The response Grimarr received was probably not the one he had hoped for. The men of Eagle’s Wing cheered, as did those of Water Stallion, though not with any great gusto. The men from Fox cheered as well, but news of the loss of their captain dampened their enthusiasm. The Far Voyagers were stunned, as if they had each been hit on the head with an iron spit. Most were silent. Some made noises like they were in pain. None cheered.
Harald stopped muttering “no” and turned slowly until he was facing Starri. His eyes were wide, and his usually pink cheeks were white. His mouth was hanging open.
Ornolf stepped over to his grandson and put a massive arm around him. “Your father died fighting,” he said softly. “He died with a sword in his hand. The Valkyrie have taken him to Odin’s hall, where a man such as that should go.”
Harald said nothing, just slowly shook his head. The men of Far Voyager began to move off, some toward the camp, some toward the ship. They would go to sea. They would avenge Thorgrim. But for the moment there was little enthusiasm for any of it.
Now it was Starri who was shaking his head. “No, no, this is not right, not right,” he said when he finally found his voice. “Not right.”
Ornolf and Harald looked at him, and then Ornolf said, “No, it’s not. It’s not right that a man like Thorgrim should die in some stupid raid. Die without us at his side.”
“No, I mean it truly is not right,” Starri said. “Night Wolf is not dead. He cannot be dead.” Harald looked confused at that, Ornolf looked annoyed.
“See here, Starri,” Ornolf said, “You saw the cloak, Iron-tooth. Don’t start getting the boy thinking…”
“The cloak, the cloak…” Starri said. Something was not right about the cloak and it was poking at him like a sharp blade of grass. And then he realized. “The cloak! The cloak is rent and bloody, but where do you wear a cloak? Over your back. Could Thorgrim Night Wolf have had his back to an enemy? What, running away? Of course not! There is something else going on.”
Ornolf dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “The rents, they mean nothing. He might have been fighting one, and another snuck up behind. That makes sense, makes the most sense. How else could Thorgrim Ulfsson be killed in a fight, except by a man sneaking up behind him?”
Starri was still shaking his head. “Last night, Thorgrim had the black mood coming on. He was off there.” Starri pointed toward the place where he had last seen Thorgrim. “In such a state he would not have gone off to talk with Grimarr, to talk about the voyage. He would have taken the head off any man who even tried to speak with him. You know that.”
“I don’t know…” Ornolf began but then Grimarr Giant came hobbling up, his face a picture of sorrow. He held out Thorgrim’s cloak and Iron-tooth to Harald and Harald took them, still silent and wide-eyed.
“I am sorry,” Grimarr said. “I am proud to say your father and I fought side by side, right to the last. I would have been proud to die in the company of such a man.”
Harald nodded, silent.
“Now, Harald, I would beg you would come with me. I’ll need you aboard Eagle’s Wing, so you can speak with the Irish girl, and she can tell you where we should look for Fasti’s hoard as we make our way down the coast.”
Harald nodded. He handed Iron-tooth and the blood-soaked cloak to Ornolf. Grimarr put his arm around the boy’s shoulders and led him off.
For a long moment Ornolf and Starri stood in silence. Finally Starri spoke. “Thorgrim Night Wolf is not dead.”
Ornolf opened his mouth to speak, hesitated as if unsure what to say, and then let out a sigh instead. “Let us go to the ship,” he said at last, with the tone of one unwilling to argue further. “Let us go.”
The two men looked at one another and they did not speak. A dozen different things whirled around in Starri’s head and they so crowded his thoughts that he could not get any one of them out. So when Ornolf turned and walked toward Far Voyager Starri followed behind like a puppy.
The tide was near the top of the flood and Far Voyager was floating free, held to the shore by a single rope. She twisted and tugged at the line, as if eager to be underway, and her men would have felt the same if they had not been in such a fog of uncertainty, anger and disbelief. Ornolf and Starri were the last aboard, splashing out in water nearly to their knees before reaching the gangplank that ran down from the sheer strake, its lower end buried in the mud of the river bottom.
Ornolf stepped aboard and made his way aft to the raised deck at the steering board. Starri pulled the gangplank aboard and stowed it, then went forward and stood just aft of the tall, curved prow.
“Ship your oars!” Ornolf shouted and the men grabbed the long oars down from the gallows and passed them along. No one questioned Ornolf’s taking command in Thorgrim’s absence. It did not even occur to anyone to question it.
Starri looked out across the water. Eagle’s Wing was already underway, making sternway into the river with the men at the oars pushing, rather than pulling, to move her astern. Harald was aboard her, aft with Grimarr and the Irish girl, whom Starri had not seen since they had rescued her from Lorcan, perhaps the most unappreciated rescue in Starri’s memory. She was wrapped in a blanket and Starri could see only her face, small and pale.
“Back water! Back water!” Ornolf called once the oars were run through the oar holes and the rowers settled at the looms. The rowers leaned back, brought the blades down into the water and pushed, the inverse motion they would use to drive the ship forward, and with their effort Far Voyager backed away from the shore, running her stern out into the stream.
