Grimarr was not afraid of Lorcan – he was not afraid of any man – but he considered the Irishman a genuine adversary and a threat not to be taken lightly, and that was about the most respect Grimarr could give to anyone.
With their ships pulled up on the beach, vulnerable as stranded whales, the Norsemen considered their options. If Lorcan attacked he would do so with overwhelming force; the most they could hope for in that circumstance was to get away, so they figured they had better be ready to do just that. They shoved Sea Rider back out into the water, made her fast to a tree ashore by a long walrus hide rope. They loaded all of the loot from the raid on Fearna aboard the one sound vessel. If the Irish attacked, the Northmen might still get away aboard that ship, carrying their riches with them.
They spent two days on the beach heaving Eagle’s Wing over on her side and getting at the cracked plank as best they could. Two days, during which word of their presence must certainly have reached Lorcan. Repairs nearly done, and Fasti’s men eager to be gone, and with the Irish still nowhere to be seen, it was agreed that Sea Rider should get underway. No one would feel comfortable until the plunder from Fearna was safely within the walls of Vík-ló.
Grimarr and the crew of Eagle’s Wing would be half a day behind at most, and they would meet again at the longphort. There were only a few men in the world whom Grimarr would allow to sail off with a fortune that was half his. Fasti was one of them.
Sea Rider was nearly hull down to the north when they pushed Eagle’s Wing back into the sea and found that the repair they had made was not holding, the water still pouring in. Out she came once more, hove back on her side. An additional patch of wood, well slathered with tar, was clench-nailed over the cracked plank, and that at last seemed to hold. By then it was dark, and so the men pushed the ship into the shallow water and made it fast to the tree that had held Sea Rider and there they spent the night. They were underway at first light, following in Sea Rider’s wake.
That was two days past, and now the men of Eagle’s Wing were leaning hard into the oars, forcing every foot of headway out of the ship, desperate get around the headland and into the fight beyond. Because every man knew, as Grimarr did, that the battle involved Fasti Magnisson and his men.
It had to be thus. The Irish were not seafarers, they did not engage in sea fights. Any fight on the water had to involve Northmen, and Sea Rider was the only ship Grimarr knew for certain was nearby. She should have been safely back to Vík-ló by now; why she was not Grimarr could not imagine; but that did not shake his belief that it was Fasti locked in that fight. Fasti, his friend. Fasti, who had Grimarr’s share of the Fearna treasure aboard his vessel.
Chapter Two
I was outnumbered,
yet I fed the raven’s maw.
Gisli Sursson’s Saga
They rounded the headland, so close Grimarr could feel the spray on his face from the seas crashing against the ship-killing rocks. Off the larboard bow the land seemed to drop away as the coastline ran off to the north and west, a near ninety degree bend around the high cliffs to where the shore ran for another few miles to Vík-ló.
The sounds of the fight were louder now, the metal clang of sword on sword, of ax on helmet, the shouting of furious men, the screaming of dying men. Louder, but Grimarr still could not see it. Fore and aft the men at the rowing thwarts craned their heads around, trying to get a glimpse beyond the bow.
“Keep you minds on your damned oars!” Grimarr roared. “I’ll tell you when there’s something to see!”
Heads snapped back, muscled arms pulled at the long wooden shafts, and Eagle’s Wing shot through the water.
And then he saw them, the combatants, visible at last as Eagle’s Wing doubled the far end of the headland. Grimarr cursed out loud, shouted oaths to the sky, pounded the tiller with his fist. Sea Rider was a half mile away, low in the water, listing to larboard from the weight of the men, the dozens and dozens of men locked in a bloody struggle on her deck. She was surrounded by boats, low and black in the water. Irish boats, what the Irish people called curachs. They were flimsy things, insubstantial frames of wood covered in oak-bark tanned ox hide - nothing compared to the great Viking longships.
What they lacked in size and stoutness, however, they made up for in numbers. Here was a swarm of curachs that all together might have carried a hundred men or more. They had been waiting just north of the headland, Grimarr guessed, had struck fast as soon as the longship had come into view. They must have been watching from shore, tracking Sea Rider’s progress. They looked to Grimarr like a pack of wolves set on a furious bull.
