Night Wolf: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 5)

by James L. Nelson

  The river carried them on, sweeping them down toward the shallow water as Thorgrim leaned on the tiller and kept the long, low ship as much in the center of the stream as he could. The last time they had come this way, Ottar’s ships had not been able to make it over the shallows without her men off-loading much of the gear and stores. Thorgrim’s ships, less heavily laden, had made it with only the crew going over the side. Now Sea Hammer was lighter still, with half the number of men on board and considerably fewer supplies.

  Thorgrim hoped very much they would not go aground. He hoped there would not be archers waiting in the woods. If they did hang up on the bottom, and if there were men-at-arms with bows, then the voyage would end right here, just as it nearly had before.

  The woods seemed to close in on either side. Thorgrim’s eyes moved from the water to the tree line and back. He could see in his mind the struggle in those woods, Ottar’s men cut down as they tried to get up the steep banks, oars and barrels and dead men floating in the stream. He felt himself tense, felt his hands grip the tiller tighter than they needed to.

  “Stand ready!” he called forward, a pointless command and he knew it, but he felt the need to say something. The men were ready, the Northmen with shields and spears and swords in hand, their eyes, like Thorgrim’s probing the dark woods. Starri was stripped to the waist, a battle ax in each hand. Starri Deathless. He was back.

  The Irish were ready too, armed and clad like the Northmen, but their faces showed more confusion than wariness. To them, this stretch of river was not the killing place that it was to Thorgrim’s men.

  Then Sea Hammer was in the rough, shallow stretch of river. Thorgrim could feel the vibration in the tiller as the unsettled water under the keel nudged and jostled the hull in a hundred little ways.

  “Pull! Harder!” he shouted to the oarsmen and they leaned back hard, pulling with powerful strokes, bringing the oars forward faster now to drive the ship ahead. There were only four men rowing now. Thorgrim had ordered the aftermost two, Godi and Ulf, to take up arms. He needed his men ready to fight, but he also needed men at the oars to keep Sea Hammer on course, and the Irish were too unfamiliar with the work of rowing to take a place there. This was the best he could do.

  He leaned over the side and looked down. He could see the browns and blacks and whites of the stones on the river bottom, distorted through the churning water. They seemed very close. He looked up again. The place where the Irish had struck was past them now, though they were still in the stretch of shallow water that had hung them up before. Thorgrim cocked his head to listen. He could hear nothing, could see nothing save for a quarter mile of river and bank that seemed as deserted as the parts though which they had already traveled.

  Then suddenly Thorgrim heard a thumping noise forward, felt a jarring sensation running down the length of the ship as the keel struck bottom. His hands clenched tighter still on the tiller and he gritted his teeth. He felt the wooden shaft jump in his hand, saw his men looking fore and aft. But the ship did not slow, did not stop, just touched the river bottom and rode over.

  And then they were past the shallows and Thorgrim could feel the motion of the ship change as her hull slipped into deeper water and the river once more grew wider. He could see his men visibly relax. He took his hand from the tiller and shook it to work the kinks free.

  They continued on down river. Thorgrim looked over the side. The bottom was barely visible. That meant the water was too deep for a man to walk or a horse to ride. He looked up. The banks were too far for a spear or an arrow to be used to any effect.

  “All right, you men,” Thorgrim called forward. “You can stand easy for now.” Helmets were removed, swords slipped back into scabbards, spears laid aside. Up in the bow, Louis the Frank and Failend had been poised with weapons drawn, Louis looking out to larboard, Failend to starboard.

  Failend carried the seax Thorgrim had given her, a weapon well-proportioned for her size. Now she sheathed it again, but she did not sit. Rather, she remained standing, eyes looking out toward the riverbank.

  I wonder what she’s thinking, Thorgrim mused. She was an odd one. He often wondered what could be going on in her head. Women were a mystery to him, as they were to most men, and Irish women doubly so.

  Starri came aft, stood beside him. He did not look happy. “Your instincts are growing dull, Night Wolf,” he said. “Ornolf would have said you’re getting soft.”

