Harald held on to keep from being thrown from the seat as the wagon careened forward, barely in control, if at all. He watched the men run right across the wagon’s path, a few hundred paces ahead, no more. He did not know what had happened, but he did know one thing: the men who were running were not Irish, they were Norsemen, his people. And the Irish men-at-arms and mounted warriors were coming behind to kill them as they ran.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Nevertheless the Norwegians were defeated,
by a miracle of the Lord, and they were slaughtered.
The Annals of Ulster
This is an end to it, Thorgrim Night Wolf thought. This is an end to it.
Kevin mac Lugaed’s men were pushing hard to get into the fight, all but running, and when they joined the rest, the Irish would outnumber the Northmen two to one at least. And Kevin’s men were fresh, not exhausted and bloodied like Thorgrim’s men and Ottar’s
He wondered if Ottar still lived, but he could not look because he was fighting in the shield wall, and if he turned his head ,he would be struck down. He could feel his strength going, but he could also feel the men in front of him weakening. His blows were slow and awkward, as were those of the men on either side of him.
Time to end this, he thought, and shouted “Godi!”
The call seemed to stir Godi, who was tiring as well. Like a giant awakened he roared and the great battle ax came down. The blade met a shield held high to stop the blow, shattered it and barely paused as it hacked into the shield bearer’s chest.
Thorgrim saw the Irishman’s eyes go wide and he lunged, not at Godi’s man, who was already dead, but at the man beside him who was now exposed with the destruction of his partner’s shield. Iron-tooth found flesh and slashed on through and the man fell and a gap opened in the shield wall.
Once again Thorgrim leapt forward, slashing at the man to his left as Godi came in on his right and Agnarr battered the Irishman in front of him. It was a gap, an opening, an opportunity. And it was too late.
The raven banner was fifteen paces away and coming on fast, the men beneath it shouting and banging shields. Most of the Irishmen in the shield wall, Thorgrim realized, had not seen them coming, did not know help was at their backs. But now they knew, and in these reinforcements they saw their own salvation rushing across the rain-soaked field with weapons drawn. And the Norsemen saw death swooping down on them.
“Back!” Thorgrim shouted. “Back!” He stepped back and Godi did likewise, and then Thorgrim stepped back once more. It was a hard thing to do, nearly impossible, to back a shield wall away. Retreat was never the idea. A shield wall was about standing firm and battering the enemy until one side or the other broke and ran, or died where they stood.
“Back! Back! Men of Vík-ló, back!” Thorgrim shouted. His men had drilled in this, they had practiced moving back while maintaining the integrity of the shield wall. But not too often, because retiring from the field was not something Thorgrim had envisioned doing very often. But now they obeyed. They stepped back, and back again. They held their shield wall intact and they fought and they backed away.
And then it all collapsed around them.
It started when Kevin’s men reached the Irishman’s line. They were shrieking their hideous Celt war cries as they came charging up, leading with their shields, bright-painted and pristine, not gouged, battered and broken like those of the men who had been fighting for so long. They joined the line and rolled forward, and the weary Irish men-at-arms found renewed strength in this reinforcement. Together they charged at the Norsemen’s line, a frontal assault, a wild, heedless push that drove the Northmen back and shredded their formation like a torn sail in a gale of wind.
And just as things were falling apart for Thorgrim’s men, the mounted warriors hit them on the flanks. It was timed perfectly. The Norsemen were staggering under the ferocity of the Irish attack on their front when the riders charged in among them again, slashing with their swords, breaking up any ordered defense with their horses’ flailing hooves.
The attack on Glendalough was done. Thorgrim’s hopes of holding the line as they backed away were done. The Northmen turned and fled, the most instinctive reaction, and the very worst.
The Irish howled their victory call and pressed on after them, hacking down any who stumbled and fell behind, killing the wounded as they overtook them. And all the while the horsemen chewed on the flanks and slashed and killed and sent the panicked men running into the others and tangling them in their flight.
It was as bad a rout as Thorgrim had ever seen, and he knew it would only get worse. He called to the men as he jogged back, trying to bring some order to their flight, trying to establish some kind of defense to cover their retreat, and knowing all the while that it was pointless. His mind flailed for some way to prevent the complete destruction of his men and Ottar’s.
Where do we go? he thought.
He pictured the terrain surrounding them. If there was some defensible place where they could make a stand, if they could reach their ships, they might yet live. But there was no place they could hope to defend, and they would never make it to the ships, running in panicked flight as they were. The best he could hope for was to rally the men at the top of one of those small hills and fight until the Irish killed them all. At least they would die good deaths.
And then he saw movement to his right and he turned in time to see the oddest of sights. A wagon, a large caravan, really, crested the hill over which the road ran. It was a massive, bright-painted thing drawn by four oxen which seemed to be terrified and well beyond control. The vehicle shook and swayed and looked as if it might come apart, and the animals bellowed and tossed their heads and thundered on.
There were two men on the seat mounted on the face of the wagon. One was a huge fellow who held the reins, though Thorgrim doubted they were doing much good. And beside him, unmistakable with his bright yellow hair and squat and powerful form, was Harald Thorgrimson. Harald Broadarm.
