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

by James L. Nelson

  She laid on top of him, naked, the weight of the furs and blankets pressing her harder into him. He let his lips explore her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. He felt her breath coming quicker, but soft, barely audible. His hands, rough as weathered pine, moved over her skin, barely touching it, his fingers entwined themselves in her long, dark hair.

  Almaith reached down and grabbed handfuls of Thorgrim’s tunic and pulled it up as he had done with her leine. It was bit more of a struggle and Thorgrim could feel his wound pulling and Almaith said, “Easy, easy, easy,” her voice even less than a whisper. And then the tunic was off, over his head, and Thorgrim reveled in that sensation of skin against skin, her small, soft, smooth body against his own muscled and hairy frame. He wrapped his arms around her, held her tight, pressing her harder against him. Her lips were on his, tongues exploring mouths.

  Thorgrim was ready for her, more than ready. She straddled him, her knees just reaching the furs on which they lay. She moved her hips and he felt himself slide inside her, felt her body tense, her hands clench with the first sensation. She lay across his chest, moving slowly from the hips down, and he moved with her. Her long hair fell across his face and chest and she brushed it away, tossed her head back, her hair over her shoulder. Her neck was long and graceful in the dim light, her mouth open, her eyes shut. She made soft whimpering sounds, barely audible.

  They moved like that for some time, a slow rhythm, steady, absorbed in the feel of one another. Then Thorgrim wrapped his arms around her again, pulled her tight to him, and rolled over. Almaith wrapped her legs around his hips and the rhythm never stopped as then shifted around, Thorgrim on top of her, propped on his elbows, draped in heavy furs, making a shelter above her.

  Slowly, deliberately, Thorgrim began to move faster, jarring Almaith slightly with each thrust. Her hair was half over her face and her hand was in her mouth and she was biting down on it. Her eyes were squeezed tight. Her skin shone white against the dark fur.

  Thorgrim grit his teeth. More often than not he had done this in a communal setting, a house full of people, and he was well practiced at remaining quiet despite the urge to do otherwise. His motion grew more urgent. Almaith wrapped legs and arms more tightly around him, pulled him down on her. She felt so tiny beneath him, so vulnerable. His entire body was consumed by the sensation. His eyes jammed shut, his jaw clenched. He reached under Almaith’s back and grabbed her shoulders and she ran her feet up and down the backs of his legs. He felt her body under his clench tight and she gave a stifled cry, and then relaxed, like a rope under tension that is eased away, and that was enough to send him over the edge as well.

  It was another minute before they stopped moving all together and lay there, quiet, wrapped in one another. Thorgrim reached up and brushed her hair aside and ran his lips along her neck. In the far room, Jokul still snored away.

  Sometime later Thorgrim rolled off and lay on his back and Almaith once again draped herself over his chest. She ran her hands through the hair on his chest. Thorgrim felt sleep creeping over him again, and he thought, We cannot fall asleep and be found like this…that would not end well… He did not like to think about how much Jokul would charge for the rental of his wife.

  “So,” Almaith said, resting her hand on his chest, “Will Arinbjorn raise an army? Does he believe what Brigit says?”

  Such a lot of questions… Thorgrim thought, and before he could answer, the sleep was on him and taking him down.

  Then he woke with a start. How long he had been asleep, he did not know. Long enough to dream. Long enough to hear all those questions again, and to wake with a horrid realization. Almaith was still there, pressed against him.

  Such a lot of questions…

  At Cloyne they had known the Norsemen were coming. And not just Cloyne. Everywhere, the Irish seemed one step ahead, towns alerted to their coming, the Northman’s plans laid out like runes carved in stone. So who is the damnable fool now?

  But before Thorgrim could gather his thoughts enough to even consider the situation, he realized what had roused him from sleep. Someone was coming. Their approach was not loud, but neither was it stealthy, which meant they were coming with force enough that they were not overly worried about surprise. And such an approach, at such an hour, told Thorgrim with absolute certainty that they came to kill.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Let polished hilt-wands clash,

  strike shields with brands,

  test our swords’ shine on shields,

  redden them with blood.

