Chapter Twenty-Five
Sharp from my sheath
my short sword I drew
The Saga of the Confederates
Starri had been asleep when they came, or nearly asleep, as much asleep as Starri ever was, Starri who slept like a cat, sprawled out, seemingly dead, but with an ear always listening for the mouse’s scratching. Not asleep on the work bench. He had given that up. As the inactivity of Dubh-linn had preyed on him he had become more and more restless. He realized that the thatched roof over the bench, built to offer some protection to the work surface, and overbuilt like nearly everything that came from Jokul’s hands, was easily strong enough to hold him.
He had crawled up there a few nights before, created something like a nest in the thatch, a bed invisible from the ground below, which was why Jokul had not flown into a rage that Starri had done that. He found some degree of comfort in his perch, hidden, looking out and down at the world at night. He was an eagle, his eyes scanning the distance for prey.
They came in the late hours, the dead hours, when the drunkard was passed out, the early riser still abed, lovers asleep after the night’s activities. That last had been Thorgrim, Starri realized, the last sounds before the deep quiet had settled over the longphort. The hours of least vigilance. It was when Starri tended to be at his most alert.
He heard them coming long before he could see them, despite his eagle perch. Soft deerskin shoes on the plank road, the muted sounds of weapons thumping on legs as they walked. They were trying to be quiet and succeeding. Had there been any ambient sound at all, anything beyond the odd frog or owl, then he might have missed the sounds. Most men would not have heard them no matter how quiet the night, but Starri’s hearing was acute beyond all normal measure, as it often was, he had found, with men who were quite insane.
He moved slowly, silently, because he forgot that others did not hear the way he heard. He peeked up over the edge of the thatch. He could see the glow of a torch as the group of men came up the plank road, but the men themselves were hidden behind the clustered houses. There had to be ten of them at least, he imagined, based on the sound of their footfalls. He was motionless in the thatch, and all but invisible from the ground, as he saw them emerge beyond the nearest house. They stopped and looked around. They spoke softly, so soft that even Starri could hear nothing beyond murmurs.
I know you, he thought. Sweyn and Svein. Of Hedeby. Come to get a better price for your swords? I can just imagine.
Sweyn held the torch and seemed to be in charge. He pointed at Jokul’s house, muttered some words to the others, and they stepped silently through the gate and moved along the side of the building. Starri could feel his nerves popping and flashing like a pitch pine log tossed on a blazing fire.
Eleven. He counted eleven of them. Inside the house were Thorgrim and Harald. Jokul, too, who had the size, but Starri did not know if he could fight. And there was himself. Almost three to one odds. Starri did not much like those numbers. If Sweyn had brought a few more with him, it would have been better, a better fight, but they had who they had.
The Danes were being less stealthy as they moved along the path, as if their merely arriving at the house was enough to ensure victory. They approached in a line, Svein leading, Sweyn behind him with the torch. Starri reached down and grabbed up his battle ax and short sword. Sweyn and Svein were lost from view around the edge of the house, but he heard one of them trying the latch of the door.
That will wake them, Starri thought. Even as carnally sated as he knew both Harald and Thorgrim to be, he figured they would not sleep through that. He crept up to the edge of his nest in the roof. So many of them, their backs turned toward him. What a surprise he would make, flinging himself on them like a bird of prey. He felt giddy with anticipation.
And then he stopped. He remembered. Thorgrim Night Wolf. Starri had decided that he had to try and be more like the Night Wolf. He had to think. Where Starri Deathless would charge in, weapons moving, Thorgrim would have already thought five moves ahead, would have anticipated outcomes, made plans. Even if Thorgrim did not do that on a conscious level, even if he did not even understand that he did it, Starri did. Starri had already learned from Thorgrim that real fighting was done with the head, not with the arms. And he vowed to do the same.
So what do I do? Starri thought, and just as the words formed in his head, Svein’s foot slammed against the door to Jokul’s house. Starri could hear the wooden bar groan, the metal squeal, a shout of surprise from within.
