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

by James L. Nelson

  Go on, you son of a whore, dig it up for me, she thought.

  Then Colman stopped digging. He slipped the knife back in its sheath and reached down into the hole he had made. He hefted the box out and as he twisted to set it aside he finally caught a glimpse of Failend standing behind him. He gasped, stood and turned, his hand reaching for the hilt of the sword that still hung from his belt.

  And then he realized who it was and his hand dropped to his side again and his body seemed to relax.

  “You should have drawn your sword,” Failend said, taking a step toward him. “It would have been the first time it was out all day.”

  “Ha!” Colman said. “So, the little slut-at-arms has come home. Is the Frank here? I had hoped to hang the two of you side by side. You’ve already been pronounced guilty of Aileran’s murder, you know. But I’ll hang you one at a time if I must.”

  Failend took another step toward him. “I don’t know where Louis is,” she said. “This is not his business, it’s mine.”

  “What? Have you come to beg for your life? No, wait…” Colman said, and Failend saw the understanding spread across his face. “You came to steal my hoard, you little bitch!”

  “I did,” Failend admitted and with that she pulled her sword from the scabbard and held it low and in front of her. “And I waited for you. Because I knew you would choose your silver over your men, if you thought there was even a chance the heathens might sack this town.”

  Colman smiled. “You make this all so damned easy!” he said. “You come here, dressed like that, armed, intent on stealing my hoard. There’s no need for me to go to the trouble of hanging you. I’ll just kill you here and now.”

  He was still smiling as he once again reached for his sword. He grabbed the hilt and had the weapon halfway out of the scabbard when Failend darted forward and drove the point of her sword into his hand. She saw it sink deep and she guessed it had gone clean through. Colman shrieked, not a particularly manly sound, jerked his hand away and held it up to his face. Blood was flowing like a red stream from the deep wound.

  “You bitch!” he cried. “Damn you, you damned slut!”

  “Don’t call me a slut,” Failend said. “I am done with you calling me that.”

  Colman moved his eyes from his ruined hand to Failend, his expression a mix of rage, confusion and, for the first time, fear.

  “You…” was all he said. He held his arm up for her to see. The blood ran down his forearm and dripped on the floor, but Failend did not miss his left hand reaching around for his knife. She darted forward again, sinking her sword point into his left shoulder and leaping clear as he swung at her.

  “Ah, damn you, damn you!” Colman shouted. His teeth were clenched and his arms were hanging useless at his sides. He was breathing hard, and Failend could see him summon the will to remain calm.

  “Very well,” he said. “Take the hoard. Take it and go.”

  “I will,” Failend said, but she did not move. They were silent, staring at one another.

  “This was not about you, you know,” Colman said. “Aileran, the Frank, all that. It was a different matter. It was not about you.”

  “I know,” Failend said. “And that’s what makes me angry enough to kill you.”

  She watched Colman’s face, his eyes. He was not a fool. He knew now that he would not talk his way out of this. His right hand whipped out at Failend and she felt the spray of blood across her face and then he was coming at her. She raised her sword.

  In truth she did not know if she could kill Colman, but he spared her that decision. He charged forward as her blade came up. She moved her arm, no more than an inch or so, and the point tore into his throat.

  Colman’s eyes went wide and he made an ugly gurgling sound. Failend slashed sideways, freeing the blade in a spray of blood. She stepped aside quick as Colman pitched forward onto the floor. He fell with a soft thud that Failend felt through her shoes. Colman’s legs were jerking, but she wiped the blade of her sword on his leggings and slipped it back into her scabbard. She went over to the hole Colman had dug and hefted the silver box, making a grunting sound as she did. The hoard was heavier than she had expected.

  She tucked the box under her arm and stepped back over to where Colman lay. He was still making soft noises, though it was not entirely clear to her that he was still alive. She put her foot on his shoulder and rolled him on his back. He flopped over with no resistance. His throat was a ruined mess, the torn flesh lost in the great wash of blood. His eyes were open. She leaned down, looking for some sign of life, but she could see none.

