“Good,” Cónán said. “And we’ll take your boy, Harald; he’s smart and strong. Fothaid’s a good man if someone’s keeping an eye on him, and fast as the wind. I’ll bring him along. And let’s take your man. The crazy one.”
“Starri?”
“Yes, Starri. He’s made for this sort of thing, I can tell.”
Thorgrim hesitated. He was not certain that Starri was recovered enough for this. Then he remembered Starri flinging himself off the edge of Sea Hammer and taking the Irish horseman down with him, and he told himself to stop acting as if he were Starri’s mother. Or his grandmother.
“Starri, come here, come with us,” he called and he was rewarded with a look of delight on Starri’s face as he ambled over, the delight that comes with anticipating something very good.
They took another ten minutes to finish preparations, then Cónán said, “Let’s go.” He took off at an easy jog, following the still visible path through the tall grass that they had made on their way back from reconnoitering the horsemen, Thorgrim and the others following behind.
They were less encumbered than usual, which did not make Thorgrim feel particularly comfortable. They had left their shields, helmets and mail shirts behind, because Cónán meant for them to move fast, which they could not do while weighted down with those things. Even their swords had been left behind, Iron-tooth and Oak Cleaver given over to Godi for safe keeping.
Still, they were not without weapons. Thorgrim wore a seax on his belt, as did most of the others. Cónán and Fothaid carried bows and quivers of arrows. Starri had two battle axes tucked into his belt.
They covered the ground swiftly and were nearing the place where they had last seen the horsemen when Cónán slowed, held up a hand, and dropped to one knee behind the crest of a small hillock. Behind him, the others did the same, Thorgrim dropping by Cónán’s side.
The riders were in front of them now, not more than a hundred yards away, sweeping forward at an easy pace. They were spread out in a line abreast and they covered a wide swath of ground as they rode.
“They still don’t know where our people are,” Thorgrim said. “They’re hunting, but they don’t know where they are.”
“Well, they found us,” Cónán said. “Actually, we found them, which is all the better. Come on.”
He nodded his head toward a scrubby strip of trees and brush running along a creek a few hundred yards to their left. The far end of the line of horsemen would pass close by that place if they continued on the heading they were on.
Cónán stood and hurried off toward the tangle of trees and bushes, Thorgrim on his heels and the others behind. They were running now, because they had to reach the brush before the riders crested the hillock and saw them. Thorgrim was not heaving for breath; he was not even breathing hard, but he knew that he would be soon. He wondered if the pride that had forced him to join Cónán on this venture would turn and bite him in the ass as he tried to keep up with men near half his age, or, in Harald’s case, less than half.
They reached the brush just as Thorgrim was starting to hear the rasping sound of his breath. They went crashing into the undergrowth and stopped. Thorgrim sucked air as inconspicuously as he could. He glanced over at Cónán and Cónán grinned back at him.
They all took a moment to recover, and then Cónán pointed farther into the trees and said something to Fothaid in Irish. Fothaid nodded and hurried off. Cónán pointed in the other direction. “Starri, there.”
“What do I do?” Starri asked.
“Create madness,” Cónán said, still grinning. “I know it’s something you can do. Wait for me to get their attention; then Thorgrim and Harald will have a turn. Then you. You’ll know what to do when it’s time.”
Starri nodded and headed off. Thorgrim was looking at Cónán, considering the man. He understands, Thorgrim thought. He understands Starri and his ways. That Irish bastard might be half berserker himself.
“And us?” Harald asked.
“You wait here with me,” Cónán said. “I’ll start the dance and run off. They won’t know you’re here, and when you hit them, it will turn them end over end.”
Harald nodded. Thorgrim was going to ask for more clarification when he realized that asking would do no good. Cónán didn’t know what was going to happen. He had no real plan. He was counting on his own ability to spread chaos, to improvise as things fell apart.
The mounted warriors were in view now, not more than fifty yards away and still moving in a line abreast. The rider nearest them would pass not more than a dozen yards from where the three men crouched hidden in the brush.
