Loch Garman: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 7)

by James L. Nelson

  “Come in!” he said as the guard announced the man, and then, gesturing to a chair, said, “Well?”

  “Well, lord, the scouts saw the heathens,” Tipraite reported. He was a bit out of breath, and Airtre wondered if that was because he had hurried over or because he was afraid to say what he had to say. “They’re camped with Bécc and his men. It looks as if they’ve joined with them, lord.”

  “Damn them!” Airtre said, standing abruptly. “Damn those lying, treacherous bastards!”

  “Now, lord, we don’t know for certain what they intend. Maybe they’ll betray Bécc when the time comes.”

  Airtre turned and glared at Tipraite. “You are always full of questions and doubts, aren’t you?” he said. “How about an answer now and again?”

  “I have no answers, lord,” Tipraite protested. “But I thought we could ask our hostage, see what he might tell.”

  The hostage… Harald… Airtre had not forgotten about him, but neither had he thought about him since that morning, when he instructed the guards to keep him in his tent, bring him food and water, and accompany him if he had to relieve himself.

  It had not occurred to him that the hostage might yield more information. He did not seem terribly bright to Airtre. But it was worth the effort, at least, to question him. After all, he was the one who had promised the heathens’ assistance.

  Airtre stood and opened the flap of the tent and instructed the guard to have Harald brought to him. He sat and he and Tipraite discussed various matters related to the army and soon the guard called from outside the tent, “The hostage, lord.”

  “Bring him in,” Airtre called and Harald stepped through and behind him the two guards who had been positioned at the Northman’s tent. Airtre was relieved to see them. He had meant to instruct that the guards accompany the hostage, but he had forgotten to give that order, and he did not want to do it in Harald’s presence. But it seemed he did not have to.

  “Sit,” Airtre said, gesturing toward the one remaining chair, and Harald sat. He did not look happy, though in truth his face was hard to read, which Airtre took to be a sign of a dull mind. There were bits of straw stuck in his hair, which was itself the color of straw, and his clothes looked damp and unkempt. He wore his sword on his belt as these heathens always did. Though he was, strictly speaking, Airtre’s prisoner, it would have been a dishonor for Airtre to take his sword. So he let him keep it. For now.

  “You’re well?” Airtre asked. He did not actually care.

  “There are guards outside my tent,” Harald said. “There’s no need for guards. I would not do something so dishonorable as run off.”

  Airtre shrugged. “Consider it a mark of honor,” he said. “I also have guards outside my tent. But see here, it seems we have a problem.”

  Harald sat a little straighter, and his face had a bit of a quizzical look.

  “It seems,” Airtre continued, “that this Thorgrim, who you assured me would join with us, has instead joined with our enemies against us. They’re encamped with them as we speak. What am I to make of that?”

  Harald’s eyebrows came together. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, I’m certain!” Airtre shouted, standing up and knocking his chair over, his weak grip on patience slipping further. “I am certain. They have betrayed us.”

  That brought a shade of anger to Harald’s face. “You don’t know that,” he said. “You don’t know what Thorgrim is doing.”

  “Oh?” Airtre said. He stepped up to Harald, leaned over him. “Then you tell me what Thorgrim is doing. You arranged this, you’re the one who said Thorgrim and the others would fight with us.”

  Harald’s expression was hardening. Airtre could see that, but he did not care about that either. “I don’t know what’s going on,” Harald said. “I’m being kept prisoner here. I don’t know if Thorgrim got the word I sent him about joining you. Maybe he didn’t understand. Let me go to Thorgrim and speak with him. I can go at night, sneak into their camp.”

  Airtre laughed at that, a short, loud burst of laughter. “Perfect!” he said. “You get your ships back, and then I let you run off and join the rest of the heathens, leaving me with nothing. Do you think I’m such a fool?”

  Now Harald was scowling. “Are you saying I would run off, not come back? Are you saying I have no more honor than that?”

  Then Airtre struck him. Quick as a hawk he hit Harald across the face, backhand, knocking his head sideways. He did not think about it, made no decision, just let his rage carry him away.