  “Goodbye, husband,” she said. She crossed the room and opened the door, stepped out into the mist and the panicked madness in the streets. She closed the door behind her.

  Chapter Forty

  Cattle die and kinsmen die,

  thyself too soon must die,

  but one thing never, I say, will die, —

  fair fame of one who has earned.

  Hávamál

  The battered remnants of Thorgrim’s army remained at their wagon barricades until nightfall. They prayed or slept or gamed or tended to weapons or injuries. Then, after the sun went down and darkness had spread like a cloak over a dead man’s body, they waited some more.

  Thorgrim called Bersi and Kjartan and Skidi together. Harald was not there. He was leading a small scouting party out toward the Irish lines. The plan that Thorgrim and Ottar had devised called for Thorgrim’s men to work their way unseen into a new, advantageous position, and Thorgrim had to be sure the Irish would not try to do the same thing.

  “The fires your men have burning, keep them burning low, but be certain they’re visible to the Irish,” Thorgrim said to his captains. “We’ll leave the most badly wounded men behind to tend them. In the very deep hours of the night we’ll move to the north and find a spot where we’ll be hidden from the Irish until we’re ready to spring on them. That will be once Ottar begins his attack.”

  The others nodded and made sounds to acknowledge their understanding which grated on Thorgrim’s nerves. The black mood was taking hold of him, he recognized the signs. He was growing irritable and snappish and soon he would start lashing out at anyone who spoke to him, unreasonable as that might be. It was time for him to leave the company of men.

  Thorgrim went off by himself and sat and stared out at the dark and the few points of light that he could see, a dozen or so fires out by the Irishmen’s camp and others in the town of Glendalough. Cooking fires, people making ready to put the torch to the buildings there? Thorgrim did not know and did not care. The hours slipped by.

  Harald returned and found Thorgrim sitting alone. “Father, the Irish have not moved at all,” he said. “They don’t seem to have anything in mind but to make a stand where they are.”

  Thorgrim grunted his reply. Harald recognized the black mood, he had seen it all his life, so he said no more, just nodded and slipped away. Starri Deathless was the only person who had ever been able to remain in Thorgrim’s company when this darkness was on him, and now Starri was gone, back aboard Sea Hammer, alive or dead Thorgrim did not know.

  Thorgrim’s mind was still in the present world when Bersi and Harald came looking for him hours later. They approached cautiously, hesitantly, which only made Thorgrim more angry still, but he held his tongue.

  “Father, it’s near the midnight hour, I would guess,” Harald said. Thorgrim grunted. He had been waiting for this time, the darkest part of the night, when the vigilance in the Irish camp would be at its lowest. His and Ottar’s plan of attack would work only if they had surprise with them. Indeed, surprise was the only possible advantage they might have over the Irish who so outnumbered them.

  “Come on,” Thorgrim grunted. He stood and headed off into the dark. He did not ask if the men were ready to follow because he knew Harald would not be so foolish as to come for him if they were not. As if in silent answer he heard the soft sound of nearly one hundred men, all that remained of his s
hips’ crews, following behind in the dark.

  Thorgrim knew the country well, having studied it during the hours when there was light enough to see. He had even climbed up on top of one of the wagons to get a better look at the way the land rose and fell. Now he moved with confidence, and he led his column along a low stretch of ground behind a hill that shielded them from the Irish lines and the enemy scouts who most certainly must have been out there watching.

  They walked for twenty minutes or so, and then Thorgrim held up his hand for the men to stop. He heard behind him the barely audible bumping and rustling of men coming to a halt. He climbed up the hill to his left. It was a dark night, and though the rain had stopped, the sky was still blanketed with clouds, and no moon or starlight made its way through.

