Ottar raged and cursed and swore that not one more man would die by the teeth of the cursed beast. He ordered his men to keep watch over every inch of the longphort, to maintain the highest vigilance, night or day, while he himself remained shuttered up in his hall.
And then a few days later, two more men were found dead behind the baker’s house, their throats ripped out just as the others had been.
Those two would be the wolf’s final victims, at least for a while, though Aghen alone knew that. The third man had been tricky enough to lure away. All of Ottar’s warriors had been admonished to never venture anywhere alone. That one had only been willing to come see the shocking thing Aghen had claimed to discover after Aghen pointed out that he would not be alone, that the two of them would be together. Aghen had hinted at a great stash of silver, and the man’s greed eclipsed any skepticism or suspicion.
Aghen had to wonder, in that fraction of a second when the man saw the club swinging at his head, when he opened his mouth to scream, too late, if he understood everything, and realized the truth about the wolf, and what a fool he had been. He wondered if that was the man’s last thought before being whisked off to the afterlife. He hoped so.
The old shipwright felt pretty certain he would not find another so foolish, and he was right. The last two men to die by the jaws of the wolf had died together because they were not so stupid as to go alone with Aghen. Thinking this might happen, Aghen had buried a small chest that actually contained silver, a small hoard he had secreted at the shipyard and failed to turn over to Ottar. The sight of the riches had distracted the men enough that Aghen could put them both down before they could react.
Those two had been discovered the day before, and the frenzy in Vík-ló had not subsided in the least. Aghen wondered if any of Ottar’s men were allowed any rest at all, or if the Lord of Vík-ló was keeping them on constant patrol. That seemed to be the case, given the number of men thronging the streets. Ottar, after all, had less than three hundred warriors under his command. Vík-ló was not Dubh-linn, but it was big enough, certainly more than Ottar’s men could easily cover.
Rumors were as ubiquitous as torches and spears in the streets. The latest was that Ottar believed the beast was hiding somewhere in the longphort, and so every effort was directed toward locating its hiding place. All of Vík-ló had been searched and nothing found. The only places left to look were inside the buildings. Aghen guessed that the men pounding at his door were coming to search his house.
“Come!” Aghen called, but the door was already swinging open. Aghen was stretched out under a wool blanket on the raised platform at the back end of the single-room home. He sat up and shielded his eyes from the glare of the torches in the hands of the men who pushed their way through the door.
“Aghen Ormsson?”
It was Ketil Hrafnsson, who, with the death of the others, seemed to have been raised to the position of head of Ottar’s house guard.
You have much to thank me for, Ketil Hrafnsson, Aghen thought.
“Yes, yes,” Aghen said, swinging his legs off the platform. “Have you come to search the house? For wolves?”
“No, we’ve come for you, Aghen. Ottar would speak with you.”
At that Aghen looked up at the man. The flame of the torch cast an odd, flickering light around the interior of the house and made Ketil’s already menacing face look more frightening still. Ketil’s men had spread out around the room and were searching in the corners and under the platform, but whether they were looking for the wolf or something else, Aghen did not know. He hoped they were looking for the wolf.
“Ottar would speak with me, at this hour?” Aghen protested. “What would he have to say to me?”
“That’s Ottar’s business. Now get dressed and come along.”
Aghen stood and stretched. He reached for his tunic and hoped this display masked the cold fear that was taking hold of him. This was not good, not good at all. Had Mar told someone about the nails? Had they found the wooden jaws? Oddi could not have talked because Oddi knew nothing. Or did he? Was he only pretending to be as dim as he seemed?
He tugged his tunic in place and settled his linen cap on his head and followed Ketil out into the night. The scene that greeted him was what he had imagined it would be, but still it was a shock. The top of the earthen wall was lined with torches along its entire length, a great arc of torches half a mile long, as if some grand festival were taking place. Clusters of men moved along the top of the wall and through the streets, no fewer than five for six warriors in each group, with half of them bearing torches, the other half with spears. Dancing points of light from the torch-ends were scattered like fireflies in a summer field all across the longphort, from the river’s edge right up to the twin halls by the gate.
