Thorgrim had a sick feeling deep in his stomach as he watched the horsemen gathering for another charge. This was Glendalough all over again: the desperate stand on open ground, the assault by mounted men-at-arms, slamming into his warriors again and again until the shieldwall broke apart and they were cut down in pieces. Nearly every man Thorgrim had brought with him to Glendalough, the crews of four ships, had been killed that way.
And here he was again.
He looked from north to south. The riders in front, Cónán’s men circling around to the right, and all around them, open country, no place to run, no place to make a stand. Then once again his eyes were drawn to the cows.
“Harald!” he shouted, slipping Iron-tooth back into his scabbard. “Come with me, we need horses!”
Harald nodded as if this made all the sense in the world. He sheathed Oak Cleaver and stepped out of the shieldwall, which closed up behind him. Thorgrim looked around again. Every man on the battlefield seemed to be holding his breath as they all waited for the next act to begin. Time to go.
Thorgrim took off running. The nearest horse stood about two hundred feet away, waiting patiently for its rider to return, a rider who was likely dead or dying and would not be coming back. There was a second horse about fifty feet beyond that one. Thorgrim thumped Harald on the shoulder as they ran and pointed to the far horse and Harald nodded.
There was shouting behind, and Thorgrim turned to see some of the mounted men pointing toward them and kicking heels into their horses as they came in pursuit. He pulled his eyes away, looked back at the nearest horse. One hundred feet and the animal still hadn’t shied or bolted.
Then Thorgrim was up with it, scooping up the reins and slipping his foot into the stirrup as he swung himself up into the saddle. Harald ran past and seconds later he had the other horse and he too was mounted.
The horsemen were still coming for them, a few hundred feet away, their mounts worked up to a full gallop. But what they could not see, and Thorgrim could, was Starri Deathless coming up behind them.
He was standing in the stirrups, leaning forward against the momentum on the horse. His long hair was streaming behind him and he held an ax in each hand, his arms stretched out above his head. He looked like some kind of mad demon from another world as he came charging up behind, and the Irish warriors did not even realize he was there until he was up with them, howling and bringing both axes down at the same instant.
“Come on!” Thorgrim shouted to Harald. “The cows!” He turned his horse and kicked his heels into the animal’s haunches and the horse responded, leaping ahead and building speed, and Harald was right at his side. He rode off in a wide circle, coming around behind the herd, getting the cows between him and the Irish men-at-arms. Like most Northmen, Thorgrim had spent as much of his life farming as he had raiding, more probably. Driving cows was as much a part of him as driving a longship, and he had raised Harald to that life.
The cows knew something was going on. They backed away en masse, big brown eyes watching as the Northmen came riding hard around the backside of the herd. Then Thorgrim pulled his horse’s reins over and charged right for the center of the packed cattle and Harald did the same. Thorgrim reached across and drew Iron-tooth and as he charged at the nearest cow, the animal turned to bolt and Thorgrim smacked it hard on the rump with the flat of his blade.
The cow gave a satisfying bellow and leapt forward, colliding with the animal in front of it and making that one leap as well, spreading panic through the rest. Harald, who saw what his father had in mind, charged off to the far end of the herd to keep the animals moving the way they wanted, driving them toward the riders who were massing for another attack. Oak Cleaver was out and Harald was whacking cows and shouting and kicking as he rode.
Panic spread through the herd as one after another of the beasts tried to flee from the mounted madmen behind. They bounced off one another and bellowed and charged forward in terror, their speed building like an avalanche.
They had not gone unnoticed by the Irishmen on horseback. Warriors who were seconds before gathering for another charge at the feeble shieldwall now raced off in every direction, desperate to get out of the way of the manic herd before they and their mounts were trampled underfoot.
As the horsemen raced off, Thorgrim saw Godi holding his sword high and leading the shieldwall forward, following the riders in their retreat while keeping well clear of the frantic herd. But the cows were starting to lose their cohesion as the animals scattered over a wider and wider area, and that made them less effective as a fighting force.
