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

by James L. Nelson

  Ottar and his five ships had taken the lead, despite Thorgrim’s best efforts to get underway first. That had annoyed him, and he had allowed himself the luxury of indulging his anger. But as he did he had a vision of his children when they were much younger, racing to breakfast after morning chores. He recalled marveling at how silly they were, Harald and Odd fighting each other for the privilege of being first. Their sister would be seated, her breakfast begun, while the boys were rolling on the floor pummeling one another.

  When he thought of it that way he no longer gave a goat’s turd whether he was first or not. But that was not a sentiment universally shared. As Ottar’s ship pulled away from the bank, Harald had said, “Father, if we double the men on the oars we might overtake him, the bastard.”

  “No,” Thorgrim said, his anger burned away like mist. “It does not matter.”

  They continued up the river all through the morning, and the enemy did not show themselves, and the only threat seemed to be the threat of rain, which grew more pronounced every hour.

  As Starri slept, Thorgrim fished out a small piece of whalebone from among the sundry supplies he kept stowed below the afterdeck. All morning he had been trying to recall the correct runes one should use to bring about healing, and he was now reasonably certain he had them right. It was a tricky thing, as the wrong runes could do more harm than good, but Thorgrim had confidence enough in his memory that he sat on the afterdeck, pulled his knife from its sheath and began to carve the geometric shapes into the dull white bone.

  It took the better part of a hour, and when he was done Thorgrim placed the whalebone under the furs that covered Starri, then stood and stretched cramped muscles and looked out toward the shore to the north east. The land looked as it had for much of their journey upriver: sometimes it was open country with rolling hills that rose like cresting waves to the higher mountains west, sometimes it was thickly wooded with the oak and maple coming right down to the water’s edge. In some places where the river had jumped its banks the trees came right up out of the water.

  The countryside was open now, lush Spring fields spreading off in the distance, some spurts of brush here and there, sharp rushes that stood out dark green against the duller grass of the fields. Thorgrim looked north and south as far as he could see, and he saw only land. There was not an animal, not a man or a woman in sight.

  “Agnarr,” he said. “Have you seen anything of Kevin’s men?” He himself had been so busy tending to Starri and carving his runes that he had spent little time watching the shore.

  Agnarr shook his head. “I don’t think I have,” he said. “Sometimes we’ve seen riders in the distance, and wagons. Bound for Glendalough, I would guess. The fair. Sometimes we’ve seen men walking, but they looked to be peddlers. None of them looked to be Kevin’s men-at-arms.”

  Thorgrim nodded. There were several possibilities. Kevin might be far ahead of the ships, or keeping his men out of sight, keeping his movements hidden from the enemy who had attacked them. That would have been the smart thing. Or Kevin might have met that enemy and been beaten. Or he might have abandoned his new allies entirely. Any of those was equally possible, and since he had no means of discovering the truth of the matter, at least not yet, Thorgrim did not concern himself with wondering.

  “I think Ottar is aground,” Agnarr said, his voice rising a bit in excitement. Thorgrim turned from watching the shore and looked past Sea Hammer’s bow.

  Ottar’s longship, at the head of his fleet, was four hundred feet or so up river from Sea Hammer, and the water around it was churned up into short chop by the shallows. In other places the river tumbled over rocks or swirled in eddies near the banks or flashed dull white in the weak sunlight that came through the overcast.

  The crew of Ottar’s ship appeared in chaos as if they had been set on by a swarm of bees. The lovely, symmetrical rhythm of the oars had devolved into a flailing mess, with some of the long sweeps still down, some coming up out of the water, some fouling others ahead or astern. Some of Ottar’s crew were on their feet, some still sitting. The ship lay motionless in the stream.

  Thorgrim could see Ottar himself, right at the stern, waving his arms. He thought he could make out the sound of Ottar’s bellowed commands. He strained to make out the words, but could not.

  I can just imagine, he thought.

  Then order seemed to reassert itself. The oars disappeared into the ship and the men flung themselves over the sides, landing thigh-deep in the water, keeping hands on the sheer strake to stop both them and the ship from being swept away. Then they began to pull.