Thorgrim remained absolutely motionless, his mouth half open to let the breath come noiselessly in and out. He could hear the shrill call of some bird in the woods behind him. He could smell the familiar scent of horses as the riders came closer.
Silently Cónán pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it on the string of his bow. They could hear the soft thumping of the horses’ hooves as the riders approached. Through the foliage Thorgrim’s eyes followed the mounted warriors, watched as they drew even with their hiding place and then passed it by.
The nearest rider was twenty feet beyond them when Cónán stood at last, barely making a sound in the undergrowth as he did, drawing the bowstring as he rose. He made a small adjustment to his aim and let the arrow fly, dropping to his knees again as the string made its telltale twanging sound.
In that instant the quiet afternoon was torn apart. Thorgrim saw the rider arch back, the arrow jutting from the shoulder of his mail shirt, and heard him shout in surprise and agony. Instinctively the man reached a hand back for whatever had embedded itself in him. He jerked the reins. The horse whinnied loud and reared. The rider to his left shouted and wheeled and the neat line of horsemen broke apart as one after another they turned to see what was happening.
Cónán was on his feet again, another arrow on his string. He stepped forward, this time in full view of the horsemen as he loosed off another shaft, sending the arrow straight and true into the rider at the first victim’s side. The arrow struck the man in his stomach and he roared in pain and pulled his horse to one side. But he, too, was dressed in mail and it was not clear how deep the wound would be.
But that did not matter so very much. Killing men was not important just then. That would come later.
The line of horsemen had turned now and they were charging at the stand of trees, converging on the place where Cónán stood, screaming and laughing like a lunatic. With the nearest rider not twenty yards away, Cónán burst out of the trees and raced away, running like a rabbit flushed from a bush as the horsemen put the spurs to their beasts and charged after him.
“Come on!” Thorgrim said to Harald, the need for stealth long passed. He raced out of the brush and into the open, Harald at his side. So intent were the Irish riders on Cónán that none of them noticed the two Norsemen. Thorgrim saw a log lying half-hidden in the grass, saw one of the horsemen charging up from the left, and he could see the timing would be perfect.
His foot landed on top of the log and he leapt off just as the rider came up beside him. The man on the horse never saw him coming until Thorgrim grabbed him around the neck and jerked him back as his horse raced on beneath him. The man hit the ground with Thorgrim on top of him. But the Irishman was no pathetic farmer; he was a warrior and he was swinging a leather-clad fist at Thorgrim even before they landed.
Thorgrim jerked his head back and the man’s hand grazed his chin. Thorgrim punched the man square in the face, a quick, sharp jab that snapped his head back and sent blood flowing from his nose. Then Thorgrim leapt to his feet. He had no time to do more than what he had done. He snatched up the spear that the rider had dropped and swung it around, point first, as another horseman came charging down on him.
He glanced off to his right. Harald had also taken a rider down and was delivering a wicked backhand blow to the side of his head.
Thorgrim turned back to th
e horse and rider coming at him, spear leveled, his mount’s hooves pounding the dirt. Thorgrim stood his ground, let him come on, ten feet, five feet. The tip of the Irishman’s weapon was aiming for Thorgrim’s chest when Thorgrim brought the wooden shaft of his spear down on that of the rider, driving it into the dirt, then lifted his own spear up again as the horsemen charged onto the point.
Thorgrim felt the dagger-sharp tip break the links on the man’s mail shirt, but the rider pulled his horse over hard and knocked the iron point aside with his hand. Thorgrim drew the shaft back and swung it in an arc, slamming the long wooden pole into the man’s head, knocking him sideways in the saddle.
“Harald, let’s go!” Thorgrim shouted. They were done, for the moment. Harald nodded and followed Thorgrim as he raced back for the protection of the hedge. The line of mounted warriors had broken down into a swirling and chaotic riot of horses charging in every direction, men shouting orders or warnings, Thorgrim guessed, or yelling in pure surprise.