  At the top of the hill he lay down flat and looked to the distance. He could still see the lights of the Irish camp as he had earlier, but they seemed more bunched together now. Before, he had been looking at the Irish defenses straight on. Now he was looking down their flank.

  Perfect, he thought.

  He made his way back down the hill. He understood he would have to speak to the others and he loathed the thought, but he knew there was nothing for it. “We stop here,” he said to Harald and Bersi. “Let the men sleep in their line. Lookouts on the hill top. Everyone up before first light.”

  “Yes, father,” Harald said and Thorgrim turned away, satisfied that things would be done as he wished. It was one of the advantages of having a young man in charge whom one had trained from birth.

  Thorgrim walked off into the dark, up the hill once more, sitting down on the wet grass near the crest. The lights of the Irish camp were ahead of him, and to his left, farther off, were the campfires they had left burning by the wagons. Those were tended by the men too wounded to fight, in hope that the Irish would believe all his men were still at that place.

  He closed his eyes. He could feel conscious thought swirling away like the last moments of wakefulness before sleep. He felt the primal rage, the animal impulses deep inside him swirling around, rising up, sweeping him off, and he let himself go.

  Nothing good ever came from the black mood, at least nothing of which Thorgrim was aware. But sometimes it allowed him see things, it carried him beyond the place where he was and let him see what his enemies were doing, where they were strong or where they were weak and vulnerable. The wolf dreams, as he called them, were rarely wrong.

  The wolf dreams came to him that night, vivid and torturous. He saw himself running with a pack. They were being pursued through a thick wood, but he had a sense that there should have been more of them, that his pack was not the size it was supposed to be, not even close.

  And as they ran he sensed the pack thinning even more until soon there was just him and a few with him, and their pursuers were closing in. Closing in. He could hear their snarling in the night, he could see their wicked eyes. He turned and snapped but there was nothing into which he could sink his teeth. He twisted and bit and charged and could find nothing. There was nothing around him. It had all been taken away.

  It was a dream of despair, of hopelessness, of rage that had no outlet. He was howling and biting and lashing out and there was nothing around him but darkness.

  And then he was awake. It was still nighttime, the sky and the land still black as pine tar. The fires in the Irish camp were little more than a series of dull orange points in the distance. Thorgrim could hear snoring behind him, and the sound of a few men moving carefully.

  He thought of the wolf dream. What was that? he wondered. He had seen nothing that might be of help. He had learned nothing.

  There was more movement behind him, voices speaking very soft, no more than a whisper. He had no sense for how much time had passed, but he guessed it was time to rise and to get in position. They would make ready for that moment when Ottar led his men against the shield wall, and then he and his men would hit the Irish on their flank, and if all went well they would crush them between the two armies.

  Three hours from now we might be sacking Glendalough, Thorgrim thought and immediately regretting thinking it. The gods did not care for that sort of hubris. He clutched the Thor’s hammer amulet he wore around his neck. There was a cross hanging there as well, a gift from an Irishwoman, a Christ follower, as they all were. The Christ worshipers might be happy with only one God, but Thorgrim was happy for the help of any.

  There will not be a damned thing left in Glendalough worth taking, he thought next. They had pissed away any chance of surprise like yesterday’s ale. The people would have already carried off anything that was of any value, and much that was not.

  He stood in a crouch and walked down below the crest of the hill, then stood to his full height and stretched. With the passing of the wolf dream came the passing of the black mood and he felt more himself now, more ready to face what was to come. Including his death, which was more likely than not.

  “Father?” He heard Harald’s voice behind him in the dark. He turned and could just make out his son’s shape as Harald came up the hill. He could hear the hesitancy in the boy’s voice. Harald would not know what sort of reception he might get.

  “Yes, Harald?” Thorgrim said, knowing those two words, spoken in a reasonable tone of voice, would tell Harald all he needed to know about his father’s state of mind.

  “We’ve got the men up and in order,” Harald said. Thorgrim could sense, more than see, his son’s presence at his side. “First light should be soon. I think.”