  And Harald reacted in kind. His head came back around and as it did he launched himself out of the chair, too fast for Airtre or the guards to register the move. He swung his fist at Airtre’s head as Airtre stumbled back, and it was just that second of clumsiness that saved the rí tuath from having the side of his head caved in.

  Harald’s fist grazed Airtre’s jaw as Airtre struggled to keep his balance and Tipraite and the two guards leapt forward. They grabbed hold of the Northman, six hands taking a tight grip, but Harald twisted and brought his fist up under the chin of one of the guards and sent him flying back, while the other got his arm around Harald’s neck and squeezed.

  Tipraite twisted Harald’s arm, trying to get control, as Harald leaned forward then snapped his head back, slamming the back of his skull into the face of the guard who had him by the neck. The man howled, loosened his grip, but Tipraite was able to drive a fist into Harald’s gut with strength enough to double him over.

  The canvas door of the pavilion whipped open and the two men who had been standing guard outside came piling through, summoned by the sound of the fighting. They grabbed onto Harald just as he was straightening. He twisted his arms around to free them from the guards’ grip, but Tipraite was there again with a blow to the temple that seemed to stagger Harald, seemed to sap his strength.

  Now it was Airtre’s turn. He stepped up, two quick steps, swinging his fist as he did. He was not a big man, but he was not a weak one either, and he hit Harald on the temple opposite of where Tipraite had struck. He felt the pain explode in his hand and he saw Harald waver in his stance, saw the fight drain out of him.

  “In the chair, get him in the chair and bind him well!” Airtre shouted, cradling his hand. The guards and Tipraite pushed Harald down to a seated position, holding his arms horizontal and straight out so he looked as if he had been crucified. Airtre found a length of cordage in his chest and handed it to the guard and a moment later the half-stunned Northman was bound fast, hand and foot.

  “Get his sword,” Airtre said and one of the guards unbuckled the belt, pulled it free from Harald’s waist and handed it to Airtre.

  “You let me go,” Harald said, his words slurred but still feral-sounding, more like a growl. “Let me go now.”

  “Why?” Airtre asked. “Why would I do that?”

  “If you let me go now, I swear I won’t kill you,” Harald said.

  Airtre laughed. “Good of you,” he said. He brought his hand back to hit Harald again but thought better of it, knew the pain would be worse for him than for his prisoner. Instead, he picked up a heavy wooden trencher, dumped the remains of his dinner on the ground and hit Harald with that, hard enough to start a trickle of blood down the corner of his mouth.

  “Tell me what your plan was,” he said. “You and this Thorgrim.” Airtre’s suspicions had been growing more acute, and Harald’s violent reaction to the questioning, his attempt to trick Airtre into letting him go, only confirmed it all. “What treachery did you have in mind?”

  Harald spit blood. He glared up at Airtre. “You’re a dead man, now,” he said and Airtre hit him again with the trencher.

  They worked on him for some time after that, taking turns, alternating questions with blows to the head and stomach, beatings with the flats of swords. They got nothing from Harald, besides his assurance that they would not enjoy their lives for much longer.

  Airtre was impressed on a certain level, and unsure if he himself co
uld endure the beating that Harald was taking. And that in turn led to more self-doubt, which further inflamed his rage. He jerked his dagger from its sheath.

  “He’ll say nothing under this treatment,” he said to Tipraite and the others. “Maybe he’ll trade the truth for an eye.” He stepped forward, grabbed Harald’s long hair and jerked his head back. He felt the Northman try to struggle, but even his strength, great as it seemed to be, had been sapped by the beatings. Airtre raised the dagger, aimed the needle point at Harald’s right eye.

  Tipraite grabbed Airtre’s wrist. “Lord,” he said. “He’s a hostage still.”

  “He’s a treacherous, lying heathen bastard,” Airtre said.

  “Yes, lord,” Tipraite said. “But still he’s a hostage. We may need him yet in that office. Taking his eye is too much.”