He looked to his left as he ran, toward the place where the riders had chased after Cónán. Another man staggered in the saddle, an arrow stuck in his mail shirt. Cónán or Fothaid finding their mark. And for the Irish, the biggest surprise was yet to come.
Thorgrim reached his arms up and pushed the bracken aside as he ran into the undergrowth, Harald right behind him, the sound of pounding hooves close by. He felt something bounce off his arm and a spear flew past and drove itself into the vegetation a few steps ahead, a desperate throw by the rider on their heels, an attempt to drive a spear point into the Northman’s back before he disappeared from sight. Thorgrim grabbed the spear shaft and jerked it from the ground. He could make use of that weapon.
Ten feet into the brush and the trees, Thorgrim and Harald stopped and turned together. Thorgrim was heaving for breath and he was pleased to see that Harald was not doing much better. Harald opened his mouth to speak when an unearthly shriek cut through the cacophony of pounding feet and shouting men in the open ground beyond them.
It was a scream calculated to bring terror, and even Thorgrim and Harald might have been unnerved by the sound if they did not recognize it: Starri, giving full vent to his berserker madness. To them, it was not a frightening sound, it was a welcome sound. It meant Starri Deathless was back.
They inched closer to the tree line where they could see through the cover of leaves. Starri had come bursting from the brush thirty yards away, screaming as he ran, his battle axes clenched in his hands. The nearest horseman whirled around as he heard him, turning just in time to see Starri leaping clean off the ground and sweeping one of the axes sideways as he came airborne in a move that only Starri Deathless could hope to perform.
Thorgrim shook his head. His own epic leap at the horseman had been only a poor imitation of Starri’s.
The rider had his arm up, but it did no good. Starri’s ax knocked it aside and tore through the mail that covered the man’s chest. The rider went sideways in a spray of blood and his horse bolted as Starri came down on his feet like a cat. There was a streak of blood across his face and he was grinning wide as he crouched, ready to spring again.
Five lengths away another rider turned and spurred his horse toward this new threat. He raised his spear and hurled it, straight and true, but Starri dodged it easily. Starri straightened, waiting, axes in his hands. The horseman pulled his sword and raced down on him, weapon raised. He came up with Starri, and Starri leapt at him, but the rider was ready for him and swerved hard, slashing at Starri as he did. Thorgrim heard steel clanging on steel as sword and ax connected, and then Starri was down in the grass and the mounted warrior was charging past.
In a flash Starri was up again, still smiling, still screaming and keening. He wanted to draw the attention of the riders and he had. Men who seconds before had been wheeling their mounts, looking for their elusive enemy, now came charging down at him, half a dozen riders coming on at once.
“I don’t think Cónán meant for Starri to stand and fight,” Harald said. “I think he was supposed to go back in the woods like we did.”
“Yes, he was,” Thorgrim said, and he cursed himself for letting Starri get into the fight this way, unaided, expecting him to show restraint in such a brawl. Starri didn’t need help fighting, but he needed help breaking it off.
The riders converged on Starri at nearly the same instant and for a second he was lost from sight. Then Thorgrim saw him as he rolled under one of the horses, coming to his feet on the other side, swinging one of his axes backhand. He caught the surprised rider in the arm with the wicked trailing edge of the blade and jerked him from the saddle.
The rider was down, his foot still caught in the stirrup, as the horse spooked and bolted, driving through the other riders, dragging the flailing man with it. But the Irish warriors knew their business and they dodged the frightened animal and spurred toward Starri, some holding spears, some with swords drawn, five mounted men against one madman with a pair of axes.
“Starri! To the woods!” Thorgrim shouted and even as the words left his mouth he knew it was pointless. With his mind in that battle fever, Starri was unlikely to hear orders, and more unlikely still to obey.
Starri drew an ax back and smacked one of the horses hard with the flat of the blade, right on the side of its head. The horse reared, lashed out with its hooves, but Starri leapt sideways, jumping clear as another rider slashed at him with his sword.