What do I do? The words seemed to be screaming in Starri’s brain. Every muscle and sinew in him shouted for him to leap from the roof and have at it. The last two men in line would have been dead before they knew he was there, the next two might live a few seconds more. It had all been so simple before he had vowed to think things through.
Another kick at the door, more rending wood. He heard Jokul bellow, heard steel hit steel. All right, all right, all right… They were outnumbered, and the Danes might have more men coming. All right…we need more men…. he admitted to himself, a grudging admission.
Starri looked around. There were no more men. He knew enough of Dubh-linn by then to know that the mere sound of a household in a death struggle would not bring the neighbors running. It was too frequent an event, and the Vikings kept their own council.
The light from the torch seemed to go out and Starri knew they were inside and he felt his arms and legs twitching. Oh, let Hel and the trolls have this thinking nonsense! He was about to leap down from the roof and launch himself into the fray when he saw a face, a small face, peering out from the doorway of the neighboring house. Starri recognized him as the youngest son of the family there, a curious boy; he often spent time watching Jokul work. He and Starri had spoken on many occasions.
Starri climbed down from the roof, moving fast and sure like a squirrel. The fight inside was fully joined. He could hear shouting, steel hitting steel. He could smell blood.
“Egil! Egil!” he said in a loud whisper, amazed that he had recalled the boy’s name.
Egil emerged from the shadows, wary, half asleep, and approached the wattle fence that separated their properties. “Yes? What’s happening?”
“A little fight, nothing of consequence.” Starri leaned on the fence, trying to look casual and not alarm the boy. “Now, do you know my fellow, Nordwall? The Swede?”
“Nordwall the Short? The crazy one?”
“Yes, that’s him….” From inside Jokul’s house, a scream, the clang of weapons, the sound of a body hitting the floor. Starri turned back to Egil. Wariness had turned to fright. “Nordwall will be up in the mead hall,” he continued. “Run up there and tell him I need him here, him and the others, quick as ever they can be.”
Egil looked confused, a bit bewildered. He glanced at Jokul’s house again, the growing sound of the fight, then back into his own house where all remained quiet.
“Your parents would want you to help, I’m sure,” Starri said. “See here….” He slipped a gold armband off his arm. It was a simple design, a snake swallowing its own tail. He handed it to Egil. “Show this to Nordwall so he knows it’s really me who has sent for him. Then the band shall be yours.”
Egil’s eyes went wide. It was an absurd price to pay for so simple an errand, but Starri cared little for such things as gold and silver. Egil snatched the armband from his fingers, nodded his understanding, and bolted like a rabbit into the dark.
Starri straightened, proud of his clever maneuvers. I can be a thinking sort as well, he thought. From inside the smith’s house he heard a roar he took to be Jokul, then Thorgrim’s voice, muffled but distinct, shouting, “Jokul, damn it, stand clear!” and Jokul’s roar turned to death rage and Starri knew it was time to act. He thought of the door but it seemed an impossible distance away, and besides, surprise was one of those tools that thinking types used, he had learned that from Thorgrim.
And that was enough of thinking. In front of him, fifteen feet a
way, he could see the dark, square shape of the shuttered window. He knew the shutters, knew the latches well enough to judge their strength, and he was sure they were not strong enough to hold him back.
The berserker scream built in his throat, undulated in the air, built in proportion to the building speed with which he ran at the near wall. Battle ax in his left hand, short sword in his right, his scream was at full volume as he launched himself off with his right leg and hit the shutters square with both feet. He felt just a hint of resistance before they blew out under the impact and his momentum carried him straight through the opening and into the room beyond.
He might have landed on his feet, a neat trick, but he came down on what he guessed was a body, dead or knocked cold, and it threw his balance off. Instead of trying to remain upright he let his momentum carry him forward, tumbled head first, rolled on his shoulder and came up standing, crouched and ready to fight. The room was like a painting, everyone there frozen in surprise at his sudden appearance, but Starri was not surprised and he slashed at the nearest man with his short sword and that man screamed and dropped and the spell was shattered.
