The Lord of Vik-lo: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 3)

by James L. Nelson

  There was no real sun-up, just a general lightening in the skies, a grayness that revealed the incessant rain and the gusting wind as the band of raiders moved north. Lorcan and some of his lead men were on horseback but most were on foot, spears in hand, bows and quivers over backs, swords hanging from belts. The going was slow as the soaked earth pulled at their shoes and the wind and the rain made it difficult to see.

  It was approaching mid-day when they came to a rise that overlooked miles of rolling countryside and Lorcan called for a stop. Beyond the distant hill, smoke was rising in several columns that remained visible until the wind tore them apart and scattered them into something indistinguishable from the general grayness.

  “That is Fearghus’s home,” Lorcan pointed to the smoke. “Two ringforts. One surrounds his buildings, the other is for his cattle. A second ringfort for cattle is over there.” He gestured to another hill to the east.

  Fearghus was of the aire forgill. In Ireland’s stratified society the air forgill ranked just below the rí túaithe. They were not of the nobility, but were considered lords of superior testimony, with twenty free farmers and twenty who paid them rents, amounting to hundreds of cattle per year. That made Fearghus powerful enough to be a problem if he chose to be.

  Beside Lorcan, also on horseback, was Senchan mac Ronan. Senchan served as Lorcan’s second in the absence of Niall mac Faelan, who had suffered a vicious wound to his leg in the fight with the longship.

  “Will we raid that one, then?” Senchan asked, pointing toward the east.

  “No,” Lorcan said, and there was finality in his tone. There usually was. “We will raid the one that stands by Fearghus’s home.” He offered no explanation and Senchan knew better than to question Lorcan’s decision, so he was careful to make his next words sound more like an observation.

  “Fearghus’s men will be nearby,” Senchan said. “And sure they’ve seen us approach. These cattle raids are often done in the dark. By men less bold than you, of course, Lord Lorcan.”

  “Damn the dark, and damn Fearghus and his men,” Lorcan said. “I don’t do this just to gain a few miserable cows. I do it to teach a lesson and no lesson is learned if Fearghus does not know who has impoverished him. I only pray his men have the courage to come out and fight so that we may reinforce the lesson by killing some of them.”

  That was all Lorcan intended to say, so he dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and moved on. The weary, rain-soaked men in his company did likewise. They slogged down the long slope of the hill and up the next, and as they crested the rise they could see the two brown earthen rings that made up the protective walls of Fearghus’s farm. One was two hundred feet in diameter at least and contained within it a large round house and a number of smaller buildings. These were the homes of Fearghus and his family and his laborers, all of whom enjoyed the dubious safety of the ringfort. Smoke came twisting and swirling from the holes in the roofs, mixing together and whisking off down wind.

  The second ring was much smaller, but still substantial, and from their high spot Lorcan and his men could see the cattle moving about, maybe one hundred and fifty or two hundred head. They would be kept there during the night, safe from wild animals and cattle raiders who were less bold than Lorcan. From that distance the cattle appeared as no more than dark spots on the brown trampled earth within the walls.

  “There,” Lorcan said. “Let us go. Fearghus is not to be harmed, is that clear?” His men shed their fur cloaks and hats and anything that might impede their ability to fight. Generally a raid such as this was a clandestine affair, but Lorcan’s men understood now that he meant it to be very public, that taking the cattle was the least of his concerns. It would not, however, be the least of Fearghus’s concerns. In Ireland, where coins and other treasure were rare, cattle was currency, and one hundred and fifty head represented great wealth.

  Lorcan kicked his horse into motion again, heading down the last hill at a quicker pace than he had moved before, Senchan and the other mounted men keeping pace, the rest falling behind. They had halved the distance to the ringfort when they finally saw some activity there, the wooden gate swinging open, a handful of men emerging. Their hesitancy, their uncertaintcertainy was obvious, even from a quarter mile away.

