepped toward Ottar to drive his heel down on the man’s knee.

  The move was well placed. Ottar had extended his leg with the thrust of his sword. The force Thorgrim put behind his heel would have snapped Ottar’s knee like a man twisting a leg off a roast chicken. But just as he felt the soft leather of his shoe connecting with Ottar, Harald grabbed one of his shoulders and Skidi grabbed the other and they pulled him away.

  Ottar leapt back as he felt Thorgrim’s foot strike. Both men bellowed in rage and made to lunge at one another, but Harald and Skidi held Thorgrim fast while Ottar’s men grabbed him and held him as well, Otter flailing with his sword and shouting to be let free.

  “Father!” Harald was yelling in Thorgrim’s ear. “Father! Listen! There are enemies here, the camp is being attacked!” The familiar sound of Harald’s voice, the note of urgency, made Thorgrim pause in his struggles. He was breathing hard, but over the sound of his own breath he could hear the swirl of confusion outside the pavilion, the sound of more and more voices taking up the alarm.

  The flap of the tent flew open and one of the Irish men-at-arms was there and he shouted something to Kevin. Kevin shouted back, then grabbed his sword and shield and ran from the pavilion.

  “Come on,” Thorgrim said, Ottar now forgotten. He pushed through the pavilion’s flap and out into the evening. Men were running in every direction, but he could see the chief of the action was up by the tree line that separated the field from the rest of the countryside. Whoever was attacking had come from there. They must have come fast, giving the sentries little time to react.

  “Harald, go get the others. Bring our men up here!” Thorgrim said and Harald nodded and raced off for the ships. Thorgrim watched the swirling fight three hundred feet away. Between Kevin’s lies and Ottar’s insults he would just as soon see the lot of them butchered. But he could not suffer an enemy to attack Norsemen, even Ottar’s Norsemen, without paying a price for it.

  Skidi was at Thorgrim’s side and he pointed to the distant skirmish with his drawn sword and said, “Not many of them. They’re not wanting in courage, to attack this camp.”

  “No,” Thorgrim agreed. It seemed they had launched this attack against Kevin’s men and the crews of nine longships with less than one hundred warriors. Which meant either they were fools or they had some trick planned.

  Ottar and his men followed Thorgrim out of Kevin’s pavilion. They pushed past Thorgrim, but Ottar stopped mid-stride, half turned and glared at Thorgrim, and Thorgrim returned the evil look. They said nothing, because nothing needed saying out loud. Each man understood that this was not over.

  Then Starri Deathless appeared, coming from the ships at the river bank, running ahead of the rest of Thorgrim’s men. He was naturally quick, like a long-legged hare, and he was not burdened by mail or shield like the others. He nearly collided with Thorgrim, and Thorgrim pulled his eyes from Ottar as he grabbed Starri’s arm.

  “Wait for the rest,” Thorgrim said. Starri was doing that odd jerky motion with his arms, desperate to get into the fight. Thorgrim looked behind. Harald was running up, and with him was Agnarr and the crew of Sea Hammer and the crews of the other ships as well, Bersi’s men and Skidi’s and Kjartan’s.

  “Make a line, make a line, we’ll advance in a line!” Thorgrim shouted and the men quickly sorted themselves shoulder to shoulder. The men in Thorgrim’s fleet had come ashore prepared for trouble, armed and wearing mail. They had remained together, gathered by the ships, so they were more prepared to plunge into the fight than those who had been enjoying the comforts of camp.

  “Follow me!” Thorgrim shouted, holding Iron-tooth above his head. He started forward, toward the place where a huddle of Ottar’s men were surrounded by this unknown enemy and were being hacked down, and others in the camp joined the rush toward the melee. The defense was frantic and disorganized. The Irish and Norse had been caught by surprise, and now were interfering with one another as much as they were doing damage to their attackers.

  Then a sound, sharp and clear, jerked Thorgrim’s attention to his left. It was not a battle sound. It was a musical note. Or, more correctly, something between a scream and a musical note, the sound of a horn blown loudly but with little skill.

  Thorgrim turned toward the sound. There were men massed there. Thorgrim had seen them already and thought they were Kevin’s men-at-arms shying from the fight. But now he saw they were not shying away; they were locked in combat with men who must have come along the river bank.

  “Oh, you clever sons of whores,” Thorgrim said. That was why the attacking army had seemed so few. Half of them had come around to hit the camp from behind.

  Thorgrim came to a stop. “Hold!” he shouted and heard the ragged sound of men pulling up short. He pointed his sword in the direction of this second fight.

  “This way! This way! At them!” he called and charged off in this new direction. Godi was at his side now, shouting in his deep voice, the banner staff in his hands. Thorgrim moved faster, just short of a run. His anger with Kevin, his fury with Ottar, were all burned away in the familiar crucible of battle.

  Starri Deathless had shown remarkable restraint, but he could show no more. He raced ahead of the others, ahead of Thorgrim, and Thorgrim knew better than to try to stop him. Starri wore only leggings and soft leather shoes and held a battle ax in each hand. He was screaming as he ran, a high-pitched keening sound, not a sound one would expect this side of the grave.

  Norsemen were accustomed to the ways of berserkers, but the Irish clearly were not. The enemy’s line had been standing their ground like experienced and disciplined warriors, but Thorgrim could see them start to back away from Starri’s headlong, dangerous, manic rush. Starri was five feet from the line when he launched himself off the ground, axes swinging, his body airborne. Thorgrim saw a spear come up from behind the line of men, saw the dark shaft, the iron point, s
aw Starri come down on the weapon as he plunged into the men-at-arms.

  The spear point erupted from Starri’s back in a spray of blood and the man holding it died under the stroke of Starri’s ax, his head split in two even before Starri fell on top of him.

  No, no, Thorgrim thought as he broke into a run. Death was a part of what they did. They brought death, they were merchants of death, and they found death in return. Thorgrim never thought he would much care if any among them other than Harald was killed, himself included. But the sight of Starri impaled on the spear had moved him as he did not think he could be moved. It never occurred to him that Starri Deathless might die.

  “Bastards!” Thorgrim roared as he met with the first of the men-at-arms, a young man, just a few years Harald’s senior. He wore mail and carried a shield and Thorgrim lashed at him with a stroke that was meant to knock aside any resistance and bite deep into whatever it hit. Mail. Flesh. It was a death stroke, filled with power, and Thorgrim was surprised to find Iron-tooth turned aside by his opponent’s deft use of his shield.

  Now it was Thorgrim who had to step back and deflect a blow and then another as the young man came at him step for step. Thorgrim lunged, missed, raised his shield to take the man’s counter-stroke.

  But it could not go on because Thorgrim’s men were fresh and nearly double the enemy’s numbers. Already they were wrapping themselves around the attackers’ flanks, pressing in. The Irish would have to either retreat or die where they stood, and they chose to retreat. Step for step they moved back, their pace increasing as they headed for the wood by the river’s edge, fighting as they went. The young man with whom Thorgrim was exchanging blows was calling orders now, his words sounding like Irish to Thorgrim’s ears, his accent something else.

  Then Thorgrim saw Starri Deathless face down on the ground and he forgot about this enemy in front of him. He took two steps over and knelt by Starri’s body, dropping his sword and shield as the fighting moved past him. The spear had snapped as Starri fell on it, but the ugly point jutted out of his back, just below his shoulder blade.