Even if the killer of his brother he find bound.
Grottasöng
Grimarr stared at the runes for half a minute, no more. Then he turned the deck board over and carefully set it back in place as though he was setting a sword by the body of his son in preparation for burial. He stood and he felt his thoughts start to clear, just a bit, like sediment swirling up from the bottom of a pond and then settling again.
The sun was out now, the sky nearly cloudless, but that only added to the other-worldliness of the entire scene. There was Thorgrim Night Wolf, talking with Bersi and Hilder, the three of them talking as if nothing had changed, as if the entire world had not suddenly been inverted.
“Thorgrim…” Grimarr said. He spoke softly, the word like a curse, like it might conjure up the most hideous of black magic. “Thorgrim…”
Half a year ago an Irishman had arrived at Vík-ló, a young man with silver to spread around and an assurance of more to come. He was looking for men to sail to Dubh-linn, to make a prisoner of a young woman who was staying in the home of a blacksmith there. He did not say why, but the amount of silver he was willing to pay was indication enough that this girl was no thrall or low-born peasant.
Sandarr had thought it a fool’s errand. Grimarr had been skeptical. But Sweyn and Svein had stepped up without the least hesitation. They were always eager for the main chance and were looking for a way to win glory of their own accord, not just at their father’s side. This was what Grimarr loved about the boys and despite his misgivings he gave his blessing to the expedition. Sweyn and Svein collected a crew, took the ship which had been Sandarr’s command before his injury, and sailed for Dubh-linn.
Twenty-six men had sailed with his boys. Two returned. They had come by foot, after managing to disappear into the back alleys of Dubh-linn after the fight was lost. They had found a way out of the longphort and traveled three weeks overland to return home.
They told the tale of the fight on the plank road. They had not been with Sweyn and Svein when they grabbed the young woman, but they told of how they had fought on the road, how they had nearly bested the girl’s defenders, how a second rush of men had come out of the dark and cut them down. They had seen Sweyn and Svein die with weapons in their hands. That was something, some comfort for Grimarr, some little bit of warmth in the frozen depths of his grief.
And now Thorgrim Night Wolf sailed their ship.
Grimarr’s hand moved for the hilt of his sword the way a Christian priest might reach for his crucifix, but where he was accustomed to finding the weapon he found only air. This was something else that was not right, something else out of place in his world, because his sword was always there and his hand always found it. And then he remembered.
A gesture of friendship… He felt the rage building now, a white-hot flame that burned the confusion out of his mind. He looked around for something, some weapon, an oar, a tiller, something with which he could beat Thorgrim to death.
Then he saw Thorgrim’s son Harald crossing the open ground, walking toward Thorgrim quick and careless without a worry in the world. And Grimarr knew that Harald was the one who must die. He must die in front of Thorgrim’s eyes, Thorgrim must witness it before Thorgrim himself was killed in a manner so shameful that he would never see the inside of Odin’s hall.
He whirled around, still searching for a weapon, but even as he did a candle-flame of reason flickered in the darkness of his rage. Bersi was there and would fight with him, and Hilder, too, but Thorgrim had his entire crew at his side, all his men. Armed or no, Grimarr would be lucky to fell either Harald or Thorgrim before he himself was killed, and that was no good. Grimarr did not fear death, but he would not throw his life away before he had avenged the murder of his sons.
That was the reason he stopped searching for a weapon and pushed aside his desire to kill Thorgrim and Harald there and then, but it was not until sometime later that he would understand it. His thinking was not so sharp there on the afterdeck of his sons’ ship, his plans were not laid out clean like runes etched in a stone marker. They were more dream-like; vivid but still amorphous and unreal. He did not know what to do then, in that moment, that place, he knew only that he had to kill Thorgrim and Harald and still secure the Fearna plunder, and to do all that he would have to think it out.
He stumbled forward and found the gangplank and managed to negotiate the narrow board back down to the ground. He could think of only one thing, only one clear goal, and that was to return to his hall, to get out of the mocking sunshine and into the dark gloom of his lair, to envelope himself in the dim light and the smoky, musty familiarity of that place.