“Back water!” Ornolf called again. He had his hand on the tiller and his eyes were everywhere, upstream and down, on the other ships as they pulled away from the land, on the rowers and out to windward. Starri could see that for all the years and all the debauchery, Ornolf was still a mariner at heart, that once he stood on the afterdeck with the tiller in his hand, the instincts honed by thousands of sea miles took charge once more.
Starri looked over the side at the swirling, muddy water as the ship moved slowly away from the land. The oars came down once again, the rowers leaning back, and together they thrust the looms away from their chests. As Far Voyager began to gather more sternway, Starri slipped over the side and dropped quietly into the water, any sound he made hidden by the grinding of the oars in the oar holes and the surge of the blades and the ship in the water.
The river was up to his chest, and Starri breasted it as he moved toward shore, staying under the bow where he could not be seen from Far Voyager’s deck, his shoes digging into the soft mud under foot. He came dripping from the river, turned and watched as Far Voyager moved further out, now a good ship length of more from the bank. No one had seen him go over the side, and they would not notice his absence for some time. In the company of others he tended to remain unobtrusive and unnoticed, and so people generally did not miss him when he was gone.
But he knew he had no business going to sea, not then. Thorgrim Night Wolf was alive, somewhere. Starri was more sure of that than he was of his own existence. He had made the terrible mistake of abandoning Thorgrim the night before. He would not make that mistake again.
Chapter Twenty-One
Always he prized
his father’s words
highest of all, though
the world said otherwise.
Egil’s Saga
The wind was light and fluky, so the men of the four longships, Far Voyager, Eagle’s Wing, Water Stallion and Fox, stayed at their oars, backing and pulling until the bows were pointed out to sea, a sea that was not visible to them. Fog hung over the mouth of the Leitrim and obscured the open water beyond, but the men in the ships knew that following the river bank would put them on a course that took them roughly north and east, which was not the direction they wished to go. But to the south there stood a great headland, a shoreline of ship-killing rocks, and they would need to give that a wide berth. They would turn to the east and continue to pul
l out to sea. Until the fog cleared, until they could see the headland to the south, they would not dare close with the shore.
Of all the conditions to be encountered at sea fog ranked among the worst. Night was bad, but night could be avoided. Darkness did not sweep in by surprise the way fog did. Things hid in the fog. Reefs, shorelines, rocks, islands. And not everything that hid itself in the fog was of this world, and that was most worrisome of all.
On any other day in such conditions, Harald Thorgrimson would have been peering out into the mist, his sharp eyes looking for shapes that might materialize under the bow, his ears keen to hear threats before they were revealed to his limited vision. But not that day. Not when his mind was filled with a loss so grievous he could not even begin to understand it.
He sat on the afterdeck, to larboard, leaning against the ship’s side. His body felt numb, as if his nerves had been so dulled he could no longer feel any but the most extreme sensations. His mind was like the fog; dull gray and swirling, with only vaguely-seen images emerging here and there. No one spoke to him, or if they did he did not notice.
Conandil sat beside him, actually pressed up against him, and he found some small degree of comfort in her presence. In Vík-ló he had spent as much time with her as he had been able to, which had not been much, but still he did not look on her as a stranger as he did the rest of the men aboard Eagle’s Wing, all of whom he knew only vaguely, or not at all.
He wished very much he was aboard Far Voyager, with Ornolf and Starri and the men who had known and loved and obeyed his father. He wanted to be in the company of men who were lost in grief like he was. But his sense of duty was strong, instilled in him by the man for whom he grieved, and it told him this was not the warrior’s way, that he had a sworn obligation to Grimarr Giant and the rest of the men in the fleet. It was his father who had shown him that fighting men did not grieve for those who had fallen in battle, they went into battle themselves and they sought vengeance.
Harald believed every word of every lesson his father had taught him. And it did nothing to lessen his grief.
Conandil put her small hand on his arm and squeezed it. She spoke to him, softly, in her lilting Irish, a language that most Northmen, Harald knew, thought was course and ugly, but which he was coming to love.
“The fog is lifting.”
Harald looked up, looked beyond the ship’s rail for the first time since they had cleared the mouth of the Leitrim. The gray unearthly mist had retreated in every direction, and though the sky above and off to the horizon was still white and featureless he could see the surface of the ocean and off to the south the great headland that hid the rest of the coast from view. He sensed the tension aboard the longship ease as the relative proximity of danger became a known thing, and not a blind guess.
Harald just nodded and stared toward the distant headland. He did not bother asking Conandil about the location of the hoard, because he knew already that it was beyond the point of land to their south, and most likely beyond a day’s sail, particularly if the wind refused to blow and the ships were reduced to the slow crawl of rowing.
Aft, Grimarr muttered something to the helmsman and pointed out beyond the ship. The helmsman pushed the tiller over and Eagle’s Wing began a long turn toward the south, and the headland seemed to swing from a position just abaft the beam to one just over the starboard bow. The other ships were in their wake. Harald could not see them from where he sat but he had no doubt they were following Grimarr’s ship around on this new course.
For the next few hours the men of Eagle’s Wing rowed, and because there were more than twice as many men as oars they traded off so that no man became so tired that his strength in battle would be compromised. On any other day Harald would have been the first to take his place on the rowing bench, and when the time came for another to spell him he would have protested that he did not need to be relieved, but on that day he did not feel as if he had the strength to even lift his arms.
