Chapter Thirty-Five
We’ll return to where
our countrymen await us,
head our sand-heaven’s horse
to scout the ship’s wide plains.
Eirik the Red’s Saga
Thorgrim, Agnarr, Harald and Ornolf stood crowded on the after deck, blinking and turning their faces half away from the sun, holding their hands up to block out the blinding rays. They were all trying to see beyond Far Voyager’s bow, but they could not. In any other circumstance it might have been comical, but no one found the least humor in it now.
“I can’t tell,” Agnarr said at last, dropping his hand and turning his face away from the sun.
“Ships, to be sure,” Harald said. “Two of them. I could see that.”
“A mile off?” Ornolf offered. “Less?”
Thorgrim nodded. This was what he had seen as well, to the extent he had seen anything at all.
“You think it is Grimarr?” Harald asked.
“It might not be,” Thorgrim said. “But the chances are that it is.” The chances, in fact, were very good it was Grimarr; in Thorgrim’s estimate nearly certain. Who else could it be? “Hold your oars!” he called forward. The rowers, as one, stopped, and Far Voyager’s forward motion slowed away to nothing.
Thorgrim turned his face from the sun and wiped the tears from his cheeks. “We are blinded, but they can see us perfectly well,” he said to the others, his war council. “They are too close for us to evade them now. So if they want a fight we’ll have to fight. Where would that best be done?”
“They are more than twice our numbers,” Agnarr said, “and in two ships. If we fight at sea, they can come at us larboard and starboard and board over both rails. We’ll be caught between them.” The others nodded.
“That was my thought as well,” Thorgrim said. “We’ll have a better chance fighting on land.” He did not say how much better a chance, because everyone knew it was not much better at all.
They turned Far Voyager around, spinning her with the oars until her bow was headed back toward the mouth of the Leitrim and Vík-ló beyond, and then they pulled hard for the river. The ship skimmed over the surface, and soon she was once again run up on the familiar shore, but not as far up this time as the tide was going out and she was more heavily laden than the last. The men clambered over the side and splashed up to the open place they had left an hour earlier. Stout lines were made fast to mooring posts ashore.
“Now what?” Ornolf asked. All the Far Voyagers turned and looked out to sea. The two ships were less than half a mile away. They were taking in their sails and running oars out through the oar ports. It would take them fifteen minutes to ground out next to Far Voyager, no more. Five minutes later the fighting would start.
“We know for certain these bastards mean us harm?” Ornolf asked. “Save for Grimarr’s wanting to kill Thorgrim and Harald for whatever reason the others did not seem so eager to fight with us. They had chance enough to do that before we sailed.”
The others were silent for a moment. It was a good question. Conandil had told Harald that Grimarr blamed him and Thorgrim for the death of his sons, though why Thorgrim could not imagine.
“When they come ashore,” Harald said, “I will challenge Grimarr to a fight. One on one. Let that settle the matter. There’s no reason for anyone else to die for whatever wrong Grimarr thinks we’ve done him.”
Thorgrim nearly smiled at that. He had never been more proud of his son, but he said only, “No, Harald. It’s a bold thing to say, a brave offer, but if there is any fighting one on one, it will be me and Grimarr.” Harald was a good fighter, but he was not experienced enough to take on the likes of Grimarr Giant. Thorgrim felt by no means certain that he himself could beat the man. Harald made a noise that Thorgrim knew was the beginnings of a protest. He looked sharp at the boy and Harald shut his mouth.
“Let’s make ready to welcome them home,” Thorgrim said. He gathered his men up and formed them into a shield wall. One flank was anchored against the riverbank, right in line with Far Voyager’s bow, but the other was mostly exposed and there was not much they could do about it, save to bend the shield wall back as Grimarr’s men tried to flank them, until all the Far Voyagers had their backs to the water.
Thorgrim considered taking his men into the town. It did not seem there would be any resistance from that quarter. There were only a handful of people left at Vík-ló after the fleet had sailed, and they were watching now from a short ways off. Older men, mostly; the blacksmith, a fellow Thorgrim recognized as a butcher. He thought he saw Aghen, the master shipwright, whom he liked. There were a few women as well, and some slaves. All of Vík-ló had turned out to see what was acting, but it was not a population that posed any threat to him and his men.
Where do we make our stand?
He considered taking a position in one of the buildings, maybe Grimarr’s hall, but he rejected the idea. If Grimarr was willing to stop at nothing to kill him and Harald, then he would not hesitate to burn the building down, leaving the men inside the choice of dying in the flames or coming out the door single file and being cut down as they did.
Far Voyager was their only way out; out of Vík-ló, out of Ireland. Even if they stood little chance of getting aboard and getting underway, Thorgrim did not want to lose that chance entirely. Better to stay in the open, where there was fighting room and the sea at their feet.