  “I’m sure he would,” Thorgrim said. “He would probably be right. But don’t despair of getting into a fight. I have no doubt you will. And soon.”

  “Oh, yes,” Starri said. “I know I can count on you for that.”

  They stood in silence as Sea Hammer’s speed slowed in the widening river and the men at the oars returned to their more leisurely stroke. The woods on the riverbanks tapered off, giving them a long view of the countryside, the rolling hills in their deep summer green, the mountains rising off in the distance. Thorgrim could see down river for a good mile or so, to where the woods closed in again and the river bent off toward the south.

  “Where are we bound, Thorgrim?” Starri asked, as if it had only just occurred to him to wonder what was to become of them all. Starri had less interest in his own fate than any man Thorgrim had ever known. The only question that was any real concern to Starri was whether or not there would be fighting, and if not, what could be done to change that.

  “We go to visit Kevin,” Thorgrim said. “Cónán says there’s a river, joins this one, runs to within a mile or so of this place Kevin occupies. Whatever they call it.”

  “Cónán knows this country,” Starri observed.

  “He’s been an outlaw here a dozen years or so,” Thorgrim said. “And he’s managed to keep alive. Yes, he knows this country well, and the people in it.”

  They were quiet as Sea Hammer came up with the bend in the river and Thorgrim pulled the tiller toward him to help the ship sweep around. Once again the woods gathered at the riverbanks and their long view of the country was lost.

  “Shallows here,” Starri observed. Starri, of course, did not recall much of the river, they having transited this part after he had received his grievous wound.

  “Yes,” Thorgrim said. “A little deeper than those last. They should give us no trouble.”

  “I hope not,” Starri said. “I wouldn’t care to be stuck here on the bottom of the river while Kevin waits for us to give him his lesson.”

  “I wouldn’t worry,” Thorgrim said. “There’ll be fighting enough, soon.”

  And just as he said that, as if his very words had summoned them, the riders came bursting out of the trees. They carried shields on their arms, spears leveled. Their horses plunged into the river, water cresting around them like bow waves before so many longships, as they charged toward Sea Hammer and the stunned and unready men aboard her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I reckon two blows revenged

  the hot blood won for the raven.

  Such deeds are told in stories

  related by wise men.

  The Saga of Ref the Sly

  Starri was the first man moving, leaping off the afterdeck and charging forward, even before Thorgrim was able to shout a word of warning. He moved like a rabbit, twisting and dodging anything in his way as he bolted forward, pulling the two battle axes from his belt as he did. Only someone who knew him as well as Thorgrim did could see that he still had not regained all the power he once possessed.

  “To arms!” Thorgrim shouted. “They’re on us, to arms!” Most of the men aboard Sea Hammer had been looking inboard, or aft, and they had not seen the riders in those first seconds when they burst from the tree line. Now, fore and aft, men leapt to their feet, turning, looking outboard, mouths wide with surprise.

  “To arms, you stupid bastards!” Thorgrim shouted. He was trapped where he was, hands on the tiller. If he let go, the ship would likely spin out of control, perhaps run up on the bank. He could feel the weight of Iron-tooth on hi
s belt, but he could not spare a hand for it.

  It took the Northmen and the Irish aboard Sea Hammer a second or two, no more, to see the danger and react, but it was still a delay that would cost them. The riders had halved the distance to the ship in that time, and they were just a couple rods away when the men began to snatch up shields and swords.

  “Spears!” Thorgrim shouted. “Take up spears!” The riders were carrying pole arms, and with them they could kill the men confined to the ship and still keep beyond the reach of the Northmen’s swords and axes.

  The men at the oars were looking over their shoulders and Thorodd Bollason, forward oar, larboard side, was abandoning his when Thorgrim shouted again. “Stay at the oars! Keep pulling! Keep pulling!” The riders had the advantage of surprise and maneuverability, but they would be powerless if the Northmen could get the ship into deeper water.

  Harald was standing by the mast, his sword, Oak Cleaver, in his hand. He had no shield or helmet and was making no effort to get them. Rather he was calling to his fellows. “Godi! Ulf! Vali! Amidships, protect the men at the oars! Amidships!”

