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

by James L. Nelson

  “It doesn’t matter, not at all,” Thorgrim said. “I told you, I have more, much more, back at Vík-ló, which I mean to take back. Or die in the attempt. Either way, that purse means nothing to me.”

  Cónán nodded.

  “But here’s what does matter to me,” Thorgrim said. “I mean to kill Kevin, and I mean to kill Ottar at Vík-ló. I care about nothing else, save for the lives of my men. You make sure that these men you’re speaking of understand that. I don’t care what reason they have for joining us. I don’t care what game you might be playing, either. There’ll be plunder to be had, and they’re welcome to it. But anyone who is with me will do as I say, or I’ll kill them as well. Just so you understand.”

  “You are a sweet one with the words,” Cónán said. He smiled and stood. “Lucky for us I’m the one who’ll do the talking. And between my words and your silver I think we’ll have men enough to kill Kevin mac Lugaed, and Ottar, and send them off to hell where they belong.”

  It was an hour later that Cónán, well-fed and with a belly full of ale, a dry cloak over his head and Thorgrim’s purse full of silver hanging from his belt, hopped off Sea Hammer’s bow and onto the soft mud where she had been run aground. He climbed up the bank and then disappeared into the woods lining the river.

  It felt odd to be on his own, to not have the men and women for whom he was responsible there with him, hindering his mobility so that he could move no faster than the slowest among them. It was like lifting a mail shirt off after having worn it for some time, a surprising lightness, a forgotten freedom of motion.

  How long since I was last on my own? he mused as he pushed his way through the undergrowth. In his younger days he would sometimes spend weeks by himself, living off the countryside, purposely avoiding his fellow Irishmen. There were some who would enslave him, some who would rob him, some who would hang him for a thief. There were few who would do him any kindness, and fewer still who would do so unless there was some benefit to themselves. Such was the way of the world, as Cónán had learned early on, and so he avoided others. You don’t join the wolf pack until you can run with the strongest of them.

  He came to the edge of the woods and paused there, sweeping his eyes over the open country beyond. Wide fields of startling green, some patches of wood, smoke rising up from some place off in the distance. A ringfort or a campfire in a stand of trees, maybe. With the rain falling as it was, he did not expect to see anyone abroad, and he did not.

  He was acting out of long habit. Pausing, watching, assessing. It was not entirely necessary, and he knew it. If they had all been with him, the women, the younger ones, the wounded ones, then he certainly would have taken this precaution. But he was on his own. One man alone would not attract much notice, particularly one such as Cónán, who looked like any of the pathetic ócaire, the lowliest of the freemen in Ireland’s complex hierarchy.

  Nor would Cónán have been much concerned if there had been others about. He knew he could escape from most anyone who might want to do him harm, and kill those from whom he could not escape. He looked like a helpless tenant farmer because he wished to look that way, but in truth he was anything but that.

  He stepped out from the trees and headed across the open ground, moving away from the river and the Northmen’s ship.

  Thorgrim Night Wolf, he thought. There’s quite a fellow.

  He had taken the man’s measure when they first met, when Thorgrim had done him the kindness of killing the outlaws’ former leader and saving him the trouble. Hard man. Uncompromising. Though maybe a little more sentimental than even he himself realized. That nonsense about Louis the Frank’s silver was proof enough of that. Still, Cónán had the feeling he was a man who could be trusted, and not a man to be crossed.

  For three hours Cónán continued moving south and west. He moved fast, walking at times, jogging at others, relishing the ability to push hard like he used to. The rain was unrelenting and he was soaked through, but he hardly noticed that anymore after half a lifetime spent mostly out of doors. He saw riders once, off in the distance, and a small huddle of people trudging along a road, but no one paid him any attention.

  He slowed his pace as he neared his destination, mostly because he did not actually know where his destination was. He was looking for an outlaw band much like his own. He knew he was in their territory, but that territory encompassed many miles and they could be anywhere within those bounds.