“Stand ready,” Thorgrim said loudly so all his men could hear. “I will speak with Grimarr first.” He stepped away, fifteen feet in front of the shield wall, and Ornolf and Harald and Starri came with him. They stopped and looked out at the approaching ships which were into the Leitrim now, their oars moving in their steady sweep, Eagle’s Wing in the lead, Fox astern.
“A few weeks ago Grimarr had five ships in his fleet,” Ornolf said. “Now he has only two. No wonder he’s such a miserable son of a bitch.”
They could see Grimarr standing in Eagle Wing’s stern. He was wearing a mail shirt, and his shield was propped up against his leg, and even from that distance he did not look like a man who wanted to talk. The other men on the ships, those not on the rowing benches, were similarly clad.
“We should hit them now, attack as they are getting off the ship, don’t let them get in a shield wall,” Starri said. His words were clipped and his voice sounded jerky. Thorgrim glanced over at him. He was making the strange, sharp motions he made when a fight was imminent, and he had that feral look in his eyes.
“Easy, Starri, we’ll fight when the moment is right,” Thorgrim said. He did not want to tell Starri that he hoped to get out of this without fighting at all, or at least limiting the fight to him and Grimarr alone. Such a plan would not go over well with Starri Deathless. Thorgrim leaned close to Harald and spoke just above a whisper, “Stand ready to grab Starri and hold him down if he makes a move at Grimarr before I say.”
Harald nodded slightly, just enough to indicate he had heard.
Eagle’s Wing came to a halt in the soft mud. There were men ready to swing themselves over the side, but they were pulled back from the rail by Grimarr Giant’s massive hand. He stepped past them and leapt himself, the first man ashore, coming down in a great splash of river water. He adjusted his shield on his arm and drew his sword and stepped through the shallows and onto the bank, his eyes on the handful of men waiting for his approach, Thorgrim and the others.
The rest of his men and the men aboard Fox dropped into the water and followed behind. There were a lot of them. More men than Thorgrim commanded. Quite a bit more. Indeed, Thorgrim was surprised to see just how many men Grimarr had crowded aboard his ship. So many he had to guess it would have made working the vessel difficult, so many bodies aboard.
And then he remembered. Lorcan had stolen the ship called Water Stallion. The men of that ship must have been divided between Eagle’s Wing and Fox. Two ships, but warriors enough to man three.
Thorgrim stood and waited and watched Grimarr c
ome on like a fast-moving storm. It seemed as if the big man would not stop until he and Thorgrim were face to face, within sword-strike distance. But then Grimarr did stop, thirty feet away, stopped so abruptly that he looked as if he had slammed into a wall that no one else could see. His mouth fell open and his face took on a look of pure, dumb incomprehension. It seemed as if he might speak, but he did not.
That’s right, you son of a whore, I’m still alive, Thorgrim thought.
Grimarr remained where he was, motionless and silent as his men swarmed up the bank and formed in a line behind him. There was an ugly wound on Grimarr’s cheek, maybe a week old but still raw and blood caked. Thorgrim had some vague memory of having inflicted it himself. With his teeth? Could that be? It was like a dream, half remembered. There was a bandage around Grimarr’s hand as well, and Thorgrim recalled Harald’s tale of stabbing a dagger clean through it.
Your association with my family has not been lucky for you, has it? Thorgrim thought.
The morning was filled with the rustle of mail, the clang of weapons on shields, the shuffle of a hundred or more men getting into battle array. Thorgrim scanned the faces, ten feet or so behind Grimarr Giant, and he could see the shock and fear register as they realized that it was Thorgrim standing in front of them. Thorgrim Night Wolf, killed by the Irish and come to life again.
Some of you bastards know who really tried to kill me, don’t you? Thorgrim thought. There would be some who knew the truth, that it had been Grimarr who had waylaid him, slashed him with his sword, ordered his men to murder him in the hills. For them, his being there would be even more frightening still. It would explain why Hilder and the other men sent to kill him had never returned.
Understand, I am not an easy man to kill…
And then Grimarr’s men were in place and everything fell silent again.
For a long moment it remained silent, save for the tumbling river and the occasional sound made by men waiting for combat, and Starri making low whimpering noises. Thorgrim did not speak. Grimarr did not speak. Because this was also part of the combat.
And this part Grimarr lost. “Thorgrim Ulfsson!” he bellowed, unable to contain himself any longer, and having recovered from the shock of seeing Thorgrim alive and before him. “You have done me the greatest wrong, and now you and your men will all die for it!”