Sea Rider was surrounded. The curachs had come at her from all sides, the Irishmen at their oars climbing aboard, overwhelming the Norsemen. Or trying to, in any event. Fasti and his men were fighting back with the fury of their race. Swords and axes rose and fell, spears jabbed at men climbing over the low sides. By Grimarr’s calculation the fight had been going on for twenty minutes at least, which meant the Sea Riders were making a bold stand. But Grimarr could see they were greatly outnumbered.
They don’t see us, he thought. The world of men in battle did not extend beyond the borders of the fight. No one had yet noticed Eagle’s Wing coming up fast astern. Grimarr clenched his teeth in impotent fury.
Bastards! Whore’s sons! I’ll butcher them all!
He willed his ship to move more swiftly through the water, but he knew his men were pulling with every bit of power they had and he would not shout at them and risk alerting the Irish to their presence. How beautiful it would be if he could burst in among them, unseen until his sword began to do its deadly work.
“Sandarr!” he called to his son. “Come take the tiller.” Sandarr limped aft. He would not join in the fighting, at least not in the first assault. With his wounded leg he had no agility, the injury he had sustained on a raid the year before - a wound he had taken in an honorable fight - still causing him pain.
Grimarr was silently disgusted by his boy’s weakness.
Sandarr stepped around the end of the tiller and took the smooth oak bar from Grimarr. “Right up to Sea Rider’s larboard side,” Grimarr instructed him, “just smash every one of those damned curachs right between our two ships. We’ll cut those Irish dogs off and kill them where they stand.”
Sandarr nodded. Grimarr yielded the tiller and moved forward. He removed the cloak that was clasped around his neck, picked up his sword which was beside him on the after deck and buckled the belt around his waist. He walked forward, between the lines of men heaving at the oars. Each of them had at his side a sword or a battle ax, whatever his preferred weapon, ready to grab. Helmets were there as well, shields on the shield racks along the ship’s sides. They would not have time to don mail, but that was no matter. These Irish dogs would be cut down and fed to the creatures of the sea before they put a blade on any of the Northmen.
Eagle’s Wing was pierced for thirty-two oars, sixteen per side, which meant it took only about half her crew to row her. But no man was idle now. Most of the oars had two men sitting side by side on the thwart and putting considerable strength of arm into the pull.
“You men who are doubling up on oars, leave off, come with me!” Grimarr said, his voice a low growl. “To arms!”
One by one the men stood up from the thwarts until the oars were single banked. They took up their weapons, settled helmets on their heads and followed Grimarr forward. It would not do to plow into the middle of a fight with all of the men holding oars in their hands rather than weapons.
Grimarr reached the bow and stood beside the great arching prow with its intricate carvings that tapered up to the stylized head of a screaming eagle. A quarter mile or less, and he could see the fight was slacking off, the surge of motion fore and aft not what it had been, the rise and fall of weapons less frequent. He reached up and pulled on his beard. This was not good. This was not a hopeful sign. But even if every man of Fasti’s crew was dead at least the Irish would not have time to carry th
e treasure off.
He turned back to the men. “Pull, you bastards!” he hissed. Pointless, but he could not help himself. He turned back. They were closing fast. And it was then that Grimarr saw him.
Even with the distance between them there could be no mistake. Like Grimarr, Lorcan mac Fáeláin was a giant of a man, nearly as big as Grimarr himself, nearly as broad. Grimarr had met him once face to face, the one time the Irish and dubh gall had tried to broker some sort of understanding. It had not gone well. But Grimarr had learned then what sort of man Lorcan was and why the Irish willingly bent to his will.
Here was Lorcan mac Fáeláin again, standing near the aft end of Sea Rider, a great battle ax in his hand. Grimarr could see the blood glinting wet on the blade. He reached down and drew his own sword and crushed his teeth together in frustration.
The fight was over. He could see that. The Irish were falling back, arms slack, their dull-colored tunics blood-spattered and torn. They were spent, but they were the ones left standing and Grimarr did not like to think of the state in which they had left Fasti and his men. The Norsemen would have sold their lives dearly, they would have taken some effort to kill. And now Grimarr meant to swoop down like a demon of vengeance.