  Airtre scowled. He looked at Tipraite and then at Harald. Beaten as he was, there was still defiance on his face. And no trace of fear at the dagger inches from his eye. It made Airtre want to drive the dagger not just through the bastard’s eye, but right into his head.

  But he didn’t. He lowered the blade and released Harald’s hair and stepped away. Because Tipraite had a point. They might need this whore’s son yet.

  “Very well,” Airtre said. “Get some more men and carry this bastard back to his tent. He’s to remain bound as he is. Four guards around the tent.”

  Tipraite nodded. He pulled back the flap of the pavilion and called for more men to assist. Carrying Harald would be no easy task.

  “But hear this,” Airtre said, still angry at having to spare the heathen’s life, angry that Tipraite was right and Airtre knew it. “He’s our hostage now, but if the heathens turn on us, if they fight us, in Bécc’s company or no, then he’s a hostage no more.”

  “Yes, lord,” Tipraite said. “So…”

  “So if we go into battle, and there are Northmen arrayed against us, I want this son of a bitch killed before the fighting even starts.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  An encampment of the Laigin was torn apart by heathens…

  The Annals of Ulster

  They moved fast and silent, because there were not many of them. Thorgrim Night Wolf and Starri. Failend, Godi and Gudrid. And Louis the Frank, who surprised Thorgrim by stepping up to offer his services, once he knew what Thorgrim’s intentions were.

  “Why do you want to go?” Thorgrim asked him, by way of Failend.

  Louis shrugged, which Thorgrim had noticed he did a lot. “Harald could have killed me on the slave ship. But he did not. I guess I should be thankful for that.”

  Thorgrim nodded. Harald had also neglected to mention Louis’s presence to him, once they had all joined company. He had never asked Harald about that, but he took it as another gesture aimed at preserving the Frank’s life, which for some reason Harald felt was worth preserving.

  “Very well. Come with us,” Thorgrim said.

  They left when the sun was just beginning to set. A few carried shields, and none wore mail. They were armed with swords and seaxes, battle axes and Failend’s bow and arrows. This would not be any great battle. If they could not do their job with those weapons, they would not be able to do it at all.

  Thorgrim led the way at an easy pace. They had time enough. The intention was to arrive at their destination at the very darkest hours of the night, when most men were asleep and vigilance was ebbing among those who were still awake.

  After a few miles of travel they stopped to rest and drink water from the skins that some of them carried. Thorgrim watched, curious, as Louis the Frank sat down beside Failend and spoke to her, his voice too soft to hear, not that Thorgrim would have understood the words. He saw Failend glance his way, an uncertain look on her face, before she turned to reply.

  Thorgrim had a very good idea of the discussion they were having. Louis, he was certain, had asked how Thorgrim knew the way to the enemy’s camp. And Failend knew the answer: Thorgrim had seen it in a wolf dream. The gods had revealed it to him. But like most Christ followers she was not comfortable with that idea. She doubted the truth of it, but not entirely, so it frightened her. If the wolf dreams were real, then Failend must think they came from one of the Christ followers’ gods, whichever one was most like Loki, the trickster god.

  He wondered what answer she would give Louis. Some halting version of the story that had been told to her by one of the Northmen. He saw Louis’s eyebrows come together in surprise and doubt, saw him glance up and then avert his eyes when he saw Thorgrim was watching him.

  Thorgrim smiled, just a bit. In truth he himself was not sure how he would have answered Louis’s question. He had lived with the wolf dreams since he was Harald’s age. Sometimes they revealed things, sometimes they did not. There were many folks, like Starri, who believed that his spirit took on the form of a wolf. But he was not so sure.

  And some years ago he had reached an age where he did not worry about it any longer.

  He stood, stretched his legs and arms. “Let’s go on,” he said, not whispering, but not speaking loud, either. He turned and headed off again, the others following in his wake, moving over the rolling hills, up and down the sides of narrow valleys, skirting the stands of wood. Insects chirped in the grass. Owls called out from the trees. Once, far off, they heard a wolf’s cry.