“Try to keep them together!” Thorgrim shouted at Harald, but he could see that was not going to happen. Then suddenly Starri was there, charging through the herd, screaming his war cry, still standing in the stirrups. Any desire the animals had to remain bunched together was gone as they bolted in every direction, frantic to get clear of the mounted berserker.
“Starri! No!” Harald shouted, but it was pointless. Thorgrim just shook his head. Starri, he guessed, was one of the rare Northmen who was a stranger to farming—he would never have the patience to tolerate it—and he probably had only the loosest grasp on what Thorgrim had been trying to do.
Off in the distance, closer to the river, Kevin’s Irish men-of-war had stopped and were turning, forming a line, the fight not yet out of them. Thirty men or more, mounted, well-armed and trained, and despite the reprieve Thorgrim had won with the cows, he and his men were still fighting them on foot on open ground. If the Irish horsemen had courage and strength in their arms they could still win the day.
Then the mounted warriors were moving again, but not the way Thorgrim had expected. He was waiting for a coordinated charge at Godi’s shieldwall, which was still advancing on them. Instead he saw the Irishmen scattering once again, riding off left and right, disorganized, near panic. He looked to see if Starri was responsible, but Starri had ridden far off to the east, as if his horse had finally had enough of him and bolted.
“Harald, can you see what’s happening?” Thorgrim called, but Harald only shook his head. Thorgrim squinted at the distant scene. Now, as the wall of horsemen parted, he could see there was another group of men coming at them, running up from the direction of the river. They were far off, half a mile or so, but from the round shields and the way they were bunched together, like a swine array, Thorgrim was willing to bet they were Northmen.
“Who by Odin’s eye is this?” Thorgrim asked and again Harald shook his head.
Whoever they were, they were enough for the Irish men-at-arms. With Godi’s line coming from one direction, the cows still charging around, the lunatic Starri somewhere out there and this new attack from the river, they had had enough. Thorgrim heard an order called, saw horses wheeled around, and a second later all the mounted warriors were charging off, riding toward the northeast, off in the direction that Cónán had said Ráth Naoi would be found.
“Let’s see who this is,” Thorgrim said, and he and Harald got their horses moving, the cows parting like a confused sea before them as they rode. With the Irish riding off, the strangers from the river had slowed their advance and their swine array had devolved into a group of men, about forty, Thorgrim guessed, walking across the open ground. Godi’s line had stopped, but they were still in their shield wall, a good precaution until they knew who these others were.
Thorgrim and Harald closed the distance and the men who had come from the river stopped and waited for them to approach. The one who had taken the lead in the swine array stood a few feet in front of the others. He reached up and pulled the helmet off his head, and Thorgrim’s first thought was, By all the gods that looks like Aghen Ormsson, the shipwright…
Chapter Thirty-Three
My sword was stained with gore,
but the Odin of swords,
sword-swiped me too…
The Saga of Gunnlaug Serpent-Tongue
Ottar Bloodax remained in his tent for as long as he could. He heard the sounds o
f the camp coming to life, the men rising, stoking up the fires, urinating, getting breakfast. He lay on his pad of furs and listened. He was listening for the staccato hoofbeats of a rider galloping into camp with word of what was happening out in the country beyond. He was listening for the sound of the forty-man hunting party returning. But he heard none of those things.
The sun was well up by the time he forced himself to stand, aware that remaining in his tent much longer might prompt the men to talk. He stretched, felt his muscles protest. His tent was wedge-shaped but big, covering an area ten feet across by fifteen long, six and a half feet from the ground to the apex, just tall enough for him to stand upright.
He grabbed his sword belt and strapped the weapon on, then tossed the flap back and stepped out into the morning. They sky was gray and thick with clouds, but it did not seem as if it would rain anytime soon. The camp was a bustle, the men engaged in the multitude of tasks required to keep an army in the field. They moved with the kind of efficiency he would expect from men well used to this sort of thing. But they did not move with purpose, because they had no purpose. They did not know what they would be doing that day or the next or the next. That was no surprise. Ottar didn’t know either.