  Their túatha… he thought and he smiled at the thought. We are the lords of the fields and the woods, whether those in the great halls know it or not…

  He saw smoke in the distance and guessed that as likely as not it marked the location of those for whom he was looking. He moved off in that direction, more alert now, keeping himself more hidden than he had been. He doubted that there would be anyone keeping watch that far from the camp, but he always liked to remain vigilant, because men who remained vigilant remained alive.

  He covered another half mile before he could see the stand of trees from which the smoke was rising. There was nothing but open ground between him and the wooded area, no cover, but he did manage to find a small hill behind which he could conceal himself and survey the woods before making his approach. He crouched behind the hill, made his way carefully to the crest and looked over.

  There you are, you bastards, he thought.

  The cows gave it away. He was not sure what he was seeing at first. Movement in the trees, a flash of white. He let his eyes settle on the wood line, and finally it became clear what he was looking at, half hidden in the shadows. Cows.

  Most of the wealth in Ireland was measured in cattle. Lesser lords paid overlords in cattle. Neighbors lashed out at neighbors by staging cattle raids. And outlaws stole cattle from anyone who had it. But only outlaws secreted their cattle in stands of trees.

  You’ve been busy, he thought. He knew these men. He had been with them once, some time back, before moving on to greater opportunities. The separation had not been entirely cordial. That, he knew, would mean that something less than a warm reception awaited him.

  He untied the purse that Thorgrim had given him, spilled half the silver, gold, and jewels into the palm of his hand, then hid them in a secret pocket sewn into his tunic. If Thorgrim’s feeling generous, he thought, there’s no reason why these bastards should get it all.

  He stood and headed off toward the woods in the distance. He walked, he did not run, ambling along with a practiced lack of concern. He could see men now, moving through the trees, watching him approach. They were trying to keep hidden and probably thought they had succeeded, but to Cónán they were as obvious as if their hair were on fire.

  Stupid, clumsy fools, he thought. He could have entered the woods unseen, come up behind them, and the first sound they heard would have been his knife cutting their throats. But that would not serve his purpose.

  Your lucky day, he thought.

  He reached the woods and pushed his way onto a worn trail, into the welcome shelter of the trees. The rain was still loud overhead, but few drops managed to reach him, which was a relief. He flipped his hood off his head and walked farther in.

  He had not covered ten feet before the men were on him, three men, young, a bit scared. One carried a spear, another a cudgel, the third a short sword in lamentable condition.

  “Hold up!” the spear-man said, and Cónán stopped, his hands slightly raised. The spearman stepped closer, squinted at Cónán’s face.

  “Cónán!” he said, with more than a hint of mocking triumph, as if he had somehow brought this capture about through his own quick wits. “Look who’s here. It’s Cónán, come back!”

  The others stepped closer, grinning. Cónán made a quick move in their direction, arms shooting out, a lunging half step toward them. They leapt back, gasping, weapons coming up. Cónán shouted “Boo!” and laughed.

  The others did not laugh with him. “Still reckon yourself funny, do you?” the spearman asked. His name was Fergus, Cónán
recalled. He recognized the others but knew he would never remember their names. Nor did it matter.

  “Yes, I do, Fergus,” Cónán said. “But it’s Blathmac I’ve come to entertain, not you.”

  “Oh, you’ll entertain Blathmac, have no doubt of it,” Fergus said, clearly still smarting from the embarrassment of having been startled. “We’ll go see him now. But first we see that you don’t play anymore tricks.” He reached over and carefully pulled Cónán’s cloak back. There was a short club in his belt and a long knife encased in a leather sheath.

  “Ha!” Fergus said. “We’ll take those, thank you.” He handed his spear to one of the others and pulled the weapons from Cónán’s belt. Cónán made no objection. The weapons were sacrificial. Having found those, Cónán guessed they would not look any further, would not find the seax lashed to his back, hidden by the cape. And he was right.

  “The purse as well,” the one with the cudgel said. “Get the purse.” Fergus reached for it, but Cónán grabbed his wrist and held his arm motionless.

  “Not the purse,” Cónán said. “That’s business for me and Blathmac.”