Harald was against the wall and Starri saw him push himself off and slam his bulky frame into the man in front of him, knocking him off balance and taking an awkward swing, but the man deflected the blow and leapt back, more fight in him.
Starri swiveled around. Thorgrim was fighting two men and Starri could see the blood running down his side. He pounced at the nearest, but the man had seen him coming, ducked quick, beneath Starri’s swinging ax, lashed at Starri with his sword, a blow Starri turned aside. There was screaming now, not men’s screams, but women’s, a sound mostly foreign to Starri’s ear.
The man in front of Starri straightened, grinned, actually grinned, and came at Starri with sword held ready. Starri took a step back. His heel hit something and he stumbled and the man swung as Starri’s chest presented itself, but Starri was going down and the blade swept past. Then Starri was flat on his back and looking at the great bulk of Jokul the smith, over whom he had stumbled. He looked up. The Dane was there, sword raised, a two fisted grip that promised to cleave Starri in two. The grin was still on his lips, and Starri aimed for it as he threw the battle ax with a practiced twist of his wrist, saw the weapon turn once in the air and embed itself in the man’s face.
There was a great bustling around, commotion, shouting. A woman screamed and the scream was cut short. The torch that Sweyn held fell to the floor, plunging the upper half of the room into darkness, illuminating the men strewn lifeless or dying around the room. Starri scrambled to his feet. Thorgrim was still engaged with the second man and Starri could see that his wound and the prolonged fight were telling on his strength.
Harald was still holding his own.
Starri leapt across Jokul’s body, drawing back the short sword, but the man saw him coming, ducked, backed off, and then raced for the door, a move so unexpected that Starri and Thorgrim just watched him go. Right on his heels, the man who had been fighting Harald also dashed through the door and into the night.
A moment before, the room had been a noisy, shouting, clanging chaos, but now it was silent, the only real sound the gasping breath of the three men left standing. They bent nearly double, sucking in air. The coppery smell of blood was all around them. The flickering light of the torch, illuminating the room from the floor up, made the scene look even weirder than it was.
Then Harald straightened, jerked erect as if startled from sleep. His eyes were wide. He dropped his sword and raced across the room, snatched the torch from the floor. He moved to the far end of the room. Furs and blankets were mounded against the wall. A woman’s body lay in shadow. Harald rolled her over and in the light they could see it was Almaith, though whether she was dead or knocked out they did not know. Harald pushed the furs aside, then tossed them aside, then straightened and looked desperately around.
“Brigit!” he shouted.
Chapter Twenty-Six
[A] race of pagans…will carry you into bondage
from your own lands and will offer you up to their own gods.
9th Century Irish Prophecy
The thumping brought her around, the thumping and the motion and the pain. Quite a lot of pain. Her body was wracked with it. It was the first thing of which she became aware.
The next was that she was upside down and having a very hard time breathing. But she still did not know where she was. She opened her eyes. The night was all but black, but there was light enough for her to see feet and legs below her, a muddy plank road. She was draped over a man’s shoulder. Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill was being carried off by Vikings.
Her head was pounding, her thoughts disorganized, but she could recall the fight now, remembered Almaith cracking one of the bastard’s head open with an iron spit, herself swinging and missing with the ax. She recalled seeing the big fist coming around at the side of her head, the frozen terror of it, her inability to move. And that was it. There was no more.
She turned her head sideways, left and right. There were four other men that she could see, moving in a tight bunch, moving toward what she believed was the waterfront where the ships were anchored or pulled up on the beach. That was not good.
No boats… she thought vaguely. Can’t let them get me on a boat… Once they took her beyond the horizon, there was no telling what fate might befall her. She would never be heard from again. That was the thing about boats.