Ketil came hurrying over as if he had been watching Ottar’s tent, waiting for Ottar to emerge, which he probably was.
“Lord Ottar, I had the men get their breakfasts,” he said, then paused, hoping Ottar would tell him what his plan was, where the army would be going, what it would be doing. Ottar knew that was what Ketil wanted and he ignored it.
“Well?” Ottar demanded instead.
“Well?” Ketil asked. “You mean…about Galti?”
Of course about Galti! Ottar thought. The stupid turd Ketil knew exactly what he meant. Ottar wanted to thump him on the side of the head.
“He didn’t return last night or this morning, lord. No word.”
Ottar frowned and looked away, considering this. “Bastards…” he muttered to himself, but it was just a word with no connection to anything that was taking place. Because he did not know what was taking place.
He had sent half a dozen men off in various directions to find Einar and the murdering coward whore’s son, Aghen, and bring them back so that he could deal with them as they should be dealt with. They had all returned, having failed to find Einar’s hunting party. All save for Galti, one of his most trusted, a man he meant to put in Ketil’s place on his return. But he had not returned. And there was no word from him, and no word of Einar and the forty men with him. All gone.
It couldn’t be, Ottar thought. It was all Aghen’s doing…I saw the damned tool he made. There was no wolf…is no wolf. Damn him.
But the fear was back, and while Ottar would have killed any man who suggested he was afraid of a phantom wolf, or of anything for that matter, still, he could no longer deny it to himself. It did not seem possible, any of it, yet forty men had been sent out specifically to hunt this creature down, and now they were gone. And Einar and Galti were gone, too.
Even if all the other traitorous bastards had run off, Einar and Galti would not have done so. Reluctant as they might be to admit failure, they would have come back to camp. They would have told Ottar what was going on.
“Lord, that Irishman, Kevin, his ringfort is only a day’s march from here, maybe a little more,” Ketil prompted, and this time Ottar did hit him, swinging a massive hand around in a wide arc and, before Ketil had time to react, smacking him open-palmed on the side of the head. Ketil staggered but did not fall because Ottar had not struck him as hard as he could—a warning, not a punishment.
“Don’t you tell me such things, you sorry pile of dung!” Ottar roared. Ketil straightened, a hand over his bruised cheek, a sheepish look in his eyes. “I know where the ringfort is and we’ll go there when I say we go there!” Ottar shouted.
“Yes, lord.” Ketil nodded, backing away. “Is there...”
“Get out of here, you worm,” Ottar snarled, the words Ketil seemed to most want to hear. He nodded, gave a sort of bow, then turned and raced off.
The scar on Ottar’s face was throbbing, as it always did when he was worked up in that way. He tried to organize his thoughts. He had to craft some plan, even the hint of a plan, but his head was filled with random curses and images of wolves and of Aghen the shipwright and of Thorgrim Night Wolf and he could not make them go away.
It had been so clear before, like a well-trodden path through the woods. Once he had Aghen’s wolf jaws in hand, once he realized what had happened, he had seen the way forward. Take his men out in the field. Find Aghen, which should have been no great difficulty since he was with Einar and the rest, bring him back and make his death and the deaths of any of his confederates an example to remember. March on Kevin’s ringfort. Take it, plunder it. Do to Kevin what he had done to Aghen.
But now he was not so sure. He told himself over and over that no one animal could have slaughtered a hunting party of forty armed men. He knew that there was no wolf; he had seen how the trick was played. But deep down he was not at all sure about any of it, and now his uncertainty was keeping him and his men, an army near two hundred warriors strong, planted on this piece of land.
Ottar wanted to move, but he could not. He could not act until he found something—anything—that would show him what course he would be best to take. But there was nothing. Only doubt.