  Good boy, smart boy, Thorgrim thought. Harald understood, as he did, that they had to keep the ship moving, had to keep driving down river. If the riders knew their business, they would go for the men at the oars.

  Cónán was in motion too, shouting at his men in their native Irish, pushing the women to the center of the ship, as far as they could get from the fighting, which would not be far, not beyond the reach of the oncoming spears. The bandits were snatching up weapons and shields, stumbling over one another as they did. This was not what they were accustomed to. Few had ever seen a ship before, let alone had to fight aboard one.

  Then the riders were on them, the leading man coming at the larboard bow, spear leveled. One of Cónán’s men was there and he was still trying to settle the shield on his arm when the tip of the rider’s spear caught him in the chest. The force of the blow knocked him backwards, his arms flailing, the sword flying from his grip as he went down in a spray of blood.

  Thorgrim, watching from sixty feet aft, hoped the rider would at least lose his spear in the encounter, but the man gave a practiced twist of the weapon and pulled it clear as he rode on past. He leveled it again, charging down the ship’s side, the point driving at Thorodd Bollason’s back as the Norseman leaned into the oar.

  Before Thorgrim could shout a warning, Harald leapt to the ship’s side, swinging Oak Cleaver as he did. He brought the blade down on the horizontal shaft of the spear and knocked it out of line. He pulled Oak Cleaver back and slashed at the rider, but the man had reined his horse hard over, away from the ship’s side, clear of Harald’s sword and the long oar in Thorodd’s grip.

  The riders had split up and were coming on from either direction, a dozen or so riding at the larboard side, a dozen to starboard. Starri Deathless was at the bow, all the way forward, having pushed Louis out of the way. He could get no closer to the enemy; there was nothing he could do but wait until the riders closed with him.

  That would not be long. The rider coming at the starboard bow was now only a dozen yards away, his horse driving through the chest-high water, the river foaming around its legs. The rider had a shield on his arm, his spear leveled at Starri’s chest, as horse and ship quickly converged.

  What a waste, Thorgrim thought. All that effort they had put into patching Starri up, and if his reflexes were in the least bit slowed he would be wriggling like a fish at the end of that spear.

  Ship and rider met. The spear arced in toward Starri with practiced grace, and Starri knocked it effortlessly aside with his battle ax. He put his foot on the sheer strake and launched himself through the air, right at the man on the horse. Thorgrim had time enough to catch a glimpse of the shocked look on the man’s face. It was all the reaction he was able to muster before Starri slammed into him and the two of them disappeared over the far side of the animal and splashed down into the water.

  “Starri!” Thorgrim shouted, pointlessly. “You stupid bastard!” He had never felt so impotent, tied to the tiller with his men fighting and dying around him. And now Starri had gone over the side. Even if the lunatic was not killed in the fighting he would surely be left astern.

  The riders were all around the ship now, plunging in toward it, reining away, following along and thrusting with their long spears as the Irish and Norse tried to fend them off. Four men at the oars and they pulled for all they were worth, looking desperately around as they did.

  Godi came charging through the crowd. He had tossed his sword aside and now held an oar in his massive hands, twenty feet of hard, tapered wood, which he swung in a great arc at the horsemen. It was a feat that would have been impossible for any man of smaller size or lesser strength, but in Godi’s hands the oar was an effective weapon. Thorgrim saw it miss one of the riders by inches but strike the man next to him, hitting him right at the shoulder and knocking him clean off his horse and into the river.

  Thorgrim looked off to the starboard side. The riderless horse from which Starri had pulled the man-at-arms was shying away from the ship, but there was no sign of Starri or the man he was fighting. Thorgrim looked down at the water but could see only the rippling surface. He looked astern wondering if they had already passed Starri by.

  And then, not fifteen feet away, Starri burst from the water like a gangly, pale god of the deep, his long hair and beard streaming, the two axes raised above him. He spun around and reached out a long, spider-like arm and drove his ax into Sea Hammer’s sheer strake, three feet from where Thorgrim was standing, drove it so hard Thorgrim could feel the vibration of the impact through his shoes. Hand still gripping the handle of the ax, Starri swung his feet up as the ship surged past, flinging his other arm over the edge of the ship and twisting himself aboard.