  Fergus struggled against Cónán’s grip, but not blatantly, not so it was obvious to the others. They stood that way for only a few seconds. That was all it took for Fergus to realize he would not budge Cónán’s arm, so he gave it up and pulled his hand away. “Fine,” he said, “we’ll let Blathmac deal with you.”

  They led Cónán further into the woods, down a worn path that suggested this hiding place had seen long use. Interesting, Cónán thought. He wondered why Blathmac was staying put, if he was losing his nerve, afraid of leaving his hiding place. If his men were growing restless because of it.

  They came at last to a clearing that Cónán remembered, though it had been a few years since he had been here. Thirty or so men were gathered around a smattering of campfires. Women were cooking over the flames or tending to other chores.

  All heads looked up as they stepped into the open place and Fergus said in a loud voice, “Look who we caught sneaking around.” Cónán looked from face to face. Many he recognized, some were new to him. He saw a woman with whom he had once been intimate and he smiled at her, but she frowned and looked away. He heard his name muttered as he passed.

  Then they were in front of Blathmac. He was shorter than Cónán, and a little beefier, with a massive beard that only seemed to emphasize his lack of stature. He always made Cónán think of a luchrupán, one of the little people of old legends. He was standing with arms folded now, waiting for Fergus and the others to present the prisoner to him.

  Fergus grabbed Cónán’s arm and jerked him to a stop five feet in front of where Blathmac stood waiting. For a moment they were all silent, Cónán and Blathmac holding one another’s eyes.

  Finally Fergus broke the silence. “We found him…” he began, but Blathmac cut him off.

  “Cónán,” he said. “It’s been some time.”

  “It has,” Cónán said.

  “When you’re in front of me now,” Blathmac said, putting emphasis on each word, “you kneel.”

  Silence again. Blathmac waited for Cónán to reply. Cónán glanced at Fergus, who stood to one side of him, and then the men who stood on the other. He wondered if they would try to make him kneel. He wondered if he should break their arms if they did.

  “See here, Blathmac,” Cónán said, turning back to the chieftain, and speaking in a tone that made it clear he would not be kneeling anytime soon. “What happened between us is over. Gone. History, old as Noah and the flood. Now I come to you to offer you a chance. A great chance. For real plunder. Even greater than the silly herd of cows you have hidden in the trees.”

  “You’ve come with an offer for me?” Blathmac said. “As if I would ever believe anything that came out of your lying mouth?”

  “Don’t believe me. Believe this.” Cónán pulled the purse from his belt and shook it so it made an enticing jingling sound. “I bring this as a gift to you, and just a taste of what more might come your way.” He tossed the purse to Blathmac, tossed it easy so Blathmac could catch it without dropping it. Now was not the time to embarrass the man.

  Blathmac caught the purse and tugged it open with a feigned disinterest he had not really mastered. He looked into the purse and Cónán could not miss the widening eyes, the little jerk of his head in surprise, the obvious effort Blathmac needed to contain his enthusiasm.

  “I accept this gift,” Blathmac said, drawing the purse closed and tucking it into his belt. “Though it hardly equals what you owe me. Now, I give you leave to speak.”

  Give me leave to speak, Cónán thought. Like he’s the damned rí ruirech, the damned high king. I give you leave to live. For now.

  But he kept that to himself. Instead, he took a step forward, and in a low voice said, “We must talk, because I am onto something here that could make us all rich as lords.”

  Twenty-One

  The unwise man is awake all night,

  and ponders everything over;

  when morning comes he is weary in mind,

  and all is a burden as ever.

  Hávamál

  The chaos of the evening was over, and the dark hours of night had settled on Vík-ló when they pounded on Aghen’s door. He was not surprised. Nor was he afraid.

  Aghen had not been asleep. He doubted anyone in all of Vík-ló had been asleep. Patrols of armed, torch-bearing men were flocking through the streets and along the wall and down by the river. They had been shouting to one another all night, warnings that proved to be false alarms, admonitions to check here or there. Every once in a while the voice of Ottar Bloodax came howling through the dark, loud, demanding, sounding the way a bull might sound if a bull could issue frantic and barely comprehensible orders.