  “Good,” Thorgrim said but he could still hear hesitancy in the words. “Is there something else?”

  “Ah, yes…” Harald said. “It’s…Kjartan. And his men. They’re gone.”

  Thorgrim was silent for a moment, trying to make sense of this. “Gone?”

  “They were on the far left end of our line. Everything seemed fine. I thought they were with us, ready to fight. But now they are gone.”

  “They didn’t just wander off?”

  “I’ve been out over the ground, back toward the wagons. They’re not there. Maybe they went back to join Ottar?”

  “Maybe,” Thorgrim said. But only if Kjartan had been lying about the bad blood between him and his brother. He remembered that Ottar had not reacted with his usual violence on seeing Kjartan yesterday. He had done nothing more than curse at him. But what would it mean if Kjartan and Ottar were not really feuding? Why the ruse?

  Thorgrim had a bad feeling about all of this.

  “If he’s gone, he’s gone, run off like cowards, the lot of them,” Thorgrim said. “Men like that would be of no use in a fight anyway.” He took a step toward Harald, put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go join the men,” he said. “This is our lucky day. Today we’ll either enjoy the riches of Glendalough or the glory of Odin’s corpse hall.”

  They made their way back down the hill and found their men standing and shaking the stiffness out of their limbs and rubbing their arms to get the blood moving. It was not a cold night but the damp had a way of working into the bones, and the men moved in place to drive the chill out like an evil spirit. Thorgrim found Bersi and Skidi.

  “So, Kjartan’s run off I hear,” Thorgrim said.

  “Yes, the bastard, the pile of shit,” Skidi spat. “At least if we die today we’ll not have to see his miserable, cowardly hide in Valhalla.” This was met with a grunting agreement.

  “The more plunder for us, ” Thorgrim said. “No man here will be unhappy about sharing their portion.” He looked off to the east and thought he could detect a lightening in the darkness there. “Dawn will be soon. Let’s us go to the top of the hill and watch for Ottar’s attack. Then we’ll give the Irish bastards the surprise we have prepared for them.”

  He led them up the hill. They approached the crest on hands and knees, and then laid down on their bellies and stared out into the blackness and remained silent as they watched. Birds were singing their morning song somewhere out in the tall grass, and from a great dist
ance they could hear a cock crowing, its harsh voice carrying a far in the still air.

  They remained in that position for some time and then Thorgrim saw that the day was most certainly getting lighter, the thick blackness, now fading into something gray. He could see the men on either side of him, and a vague suggestion of the hills around them and the mountains off in the distance.

  “Another ten minutes,” Skidi breathed, “and it’ll be light enough to see Ottar.” That was part of the plan. The Irish could not know Thorgrim’s men were there, and the best way to stop them from knowing was to give them something else to look at. And so Ottar would have his men in a shield wall on the crest of the hill where the barricade of wagons had been made. Nothing would catch and hold a warrior’s eye so well as a shield wall.

  The sun continued to rise behind the heavy layer of cloud and the land around them was slowly revealed, gray and wet. The hills seemed to take shape as if the gods were raising them up from the earth. Glendalough, far off, was still lost in deep shadow, but the higher places began to show themselves in the grudging daylight.

  They could see the Irish now. They were formed up in a shield wall, ready for the Northmen’s attack. They would not to be caught unprepared.

  Thorgrim and his captains turned their heads as one and looked back to the hill from which they had come. The wagons were visible now, but they seemed to obstruct the view of the field beyond.

  “Do you see Ottar’s men?” Thorgrim asked.

  “No,” Skidi said. “The wagons might be in the way.”

  They waited. The daylight spread across the valley and fell on more and more of the open ground and the mountains in the distance and the town and monastery of Glendalough. And finally the far hill, the wagons, the road, the fields, all were plainly visible in the morning light.

  And Ottar’s men were gone.