  Egil’s Saga

  Thorgrim pushed the heavy furs off him and rolled to his feet. He could see light around the edge of the door. Whoever was on the outside held a torch, and he wondered if they meant to set the house on fire, with them in it. But he could hear someone rattling the door, testing it, finding it barred. He reached for Iron-tooth, realized he was naked.

  He stood for a second, a fraction of a second, caught between sleep, surprise and indecision. Then he snatched up his cloak, wrapped it around his waist and tied it off. A foot crashed against the door and Thorgrim saw it give a bit, the bar bending, but the bracket that held it, forged by Jokul, did not budge.

  Thorgrim snatched Iron-tooth by the grip and swung it sideways, flipping the sheath and belt off, and heard them hit the wall in the dark. Again a foot crashed against the door and Thorgrim heard the splintering sound of the bar giving way. He bent over, felt for the battle ax he had laid on the floor, grabbed it up.

  “Harald! To arms! To arms!” he shouted and looked over at the pile under which his son rested. An arm emerged, a face just visible in the dim light.

  “To arms, son, we have guests tonight!” Thorgrim shouted again.

  That was all he needed to say. At times it was nearly impossible to get Harald out of bed, but the call to arms always made him jump, and generally faster than anyone. He pushed the furs aside and leapt out of bed and Thorgrim was happy to note that he was clothed. In a flash Harald, too, had sword and ax in hand, because Vikings did not go to sleep without weapons at the ready.

  “Who are they, father?” Harald asked. There was concern in his voice, and surprise and confusion, but not a trace of fear.

  “I don’t know,” Thorgrim said. With a guilty flush he recalled that on first hearing the commotion he had thought it was Jokul, coming for him, but he realized now that the smith would not be kicking in his own door.

  “They seem pretty determined, whoever they are,” Harald said.

  Another kick. The bar splintered even further. Then with a roar Jokul appeared from the other side of the house. He was dressed in a leine and held a sword in each hand.

  “What in the name of all the gods is going on here!” he bellowed. Thorgrim glanced down at his bed. Almaith had withdrawn under the furs. He could just see a bit of movement and he guess she was pulling her clothes on.

  Another kick and the door came open, ten inches, no more, not enough for a man to get through, but the light from the torch spilled in through the crack.

  “Oh, you sorry sons of whores!” Jokul shouted and thrust his sword through the opening between the door and its frame. Thorgrim heard the sound of steel on steel as someone outside deflected the thrust. Another kick landed on the door and this time the bar gave way and the door flew open.

  The shape of a man filled the door frame, but the torch was behind him and Thorgrim could see little beyond his silhouette. What he could see was not promising. He was big, and wore an iron helmet in the Norse fashion, high peaked, and a mail shirt. He held a sword in his right hand, a shield in his left. Behind him, the torch bearer was more visible in the light of the flame. He was big as well, also helmeted and mailed, his long hair done up in two long braids that hung down in front of his shirt. There were more men crowded behind. Thorgrim could not see how many. More than he could see through the single door.

  The first man was through the door and Jokul, bear-like and furious, flailed at him with his swords, the ki
nd of attack that owed more to rage than skill. The man easily turned the blades aside with his shield, stepped in and slashed with his sword at the smith’s prominent stomach. Jokul in turn leapt back, and bellowed as the stranger’s sword cut a rent in his leine and left a fine, shallow laceration across his flesh. Half an inch closer and the stranger would have opened Jokul up and spilled his entrails on the floor.

  Thorgrim howled, a primal wolf-scream, a reflex sound, and fell on the man who had kicked in the door. He came in with ax raised, swung it hard for the man’s head. The man raised his shield, an easy defense, but that was what Thorgrim intended for him to do. Thorgrim drove the ax hard into the shield, the sharp edge digging deep into the wood, giving Thorgrim a handle by which he could jerk the shield aside.