  The night was wearing on and Thorgrim was feeling the first hints of weariness creep into his legs when he smelled something that was not the cool, earthy scent of the countryside at night. He held up his hand and stopped and heard the soft sounds of the others coming to a stop behind him. He breathed deep. Wood smoke. And there must have been a fair amount of it for him to smell it so well. And there were other odors beside that. Cooked meat and the smell of men, the smell of many men camped together. It was a smell Thorgrim knew very well and would recognize without question.

  Starri was at his side. “I smell that, too, Night Wolf!” he said, his voice low but excited. “An armed camp, I’m sure of it.”

  Thorgrim nodded. He turned to the others. “Just over that hill,” he said. “Let’s get to where we can see and then we’ll make our move.”

  He led them forward again, the last quarter mile of the first half of their long night’s march, down the slope in front of them and then up the hill beyond. They crouched as they reached the crest, then crawled forward, keeping low on hands and knees until they were just past the top and could see the camp beyond.

  It looked familiar to Thorgrim, like the camp he had seen in his dream. A few large pavilions, a scattering of smaller tents. Some horses staked out beyond that. It was all visible in the weak light of a moon hidden behind clouds and the few points of light in the camp itself. There were men moving around, a few even carrying torches. Every once in a while he could hear loud voices. Not shouting, just men speaking loud. There was an odd sort of restlessness to the camp, not what Thorgrim would have expected at that time of night.

  “Failend,” he whispered. “Can you make out what any of them are saying?”

  Failend cocked her ear toward the camp, waited until they heard another voice. She frowned and shook her head.

  “Starri,” Thorgrim said next. “What do you see? What do you make of this?”

  Starri ran his eyes over the camp laid out below them. “Something happened here, and not so long ago,” he said. “They’re like an ant hill, kicked over, scurrying around.” He paused as he took in the scene below him. “There are men moving all over the camp, and guards on the four sides, two on each side. And two by the big tent, there.” He pointed to the largest of the pavilions, near the center of the camp.

  “In the big tent, that’s their chief man, the jarl, or whatever these Irish call it,” Thorgrim said. He had been more than two years in that country, had met several men with the title he had in mind, had heard of many more, but he could never recall the strange Irish word.

  “That other tent,” Thorgrim continued, pointing. “The one there. Are there guards that you can see?
”

  “I don’t see any guards there, Night Wolf,” Starri said.

  Thorgrim considered that. The dream had told him that Harald was in that tent, and there had been guards there. Now there were no guards. Which probably meant that Harald was not there, or no longer needed guarding. Something had happened. Thorgrim felt a sick twist in his stomach. The gods toyed with him, but would they be so cruel as to bring him to that place, but just a little too late to save his son from being slaughtered?

  Yes, he thought. Yes, they would.

  He shook those thoughts aside. It was pointless to speculate when the truth was right there in front of him, waiting to be unearthed.

  Thorgrim backed away from the crest of the hill and the others did as well, huddling around him once the high ground hid them from view of the camp.

  “Here’s what we do,” Thorgrim said. “Starri, you and Godi and Failend will go along the hilltop to the west side of the camp, the side furthest from the jarl’s pavilion. Failend, you drop a few of the guards with your arrows, and once the confusion sets in, Starri and Godi will attack.”

  He turned to the two men, Starri and Godi, fixed them with a look that meant he expected the next orders to be obeyed. “You two cannot fight them all. You take out a few men, then run off into the dark. Failend will keep up her work with her bow. If you have the chance to attack again, do it. But do not stand and fight. That’s not your job. You’re making a distraction, nothing more. Understand?”

  Starri nodded his head, but already he had his battle axes in his hand and his arms were making that odd jerking motion and Thorgrim could see the berserker spirit was coming over him, and he had only one foot left in the world of men.

  He turned to Godi, nodded slightly toward Starri. “You’re not to fight, understand?”

  “I understand,” Godi said, and Thorgrim was sure he did. He understood that his job was as much to drag Starri from the fighting as it was to fight the Irish men-at-arms.