Ketil led the way to the plank road with Aghen behind and the rest following him. Ketil made no effort to speak, but Aghen, his mind whirling, could not keep quiet.
“It’s a terrible thing, for sure, all these men being killed, but is this the thing to do?” he wondered out loud. “Sure it would make more sense for everyone to just bar himself in his house until the wolf has gone?”
At first it seemed that Ketil would not make reply, but finally he said, “Ottar does not want to hide. He wants this thing dead.”
Ottar doesn’t want anyone else to hide, Aghen thought, but as for him, he hasn’t left his hall in a fortnight.
Aghen, like a real wolf, was acting on instinct. He had no idea why he was doing what he was doing, what he hoped to achieve. He had thought only to knock Ottar off balance and see what would come of it.
Perhaps I’ll find that out tonight, he thought, and a new wave of fear came over him. Images of Valgerd screaming out his life at the stake came unbidden to his mind.
If the earthworks looked as if they were part of some festival, Ottar’s hall appeared to be a high temple to Odin, with the god himself in residence. The building was ringed by torch-bearers and spear-bearers, nearly a solid line around the entire perimeter. The light from the torches bounced off the daub walls, making a thousand shadows along the rough surface and creating a circle of light that spread twenty feet from the foot of the building.
They approached the door and the guards there stood aside. Ketil knocked loudly and called, “It’s Ketil, Lord Ottar! I have the shipwright!”
There was a muffled response and Ketil opened the door and stepped in and Aghen followed behind.
The hall, like the area around the building, was crowded with men, all armed, many wearing mail. They were not eating and drinking as men in halls were wont to do, nor were they conducting business of any kind. They were, as far as Aghen could tell, standing guard.
No wolf could attack here, Aghen thought, it couldn’t find the room.
But it was not so much the crowd that surprised him as the light. There were torches lining the wall and a great fire burning in the hearth. The entire space was filled with light. Aghen had never seen a room so well illuminated after the sun had set. The night was warm and the fires and the closed up room and the crowd of men made for a smoky, fetid atmosphere.
Ottar was the only man moving. A space had been cleared in front of the high chair that sat on the raised platform by the wall and Ottar was pacing back and forth. He did not pause or look up when Ketil and Aghen entered and the door was shut and barred behind them.
Aghen watched Ottar walking back and forth, his eyes on the packed dirt floor below his feet. The man looked bad, there was no other way to describe it. His face was drawn, which made the terrible scar stand out more pronounced, and there were dark circles under his eyes. His hair was in a wild profusion, his beard unkempt with bits of food still stuck in the uncombed tangle. His tunic was stained.
Aghen frowned. This is odd, indeed, he thought. A man like Ottar was no stranger to death. He was not shy about bringing death to others, in fact he seemed to enjoy it. There was no chance he could have lived the life he had without seeing men he cared a
bout die along the way. Had the lives of his household guard meant this much?
Or was it the wolf that put this fear in him? A wolf was a frightening thing, sure, but not this frightening.
He glanced over to the right and was startled to see Oddi standing there, looking back at him. Oddi was dressed in leather armor and had a sword hanging from his belt, but he did not appear to be part of Ottar’s guard. Which led Aghen to guess he was there for another reason. To tell tales, perhaps.
The sight of Oddi roused more than one emotion: anger, fear, disgust. Aghen looked Oddi in the face, searching for the smug sense of triumph he expected to see there, looking for the expression that said, Who’s the fool now, old man?
But it was not there. Oddi did not look smug; he looked guilty. And ashamed. He held Aghen’s eyes for only a second, then looked away.
“The shipwright…” Ottar said.
Aghen looked up. Ottar had stopped pacing and now stood just a few feet away. Diminished as Ottar seemed, the man still towered over him.
