Dubh-linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2)

by James L. Nelson

  He moved on, quickly and carefully, his feet making no noise. He could hear an odd sound, a gnawing sort of sound, like a mouse or a rat, but louder, and it seemed to be keeping pace with him. He stopped and looked back. Nordwall the Short was chewing on the edge of his shield, trying to hold himself in check. He could see some of the other berserkers also seemed to be having a hard time keeping control of themselves. Harald had noticed it, and he gave Thorgrim a look as if to say, I’m not sure what to do with these people….

  “Steady, men, steady, a little further,” Thorgrim said in as loud a whisper as he dared and pressed on. He could see armed men walking slowly along the top of the wall, twenty feet above their heads, but those men were looking out into the dark, not into the confines of the town. There would be no reason to look into the town.

  The Northmen moved fast. Thorgrim almost fell over a rail fence marking the edge of someone’s property. A couple hundred feet from the wall he could just make out a round wooden building, some farmer’s cottage, capped with a conical roof of thatch. He stopped and got his bearings again. From his vantage he could see maybe ten similar houses, each sitting on its little plot of land. The diameter of the ringfort was perhaps a quarter of a mile, and Thorgrim guessed there were two or three dozen or so buildings within the confines of the walls, including the tall wood frame church which he could now see to the right of the tower.

  A wide road ran through the center of the walled town, and Thorgrim debated whether they should take it, just walk right down the middle of it like they belonged. Sometimes the open was the best place to hide. But no, he did not like those chances. Instead he climbed over the rail fence and dropped to the other side. The impact of hitting the ground pulled at his fresh wound and caused a stab of pain to shoot through his chest. He could hear the others follow as he moved on.

  Another fence. They were over it and plunging forward when Thorgrim heard the sound he most feared, a sound for which he had been bracing himself since they left the small door and the dead guard behind. It started as a low growl, a menacing sound, too low to cause concern, but quickly grew louder.

  “Damn it!” Thorgrim said in a sharp whisper. In one fluid motion he sheathed his dagger and drew Iron-tooth, and just as the blade cleared the sheath the growling turned into a full-throated barking, the kind of barking that announced unequivocally that there was danger near.

  I hope this damned cur is tied up, he thought as he pushed quickly on. But the damned cur was not. From the direction of the cottage the animal came charging at the men, a dark shape, its bared teeth visible in the night. It went airborne ten feet from one of the berserkers, a man named Jokul, leaping for the intruder’s throat, and for its trouble was skewered in mid-flight by Jokul’s sword and flung aside.

  The creature’s enthusiastic barking, however, had been enough to inspire the neighboring dogs. The noise was taken up from the houses flanking the little cottage, and then from further and further within the village, a great cacophony of barking and yelping until it seemed as if every dog in the Western World was howling away.

  “How many…damned…damned dogs do these…damned Irish have?” Starri spluttered.

  “Come on, time to move,” Thorgrim said, speaking out loud, because the time for stealth had passed. He leapt the near fence and raced across the yard and over the next. He could hear voices now, human shouts above the dogs, and he could see torches flaring up around the compound.

  Thorgrim could see the main gate ahead, outlined by the fires that burned on the other side. His wound was a searing pain and he could feel fresh blood running down the inside of his tunic. He had left his mail behind, as had Harald, because the Irish did not wear mail and the telltale metallic rustle might have given them away. And as he ran, and as his breath became more labored, he did not miss it.

  “Watch for the dogs!” he shouted over his shoulder. “They’ll release the dogs!” The Irish knew only that there were invaders among them – they did not know how many and they apparently did not yet know where they were. Rather than try to organize a defense, he guessed they would just let the dogs go, let the dogs find the enemy and bring them to ground. It was what he would do.

  They were fifty feet from the main gate, crossing open ground now, no fences, when the men on the wall saw them at last. Thorgrim did not understand the Irish words, but he understood the frantic shouts, the pointed fingers, the arrows knocked in bow strings.

  Thirty feet and Thorgrim finally saw the dogs. There were a dozen at least, coming from different directions, running flat out and barking and snapping as they converged with the Vikings.