  Foot by foot Ottar’s crew hefted the longship upstream. Thorgrim saw lines tossed to the men in the water and they abandoned their hold on the ship’s side and tailed onto the lines, heaving away and walking up through the shallow water like teams of oxen. The ship, unburdened by her crew and now lighter by seven or eight hundred pounds, moved easily over the shallow place. A minute later the men aboard the next ship in line were also leaping over the sides.

  “Just getting the men over the side lightened Ottar’s ship enough for her to pass over the shallows,” Agnarr observed. “I didn’t think it would.”

  “Nor did I,” Thorgrim admitted.

  “I wonder how many more miles we can get upstream before that will no longer work,” Agnarr said.

  “I don’t know,” Thorgrim said. “Not many, I’ll wager.”

  He looked down the length of Sea Hammer’s deck. His men, those not at the oars facing aft, had also seen Ottar’s ship take the ground, and they were already pulling lengths of walrus hide rope out from the storage places under the deck boards and stripping off tunics in preparation for going over the side. Fifteen minutes after that, they too were up to their thighs in water, pushing their way against the current, hauling Sea Hammer over the shallow, pebbly bottom of the river.

  An hour was spent dragging the nine ships upriver over the shallows before they were able to climb back aboard and take up the oars, driving the vessels north and west. They pulled for another hour and a half before they touched ground again. Ten minutes later they were once more hauling the ships over slick rocks against a racing current.

  It was then that the rain set in. The ship right ahead of Sea Hammer, the last ship in Ottar’s fleet, had just touched the bottom when the first few drops began to fall: fat, noisy drops that left wet spots as big and round as silver coins on the dry wood of Sea Hammer’s deck.

  “Here it comes,” Thorgrim said. He had already prepared an oil cloth to stretch over Starri’s sleeping place. Now he unrolled it over the line he had rigged fore and aft and lashed the corners down tight, making a tent of sorts.

  He looked up in time to see Harald go over the side. He and most of the others had stripped off their tunics and the skin of their bare backs was white in the muted light of the afternoon. The tow ropes rose from the deck and stretched taught as the crew tailed into them, and Sea Hammer was pulled bodily forward. The vessel just ahead, Ottar’s ship, shuddered as her keel scraped along the bottom, and Thorgrim could hear the grinding sound of oak on gravel.

  He leaned over and looked down through the clear running water. He could see the stones on the river bed, many hues of brown and red and white and black. Sea Hammer moved easily over them, not touching at all in her transit.

  This may be it, Thorgrim thought, this may be the last time we will do this so easily. The next shallow place would likely have less water still, and then they would have to offload gear to get the ships up river. Would it be worth it? Or would it be better to leave the ships and make their way to Glendalough overland? How many men would they have to leave behind as ships’ guards? Could they afford to leave that many? These were questions that would need answers soon.

  By the time the men had hauled Sea Hammer past the shallows and climbed back aboard, the rain was coming down hard, a steady downpour that Thorgrim was certain would become a deluge within the hour. He looked down at Starri. The tent seemed to be e
ffectively channeling the water away from the wounded man, but for the rest there was nothing to be done but to endure the rain. Those who had shed their tunics to go in the river pulled them on again, though the clothes were now as wet as if they had never been taken off.

  For the next few hours they rowed through the driving rain. Finally, as the evening gloom settled early on the river, Thorgrim ordered Sea Hammer run ashore and the other ships in his fleet followed suit. Ottar, however, showed no sign of stopping. His ships continued up river until they were lost from sight around a distant bend.

  “Father,” Harald said, his voice a loud whisper, his anxiety clear, “Ottar is getting ahead of us, leaving us behind.”

  “Let him,” Thorgrim said. “I won’t play his games. If he wants to take on these Irish without us he’s welcome. He and his men will be slaughtered.”

  They used their sails to make tents large enough for all the crews to huddle under, save for the sorry few who were posted out beyond the river as guards. They had no fires, but the night was not terribly cold and they were not as miserable as they might have been. At first light they made their breakfast on bread and dried fish and then pushed their ships back into the river. The rain, which had let up in the night, set in once more with a willful malice.