But as he stared at the great, broad back of Lorcan mac Fáeláin, Lorcan seemed to feel the heat of his gaze. He turned, and Eagle’s Wing was close enough now that Grimarr could see the look of shocked surprise on Lorcan’s face. The ship had seemed to appear out of nowhere, a deadly foe dropped from the sky or shot up from the depths of the sea.
Lorcan was not the only one to see the ship now. Another man turned, pointed, shouted in surprise, and then all of the Irishmen turned and gaped at the sudden appearance of this bearer of death astern. They began to back away. All except Lorcan, who raised his ax and advanced toward the oncoming ship.
“One pull and ship oars! To arms!” Grimarr shouted. He heard the grunt as each of the men took one last hard pull, the grind of wood on wood as the oars were hauled inboard, the clatter of the long wooden shafts dropped on the ship’s deck. There was no need for quiet now, and Grimarr gave out a roar that was made up of all the pent up fury in his gut, the great beastly sound filling the air. Behind it, like a chorus, his men shouted and cursed and banged weapons together. The Irish aboard Sea Rider took another step back as Lorcan advanced two steps toward the Northmen.
Then the ships came together. Sandarr’s aim was good, though not perfect. Rather than crushing the curachs between the longships he drove Eagle’s Wing’s bow into the stern of Sea Rider. The ships hit with a jarring impact that made Grimarr stagger. They swung apart, but Eagle’s Wing still carried way enough that Sandarr could bring the ships together again with a rending and splintering of wood.
Grimarr leapt the gap between the ships, roaring and swinging his straight-bladed sword as he vaulted onto Sea Rider’s deck. His foot hit the sheer strake and he launched off it with an agility that was stunning for a man so big, shouting and swinging at Lorcan’s head as his feet came down on the pine deck. His weapon was met with Lorcan’s ax, which caught the blade between ax head and shaft. Lorcan twisted the ax, hoping to wrench the sword clean from Grimarr’s hand, but Grimarr pulled the sword back, disentangling it from Lorcan’s grip.
Now Lorcan was roaring, his rage palpable, shouting his fury at Grimarr’s appearing from the sea and plucking from him his greatest triumph over the cursed dubh gall. Spit flew from his mouth, his eyes were wide, his beard a mass of tangled brush as he arched his ax back and swung it down, two handed, with the force he might use to cleave an oak clean in two.
Grimarr realized that he had left his shield behind but that was no matter. There was power in Lorcan’s stroke yet no subtlety, and no surprise. Grimarr stepped aside as the ax swept down and Lorcan buried the blade an inch deep in the deck where there it stayed firmly held.
Grimarr drew his sword back, preparing for a sweeping backhand stroke that would take Lorcan’s huge head right off the neck that was hidden beneath his beard. He swung but Lorcan released the grip on the ax, lashed out with his right hand and grabbed Grimarr’s sword arm with a strength Grimarr had never felt in any man before. He checked Grimarr’s stroke in mid-swing then smashed his left fist into Grimarr’s ribs, doubling him up. The sword fell clattering to the deck.
Lorcan let go of Grimarr’s arm and stepped in to deliver another blow, one from which Grimarr would not recover, but Grimarr jerked his head up quick, caught Lorcan under the chin with the back of his skull, and sent him reeling.
On his left and right the men were pouring over the sides from Eagle’s Wing and smashing into the wall of Irish warriors. Axes and swords rose again, spears thrust into the packed men. Grimarr’s crew was tired from the hard pull with the oars, but they were not nearly as tired as Lorcan’s were from the previous brutal fight with Fasti’s men.
They fought well, the Irish, held off the onslaught as best they could, but their defense was weak and the Norsemen drove them back. Though Lorcan’s men wielded their swords and axes with skill, the strength was drained from their arms. They would not last long.
Grimarr and Lorcan faced one another, breathing hard, hatred radiating like heat from a bed of coals. Grimarr’s sword was at his feet and Lorcan’s ax was stuck hard in the deck. Grimarr balled his fists. Bare hands…he thought. I’ll kill him with my bare hands and I’ll savor every second of it…
Then one of the Irish shouted, his voice clear through the din of the fight, an order of some sort. There was a rush of movement forward and Lorcan shouted back in the ugly language of his people. Grimarr’s eyes darted left. The Irish had taken up Sea Rider’s long oars and were using them to hold the Northmen back while others flung themselves over the gunnels of the longship and into the curachs alongside.