  Thor’s hammer! He did not want to stop until they reached the main gate and forced it open. There was no chance of help from the others until that happened. And they could not let the men-at-arms get between them and the gate. But if they kept on running, the dogs would tear them apart.

  “Shield wall! Shield wall!” he shouted and skidded to a stop. He held his shield up as the first of the dogs leapt at him, spittle flying from it’s mouth, teeth bared. He met the dog with his shield and sent him sprawling back, slashed at another. He hoped the men would form some kind of defense, maybe they could back down to the gate, keeping a united front to the dogs.

  From his left another dog came out of the dark. Thorgrim never saw it until the animal’s wicked teeth sank deep into the muscles of his upper arm. He shouted in agony, tried to slash at the beast with his sword but he could not reach around his shield with the blade. Another leapt at him from the right, but its vicious bark collapsed into a howl and a whine as a sword, Harald’s sword, met it in midair and knocked it aside. Harald stepped to the left and drove his sword through the dog on Thorgrim’s arm, drove it again, hacked at the dog until at last it let go and dropped away.

  Father and son turned together to face the next, but Starri was in front of them, ax in one hand, short sword in another, flailing at the four legged attackers and Thorgrim realized that the terrible howling he had heard, which he had taken for the pack leader, was in fact Starri Deathless. The other berserkers were with him. Nordwall had a dog clinging to his arm, whipping back and forth as the Swede worked his ax, and the short man seemed not to even notice.

  Jokul and a man Thorgrim did not know were back to back and surrounded by howling, snapping dogs looking for a way past the men’s lightning-fast blades. One dog lay still, two more were limping off. Thorgrim wondered if Cloyne just might be running out of dogs when he saw Jokul jerk back, twist, swinging his sword wildly, then collapse, the shaft of an arrow jutting from his back. The dogs were on him in an instant, tearing at his flesh. Thorgrim wheeled around. The guards were gathered on the wall above, and several were bringing bows to bear.

  “Come on! To the gate!” The archers were a threat much greater than the dogs. “Starri, get your men back, back to the wall!” He gave the order but he was not at all sure the berserkers were conscious enough of their surroundings to obey. All around them the dogs were growling and barking and hunching down for a leap, but they were holding back, not flinging themselves at the Northmen. Thorgrim realized that the berserkers were more vicious and wild even than the pack of dogs, and the dogs sensed as much.

  This was the moment. “Harald, with me!” Thorgrim shouted and ran on, closing with the big wooden doors that could welcome the world into Cloyne, or hold it at bay. An arrow stabbed into the ground at his feet and he nearly stumbled over it as he ran. Starri and the berserkers formed a sort of rear guard, holding the circling dogs back.

  Thorgrim could make out the heavy cross piece that held the big doors closed and he figured he and Harald would be enough to lift it out. Ten feet to the doors and three men burst out of the shadows at the far side, swords in hand, racing to meet them.

  The first came at Thorgrim, sword held high, and Thorgrim could see the wild swing coming. He held his shield to one side, sword to the other, opened himself up, inviting the clumsy stroke, and as it came he raised the shield and turned t
he blade aside and thrust for the man’s exposed chest.

  And that would have been the end of it, but the Irishman to his right chopped down at Thorgrim’s blade, an awkward move, but effective, knocking Iron-tooth’s point to the dirt. He tried to follow up with a slash at Thorgrim’s head, a mistake, as Thorgrim caught the man’s blade with his shield, stepped in and drove his heel down on the man’s knee. He felt the give of the bone, heard the crack and the shriek at the same moment.

  He turned his attention back to the first man. Beyond him he caught a glimpse of Harald trading blows with the third man. The Irishman knew his business, and even six months earlier Harald would have been no match for him, but Harald was not the same young man now. His sword and shield worked together as they fended off the Irishman’s sword and short sword, the blades glinting in the torch light.

  No time for this, Thorgrim thought. The man he was facing was the poorest swordsman of the three and Thorgrim did not waste time; a parry of his blade, catch the counter attack with his shield and he ended it there, then stepped over the man and drove his sword through the neck of the one Harald was fighting, ignoring Harald’s disapproving expression.

