they devoured one another,
and didn’t notice until they got down to the tail.
The Saga of the Confederates
Starri Deathless was still there. He was seated just as he had been when Thorgrim turned his back on the man, before Thorgrim fell asleep or lapsed into his wolf dream or whatever it was that he did. He himself did not know, had never known. One minute he was there, another he was elsewhere. The wound in his chest throbbed with pain.
“You’re back,” Starri said in his conversational tone. Outside of battle, nothing seemed to move Starri to excitement.
“Was I…” Thorgrim looked around. Overcast night, a dull light from above, points of light from the distant fort. He was back from a wolf dream. He did not think any man had ever sat as Starri Deathless had at his side during a wolf dream.
“Was I…here?” Thorgrim asked. The wolf dreams let him see things, understand things, but he did not know how. If he was looking for some clarity, however, he was asking the wrong man. Starri just shrugged. “Whether Thorgrim was here or not, I could not say. But the Night Wolf, I think, was afield.”
They sat in silence for a moment and Thorgrim looked out toward distant Cloyne. He felt an odd sense of peace, not the way he generally felt returning from a wolf dream. He wondered if Starri Deathless was the cause of that, if the man had some magic about him, something not of this world.
“What did you see?” Starri asked in a soft voice.
Thorgrim ran back over the dream-like images in his head. “They left. The men-at-arms at Cloyne. They left. They marched north.”
Silence. “Why would they do that?” Starri asked.
Silence. “I don’t know. But I don’t think all those men were from that one place. Perhaps they reckoned they’ve done enough for Cloyne, and are going off to protect their own homes.”
Thorgrim looked at Starri and Starri nodded slowly. “That would stand to reason,” he said. Thorgrim let the memory of the wolf dream swirl around in his head. He frowned, looked away, looked back as another image began to materialize. The more he thought on it, the more vivid it became, and the more he understood its importance.
“What is it?” Starri asked.
“I saw something else,” Thorgrim said.
Arinbjorn White-tooth was asleep. It had been a long day, beginning in the pre-dawn hours, as the longships readied for the attack, and stretching on through some hard fighting. Arinbjorn’s sword had been well-bloodied, no one could accuse him of not being in the thick of it. Thorgrim, he had noticed, had not even joined the shieldwall during the fight.
He had drifted off to sleep with thoughts of Thorgrim playing out to the last. Whatever part the Night Wolf had taken in the battle had apparently been admirable. Arinbjorn heard men talking of it. The last Arinbjorn had seen of Thorgrim, as the Irish had pressed home their attack, he had been hanging back, behind the shieldwall, and that would not do. Then, seconds later, the Irish were on them and Arinbjorn had been too locked up in his own fight to notice what Thorgrim was doing.
But Thorgrim had acquitted himself well, apparently, which was good, because they were linked now in the minds of the men of the Black Raven and the others: Arinbjorn and Thorgrim. Arinbjorn had taken a risk, a carefully calculated risk, asking Thorgrim to join his company. He had done it to enhance his own status by association with the man from Vik. Thorgrim’s reputation was spreading in Dubh-linn, and Arinbjorn hoped to get some of that bright light to reflect on him.
It could have gone the other way – Thorgrim could have let Arinbjorn down, or worse, outshone him. But thus far it seemed to be playing out as hoped. Arinbjorn the leader and his hirdsman Thorgrim. Which was not exactly the case. To say Thorgrim was a hirdsman was to suggest he was a permanent part of Arinbjorn hird, his private force of warriors. And Thorgrim was not that. Thorgrim was part of the félag, the fellowship of men who had signed aboard the Black Raven for this voyage. They owed allegiance to Arinbjorn, and to one another, for the time that voyage lasted, and no more. But that still meant that any glory Thorgrim accrued would be shared by Arinbjorn.
And so Arinbjorn did not just sleep, he slept well. Nothing had occurred on that day of battle to trouble his mind and disturb his rest, and his circumstances were comfortable enough. Unlike many of the Viking host, who were asleep on the damp ground wrapped in furs, Arinbjorn was lying on a portable bed, the posts of which were carved into the heads of leering beasts. That and his armor and weapons and sea chest were housed under a red and white striped marquee which his slaves had hauled up from the Black Raven once he was certain the Irish were gone for good.