  After the first man, Thorlaug Gyduson, had been found dead by the wall, his throat torn out by a wolf, the longphort was thrown into an uproar. That night, and for the next few nights, Ottar’s men lined the earthen wall and paraded through the streets, looking out for the renegade beast. It seemed to Aghen an excess of excitement.

  It was a strange thing, to be sure, having a man killed by a wolf right there in the longphort, but such a thing was not impossible. Even for those who did not know how it had happened, which was everyone save for Aghen, it should not have caused so much consternation. But that, apparently, was not how Ottar felt, and Ottar’s rage spread like a drop of blood on white linen until all of Vík-ló felt it.

  It did not last very long. A few nights after Thorlaug’s death, and with no further signs of the creature, the men of Vík-ló began to relax. The walls were not manned so heavily, the patrols not so ubiquitous. Ottar, according to Oddi, was less frantic than he had been.

  And then Thorstein Kodransson was found dead, the second victim of the wolf.

  Like Thorlaug, Thorstein was part of Ottar’s household guard. Thorstein, however, had been with Ottar longer, had sailed from Norway with him, apparently had known him since childhood.

  According to Oddi, Ottar had gone mad on hearing the news, flinging anything that came to hand across the hall, smashing furniture, ordering his men to man the walls, patrol the grounds, to find and kill the wolf, or see that it had no chance of getting into the longphort again.

  The banks of the river were searched, the walls lined with men. Every inch of the earthworks were scoured for some gap, some imperfection where a wolf might get in and out unseen. Nothing was found, nor was there any sign of the wolf—none at all—save for the dead man, his face white, his eyes staring blankly up toward the sky, his body resting on a great circle of blood like a carpet on which he had fallen.

  “All those men, and they found no sign at all of the wolf?” Aghen asked Oddi the next day, pausing in his work on a new mast step for one of Ottar’s other ships. “No prints, no scat?”

  “Nothing,” Oddi said. Oddi was not working in the shipyard that day. Like all of Ottar’s men, he had been put to work searching for the wo
lf or walking the earthworks or circling Ottar’s hall with weapons ready. Oddi’s duties had taken him down by the river, and he used that chance to stop and have a word with Aghen.

  “Interesting…” Aghen let the word hang in the air.

  “What?” Oddi said. “Interesting? How is it interesting?”

  “Well,” Aghen said, feigning reluctance to speak. “A proper wolf usually leaves signs, doesn’t it? Footprints, like I said. They kill to make a meal. They don’t just kill and run off. And yet, this beast…” Again he let the words hang in the air.

  “You think maybe…this isn’t a proper wolf? It’s something else?” Oddi said. What he really wished to ask, Aghen could see, was Do you think this is Thorgrim Kveldulf, come back in the shape of a wolf? But he could not bring himself to ask it directly, and Aghen pretended that he did not understand.

  “I don’t know. It’s odd, is all,” Aghen said. He wondered if Oddi would report these insinuations to Ottar, or if he had learned his lesson from the last beating. Aghen was not sure. Oddi was not a particularly quick learner.

  With the second killing, Vík-ló was once again in a frenzy, then once again the panic that washed over the longphort receded. Vigilance began to wane, and word spread that the constant presence of torches and men on the lookout were keeping the wolf at bay, probably encouraging it to hunt elsewhere. No one suggested that this wolf might be driven by something other than hunger. Folks thought the wolf was gone because they wanted the wolf to be gone.

  And then it killed again. The dead man, predictably, was another of Ottar’s household guard. He was also one of the men who had helped kill Valgerd, but if anyone made that connection, Aghen never heard about it.

  The degree of panic and general terror that followed that killing was more than Aghen could have imagined. Even during the daylight, virtually no one but Ottar’s armed men ventured out into the streets, despite the fact that all the killings had happened during the darkest hours of night. The one exception was Aghen, who continued with what others considered remarkable fearlessness to do his work down by the river.