  They came up with Ottar’s fleet two hours later. The river had narrowed considerably, the forest closing in on either side, the banks steep so that it seemed they were pulling into a gully, as if the wide stretch of water was a road though a forest.

  Ottar’s ships were not in any sort of order and they were not underway. It seemed to Thorgrim like inexplicable confusion, but as they drew closer he could see that three of them at least were anchored in the stream, and the first two were being dragged though yet more shallows.

  Harald, having finished his trick at the oars, was standing by Thorgrim’s side. “Ottar’s aground again, I see,” he said.

  “Yes,” Thorgrim said. “But it’s worse this time. See how they’ve taken much of the weight out of the ship.”

  Ottar could not get over the shallow river bed, it seemed, just by relieving the ship of the weight of its crew. While gangs of men hauled the vessel up stream, others followed with the yard and sail, barrels and bundles of oars that had been tossed overboard and now floated astern. The crews of the anchored vessels were unloading spars and gear and stores as well.

  Agnarr, just aft at the tiller, said, “Ottar’s ships draw more water than ours. I noticed that, back at the Meeting of the Waters. They are loaded down with more stores, more gear. I think they were looking at making a long voyage.”

  Thorgrim nodded. Sea Hammer and the other ships in his fleet were lightly provisioned. They had been loaded with the intention of making a quick strike on Glendalough and then returning to Vík-ló. As a result they did not ride deep in the water, not as deep as Ottar’s.

  They watched for a few moments more as Ottar’s men swarmed around the ships, unloading, stretching out tow ropes, hauling the vessels into the shallows. The rain fell in torrents, making it hard to see, filling the long ship inches deep.

  “This is madness,” Thorgrim said at last. If Ottar wished to see his own men killed, that was fine with Thorgrim, but now the entire raid was threatened. “Agnarr, put our bows right into the shallows, right there.” He pointed ahead to a place past where Ottar’s men were offloading their ships.

  The men of Sea Hammer pulled hard against the now-swift current and the longship moved past the anchored vessels. Thorgrim did not miss the angry looks on the faces of Ottar’s men as they rowed up the line. Then Sea Hammer’s bow ran up on the river bottom with a grinding sound and lurched to a stop so abruptly that Thorgrim had to take a step to keep himself from falling.

  Grim faced, angry, he strode down the length of Sea Hammer’s deck, aware of his own men watching him now. He reached the bow and vaulted over the sheer strake and down into the water. The river was cold, the surface torn with driving rain, the current strong as Thorgrim waded upstream.

  Ottar did not wait for him. Thorgrim was still approaching when he saw Ottar moving in his direction. Ottar walked with an odd gait, leaning slightly back as he struggled to keep from toppling forward in the fast moving water. One hand was held out for balance, the other rested on the hilt of his sword. The water roiled around his knees.

  Maybe this will be it, Thorgrim thought. Maybe we settle it now. He did not doubt that the fight begun in Kevin’s tent, interrupted by the Irish attack, would be resumed eventually. For the sake of this joint venture Thorgrim had tried to postpone it at least until they had finished sacking Glendalough. He had tried to do the sensible thing. But he was done with that now.

  “What is the meaning of this, passing my ships by?” Ottar began to bellow as he approached. The rain poured down his face and he wiped it away and spit. His hair, normally as yellow as Harald’s, appeared black, soaked as it was, his long braids looked like drowned serpents. “My ships will be first, and you…”

  “This is foolish, what you are doing, and you’re a fool,” Thorgrim said. Ottar stopped, the water rushing around his legs, his mouth hanging partway open. He looked stunned, as if he had been hit on the head with a club. Thorgrim took advantage of the blessed absence of Ottar’s voice.

  “You lighten your ships to get over these shallows?” Thorgrim asked. “Dumb ass. What happens when you get to the next shallows, will you off-load even more? If the river falls, your ships will be trapped here. Meanwhile you waste time while they make ready for us at Glendalough.”

  “You bastard, you talk to me like that?” Ottar roared, but Thorgrim was not listening. They were a hundred feet upstream from Sea Hammer and here the woods were even closer in on either side, great trees looming over the rushing water like monsters from another realm. And suddenly Thorgrim had a very bad feeling in his gut.