Seeing the sword coming, Starri met it with an upraised ax. The sharp blade struck the wooden handle of Starri’s weapon and stuck fast. Starri pulled his arm back, jerking the man on the horse off balance, and slashed at him with the second ax. It was an awkward blow, and though the hit landed square on the man’s chest, Thorgrim doubted it did much hurt.
All of that had taken half a minute, no more, but it was enough to attract the attention of the other mounted men. Thorgrim saw arms and swords pointing toward the melee with Starri at its center. Starri was the only enemy still visible on the open ground, and so the men-at-arms were turning their attention in his direction.
“Forty against one, that might be too much even for Starri Deathless,” Thorgrim said. He thought about calling out once more for Starri to retreat back into the woods, but he knew it would do no good. Starri was having too much fun.
“Come on, Harald,” Thorgrim said, resigned to the only course open to them. “Let’s go get this lunatic before the Irish do.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Flying spears bit,
the peace was rent;
wolves took heart
at the taut elm bow.
Egil’s Saga
They came out of the trees yelling, just as Starri had done, though neither Thorgrim nor Harald were able to produce the same unearthly sort of noise that Starri could make. But it was good enough. They wanted to distract the riders cantering toward Starri, and in that they succeeded.
Thorgrim’s eyes moved from Starri to the riders surrounding him to the other men-at-arms charging at them. There was no time to amuse themselves the way Starri was doing. They had to get free and get to cover. There was still much to do.
“Harald!” Thorgrim shouted. “Get Starri and get him into the trees!”
Harald nodded and rushed past Thorgrim, off to where Starri was whirling and somersaulting and leaping like some dancer performing at a great jarl’s feast. Thorgrim ran to his right, further into the open, still shouting to get the attention of the riders who were closing with them. He saw two men pull their reins over, changing direction, heading for him now rather than Starri. They rode side by side with ten feet separating them, and Thorgrim could see they meant to pass on either side of him and stick him like a boar as they did.
Thorgrim did not move, the spear he had recovered from the woods held loose in his hands. He was not thinking now; he was acting on instinct, the wolf’s mind driving him. Everything seemed to happen slower; every action he took seemed to come from some place far deeper and more ancient than
conscious thought.
The riders were twenty feet away, their horses at a full gallop, their spears pointed right at his gut, when Thorgrim leapt to his left, too late for the riders to adjust. He came down on one knee, jammed the butt of his spear shaft against his foot, and angled the iron tip up at the rider bearing down on him.
He was too low for the spear tip to reach the man on the horse’s back, but the horse, on that heading, would impale itself on the point. The rider was trying awkwardly to shift his own spear from his left hand to his right when he saw what Thorgrim was doing. He shouted, pulled the reins hard over, and kicked the horse in the flank, twisting the animal out of the way.
Thorgrim saw the tip of his spear pierce the horse’s dark brown hide, a bright flash of blood appeared, and the horse, reacting to the pull of the reins and the stab of the spear point, jerked hard to his left, careening into the second rider who had closed the gap in hopes of getting at Thorgrim as well.
Heads tossing, hooves thrashing, the two horses slammed into one another as the men tried to stay in their saddles, but Thorgrim had no more time for them. He stood and turned and raced toward Harald and Starri who were fighting side by side now, almost back to back, as the horsemen pranced and whirled around them, looking for an opening. Six mounted warriors, coming at the two men with spears thrusting and horses kicking and snapping. Harald and Starri could not last long in the face of such an assault. Maybe not long enough for Thorgrim to reach them.
Right ahead of him Thorgrim saw one of the men-at-arms raise his spear, arm cocked to throw. He was not more than fifteen feet from Harald and it seemed impossible he could miss, or fail to deliver a wound that was anything less than fatal.
Thorgrim raised his own spear as he ran, brought his arm back, then skidded to a stop as he let the spear go, letting the momentum in his arm give the weapon that last little shot of power. The spear struck the man in the small of his back and there was no question as to its piercing his mail and driving full into his guts. He shrieked, arched his back, dropped the spear he was preparing to throw.
Night Wolf: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 5) Page 25