The sun passed its zenith, which, with the season growing late, was not particularly high, and a meal of dried fish and bread and ale was served out. Harald had no appetite, a sensation virtually unknown to him, but Conandil insisted that he eat something, so he managed to choke a little food down his dry throat. Soon after, a breeze sprung up, a blessed breeze from the north east, and the men happily ran their oars inboard and set the big red and white checked sail.
The wind was of no great strength, and drove Eagle’s Wing only a bit faster than the men might have rowed her, but it spared them the effort of doing so. The longship heeled a bit to starboard, the water made its musical sound down the length of her hull and the wind blew her along to the southeast. With the strong currents and the on-shore wind, Grimarr was giving the headland a wide berth and it was not until later in the afternoon that they had cleared it sufficiently enough that he was willing to turn more to the south, and then around to the south west and shape a course closer to land.
Harald stood at last, his muscles protesting after having been so long in a near fetal position hunkered down against the ship’s side. Astern he could see Far Voyager making good way under sail, the sea foaming white under her black bow. She was a beautiful sight and she made Harald long to be aboard her, to be among his people.
The way I feel, it’s the same way my father felt, wishing to be back on his farm, back in East Agder, Harald thought, and he felt the sadness flood over him again.
They continued to close with the coast, and once they were close enough that the various features of the shore could be clearly seen from the ship Grimarr approached, speaking to Harald for the first time since they had been underway.
“Ask this Irish…girl if we are anywhere near where Fasti hid the treasure. Ask her if she knows where we are.” The quiet sympathy that had been in Grimarr’s voice as they had boarded the ship was now gone, and he sounded even less pleasant than he had at Vík-ló, which was no easy feat.
The change was disconcerting, but Harald’s world was so turned upside down that Grimarr’s attitude was just one more strange and inexplicable thing. He put a hand on Conandil’s arm. “Do you know this place? Are we near where Fasti hid the treasure?”
Conandil took a long moment to scan the shoreline, half a mile away at its closest point. At length she said, “I know this place. I recognize it. But we passed here the day after we hid the treasure. This is not it, it is away to the south yet.”
Harald translated the words and Grimarr said nothing beyond muttering under his breath what sounded like a curse. He turned his back on Harald and Conandil and directed the helmsman to bring the ship toward a low, shingle beach a few miles south. As Eagle’s Wing assumed the new heading the other ships followed in her wake, and an hour later their bows ran gently into the gravelly shore. With anchors set from their sterns and single bow lines running ashore, they remained waterborne and ready to sail away from danger as the men prepared to spend a watchful night on board.
Grimarr went over the bow and waded to the beach, and there he was met by the masters of the other vessels. Harald watched his grandfather make his awkward way down the gangplank his men rigged and then converge with Grimarr and the others for their council of war just beyond Far Voyager’s bow. Harald longed to go to him, but his duty was aboard Grimarr’s vessel so there he remained.
The night passed without event, and dawn brought with it a light off-shore breeze ideal for getting the fleet underway. The ships tugged and strained at the bow lines as if eager to be at it. Even before breakfast appeared anchors were hauled in, sails set, bow lines let go, and the four ships, one after the other, made their graceful turn away from the shore and back out to sea.
When breakfast did finally come it was dried fish and bread and ale, much like supper and dinner the day before, but the hungry men did not complain. Harald looked longingly at Far Voyager, once more in their wake, and he now wished even more he was aboard her and he wished he was far from that place.
The coast o
f Ireland continued to pass down their starboard side and Grimarr kept the ships as near to shore as he dared. He said nothing, but shot angry and accusatory looks at Harald, which made little sense to Harald who was under the impression he was helping Grimarr. Grimarr, he figured, must be impatient to find the hoard, and might be thinking that Conandil was leading him astray.
Or perhaps he thinks we are both leading him astray, Harald thought. So he continued to quiz Conandil about the shoreline, and Conandil continued to insist they were not yet at the place where Fasti had buried the hoard.
It was just over an hour after getting underway that Conandil once again stood and looked beyond the starboard side, but this time she did more that give a quick glance and sit down again. This time she crossed the narrow deck and peered out toward the west, toward the long, low beach and the high cliffs behind and the rolling green meadows that topped them and the forests further inland. She stood for a long time, and she looked north and south, and then looked again at the beach.
Harald stood and crossed over to stand beside her and he saw Grimarr fidgeting because he too had noticed the interest the girl was taking in this stretch of shoreline. Harald leaned against the rail and looked in the direction she was looking and said, “Is this it, Conandil? Is this the place?”
At first she did not answer, as if she was taking pains to be absolutely certain, and then she said, “Yes. Yes, I’m sure of it. There, do you see that rock?” She pointed toward the shore. “The one that sticks up in such an odd way?”
Harald followed her finger, and he heard Grimarr step up behind them. “Yes,” Harald said. The rock was tall and narrow, like an uneven column jutting up from the sea, the waves breaking around its base.
The Lord of Vik-lo: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 3) Page 20