  Lorcan slowed his horse to a walk and turned its head until the animal was making not for the cattle pen but for the men who were emerging from the ringfort and spreading out along the open ground to meet the coming threat. His own foot soldiers caught up with him and Senchan and the others on horseback and fell into step, keeping back, allowing Lorcan to take the lead. He could see Fearghus had managed to collect about fifteen men under arms, but the closer he came, the less of a danger they appeared. They were not fighting men, they were farmers with weapons. And they were afraid.

  “Fearghus!” Lorcan called, and drew to a stop ten feet from the man. “You live well I see!” He nodded toward the ringfort. The top of the roof of Fearghus’s home was visible above the wall. “Perhaps I’ll stop for a visit. You have a fire lit, by the looks of it, a good thing on such a morning. You would not mind if me and my men warmed ourselves?”

  Fearghus stepped forward and Lorcan had to admit that he at least did not look frightened. Furious, ready to kill, but not frightened. All the more reason he needed Fearghus on his side.

  “What do you want, Lorcan mac Fáeláin?” he demanded.

  “Your loyalty, Fearghus, nothing but your loyalty. It will cost you nothing.”

  “It will cost me a great deal. Ruarc mac Brain rules here and he will brook no threat to his supremacy.”

  “Ah, Ruarc mac Brain, is it?” Lorcan asked. He took an exaggerated look around. “Is Ruarc here to protect you now?”

  There was a long and ugly silence as the two men stared at one another. “No, I thought not,” Lorcan said. “In any event, I see you and your men are here to do battle, so we will not disappoint you.” He twisted around in his saddle, shouted to the men behind him. “At them, men, at them! They are a fearsome lot!”

  With a shout, Lorcan’s men rolled forward, spears leading the way. They rushed pell-mell at Fearghus’s men, the sort of disorganized charge that would have got Lorcan’s entire force slaughtered had they been going against fighting men of courage and experience.

  But they were not. Fearghus’s men raised their weapons, took a step toward the charging men, wavered, then flung their weapons aside and fled. The gate of the ringfort had sensibly been closed and barred, so the now disarmed warriors raced off in every direction. Lorcan tried to call them back, but he was laughing so hard he could not form words. Three of Fearghus’s men were dead on the muddy ground before Lorcan was able to put an end to the fight. Only Fearghus himself held his ground, but Lorcan’s men ignored him.

  “That was a most disappointing effort,” Lorcan said when he had regained his voice. “Now, Fearghus, you may show us your hospitality.”

  Furious, silent, and impotent, Fearghus ordered the gates to the ringfort open and he led the way in. Soon Lorcan’s men were warming themselves in Fearghus’s hall, eating great quantities of his food and drinking his drink as if they were honored guests. Lorcan himself sat at the head table where he insisted Fearghus join him.

  When their clothes were finally dry and they had eaten and drunk their fill, Lorcan stood and clapped Fearghus on the shoulder. “And now we will take your cattle and be gone,” he said. He summoned his men in a voice that filled the room. They gathered and headed for the door.

  “Wait!” Fearghus called, the first words he had spoken since entering the hall. He had had held out longer than Lorcan had imagined he would, and that won him some of Lorcan’s respect. Lorcan stopped and turned.

  “Very well,” Fearghus said. “You are right, Ruarc mac Brain is gone from here these days, and has all but given up rule. I’ll…support you. Stand with you. Lord… Lorcan. Tell me what you need of me.”

  For a long moment Lorcan just looked at him and did not speak, letting Fea
rghus twist with uncertainty and fear. Finally he spoke.

  “Very well, Fearghus. I will take but half your cattle, and you will give it willingly. When the time comes, you and your…men…will stand with me. You understand?”

  Fearghus’s expression was not one of a man gladly joining forces with another, but when he spoke his voice was clear, and there was only a hint of bitterness and rage. “Very well,” he said. He paused again, and then added, “I am with you.”

  Lorcan nodded and said no more. He turned and led his men back out into the rain. They trudged to the smaller ringfort where the cattle were housed, swung open the gate and drove half of the animals out. As he wheeled his horse around, Lorcan said to Fearghus, “I am a merciful man, so I will pretend I do not even know about the other cattle you have beyond the hill there.” He dug his heels in his horse’s flanks and left Fearghus behind.