What was done with their remains? Grimarr wondered, the thought that plagued him most. They certainly had not received a send-off such as that of the men of Sea Rider. Grimarr hoped, he prayed to the gods, that they at least had been buried in a proper way, their weapons at their sides. In his low moments, when he could not keep his black thoughts at bay, he had visions of his handsome boys stripped naked and flung on a dung heap. He had dreams at night sometimes, dark and ugly dreams.
His legs carried him swiftly toward the plank road. His eyes were down, his mouth set. He heard Bersi call his name as if from a great distance but he ignored him and he strode on, the need to be back in his own place growing stronger with every step up the hill. His thoughts whirled and began to settle again into rational and organized patterns. Did Thorgrim know that the boys he had killed, Sweyn and Svein, were his sons? Was Thorgrim mocking him, taunting him by coming to Vík-ló? Or was this some sort of coincidence?
No, it was not a coincidence, of that Grimarr was certain. Thorgrim, however, would not have come to Vík-ló to purposely taunt him unless he wished to die, and Grimarr did not think that he did. Therefore, either Thorgrim knew and wished to keep it a secret, or he did not know, and the gods had sent him so that he, Grimarr, could have the revenge that was his right. The more he thought on it, the more certain he was that the latter possibility was the correct one.
With massive strides he covered the distance from the river to his hall, and as he did he began to see the patterns laid out before him. Thorgrim killed his boys; he had somehow he managed to best them and take their ship. He disguised the ship and tried to flee Ireland, but the gods would not have it, so they sent him limping into Vík-ló. Then they revealed to Grimarr just who it was they had placed within his grasp.
Grimarr’s mind continued to clear and he saw that this was a gift that could not be ignored or wasted. He had to be clever. He had to exact his revenge in a way that would show the gods how much he appreciated what they had done for him. This was not a time for mindless butchery. It was a time to be clever. To think.
He came to this understanding just as he reached the heavy oak door to his hall, and that was good because he needed the dark and the familiar in order to work through what he would do next. He pushed the door open. Some sunlight was coming in through the few windows, their shutters flung open to the unusual warmth, but mostly the space was still in deep shadow. He stepped in, and as he did he became aware that there were men there, men he did not expect.
His eyes began to accustom themselves to the half-light of the room and the men seemed to resolve in front of him, as if materializing from the smoke. One was Hrafn, the man he had sent with Lorcan’s messenger to see if Sandarr was in fact alive. Seated in front of him were two men Grimarr did not recognize, men dressed in the Irish fashion, warriors by the look of them. They were not armed, but Hrafn was, as were the dozen or so of Grimarr’s men who formed a loose half-circle behind them.
Grimarr paused, not sure what was expected of him. He had been so completely lost in consideration of Thorgrim and his dead sons and the revenge he would have that he was now finding it difficult to change the direction of his thoughts.
“My Lord Grimarr?” Hrafn said, stirring Grimarr from his mental exile. “I’ve returned from Lorcan’s ringfort.”
Grimarr looked at Hrafn, looke
d at the Irishmen and then once more at Hrafn. He forced himself to consider this new problem, to set the other aside. “What did you learn?” he demanded, stepping further into the room, closer to Hrafn and the two Irishmen. “What of Sandarr?”
“Sandarr lives, my Lord,” Hrafn said. “I spoke with him. He is not hurt. The thrall, Ronnat, his red-headed thrall, is with him.”
Grimarr looked up, sharp. “His thrall is with him?”
“Yes, Lord.”
Grimarr turned and stared off into the darkness at the far end of the room. That bastard, that traitorous, disloyal, god-forsaken bastard…
Sandarr was his first-born, his oldest son, but for all that, Grimarr had never much liked him. There was something unwholesome about the boy, as if he was too clever by half, always looking for a way to wheedle or intrigue. The kind who was happier to plot behind a man’s back than face him with sword in hand. His brothers, Sweyn and Svein, had not been like that. Not at all. They were young men whose word could be taken as an oath. Reckless, headstrong, to be sure, as young men should be, but they were not the intriguing sort.
And now they were dead. And Sandarr, Grimarr’s only remaining son, had betrayed him.
“My Lord, Lorcan holds Sandarr prisoner,” Hrafn said, interrupting the silence.