  “The gate!” Thorgrim shouted. He looked behind. The berserkers were fully engaged with the dogs and with the armed men who were now cautiously advancing on the invading force, finally realizing, perhaps, how few in number they were. Another of Starri’s men lay dead, and another was kicking and thrashing and clawing at an arrow that was run through his gut.

  He set his hands on the bar. “Help me with this!” he shouted and Harald grabbed on and they heaved together and the heavy oak beam lifted up from the iron holders. They tossed it aside and put their shoulders to the heavy doors. It was chaos within the confines of the ringfort now; men were shouting, the dogs were howling, the bells in the church had begun ringing out their warning and call to arms. That was good. That was the plan. Noise and confusion within the walls would serve as a clarion call to the Viking host.

  Thorgrim and Harald pushed together. The heavy doors resisted at first, but as they began to swing they gathered momentum, swinging faster, until finally they were full open, Cloyne’s defenses gone, the way clear for the Norsemen to pour into the fort. And beyond the gaping doors only darkness, quiet, not the least sign of life, nothing at all to suggest that

  anyone would be coming soon. Or ever.

  Chapter Ten

  My foes sought me out,

  swinging their swords

  but I did not fall then.

  I was outnumbered,

  yet I fed the raven’s maw.

  Gisli Sursson’s Saga

  For the second time that night, Arinbjorn White-tooth was awakened from a sound sleep, and he was not happy about it.

  “Hrafn! What in the name of Odin is it now?” he snapped as soon as he understood that he was no longer dreaming.

  “I don’t know,” Hrafn said. “Something. Something is happening.”

  All-Father save me from these damned fools, Arinbjorn thought as he kicked the furs off and climbed out of his portable bed. He pushed past Hrafn and through the marquee’s flap and into the night. It was cool and damp and dark, but there was an edge of excitement in the air. It took Arinbjorn a moment to get his bearings and understand the cause of it. Bells. There were bells ringing out from the direction of Cloyne. He turned toward the sound. Now he could hear shouting far off, and could see pinpoints of light as men with torches ran in various directions, like sparks floating off a fire.

  Damn it!

  “Hrafn!” Arinbjorn shouted, louder than was necessary. “Is Thorgrim in camp? Go find out, and be damned quick about it!”

  The guard ran off and Arinbjorn continued to stare in the direction of Cloyne. All around him he could see men climbing out from under bedding, grabbing up weapons, staring off in the same direction that he was. He could hear the murmur of speculation.

  Hrafn was back quick, though he could not have been quick enough for Arinbjorn. “Thorgrim and his son are gone. So are Starri and his band of lunatics. Thorodd saw them heading out, maybe an hour ago, but he doesn’t know where they went.”

  I bloody do, Arinbjorn thought. Damn him! Arinbjorn was angry because now he had to make a decision, and that decision could have far-reaching consequences for the only thing he cared about, which was himself. It was a decision that required a huge gamble, and if it went against him, it could be very bad.

  But Arinbjorn was a wealthy and powerful jarl, and he had not become such by agonizing and vacillating. “Call up the men,” he snapped at Hrafn. “To arms, we are going into battle.”

  Hrafn was smart enough to not ask questions, and as he hurried off to obey, Arinbjorn hurried off to seek out Hoskuld Iron-skull and the others. He found them, as he imagined he would, near Iron-skull’s camp, the commanders of the various ships gathered and staring out into the dark, trying to guess what might be going on.

  “Arinbjorn!” Hoskuld said as he approached. “I was going to send for you. What do you make of this?” He pointed with his long beard toward the distant town of Cloyne.

  “This was my doing,” Arinbjorn explained. “I thought to have some of my men make their way into the town, secretly, open the gates, let the rest of us in. I asked for volunteers. Thorgrim and the berserkers, they stepped forward. It seems they are discovered.”

  Hrolleif of the ship Serpent made a noise. “Were you going to tell any of us about this? This sort of thing works better if people actually know it’s happening.”