In the dream he was having, Arinbjorn was arguing with someone, and then a second person joined in, and though the words were not very distinct, and the topic of the argument (it might have been a negotiation as well) was not clear, Arinbjorn was winning handily, turning each of their rhetorical thrusts away. He had a sense of euphoria and triumph. And then, suddenly, he was no longer winning. His arguments were collapsing, he was tongue-tied, he could see the grins on the faces of the men with whom he was debating. The euphoria turned to panic.
He woke with a gasp and looked around the marquee, dimly lit with a single candle he kept burning all night. He realized there were voices outside the flap. One was Hrafn Troll, the man assigned to stand guard for the night watch. Arinbjorn recognized the second as the gravelly voice of Thorgrim Ulfsson, who apparently wished to speak with him and was apparently meeting some resistance from Hrafn, as was proper for a guard.
“Hrafn!” Arinbjorn called. “It’s all right. Thorgrim may have leave to enter.” Arinbjorn heard a grunt, feet shuffling, and Thorgrim stepped into the marquee. He looked irritated.
“Thorgrim! Forgive me.” Arinbjorn stood and held out his hand and Thorgrim took it. “Hrafn was only doing his duty, you know. I should have told him you always have leave to speak to me.”
Thorgrim grunted. “Not sure why a guard is needed. You’re surrounded by three hundred of your fellows.”
“A man has enemies, you know,” Arinbjorn said, “even among his friends.” It was a well-practiced answer. “Sit, please,” he added, gesturing toward a camp stool.
Thorgrim sat, cast an eye around the interior of the marquee as if he had never seen its like before. Arinbjorn sat on the edge of the bed. Thorgrim cleared his throat. He was clearly having difficulty finding the words. That was not like him. He usually doled out his words sparingly, but with a confident authority. Arinbjorn waited.
“Here’s the truth, Arinbjorn,” he said at last. “I have these dreams, have since I first came to manhood, and I can see things in the dreams. Tonight I had such a dream, and I saw that the men-at-arms at Cloyne left. They marched off north, leaving the town all but undefended.”
Arinbjorn nodded and thought about the words. “These are just dreams, you say? I’ve heard tell of this. Take no offense, please, but men talk of you. They talk of the Night Wolf.”
“Dreams, yes…I don’t know,” Thorgrim snapped, his tone seeming to be harsher than he intended. He swallowed, began again. “I don’t know if they are dreams, or what they are. The point is, what I see is the truth, and I saw the men leave Cloyne. We should attack the ringfort now, the whole army. It would be entirely a surprise, and we would take them with ease.”
“The men may be gone, but the walls are still there.”
“That’s something else I saw. Another way in, a secret door. I think I could get them to open it. Me and a dozen picked men. We could go in through the door and open the main gate, let the rest in.”
“That’s madness! You’d be killed for certain.”
“Not if we were fast, and the rest of the army was distracting them. And if I had the right dozen men.”
Arinbjorn stared through the flap of the tent, out into the dark, and thought. Thorgrim may command respect, but he commanded no men, no ship. He had no real authority. It was up to him, Arinbjorn, to act or not.
“Obviously, Thorgrim, I cannot
order the army to do anything,” he said. “For this voyage we have sworn allegiance to Hoskuld Iron-skull.”
“Oh course. But if you wake Iron-skull and the others, explain the situation, they will follow your advice. I will speak with them, if you wish.”
Arinbjorn considered all the implications of what Thorgrim was saying, all the possible ways that this thing could play out. If Thorgrim was right, and Arinbjorn spearheaded it, than he was a hero. If Thorgrim was wrong, Arinbjorn would be leading the army to destruction. Humiliation at best, death at worst.
Was Thorgrim to be trusted? The man clearly believed what he said, but even he did not know where this came from, if it was a dream, a vision from the gods, what it was. A weak twig on which to hang the fate of an army.