  “Hold your mouth, Ottar,” Thorgrim said, raising a hand for silence. That only served to further enrage Ottar, who began to roar in anger, a low, ugly sound from his belly. Thorgrim saw the sword coming out of the scabbard.

  And then, upstream, near the bow of Ottar’s ship, Thorgrim saw one of the men on the tow rope spin around, heard him shout, saw the arrow jutting from his chest. The man stumbled, fell, the water splashing up around his body. Some of the others on the tow rope shouted in surprise, some stood motionless, some dropped the rope.

  And then, it seemed, all the demons of Ireland were let loose upon them.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I am an outlaw to most men;

  only arrow-storms await me.

  Gisli Sursson’s Saga

  The dull noise of the rain and the poor light and Ottar’s raving made it hard to know what was happening, exactly. Thorgrim turned his head in the direction from which he thought the arrow had come. He could see nothing but the wall of trees, the snarl of bracken, the sheets of water coming down.

  And then another arrow came, and another, and half a dozen more. Thorgrim’s eyes moved back toward Ottar’s ship. Men were staggering, shafts jutting at odd angles from chests, backs, legs. Two more were down, their bodies already caught in the river current. A man kicked and thrashed and tried to regain his footing. The shouting mounted but Ottar had not yet noticed.

  Ottar’s sword was out and he was coming toward Thorgrim and bellowing something. Thorgrim was not listening.

  “Your ship is under attack, you stupid ox! Look!” Thorgrim shouted, pointing. Ottar stopped, scowled, then looked back up river. For a heartbeat he just stood there, motionless. Then he shouted again, a different note this time, and began racing back upstream, lifting his legs high as he ran, a comical effect. Thorgrim could have laughed but he did not because he realized that the Irish had launched a near perfect ambush, and that realization sapped the humor from the thing. They had caught the Northmen unarmed and out of their ships, which were all but helpless in the shallows. All of them, Ottar’s men, his men, might be dead in the next hour.

  He turned and
hurried back to Sea Hammer, struggling to keep his footing in the rushing water. Agnarr had ordered an anchor set out and the men were resting on their oars. Now they heard the shouting from upstream, knew something was happening, but they could not tell what.

  “To arms! To arms!” Thorgrim called as he came charging up, hefting himself over the ship’s side and hurrying aft. He could see the confused looks on the men’s faces, but his orders were clear enough, and the men obeyed. Those who owned mail grabbed it up and dropped it over their heads, others grabbed swords, axes, shields from the shield rack.

  Thorgrim reached the stern, mounted the afterdeck and only then did he turn and look up river where Ottar’s ships were under attack. He could see the arrows ripping through the downpour, finding their marks, easy shots from two or three rods distance. The bowmen were focusing on the lead ship, Ottar’s ship, and from what Thorgrim could see they had managed to drop near half the crew.

  He turned and looked in the other direction. Blood Hawk and Dragon had drawn up beside one another and they held their places in the stream with a steady, easy pull of the oars. Thorgrim doubted Bersi or Kjartan could see what was going on upstream, and certainly Skidi Battleax in Fox, further down river, could not. But they had seen the men of Sea Hammer getting into their fighting gear and they had followed suit.

  Thorgrim waved, pointed to the water on Sea Hammer’s larboard side. Bersi waved back, a signal that he understood. A moment later Blood Hawk gathered way as Bersi’s men drove her forward to run her up onto the shallows beside Sea Hammer.

  Ottar’s ships were four hundred feet up river, midway through transiting the shallows, and all was chaos. Ottar himself was plunging through the shallow water, waving his sword, rallying his men. His men, in turn, had retrieved their weapons from their ships and were leaping into the river, shields on arms, swords and axes in hand. Dead men and lost gear were already swirling down river, past where Sea Hammer lay anchored to the shallow bottom. A barrel that one of Ottar’s men had been hauling upstream bumped against Sea Hammer’s bow and twirled away like a leaf in a mill race. The man floated face-down and motionless, an arrow jutting from his back.