“Ketil said you would speak to me…Lord Ottar,” Aghen said.
Ottar made no reply, just stared at Aghen as Aghen’s discomfort grew. Then, just as Aghen was thinking he had better break the silence, Ottar did.
“You saw the wolf,” Ottar said. “You are the only one who has seen the wolf and lived. You seem to know a great deal about it.”
Aghen shook his head. “I saw it. I know nothing about it.”
Ottar’s arm shot across his chest. He grabbed the hilt of his sword and pulled the weapon free and Aghen flinched despite himself. But Ottar did not impale him or strike him down, as he expected. Instead, he held his sword straight out and said in a loud voice, a demanding voice, “Lay your hand on my sword and swear an oath, by Odin, that you saw the wolf! Swear it!”
Aghen held Ottar’s eyes and laid a hand on the warm steel. “I swear by Odin that I saw a wolf in Vík-ló,” he said.
They were silent, Ottar and Aghen, staring into one another’s eyes. “Swear you saw the wolf that killed my men,” Ottar growled, but Aghen pulled his hand away.
“I will not swear that, because I don’t know that it’s the truth,” Aghen said. “It probably is. Wolves are not so common here. Certainly not lone wolves. But I don’t know.”
They were silent again. Aghen wondered how deep Ottar’s madness ran, if he would still respond to reason, or order him tied to the stake for that answer. But then Ottar grunted and sheathed his sword once more.
“You say you know nothing about this wolf, and maybe you don’t, but you seem to have many thoughts on the subject,” Ottar said, now sounding more in control of himself. “You seem to think this might not be an ordinary wolf.”
Aghen did not bother asking how Ottar came to know his thoughts. He glanced over at Oddi, who was looking at him, his face an expression of misery. Oddi, Aghen decided, had not realized that telling tales to Ottar might go badly for them both.
“I’m a shipwright,” Aghen replied. “I know about wood and tools. I know nothing of wolves.”
“You knew Thorgrim Night Wolf,” Ottar said, the words sounding more like an accusation than a statement.
“I did. You did, too.”
Ottar seemed to consider Aghen for a moment, seemed to take his measure, as if trying to decide how he should react to that impudence. Aghen did not expect him to react well. But when he spoke again he still sounded like a man in control, though one struggling to maintain it.
“This wolf, whatever it is, is not in the longphort,” Ottar said, his voice low, as if he were growling. “We have searched every inch. So it must be in the country beyond. So here is what will happen. You will go out into the country with fifty of my men. You’ll find this thing and you and my men will kill it. You will bring it back here. Do you understand?”
Aghen did understand. All too well. He was silent for a moment and then he said, “And if I don’t find it?”
“You remember the other one, the stupid bastard who tried to hide his silver from me when first I took command of Vík-ló?”
“Valgerd, yes,” Aghen said.
“Valgerd,” Ottar said. “Well, if you return without this wolf, you will beg for as easy a death as he had.” He turned and began pacing again. The meeting was over. Aghen’s job was clear, the price of failure clearer still.
Twenty-Two
I fed the wolf with corpses
Killed them all myself.
Egil’s Saga
The rain, thankfully, had tapered off to a mist before Cónán returned from his recruiting mission. That was a good thing, because Thorgrim knew that none of the men under his command would be very enthusiastic about leaving the comforts of the ship and the easy travel it represented to trudge across open country. Doing so in the pouring rain would be less inviting still.
He did not delude himself into thinking they would be without rain for the entire march. He had been more than two years in Ireland and he knew that any break from the downpour was temporary. But still, it would be better for all their spirits to set off when it was dry. Or dry by Irish standards, anyway.
But rain or no, they would be leaving. Whether Cónán was able to bring more men to the fight or not, they would be leaving. Even if Cónán and his bandits abandoned the attempt as hopeless, Thorgrim meant to march across country and find Kevin and kill him, and then return to Vík-ló and do the same to Ottar.