The wagon raced downhill and Thorgrim saw Harald grab the reins from the big man’s hands. He pulled them hard to one side and the oxen turned in their flight, just a bit. Then suddenly there was another wagon coming over the hill, charging along in the same frantic way, also pulled by a team of beasts that charged ahead in wide-eyed, mouth-foaming panic. And then a third.
Thorgrim could do nothing but watch. The Irish were still in full pursuit, racing after the fleeing Northmen, but now Thorgrim could see what Harald intended to do. He would drive his wagon right into the Irish flanks. And none of the Irish seemed yet to have noticed.
And then they did. The Irish were no more than fifty paces away when Thorgrim saw heads turn toward the onrushing wagons and arms point and he heard men shout their warning. The line wavered and broke as the men-at-arms realized they might be trampled and crushed. Some scattered, some pressed on, and then Harald’s wagon plowed into the end of the line and kept on going. Thorgrim could see men driven under the hooves of the crazed oxen, men tossed in the air, others running back, running forward, running to the sides as they tried to escape.
The lead wagon was slowing as it drove through the fighting men, but then the second wagon hit the lines, careening past Harald’s, breaking down any semblance of order the Irish had maintained. It slewed sideways, came up on two wheels, hung there for a second, then toppled on its side. Then the third one hit.
Thorgrim looked back over his shoulder. The Norsemen had stopped running. They had turned to watch, transfixed by the sight of the wagons tearing through their enemy like a scythe through dry stalks. The Irish were stunned and they seemed unsure as to what had happened. Men were still running in every direction. Other were standing fixed to one spot, stunned, and some were shouting, waving arms, and trying to reform their lines.
“At them!” Thorgrim shouted. “At them!” He held Iron-tooth aloft and began jogging toward the Irish men-at-arms. It was madness. He and his men were exhausted, beaten, they were on the verge o
f being slaughtered, and now he was leading them forward again in another headlong assault.
“At them!” He looked over his shoulder. His men were following. They began to cheer.
Harald, incredibly, had maintained his seat through all that wild ride. Forty feet ahead Thorgrim saw him leap down to the ground. He ran around to the back of the wagon and pulled a door open. Thorgrim heard him shout something, what, he could not tell, but suddenly Harald’s men came bursting out through the open door, while doors of the other two wagons were flung open and more men appeared. They shouted like madmen and brandished weapons and charged for the nearest of the men-at-arms.
There were not many of them, fewer than twenty, but their appearance was a complete surprise to the Irish at a moment when they had already had surprise piled on surprise.
“At them!” Thorgrim shouted again and he could hear the sound of the men behind him building in volume. They were thirty feet from what was left of the Irish line. He could see confused men, frightened men, stunned men looking blankly on as their enemies came at them one more time.
And then it was the Irish who were done. The shock of being struck by the wagons, of Harald’s men coming out fighting, of the rest of the Norsemen charging at them with a renewed frenzy, broke the last of their resolve. Some men turned and ran, and then more ran, and soon the entire army, all those men who moments before had been tasting victory in their mouths turned and raced back the way they had come.
Thorgrim could see mounted men who he took to be the leaders of the men-at-arms shouting for their warriors to make a stand, to turn and fight. But it was pointless in the same way that Thorgrim’s attempts to do the same twenty minutes before had been pointless. The leaders could see that as well, and they could see they would soon be alone on the field, so they reined their horses around and charged off to join the flight.
The Northmen reached the spot where the wagons had come to a rest, two of them toppled over now, and they drew to a halt. No one told them to stop, they just did. They stood there, looking as stunned as the Irish had been, heaving for breath and watching their enemies, who a moment before had be coming to cut them down, now showing them their heels.
A strange quiet spread over the field, a profound quiet after the noise of nearly six hundred men locked in battle. Thorgrim turned and there was Harald lumbering up, a big grin and a smear of blood on his face.
Thorgrim shook his head. He did not know what to say, so he stepped up to his boy and he embraced him and Harald returned the embrace, but awkwardly and uncertain. Then Agnarr was there, and Bersi and Kjartan and Skidi and they were able to find words of praise and thanks, and Harald grinned and clearly found the whole thing terribly embarrassing.
“They’ve run off,” Bersi said, nodding toward the Irish, “but they are not beaten. And they are not done.”
In that he was right. Thorgrim could see as much. They all could. The Irish had run pell mell for several hundred yards until the effort and the realization that the Northmen were not following had brought them to a stop. Now they were forming a line of sorts at a place roughly between the Norsemen’s line and the town of Glendalough.
“They won’t attack again,” Thorgrim said. “Not today.” He looked up at the sun. There were hours of daylight left, though it felt much later. Still, he was sure the Irish were done for that day. He knew that his own men were as well.
“No, they won’t attack today,” Skidi agreed. “But like Bersi says, they’re not done. They’ll hold that ground where they stand. Get themselves sorted out. They’ll fight again on the morrow.”