  “The idea came to me in a dream, a gift from the gods, I should think. No time for councils and such. I judged that I should act,” Arinbjorn explained. “I was going to alert you just now, rouse the men and prepare them to advance. My men are arming as we speak. We should have had time to prepare, but Thorgrim has mistimed it. He was not supposed to make for the gate for another hour.”

  Hrolleif grunted. The others made various sounds. Hoskuld Iron-skull said, “I reckon you should have told us, at least, even if you kept the men out of it.”

  “I should have, and I apologize, but in truth the idea came to me just an hour or so past. Sometimes the bold move is the right move.” It was a good response, he knew. Part contrition, part challenge, daring any of them to find fault with his boldness, or suggest that they themselves would have been more cautious.

  “In any event,” Hoskuld Iron-skull said, “It looks like Thorgrim could use some help. Let us get our men under arms and moving. Quickly now.”

  The leaders broke like a flock of birds startled into flight, each hurrying back to their part of the camp, bellowing orders as they went. There was no call for stealth now. All of Cloyne was up in arms, it seemed to be madness there, and every one of the Viking host was eager to get in on it.

  By the time Arinbjorn returned to his camp his men were awake and armed and his slaves were standing ready with his mail, helmet, shield and sword. He donned his gear quickly and led his men forward to where the rest of the army was forming a rude line facing Cloyne. The noise from the distant town seemed even louder now, and Arinbjorn could pick out the sharp bark of dogs among the other sounds.

  Hoskuld Iron-skull strode in front of the line, his sword held high. “Let us hurry now, to the aid of our brave brethren. If the gods are with them, then we will find the gates of Cloyne open to us! Let us make a noise as we advance that will make these Irish whore’s sons crap themselves just to hear!” With that he turned and advanced toward Cloyne, his momentum and the roar in his throat building as he lumbered forward, the Viking host following behind.

  Arinbjorn hurried with the rest, but his mind was elsewhere. This whole thing could still work in his favor, or not, and it depended on whether the attack was a success, on whether he got credit for the plan, on whether Thorgrim told the others about their disagreement earlier.

  Thorgrim may be dead, Arinbjorn thought as he picked up his pace, and the thought calmed him. The gate open and Thorgrim dead… If the gods were s
till favoring Arinbjorn White-tooth.

  The main gate was indeed open. That part had been relatively easy. Save for the three guards who tried to stop them, and died in the process, Thorgrim and Harald had swung the big doors wide apart with no opposition. But that was where their luck had ended.

  There was no sign of the Viking camp launching an attack against the town. There was every indication that the men of Cloyne realized they were not facing a numerous enemy, and that even with most of the men-at-arms having marched off they still greatly outnumbered the band who had managed to get inside the walls.

  Thorgrim’s back was pressed against the door. Across the twenty foot gap he could see Harald pushed hard against the other. One side of the boy was lit up yellow in the light of the watch fires burning at the entranceway, the other in deep shadow.

  Now what, now what? Thorgrim asked himself. Keep his men alive, keep the gate open, until the others came, and if the others did not come then get out of there as fast as they could.

  Something brushed past Thorgrim’s shoulder and in the same instant he felt the jar of an arrow embedding itself in the back of his shield. He turned and looked up. There were archers on the wall above. Thorgrim could not imagine how the man had missed from that distance, but he would not give the next one so easy a target. He pushed off from the door and waved his sword at Harald.

  “Come on! Come on!” he shouted and as he did he saw an arrow streak over his head and drive into the thick oak door against which Harald stood. The shaft quivered from the impact, a foot from Harald’s face. Harald needed no further prompting to move.

  They ran back into the ringfort where Starri and his berserkers were formed in a semi-circle defensive line, holding off the men and dogs that were throwing themselves at them. There was little organization to the Irishmen’s attack, which worked to the Northmen’s advantage, but the Irish had numbers on their side, and numbers would win in the end. No more than a dozen men had come with Thorgrim, and there were fewer now. It was the berserkers’ manic ferocity alone which was holding the Irish at bay; absent that they would have all been dead by then.