Grimarr charged at Lorcan, swinging with his left fist. Lorcan stopped the blow with his arm, as Grimarr knew he would, and Grimarr delivered the real blow with his right. He caught Lorcan in the side of the head, sent him reeling, and felt the bones of his fingers crushed by the impact. He cocked his arm, hesitated, knowing what agony would come with the next blow. Then Lorcan snatched up his sword and swung for Grimarr’s gut.
Grimarr leapt back, out of the arc of the swinging blade. The razor edge sliced his tunic, sliced his stomach, enough to make the blood flow and the sharp pain come, but no more. Then Lorcan was gone. In the second’s pause it took Grimarr to stumble back, Lorcan moved fast to the ship’s side. He did not turn his back on Grimarr but shouted something in his guttural language as he made his retreat, something defiant. He threw Grimarr’s sword away and went over the side and down into one of the curachs. He was still flailing on the bottom of the boat, trying to right himself, when the Irishmen leaned into the oars and the boat shot away from Sea Rider’s side.
“No, you whore’s son, come back here!” Grimarr shouted. He raced to the side of the ship but he could do nothing but watch as the boat bearing Lorcan pulled away. Lorcan, seated in the stern, turned and shook a fist and made a gesture that Grimarr guessed was some great insult among these Irish.
Grimarr was breathing hard. He stood at the ship’s sheer strake and leaned on his hands. The pain from his broken digits shot through his arm and he jerked that hand away as if he had put it down on hot metal. He looked to his right. Sandarr was there, sword in hand. There was blood on the sword, Grimarr was happy to see, but what part his son had played in the fight he did not know.
“Bastards,” Sandarr said, watching the curachs as they raced for shore. There was no point in trying to overtake them. They might catch one, maybe two, but each held no more than ten men at most. It was not worth the effort. And they had more important business.
Grimarr picked up his sword and sheathed it, then made his way slowly forward. He was a veteran of many raids, and considerable fighting back home, but he had never seen anything like this. He doubted any man aboard had. The dead were heaped one upon another, in some places three or four men deep. Ir
ish and Norsemen. There were gaping wounds, blood drenched clothing, eyes wide and staring from faces twisted in pain and horror. The deck and sides of the ship were so covered in blood they looked to have been painted with it. Weapons lay in a wondrous profusion, swords stabbed into thwarts, spears jutting like masts from the corpses of Irish and Northmen alike.
Not all the dead were fighting men. Fasti had been carrying a dozen Irishmen and women taken in the raid and bound to be sold as thralls. They had been chained together amidships and there they had died. They may have been be cut down in the general slaughter, but to Grimarr there was something more deliberate about their wounds, something that suggested sacrifice rather than random killing.
“Throw these Irish overboard,” Grimarr said. He could feel the panic rising. Most of the treasure had been stored beneath the deck boards, which were now buried under the dead, but he knew there had been a couple of bags of silver plate and such which had been left on the afterdeck and they were nowhere to be found.
Did Lorcan get the treasure? Grimarr wondered. He did not see how he could have done so. The fight was still going on when Eagle’s Wing had pulled into sight. There had never been a moment when the Irish might have loaded the plunder into their boats.
So where by the gods is it? Grimarr thought.
The men of Eagle’s Wing worked in pairs, moving along the deck, lifting the Irish dead by arms and feet and swinging them over the side. They rolled Fasti’s men out of the way, found more Irish beneath them, and heaved them into the deep with a splash that sent water up higher than the gunnels.
Fasti Magnisson himself was near the base of the mast. He wore no mail – Lorcan’s attack must have been swift, an ambush – and Grimarr could read in the man’s wounds the fury with which Fasti had fought. There were vicious cuts on his legs and arms. His stomach was opened up so far that Grimarr could see the gleam of viscera through the wound. But the blow that had felled him was from an ax, which had split his skull and which remained lodged in his head where he lay sprawled over a thwart.
The Lord of Vik-lo: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 3) Page 2