Thorgrim nodded. The Irish would most certainly fight on. Why wouldn’t they? They were fighting for their own land, and they still outnumbered their enemy two or three to one. The question, therefore, was whether the Northmen would also stay and fight, or retreat to their ships and just sail away. They would keep their lives if they did the latter, but would have nothing else to show for their efforts.
And that was not a question that Thorgrim alone could answer.
“Let us get our men back, back to the top of that hill there.” He pointed to the rise where the first shield walls had met at the commencement of the fighting. “Let’s get those wagons of Harald’s up there, we can make a wall of sorts. Then we’ll figure out what the gods would have us do next.”
The men were silent and grateful to be done fighting as they trudged back toward the hill in their rear. Those who could find the strength helped tip the wagons back on their wheels and untangle the oxen, four of which were dead, and then drive the ponderous vehicles back up the hill. Once at the crest the wagons were arranged in a line across the road. It was not much of a defense, but it was something at least.
Ottar still lived. He was limping and he wore a wide and blood-soaked bandage on his left arm and his mail shirt hung in tatters, so much that Thorgrim wondered why he bothered keeping it on at all, but he was still alive. He was silent as they made their way back to the hill, happy now to let his men simply follow what Thorgrim’s were doing. But soon Thorgrim could hear his raving and shouting again. Still, Ottar kept his distance, and as long as he did that Thorgrim was happy to let him rave and shout.
The wagons were plundered for food and ale. There was not much to be had, there were not as many of the Northmen left, and they found provisions enough to at least stave off hunger, if not sate it.
The men ate where they sat, or lay flat on the wet grass, ignoring the light rain that fell, or tended their wounds or their fellows’ wounds. Thorgrim called his captains together. He called Harald as well. Harald had earned his place at the council.
They found stools and benches in the wagons and made a circle a ways off from the men. “There are two paths we can take,” Thorgrim said once they had settled. “We can stay and fight tomorrow, or we can go back to the ships and sail away and forget Glendalough. I don’t see what other choices there are. Tell me what you think.”
The others considered the question, but Thorgrim guessed they had already considered it, and so they did not have to think on it long.
“The gods have favored us,” Skidi said, breaking the silence with his grunting voice. “Harald saved us, sure, and I will be grateful all my life for that.” He nodded toward Harald and Harald smiled uncomfortably. “But sure the gods put those wagons in Harald’s path and drove the oxen as they did.”
The others were nodding as they listened. Thorgrim had a good idea of where this was going, and he imagined the others did as well.
“The gods always favor the bold ones,” Skidi continued. “It would be madness to stay and fight, and that’s exactly why the gods might look with favor on us if we do. And it’ll surprise the Irish so much they’ll likely shit their pants.”
Thorgrim looked at each man, each man’s face, but these were men who kept their own council and he could read nothing there. But he knew what their answer would be.
“What say you all?” Thorgrim asked.
“I say fight,” Kjartan said.
“Fight,” Skidi said.
“I would rather fight,” said Bersi, “but before we say yes or no we need to hear from Ottar. If he will stand with us, then we should fight. But if he is determined to leave then we have no hope, no matter how bold we might be. There would be no dishonor to us if we’re forced to leave because Ottar won’t fight.”
Again the others nodded. “Then I will go and speak with Ottar,” Thorgrim said.
“I don’t think you’ll have to,” Skidi said and he nodded to a place beyond their circle. Thorgrim looked over to see Ottar limping toward them, his face fixed in its usual scowl, the ends of his yellow braids dark and stiff with dried blood.
He stepped up and looked around, and his eyes lit on Kjartan. His scowl deepened and his eyebrows came together and his hand moved to the hilt of his sword, but so slowly and so painfully that there seemed little menace in the gesture.
“Kjartan, you bastard, you pile of shit, why am I not surprised to s
ee you here?” Ottar growled, but his voice, like the motion of his arm, seemed to lack the strength of a genuine threat. “You’ve been hiding from me all this time, you little cowardly puke.”
“I’ve been hiding from no one,” Kjartan said, making no move to ready himself for an attack. “You’ve been too blind to see me.”
Ottar stared at Kjartan for a few seconds more but said nothing else. Instead he turned to Thorgrim. “Well, Night Wolf? Will you stand and fight or run like a frightened puppy?”
“We were just wondering the same of you,” Thorgrim said, “Though I didn’t see much fighting from your men today. You cowardly whore’s sons ran around like chickens with a dog loose in the yard.”
“You are also a pile of shit,” Ottar said. “We were the dogs today, you were the chickens. You and those rutting Irish. But we mean to fight and we mean to wring every bit of silver and gold out of that filthy monastery and share every woman there amongst us. Make these swine pay and pay dear for what they did today. Will you stand with us?”
Thorgrim looked at the big man, towering over him. He had several gashes across his face and forehead, some quite deep. The blood made weird patterns where it had been channeled by the old, twisted scar across his cheek. His stance was defiant, his words as offensive as ever, but the spirit was lacking, the fire was burning down.
Ottar, of course, had the same problem Thorgrim did. Neither man could hope to win if they remained but the other did not.
“Yes, we will stay and fight these bastards, just as we planned from the start,” Thorgrim said.
Glendalough Fair: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga) (Volume 4) Page 31