  The remainder of the day was taken up with the not so glorious task of driving the beasts across the countryside to Lorcan’s own fields. Once back at Ráth Naoi, Lorcan ordered one of the newly acquired cattle slaughtered and roasted. His weary men feasted well for the second time that day before dragging themselves off to their beds.

  By the next morning the rain had tapered off to little more than a heavy mist, which in Ireland hardly constituted rain at all. Sunrise was a few hours gone when a messenger arrived from the hills to the south of Cill Mhantáin, what the Norsemen called Vík-ló. Lorcan kept a man there watching the longphort, always watching. With him was a horse and rider to carry word back to Ráth Naoi. The Northmen were fast becoming a serious threat to Lorcan, enough to warrant such vigilance.

  “The dubh-gall have been hiding from the storm these past days,” the messenger reported, “but now they are out and doing something aboard that ship you attacked. It’s been run up on the mud this whole time, abandoned, but now they are doing something.”

  Lorcan considered this. Was it possible the plunder from Fearna had been aboard all along? Were the Northmen just now taking it from its hiding place?

  “Show me,” Lorcan said, standing and taking his fur cape from the bench where it was drying before the fire.

  It took less than an hour to cover the few miles to Cill Mhantáin. Lorcan and the messenger tied their horses to a tree beyond the high ground that hid the Norse longphort from sight, then climbed to the crest of the hill and down the far side. The town the dubh-gall called Vík-ló lay spread before them, the pathetic low dirt wall, the palisade. Lorcan knew he could overrun the place in minutes if he had men enough, and he was getting them.

  At last they came to the thicket on the slope from which Lorcan’s men kept their vigil, the better part of a mile away but as close as they dared get. From that place, which looked down on Vík-ló, they could see anything that was happening out of doors, and even if they could not see every nuance of what the Northmen were about they could see enough.

  The watchman posted in the brush looked up, startled at the sound of their approach. On seeing who it was, he pointed toward the waterfront and said, “There, Lord Lorcan.”

  Men were indeed swarming over the longship, and Lorcan recognized it as the one against which he had led the attack. Another ship, Grimarr Giant’s he believed, was out in the river, riding at anchor, and still more men seemed to be preparing the other three ships for sea, pulling the oars down from the gallows and untying the ropes that held them to the shore.

  Lorcan squinted, cocked his head, tried to get a better look. He could not divine what exactly was taking place. They might have been removing the plunder from Fearna, but he did not think so. There seemed to be no urgency about them.

  “Have they removed anything from the ship?” Lorcan asked.

  “Something, I cannot tell what,” the lookout answered. “They were some time about it. Whatever they took is piled up in a heap on the plank road.”

  Lorcan grunted. Not treasure, then, they would not pile treasure in a heap on the road. And suddenly the ship was moving, sliding out into the water, and oars sprouted from the sides of the other ship as if it had suddenly grown wings. Grimarr’s ship slowly gathered way and Fasti’s fell in astern and Lorcan realized the one was towing the other. One by one the others were pushed into the river and the oars run out the oar holes. Soon all the longships at Vík-ló were pulling for the mouth of the river.

  What the devil… he wondered. He stepped from the thicket and walked up the hill again, his eyes on the distant ships, the messenger and the watchman with him. As he climbed higher, more of the coastline and the sea beyond opened up to him. He watched the ships as they slowly moved toward the mouth of the river.

  Damn them, damn their black hearts, Lorcan thought. Nothing filled him with rage as much as the sight of the longships, and he knew why. The longships gave the Northmen command of the sea. They meant that the heathens could strike at will with a speed no Irishman could match, could strike into the heart of Ireland by way of the wide rivers and be gone before any Irish army could even reach the field of battle. They could carry Irish plunder and Irish slaves beyond the horizon to lands Lorcan could not even imagine.

  The longships, oak-built, sleek and powerful as sharks, were akin to some great magic. It was a magic that the Irish in their pathetic hide covered boats, sorry wicker frame constructions, or their few fat, lumbering awkward sea-going cargo ships could only hope to emulate. The longships could cross oceans and return again. The longships could disappear beyond the edge of sea and sky and then reappear where ever they chose. The longships were power incarnate, and as long as the Northmen had them and the Irish did not then the Irish would never match the strength of the gall.