  He landed on his feet, pulling the first ax free as he did. His eyes met Thorgrim’s. He was smiling. There was no sign of the Irish horseman who had gone into the water with him.

  Without a word Starri turned and raced forward again. Thorgrim wanted to tell him to stay on the ship, that he would not get away with that a second time, but Starri was beyond hearing so Thorgrim turned back to the fight. The horsemen were charging in and out, probing with their spears. Two of Cónán’s men were down and Godi and Armod were wounded, blood smeared on hands and faces, but still fighting as if nothing had happened.

  “By Thor and Odin!” Thorgrim shouted in frustration. He could not let go of the tiller and he could not call anyone aft to take it from him.

  Godi swung his oar at one of the riders who was coming down the starboard side, but the man took the blade of the oar on his shield and, braced for it, managed to deflect the blow. A man named Refkel was on the forward-most oar. The rider lunged forward and caught Refkel’s shoulder, driving the point into the Northman’s back, and the force of the blow drove the weapon clean through. Thorgrim saw the spear tip, black and covered in blood, tear through the front of Refkel’s mail shirt. Refkel shrieked and twisted sideways as the horseman continued on, still holding the spear shaft, levering Refkel around until he was past and the point ripped out again.

  Refkel was done, lying writhing on the deck, his oar hanging free. Armod, at the row port just aft of him, leaned forward for another stroke and fouled Refkel’s abandoned oar. He cursed, struggling to free it, as Sea Hammer began to slew around.

  The rider who had driven his spear into Refkel now jumped his horse neatly over the fouled oars and pulled its head around, charging back at Sea Hammer’s side. The point of his spear was leveled at Armod now, who had turned to see what was happening behind him, and did not even see the rider coming.

  “Ah! Bastard!” Thorgrim shouted. There was no steering now with the starboard oars gone, and Thorgrim could not stand to remain out of the fight for a moment more. He let go of the oak tiller and raced forward, drawing Iron-tooth as he ran. He thought of Starri, moving with the grace the gods had given him, or Harald, able to perform grea
t athletic feats thanks to youth and strength, and he knew he could no longer match either of them.

  But he didn’t have to. He had only to reach the vulnerable Armod before the horseman did. He put his foot on the first sea chest aft and stepped up, leaping forward to the next and the next. The rest of the men were fighting forward—his path was clear.

  He was on the fourth chest when the point of the rider’s spear came in over the sheer strake. Thorgrim leapt forward, sweeping the blade of his sword down as he did. He heard the steel ring against the iron point as it connected, saw the spear point knocked away, the momentum of the rider driving it into the deck where it stuck fast.

  Thorgrim recovered his balance, turned and swept Iron-tooth at the rider, who was well within the arc of the blade. The rider brought his shield up quick and took the lethal blow on the flat wooden surface.

  Their eyes met, Thorgrim and the Irishman. He was young, Harald’s age, or maybe a bit older. Thorgrim recognized the man’s face. In the garden? The ambush coming up river? But then he was gone, abandoning the spear as Sea Hammer swept past.

  Armod was on his feet. He pulled the weapon free and spun it point outboard as the Irishman drew his sword and wheeled his horse around to make another charge.

  The longship was in the grip of the current now, turning in the stream, the tiller unmanned, starboard oars fouled, the useless larboard oars abandoned as the rowers let go of the handles and took up weapons instead.

  The horsemen were surrounding the ship. The Northmen and the Irish were massed fore and aft, larboard and starboard, fighting them off. Some of Sea Hammer’s men had spears with which to reach out at the attackers, but most held swords or battle axes, not nearly as effective against an enemy that could keep beyond arm’s reach.

  Starri was still on board, Thorgrim was happy to see. He had abandoned his beloved axes and found a spear. He was racing side to side, screaming his wild berserker cry, leaping up onto the sheer strake, balancing there for a second or two as he made wild thrusts at the riders, then pushing himself off and landing back on board. It was an astounding display of courage, balance, coordination, and pure madness.