He would not be alone, not entirely. Harald would go with him, and Starri and Godi and the others as well, he imagined. He would give them a choice and would not shame them if they chose not to go, but he imagined they would welcome the chance for glory and riches, or a good death with weapon in hand.
How he would kill Kevin and kill Ottar and get Vík-ló back he did not know. He supposed it would depend on whether he had seventy men under his command or ten or three. But he would think of something. He did not doubt that.
While they waited for Cónán to return, they shifted Sea Hammer a quarter mile downstream, to a place that Harald had found where the riverbank had eroded away, leaving a cut in the shoreline and trees overhanging the water. They ran the ship up close to the land and made it fast with four stout lines. Then all hands were set to work cutting branches from trees inland from the river and piling them over the ship to hide it from any but the most careful scrutiny.
That done, the Norsemen took blankets and sacks and packed up whatever they wished to bring with them. The Irish did not have to prepare for the march, because they always kept themselves ready to move. Then Harald and Thorgrim led the way ashore, using battle axes to hack a makeshift path through the undergrowth.
“Those Irish, they’re not so happy about this,” Harald said as they stood shoulder to shoulder, swinging their weapons as if they were in a desperate fight with the bracken.
“No?” Thorgrim asked.
“No,” Harald said. “I was among them just now, when they were making ready to go. Packing food and such. I don’t think they knew we’d be leaving the ship so soon. I think they like the ship.”
“I would guess they do,” Thorgrim said.
“One said this was the first time they’d had anything like shelter for a month.”
“A man could get tired of that,” Thorgrim said. “A woman probably even more tired of it. But Cónán’s their leader now, and if there’s one thing you can count on, it’s that he has some kind of plan.”
They continued to push their way through the trees and the scrubby brush, looking for the edge of the wood. Once they were clear of the trees, Thorgrim meant to work his way back to where Sea Hammer had been tied to the bank when Cónán left. After Cónán and the others met up with them, they would find a place to ford the river and head off toward this ringfort where Kevin would be found.
“What about Louis the Frank?” Thorgrim asked. “Is he coming with us? And Failend?” Thorgrim, intent on getting underway, had failed to check if those two had parted company with them.
“The
y’re coming,” Harald said. “Failend actually seemed excited about it. I’ve never met a woman like that.”
Thorgrim cut a sapling away with a blow from the ax. “She’s an odd one, for certain,” he said. He had met a few women like her over the years and the miles, women who preferred sword and shield to hearth and loom. But not many, and none who were Irish.
“And Louis?” Thorgrim asked.
“He’s with us,” Harald said. “I don’t know why. He says he won’t fight Irishmen and I said that was all right. It is all right, isn’t it?”
“Fine,” Thorgrim said. Louis’s presence would at least make it seem as if there was one man more, and there was less chance of him getting up to some mischief if he was with them. “But why does he want to come?”
“I don’t know,” Harald said. “I think maybe he doesn’t want to leave Failend.”
Thorgrim raised a hand to cut Harald off. Harald stopped and behind them they heard the others pushing through the undergrowth stop as well. Thorgrim could see the trees thinning ahead. They had come to the edge of the woods.
Moving cautiously, Thorgrim advanced to the tree line and looked out over the open country beyond. There was no living thing, animal or man, that he could see. He stepped out of the shelter of the woods and the rest followed him into the open; then Thorgrim let one of Cónán’s men, who knew that country well, take the lead. The Irishman headed off at an easy pace with Thorgrim and Harald following and the rest stretched out in a line behind them.
They were as odd a group as one might find trudging across the countryside: an Irish bandit at the head of the column, followed by ten Norse warriors, an Irish woman in mail, a seax on her hip, a Frankish warrior, then a dozen more bandits, then a handful of women, and then another dozen of the Irish outlaws forming the rearguard.
Thorgrim looked back over his shoulder. He shook his head. How by all the gods do I find myself in this situation? he wondered. It was not the first time in his life he had wondered that. Not even close.
Night Wolf: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 5) Page 22