Idiot, Grimarr thought. He turned quickly and took two steps toward Hrafn and the Irishmen. “A man who is taken prisoner by the enemy does not bring his thrall with him,” he said, his voice wavering as he struggled to keep his fury in check. “Sandarr has betrayed me.”
“My Lord,” Hrafn continued, though his voice carried less conviction now, “Lorcan says these men are to escort the girl back to him or next he will send you your son’s head.”
Grimarr laughed at that, a short, ugly laugh. “Sandarr is safe as long as Lorcan thinks he is useful, and Lorcan will think him useful until the Fearna treasure is in his hands or mine. Let Sandarr look to his own head.”
The door opened. Bersi and Hilder came in. They appeared to be out of breath, as if they had been running to catch up with Grimarr. Their eyes fell on the two Irishmen. Bersi said, “Lord Grimarr, do you need to speak with these Irish? Shall I send for the Norwegian boy, Harald?”
“No!” Grimarr snapped, louder and more angrily than he had intended. He saw Bersi startle at the outburst. The mention of Harald had rekindled Grimarr’s rage and he felt it consuming him. “No!” he shouted again, no longer even trying to contain himself. “No, I will not have that whore’s bastard here!” He grabbed the edge of the heavy oak table and lifted and pushed, flipping it like he was turning over the page of a book. Drinking bowls and jugs and plates and food scattered across the packed dirt floor.
He turned and looked at the stunned faces of the men watching him and he hated them all. He looked down at the two Irishmen, eyes wide, frightened and unable to follow what was happening. Lorcan’s men. Sent by the man who had killed Fasti, who wanted to take the Fearna treasure for himself, and drive Grimarr into the sea.
Grimarr felt a growl build in his throat, a low animal sound, and it grew louder and louder and became a shout of rage. Grimarr’s sword belt and sword were hanging from a spike driven into one of the beams of the wall. He grabbed the hilt of his sword and yanked it free and spun on his heel, all one fluid motion, coming around like a whirlwind, judging perfectly the length of his arm, the length of his sword, the distance he stood from the nearer of the Irishmen.
The blade of Grimarr’s sword, flawlessly honed, hit the man’s neck and barely paused in its arc as it cut clean through, sending the man’s head spinning off, his body slumping over. The spouting blood looked black like tar in the dim light and the men standing behind turned their heads and stumbled back and held up hands to fend off the spray.
The second Irishman was up before his companion’s head had come down with a dull thump on the dirt floor. He backed away, hands held in front of him, but with an admirable lack of terror on his face. Grimarr was hunched forward, the big sword seeming as weightless as a reed in his hand. He was breathing hard, looking at the second Irishman through the wisps of hair that had fallen across his face. There was silence, absolute silence in the hall, save for Grimarr’s heaving breath.
Then Grimarr pointed to Lorcan’s man, the one who still lived. “Tie him to his horse,” he said, low but clear. “Tie the other’s head around his neck and send them off. We’ll see if the horse can find Lorcan’s ringfort before the wolves find this pathetic pile of dung.”
He turned again and moved quickly toward the far end of the hall and the sleeping chambers beyond, and the men who were in his path scattered to get clear of him. He pushed open the door to his own private room. A raised bed piled with furs was pushed against one wall, a table and a stool against the other. His thrall had opened the wooden shutter on the room’s one window. A shaft of sunshine cut though the ever present dust making a column of light that seemed almost solid.
Five minute before, the light would have enraged him, but the bloodletting had done much to calm his fury. The Irishman’s death had been a sacrifice to the gods, and in exchange the gods were granting him clarity of vision, restoring his ability to think.
He would have vengeance on Thorgrim and Harald, that was foremost. But what was vengeance if it left him broken, or if he died in the getting of it? Nothing, it was nothing, like two warriors rushing at one another in a mindless attack that left both men dead. Pointless. Real vengeance would mean not just the death of Thorgrim and Harald, but also Grimarr’s increasing his own wealth and power at their expense.
He had been on the right track all along, he realized. Using Thorgrim and his men to secure the Fearna plunder, making sure they were in the forefront of any fighting. Waste their lives before he wasted the lives of his own men. That plan had been the right one, the course true.