  And the Irish would not have vessels like those of the Northmen anytime soon because building such a thing was a dark mystery, even more so than sailing one. It might as well have been magic conjured up by the heathen gods for all the understanding Irish boat builders had of how to construct such a craft. Lovely and curvaceous, quick through the seas, able to weather ungodly storms, sailed with their great tangle of ropes and cloth, the longships were as indecipherable as the Norse tongue and Lorcan hated the men and their ships because he envied them so.

  He watched in silence as Grimarr’s ship towed the other out beyond the mouth of the river, the others following behind.

  Are they leaving, all of them, off on another raid? Lorcan wondered. He had been waiting for a chance, a time when most of the warriors were gone from Vík-ló, to sack the longphort and burn it to the ground. Only two ships had gone to Fearna - too few to give his warriors much hope for success. But now it seemed they were all getting underway. Lorcan felt a building excitement in his gut.

  And then they stopped. Grimarr’s ship came side by side with the vessel it was towing, while the others drifted to a standstill and seemed to wait where they were.

  “What are they doing?” the lookout asked.

  They watched in silence a moment more before the messenger answered, “I do not know.”

  Lorcan said nothing, though he had an idea of what they were about, and if he was right they would know soon enough. Then, just as he had envisioned, a flame appeared, a bright spot in the muted daylight, flying through the air like a shooting star. A torch thrown into the bottom of the longship. A moment after that the entire ship was ablaze, while Grimarr’s vessel pulled a safe distance to windward.

  “They are burning their ship!” the lookout cried, as stupid an observation as Lorcan could imagine. “Why would they burn their ship, lord?”

  “It is a funeral,” Lorcan said. “These heathens burn their dead, or bury them with their weapons at their side. They think they need them in whatever world they go to. They probably killed some poor slave to send him along as well.” From the corner of his eye Lorcan saw the two men make the sign of the cross but he could not pull his eyes from the burning ship.

  Damn them… A longship was something beyond his power, yet the Northmen thought so little of it they were willing to burn one for the
ir senseless pagan ritual.

  How will we ever defeat these people? Lorcan wondered, giving over in his mind to doubts he would never express out loud.

  And then, as if God was trying to reinforce the futility of resisting the heathen invader, the lookout pointed further out to sea and said, “Look there, Lord Lorcan! Another of the Northmen’s ships is coming!”

  Lorcan followed the pointed finger. Far off toward the horizon in the north east he could see it, the unmistakable image of a longship, its big square sail set and driving it before the wind. It was too far off to make out any details, indeed it was so far that no one would have recognized it for a longship if they were not intimately familiar with the sight of such a vessel, which Lorcan, to his great dismay, most certainly was. More of the heathen Northmen, bound for Cill Mhantáin. His country.

  Damn them… he thought again.

  Chapter Eight

  Though the east wind has toyed

  with the shore-ski this week

  I weigh that but little

  the weather’s weaker now.

  The Saga of Gunnlaug Serpent-Tongue

  At no time did the water stop gushing in through the rent in Far Voyager’s hull, and at no time did the men stop their frantic bailing. But the cloth that Starri had worked over the leak and the shields and other reinforcements Thorgrim had wedged over the damaged planks from the inside slowed the water so the seas gushed less rapidly, the men bailed less frantically. All through the miserable day and the more miserable night the men kept at it, by turns bailing and resting.

  Thorgrim and Agnarr relieved one another at the helm and kept Far Voyager hard on the wind on a larboard tack as they worked the ship through the seas. In the daylight hours, through the rain and drifting fog, they caught an occasional glimpse of the Irish shore, a low, dark line miles to leeward. And even when they could not see it, they felt its presence, like the spirit of death. The wind was setting them down on that deadly coast as they kept Far Voyager clawing her way off, and between their efforts and that of Ægir, god of the sea, their distance off shore did not change much as the storm swept them to the south.