“No, Thorgrim, forgive me, but I cannot support this.” Arinbjorn held up his hand to silence Thorgrim’s protest. “I believe you. I do. Personally. But it is too much to ask Hoskuld Iron-skull and the others to risk everything on your…dream.”
Thorgrim looked into his eyes. He did not say anything. Arinbjorn found it particularly disconcerting.
“You understand, I’m sure,” Arinbjorn said, as much to break the silence as anything. “The jarls will meet in the morning, reckon on what to do. You are welcome to speak then. But I must insist this idea of yours wait until morning.” It occurred to Arinbjorn that the others might embrace this plan, and it might succeed, and then he would appear a weak fool for thinking otherwise. Better to let it die here.
For a long moment Thorgrim remained on the stool, seemingly unsure as to whether he should say anything else. Finally he stood. “Very well, then, Arinbjorn,” he said, and there was no discernable tone to his voice, no anger, bitterness, relief, just the words. “Until morning.” He swept out of the marquee, leaving the flame of the candle dancing in the air he disturbed.
Chapter Nine
The Helm of Fear hideth no one
when bold men bare their swords;
when many are met to match their strength,
‘twill be found that foremost is no one.
The Lay of Fáfnir
Dawn was still several hours away as the small band, a dozen or so men, moved through the low places, the places lost in the moon’s shadow, working their way closer to the walls of Cloyne’s ringfort. Thorgrim led the way. Behind him, Starri Deathless moved on long stork legs and Harald, shorter and broader, followed close behind. Harald, Thorgrim could tell, was vying with Starri to be next in line, a contest of which Starri was completely oblivious.
For Thorgrim, the decision had been made the second he had stepped from Arinbjorn’s marquee. He could not go over Arinbjorn’s head to Hoskuld Iron-skull, that would not be right, but Arinbjorn did not have the authority to stop him from going to Cloyne if he so chose, and taking anyone with him who wished to volunteer.
“The berserkers are with you, have no doubt of that,” Starri said when Thorgrim explained what he had in mind. And they were - assembled within ten minutes, weapons ready, hopping from foot to foot, their faces wearing the same expression as a dog waiting for the command to fetch. It occurred to Thorgrim that perhaps the berserkers were not the best men to have on a mission that required stealth, but there was nothing for it. They were the only ones on whom he could call, and only because Starri seemed to have attached himself to him.
Thorgrim had roused Harald as well, who had more difficulty coming awake than the berserkers had, but once he understood why he was being disturbed he was up and ready in minutes. They moved off quietly through the night.
Thorgrim had a plan, or at least an idea that might rise to the level of a plan; get through the hidden door, keep their presence a secret as long as they could, open the main gate and keep it open. Once the doors swung open, it would be chaos in the ringfort, and that chaos, Thorgrim hoped, would attract the attention of the Northmen.
He had tried explaining it to the berserkers, but they had become bored and impatient half way through the explanation. They did not care about such fine things as plans.
Crouching low the band followed the edge of the hill, keeping below the low crest that hid them from the men on the ringfort’s wall. A flickering glow told Thorgrim where the watch fires were burning near the main gate and he skirted past that place, then moved to the edge of the hill, Starri on one side, Harald on the other.
“There, just beyond where the light of the fires reach, we’ll cross one by one to the wall of the fort,” Thorgrim explained.
“So close to the fires? Why not circle around to the north side of the wall, far from the light?” Harald asked.
“Because the guards on the walls there will have eyes accustomed to the dark. Here, the fires reveal anyone advancing against the gate, but make it harder for the men to see things moving in shadow.”
The men ducked below the crest of the hill again and moved on, another five rods, and Thorgrim held them up again.
“I’ll go…” Starri said, a little too loud and a little too eager. Harald began to protest but Thorgrim held up a hand.
“I’ll go,” Thorgrim said. “Harald next. Then, Starri, you send your men one at a time. You come last.” He did not wait for objections. He half crawled to the top of the high ground, paused and then moved down the hill, the wet grass soaking his soft leather shoes. His left hand clenched the grip of his shield and he was careful to keep it clear of Iron-tooth’s pommel, where it might knock and give an alarm.