Now?
Thorgrim must die… Grimarr thought. He must die before we sail.
He would still use the Norwegians to fight the Irish, that was just too lovely a solution to let it go. But he could not allow Thorgrim to be part of that. There were a hundred ways he might escape from Grimarr’s grasp once they put to sea. No, Thorgrim had to die, and Harald had to come with them so he could speak to the Irish bitch, and once the Fearna treasure was in Vík-ló he could take his time in killing Harald.
Thorgrim will not live to see his son die, Grimarr realized. That was unfortunate. He would have liked to make Thorgrim suffer even a fraction of the agony that he himself had suffered with the death of his boys but it was not to be. The gods had been generous beyond measure, delivering Thorgrim to his threshold, and he could not ask for more.
Chapter Eighteen
I had courage enough,
but they were too many
and I was overcome,
swords singing loud
in the air around me.
Gisli Sursson’s Saga
Sandarr had had enough of waiting.
The men whom Lorcan had sent back to Vík-ló with Hrafn were not due to return for another day. They were supposed to bring the girl with them, the one who could supposedly find the Fearna hoard, but Sandarr knew perfectly well they would not. If they returned at all. And he was done with sitting around in that festering ringfort, the pathetic hovel the Irish called a hall, drinking their weak ale, eating the peat moss they called bread.
“Ronnat!” he called, and the thrall, who was seated on a stool in the corner, jumped up and approached. Sandarr was sitting on one side of the table that ran down the center of Lorcan’s hall and half its length, Lorcan and a few of his trusted men were sitting on the other. The remains of a sloppily eaten dinner were strewn across the surface, various drinking vessels stood amid the debris or tilted over like drunk men who had passed out on the floor.
“Ronnat, tell Lorcan that we waste our time waiting on Grimarr’s reply. He will most likely kill the messengers, but even if he does not, he still will not send the girl.”
Ronnat nodded and turne
d to speak but Sandarr interrupted her. “And say it as I said it, do not soften my words.”
Ronnat nodded again and turned to Lorcan and let out a spew of Irish nonsense, or so it seemed to Sandarr. He had suggested this to Lorcan before, that they were fools to think Grimarr might strike a deal with them, him for the girl. Sandarr had no illusions about how his father felt; he knew Grimarr would not give a side of bacon to ransom him. If it had been Sweyn or Svein taken prisoner, that would have been different, but he would not give up the treasure in exchange for his oldest son’s life.
Grimarr was playing for time, making ready to go after the Fearna plunder, and every moment Lorcan waited for a reply was a moment in which Grimarr would build his strength and further his preparations.
Lorcan had no reaction as he listened to Ronnat’s words. He looked straight at Sandarr as he gave his answer to the girl. Ronnat translated.
“Lorcan says he knows Grimarr is not to be trusted,” she said, “but he says we must wait for a reply. Sunset tomorrow.”
Sandarr shook his head. He had caught the word dubh gall among Lorcan’s words, which suggested to him that Lorcan had made some disparaging remark about the Danes which Ronnat chose not to relay, but he let it go.
“Tell Lorcan he is doing exactly what Grimarr wishes him to do,” Sandarr said. “Tell him we must move to the coast at first light. Tomorrow.”
Ronnat translated that, and for a moment Lorcan just stared at Sandarr and Sandarr stared back. Lorcan was a massive, ignorant brute, in Sandarr’s assessment, an Irish version of his own father. Those men would have been the best of friends if fate had not set them up to be the bitterest of enemies.
But that was fine with Sandarr. Lorcan and Grimarr might kill one another but such an arrangement would work very well for his own ambitions. He had only to make certain that when they did so, he, Sandarr, would be the last man left on the field.
He and Lorcan had already worked out what they would do, in those long, dull hours waiting for Grimarr to make a move. There were only so many places along the coast where the treasure might be hidden. Lorcan needed a force that could strike quickly, but one that could stay far enough inland that they would not be seen from the water. Mounted warriors, who could wait out of sight until Grimarr unearthed the hoard and then move in fast for the attack.
The Lord of Vik-lo: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 3) Page 17