  With a grunt of effort Thorgrim twisted the handle of the ax, twisting the shield and the arm that held it, jamming the man’s hand in the grip so he could not let go. In the light of the torch, now just feet away, he could see the look of surprise on the man’s face, the realization that his arm was about to shatter. The man shouted in pain and outrage, threw all his strength into twisting his arm back, and Thorgrim drove Iron-tooth’s point straight into his throat, half an inch above the collar of the mail shirt. The man spit blood and his eyes rolled back and he went straight down, down on his knees, as if pleading for quarter.

  The man behind, the one with the torch, stumbled against the unexpected obstacle. Thorgrim pulled Iron-tooth free and tried to get the torch bearer on the upswing, but the man was too fast, stepping back and swinging the blazing torch end at Thorgrim’s face, forcing Thorgrim to step back as well.

  Now Harald was there, trying to get the torch man while he was busy with Thorgrim, but the man was no novice. He parried Harald’s blade and stepped sideways, further into the house, making way for more of the men outside to enter. The flame from his torch, dancing and guttering, cast a weird light around the room, glinting off more steel as the attackers made a rush for the door. Two more, the one in front coming low, crouched down, the one behind with ax drawn back over his head.

  Thorgrim saw how it would play out. A kick to the side of the first man’s head, make him stumble, trip up the second one. The best chance to stop them was in the bottle neck of the door. He lifted his foot for a well-placed heel to the side of the man’s head when Jokul came charging up again, swords flailing. He slammed hard into Thorgrim and Thorgrim, at that instance balancing on one foot, was flung against the wall with an impact that made his whole body shudder, and made him grunt in pain.

  Jokul swung the swords in two broad arcs and made solid contact with the second man. Thorgrim could hear the blade clang on the man’s helmet, saw the man stagger sideways. But Jokul’s second blade passed over the man who had come in low, and now he straightened, sword leading.

  “Jokul!” Thorgrim shouted. He swiped at the man but missed. The sword caught Jokul in the side and dug deep, but the smith seemed more enraged than hurt. He roared, stepped back, knocked the sword from his flesh with one swipe of the blade in his right hand. He brought the sword in his left hand down on the man’s head with all the force that thirty years of swinging a hammer could deliver. Thorgrim saw the blade cleave the man’s helmet in two and keep on going until his head was all but parted down the middle.

  I had no notion a sword could do that… Thorgrim thought as he pushed himself off the wall. Maybe Jokul really is as good a smith as he thinks he is…

  Harald and the torch bearer were still engaged, Harald’s sword and ax against the man’s sword and flame, and as the stranger swung the torch it made the light and dark in the room dance and shift.

  Two more were through the door by the time Thorgrim could get past Jokul and the man whose skull he split. The torch swung toward the door and Thorgrim caught a glimpse of long stringy hair, a beard, little rat eyes, and a battle ax swinging at his head. A clumsy bow, Thorgrim caught it with his own ax, turned the weapon aside. The momentum carried the man off balance and Thorgrim rammed Iron-tooth up under his mail shirt. He felt the point dig deep enough to kill with certainty, if not instantly, but that was good enough.

  Harald was being forced back by the flailing torch. It was not a weapon he had encountered before, and the slashing light seemed to confuse him. Jokul, too, was stepping away from the door. He had dropped the sword in his right hand and was pressing that hand against the wound in his side. Blood oozed out between his massive fingers, but he was still fighting hard with the sword in his left. His eyes wide, his hair sticking out at crazy angles, his beard a great matted mess, he looked to Thorgrim like one of the giants in the ancient legends he had heard as a child.

  There were just three of them defending the house, and Harald was a boy and Jokul wounded. The attackers were pushing them back, opening up fighting room, and that was bad, because having room enough meant they could bring their numbers to bear.