The grass faded to packed earth as he reached the cleared area that surrounded the ringfort, just as he had seen in the wolf dream. The watch fires were bright and he was careful not to look into them. He scurried across the open space, tensed, ready for the sound of discovery, but the blinding light from the fires, the crackling of the wood, the sounds of the night, the late hour when vigilance was relaxed, hid him from anyone who might be watching.
He pressed up against the dirt wall that surrounded the village of Cloyne, let his breath settle, looked back in the direction he had come. Harald was already moving across the open space. He, too, made it undetected and pressed his back to the damp earth wall as Thorgrim watched the squat shape of Nordwall the Short move toward them through the dark.
Thorgrim smiled to himself and shook his head, the irony of all this coming to him unbidden. Why am I taking part in this stupid, reckless raid? he asked himself. He knew the answer. So I can be done with stupid, reckless raiding.
He had all the wealth a man could ever want, at home, in Vik. He had done all the adventuring a man could crave. He was done. But Arinbjorn was the only means he had been able to find to get him and Harald back to Vik, and Arinbjorn would not go home until he had met with sufficient success on this voyage.
Here I want nothing but to give this up and go home, Thorgrim thought, but to find the means to give it up I must do yet more. So let us get on with it.
Starri came fast across the open space and pressed himself against the wall. Thorgrim leaned over and looked at him and in the dark he saw Starri nod. All were across. Starri’s movements were taking on a weird, jerky, frenetic quality. The berserker was waking up.
Thorgrim put his hand on Iron-tooth’s grip, then realized that was not the weapon he wanted. He reached around and drew the long dagger that hung on his right hip, then moved forward, keeping close to the wall, his shield bumping it on occasion. He was confident they could not be seen now – it was very dark in the shadows of the ringfort, and any guard would have to lean far over to look down at them. Whoever was left in Cloyne would be looking for threats coming across the open space, not moving along the base of the wall.
They circled around the edge of the ringfort, one hundred rods, two hundred rods. Thorgrim tried to judge where the door might be, but he was looking at things from a very different perspective now. They were moving through blackness, the world invisible beyond the great looming wall. And then Thorgrim’s hand felt the edge of a heavy wood frame and he slowed up and the others slowed to a stop. He ran his hand
over the face of the door and slowly it began to materialize in the dark. They were there.
Thorgrim handed his shield to Harald and took a new grip on his dagger. He cocked his arm and banged the hilt of the weapon on the door, two hard raps, a pause, a third rap, just as he had heard the man do in his wolf dream. He waited. No sound. Then a slight shuffling of feet behind him, the berserkers eager to get at it. No sound. Frogs somewhere out in the dark. Then the muffled creak of a latch being lifted on the far side of the door, the grinding of hinges as the door swung in.
Thorgrim stepped into the door frame and came face to face with the guard who had opened the door. The man looked annoyed, sleepy, until the instant that he realized Thorgrim was no Irishman. Thorgrim could see it all play across his face - surprise, confusion, anger, fear - in the few seconds it took to grab a handful of the man’s tunic in his left hand, jerk him out the door, and with an arcing backhand stroke of his right hand cut the man’s throat and drop him, kicking and silent, to the dirt.
Harald held Thorgrim’s shield out for him. Thorgrim took the grip in his left hand and pushed the heavy wooden door open the rest of the way. There would be another guard, of that Thorgrim was certain. And sure enough, he was there, getting up from a small bench, that same look of sleepy annoyance on his face. Thorgrim slammed him hard in the head with his shield and stepped over him as he fell in a heap and Harald, coming behind, finished him the way Thorgrim had done the first.
They were in. Thorgrim moved along the wall, keeping to the shadows as much as he could, his eyes searching the little settlement enclosed by the ringfort. Cloyne. In the dull light of the moon, blanketed by the overcast, he could see the tower looming over the town, and he wondered if the people were already in there, if they had climbed to the imagined safety of that place, had drawn up the ladders through the high doors once the men-of-war had marched away. All of Cloyne might be there, as far as he could tell. He had encountered only two Irishmen so far, and now they were both dead.
Dubh-linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2) Page 7