From the top of the earthen wall that surrounded his ringfort, Kevin mac Lugaed watched the riders approach, and he did not get a good feeling from what he saw. They were too far off still to count their numbers, but he did not need an exact count. Between his men and Lochlánn’s, fifty mounted warriors had ridden out of Ráth Naoi to hunt down Thorgrim and his heathens. The men returning now did not number fifty. Not even close.
Oh, damn them, what have they done? Kevin thought, panic and despair rising up. He reminded himself that he still had more than a hundred men, good men, under his command, and that eased his mind a bit.
Eoin was standing by Kevin’s side, but he had sense enough to keep his mouth shut, because Kevin was clearly in no mood to talk. As they watched the band of horsemen approach, it occurred to Kevin that Niall might be among the dead, and that sparked the panic once again. The situation was growing more desperate all the time, and if he had to face it without Niall to make the decisions with regard to fighting he did not know how he would manage.
For another five minutes Kevin and Eoin watched the horsemen draw nearer, and by then Kevin felt like he had to speak or he might explode. “How many are there, do you think?” he said, nodding toward the riders.
Eoin did not answer at first, presumably working up a number. “Thirty-five, lord,” he said. “Somewhere around thirty-five.”
“Can you see if Niall is among them?”
“Not for certain, lord,” Eoin said. “But I see a horse looks like his brown mare, and the rider sits it the way Niall does, so I’m thinking that might well be him.” Eoin was younger than Kevin by fifteen years at least, and his eyes were much better, so his words gave Kevin hope.
The men-at-arms were not riding like soldiers who had just won some great victory. They seemed to slump in the saddle, and the plodding pace they maintained spoke of weariness and defeat. Kevin grew more concerned with each yard they covered. At last he turned and looked down at the men on the ground fifteen feet below him. “Open the gates,” he called.
Two men lifted the heavy bar that secured the gates, two more pushed the doors open. The riders were close enough that Kevin could make out individuals, and one of those was most certainly Niall and that eased his mind somewhat. Lochlánn was there as well. About thirty-five men, as he had thought. A few were leading riderless horses behind.
As the horsemen closed the last hundred yards, Kevin thought, I’m standing here waiting like some worried old grandmother. A show of anxiety was not proper for one of the rí túaithe, and he had shown more than enough of it already. He turned to Eoin.
&n
bsp; “Have Niall and that other one, Lochlánn, sent to my hall as soon as they arrive,” he said, then climbed down the ladder and hurried across the beaten ground to his big hall in the middle of the ringfort. One of the guards opened the door as Kevin approached and closed it behind, leaving Kevin alone in the spacious room. He looked around, trying to decide what he should be doing when the men came in, what would make him appear the most unconcerned.
Sit? No, he was far too agitated to sit, and it would look entirely too contrived. Should I be eating a meal? That was good, but the very thought of food made him sick.
Finally he pulled a map of Ireland from a trunk by the wall and spread it out over the table. His eyes traced over the lines and the Latin script and the elaborate drawings of strange beasts in the sea, but his mind did not even register what he was looking at. He was thinking instead about Thorgrim Night Wolf.
There was something unnerving about the man. Kevin had known a few Northmen over the years. It became more and more difficult to avoid them, as they spread like the plague over Ireland. Most were like Ottar, with all the nuance and subtlety of a wild boar. But Thorgrim was not like that. He made Kevin think of an onion; peel back one layer and there was another beneath it and another and another until you thought you might never get to what was at the heart of the thing. It was profoundly unsettling.
He was still thinking along those lines when the knock came and the guard opened the door and announced, “Niall, Lord Kevin.”
Kevin looked up from the map. “Send him in,” he said, straightening and stepping around the table as the guard moved aside. Niall came in, mud-splattered, his hair wild, dried blood on his cheek and more on the mail that covered his arm. Weary-looking. Behind him came Lochlánn and a third man Kevin did not know.
Night Wolf: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 5) Page 32