  “Here! To me!” someone shouted and Thorgrim realized it was the man with the torch. Another, a sword and short sword in his hands, dashed through the door, stepped over to where the torch man was engaged with Harald and joined in the fight. Two against one. Thorgrim pressed himself against the wall, looked for a way to cross the room, to stand side by side with Harald, but there were three men he would have to get through first, and he would be lucky not to be killed by Jokul’s wildly swinging blade.

  But it was not two against one, because the torch man stepped back from the fight as soon as the other had Harald’s attention. He seemed, in fact, to ignore the fight entirely as he plunged into the room, sweeping the torch through the air, lighting up the distant corners. Almaith and Brigit were huddle together by the far wall. Almaith had in her hand the three-foot iron spit that usually spanned the hearth and she held it like a club. Brigit held the small ax they used to split kindling.

  “Here, here, here!” the man with the torch shouted. The next man through the door responded, rushed toward the lighted end of the room, did not even see Thorgrim in the shadow until Thorgrim’s ax had all but decapitated him. He went down, but in the time it took for Thorgrim to free his ax two more were through the door and closing with the one who had called out.

  How many of these sons of whores are there? Thorgrim wondered. He could see no more outside the door, but the little house was crammed with struggling men, swords and axes rising, swinging, hacking in the torchlight.

  “The one with the ax! Her! Get that bitch!” the man with the torch shouted and two men advanced on the women. They advanced with care. Brigit and Almaith had the look of women who would not be taken easily.

  “You dog! Coward!” Thorgrim shouted and he tried to cross the room but there were two in front of him now. He swung his ax in a wide arc, made one of them step back, thrust at the other but found only air.

  Then Jokul was in front of him, a great mass like one of those floating islands of ice found in the far north seas. He was roaring and hacking, his wound forgotten, holding his sword with two hands as he flailed it at his attackers.

  “Jokul, damn it, stand clear!” Thorgrim shouted. He tried to step around, then ducked as Jokul took a big wind up, backhand, with his long straight sword. But before he could even let swing Thorgrim saw a blade erupt from the big man’s back, a bloody, silvery point, glinting, twisting. Jokul’s roar turned to something else, something high-pitched, fury and agony all forge-welded together and he fell back with thundering force, the blade slipping free from his body as he went down.

  Almaith shrieked. The man advancing on her shifted his gaze as Jokul fell and for his second’s distraction took the full force of the iron spit across the side of his head. Thorgrim saw his head jerk sideways and the rest of his body follow and he went down as if the gods had taken his bones. In the same instant Brigit made a great sweeping stroke with the ax at the man who held the torch, but he stepped back and the blade missed his head by inches.

  Jokul was down, dying or dead. Thorgrim was pressed against the wall, a man on his right, one on hi
s left. In the jerky light he could see Harald across the room. He, too, had his back to a wall. It restricted his movements but kept anyone from circling behind, so it was a good thing. But they could not keep this up forever. They could not keep this up much longer.

  To his right the man swung an ax and Thorgrim met it, mid-swing, with his own ax. The handles hit, wood on wood, and the attacker jerked back, caught Thorgrim’s ax head in his own and pulled the weapon clean from his hand. It was a good move, and Thorgrim tried to counter with a trust from Iron-tooth, but the man dodged it and his partner lunged with his own blade.

  Thorgrim twisted. The sword caught his flesh, ripped on through, and Thorgrim felt the burning pain bite into him. He swung Iron-tooth, a clumsy blow, caught the man with the flat of the blade and knocked him sideways. The blade jerked free of Thorgrim’s flesh as the man stumbled, sending a second wave of agony over him.

  Blood spilled…. Thorgrim knew what that meant. He would weaken. His grip would get slick with his own gore, his feet unsteady. It was the beginning of the final act.

  Then, from somewhere beyond the walls, but close, a shriek rose, a death wail, a terrifying sound, but familiar to Thorgrim’s ear. Suddenly the room was filled with a shower of splinters, a rush of cool air, the sound of wood shattering, metal hinges and latches wrenched free as Starri Deathless came crashing feet first through the shuttered window of Jokul’s house.