She balled her hand into a fist and pounded on the back of her abductor’s thigh, the only place she could reach, but it seemed to have no effect. The blows felt weak and ineffectual. The man carrying her seemed not even to notice.
Damn it, damn it… She could not form a clear thought, with the thumping and jostling and gasping for breath. She let herself go limp, hoping it would make her more difficult to carry, hoping it would make the motion better, give her a chance to think.
It did not help.
The man over whose shoulder she was draped yelled something, shouted out into the dark. Brigit could not understand the words, but the tone was very much that of an order, an order, given no doubt, to men aboard a nearby ship. Orders to take up the oars. Orders to carry her off to sea.
She felt a new surge of panic and started pounding again on the man’s legs, but her effort was no more effective than it had been the first time. She thought she felt the pace of the men quicken a bit. She heard another voice, from off in the distance. The man aboard the ship no doubt, reporting that all was ready.
But no. The voice was from behind them, from the direction they had come. She strained to hear. Far off, faint, but there. And the voice was one she knew.
“Brigit! Brigit!”
Harald!
The man carrying her heard it, too. He stopped short, barked an order to the men around him and they stopped as well. Together they all turned to look back up the plank road over which they had come. Brigit twisted sideways so she could see, too. It was dark, but there was a moon behind the clouds and it gave off light enough that she could see the little band of men coming after her. She could recognize Harald’s broad, powerful form.
She had come to Dubh-linn with no thought beyond using him for her purposes. She had forgotten how very good looking he was. She had forgotten about his unshakable loyalty and strength. But in the short time that they had been reunited, she had been reminded of all those things, and the unfathomable attraction she had to him, the very thing that had led her into all this trouble. And once again she had been weak, and had welcomed him into her bed.
Loyalty and strength. That was Harald, at his core. And just then, seeing him charging down the plank road, calling her name, she had never been more grateful for those qualities.
“Harald! Harald! Here! I’m here!” she shouted and for her effort took a heel blow to the head. She could taste blood in her mouth, but she was willing to risk another kick if it meant increasing her chances of Harald’s rescuing her. She opened her mout
h to yell again but the man carrying her spun back toward the river and shouted another order in his ugly, guttural Norse language. He began to run, and the men around him ran, too.
No, no, no, no! Brigit thought. If they reached the ship before Harald reached her then she was lost. If they took her to sea, she did not think she would live to the next sunset.
Once again she pounded on the man’s legs, but the proximity of rescue was clearing her mind. She abandoned that useless effort and craned her neck to look around. She could see the man running beside her, at least from the waist down. She could see his sword bouncing against his leg as he ran.
Sword… The bastard carrying her must have a sword as well. They all did. She twisted around the other way, an awkward and difficult movement, and half curled her body up at the waist. Her abdominal muscles burned from the effort, but her eyes fell on what she was looking for - the hilt of the man’s sword jutting above his belt.
The man had been walking fast before, now he was running, and the jarring and bouncing was much worse than it had been. Brigit reached up with her right hand, snatched at the hilt and missed as the man’s footfalls nearly knocked the breath from her. She reached again. It was so close. Inch by inch she moved her hand, tried to hold it steady against the bouncing. She could hear Harald, still calling for her, getting closer.
And in that instant the man to their left saw what she was about. He shouted, reached for her, and she lunged for the hilt. She felt her fingers wrap around the leather binding and she pulled it toward her. The sheath of the sword flipped forward like some kind of battering ram as Brigit struggled to pull the blade free.
The man beside her grabbed her arm and tried to pry her fingers from the sword. As he did, the one carrying her realized that something was going on, and he twisted around to see what it was, pulling the sword from the man’s hands. With a twist of her body and a grunt of effort Brigit drew the sword clear of the sheath. The blade thumped on the road as she tried to hold it up at that odd angle. The men had stopped running. They were shouting in their foreign tongue.
Dubh-linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2) Page 21