Thorgrim took a few steps forward, putting half a dozen feet between himself and Ornolf and the others, advancing without hesitation in Grimarr’s direction. The men arrayed behind Grimarr looked ready to fight, but they did not look eager to fight. They had none of that dog-straining-at-the-leash quality that men under arms had when they were desperate to end the quiet torture of waiting, and plunge into battle.
Thorgrim guessed they would fight for Grimarr because they were sworn to Grimarr, but they were not eager to do so. They did not seem enthusiastic to suffer wounds and death for something that mattered so much to Grimarr and not so much to them. This was a fight that would do little to enrich them and it was a fight against fellow Northmen, Norwegians though they might be. Friendships had been made in the weeks they had been in Vík-ló, before all of this came down.
“You tried to kill me before, Grimarr Knutson,” Thorgrim called, speaking loud enough for all of Grimarr’s men to hear, “and it did not go well for you. It went even less well for your men, who are now food for ravens. I know of no wrong I’ve ever done you. I laid eyes on your ugly face for the first time just three weeks back. So, before I kill you, I will let you tell me what has brought us to this.”
Grimarr took a few steps forward as well, and his face was twisted in rage and he seemed to be struggling to gather enough control to speak again. And when he did speak his voice cracked and the words came out like a blast of heat from a blacksmith’s forge. “You killed my sons, you bastard! You murdered them in Dubh-linn!”
This was the accusation that Harald had heard from Conandil, but still the pain and fury in Grimarr’s voice took Thorgrim aback. The charge was so ridiculous that Thorgrim had never really taken it seriously, but he could see that Grimarr did. It was as serious to him as his very life.
Thorgrim spread his arms in genuine confusion. “How could I have taken…” he began, but Grimarr cut him off.
“You sail their ship! You son of a bitch! That is their ship!” Grimarr said, thrusting his sword in the direction of Far Voyager. “You took it after you killed them and you sailed it right into Vík-ló where you can mock me with it, you miserable pile of shit!”
Thorgrim felt like he had been punched. The ship. The two men who had come to kidnap Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill. Harald’s woman. Whom he had promised to protect. Who turned out to be a traitorous bitch, but that was beside the point.
He could not recall their names, was not sure he had ever known them, but he remembered that they were big men. Not as big as Grimarr, but big. Young men. They had been killed fighting in the street as they tried to carry Brigit off. To carry her off to the ship that was now called Far Voyager.
Grimarr’s sons? The gods will have their fun…
“This matter is between you and me, Grimarr. It does not have to involve these others. You and me. We will fight to end this, one on one.”
“So you admit it!” Grimarr shouted, a hint of triumph mixed with his anger. “You admit you murdered my sons!”
“Your sons came to steal my son’s woman. A woman I was honor-bound to protect. We fought them and it was a fair fight and they lost. There was no dishonor in that.”
“And what of their corpses?” Grimarr roared. “What did you do with their bodies? Were they sent off in an honorable way?”
Thorgrim saw it again in his mind. The bodies had been flung into the river on an ebb tide. He said nothing.
“Ah, you son of a bitch!” Grimarr roared, the fury bursting out of him now like a damn giving way. He raised his shield, raised his sword and rushed at Thorgrim, the shout still on his lips.
Thorgrim raised his shield as well. Iron-tooth was in his hand, though he was not aware of drawing it. Grimarr’s blade came down like an ax chopping wood, with all the power of the man’s massive arm behind it. Instinctively Thorgrim knew the blow would break Iron-tooth in two, well-forged though it was, so he took Grimarr’s sword at an angle, deflecting it rather than stopping it.
Grimarr’s arm swept down and he stumbled as the brutal, ugly swing knocked him off balance. But he recovered too fast for Thorgrim to take any advantage, straightening and stepping away from Thorgrim’s counter-thrust. Behind him, Thorgrim saw the line of Grimarr’s men shuffling forward. He caught a glimpse of Bersi Jorundarson at their head. They were moving, but in a way that suggested they did not know if they should attack or not. Thorgrim had offered to fight Grimarr, one on one. Grimarr had launched his attack. He had given no orders to his men.
And now Grimarr was in too blind a rage to even think of giving orders. He roared again and made a sweeping blow at Thorgrim and Thorgrim turned the sword aside with his shield. He thrust and Grimarr took the point with his own shield.
And then the Irish came over the wall.
Chapter Thirty-Six
I felt my blood spilled
over my arched shoulders
by a corpse-net’s wielder
with his sharp sword.
Gisli Sursson’s Saga
They didn’t even notice the sound at first. It was far off, a quarter of a mile away at the western end of the longphort. With the clang of steel on steel, and the fight between Thorgrim and Grimarr drawing their attention like filings to a lodestone, no one even noticed that Vík-ló was under attack.
It was the handful of people who had come from the town and were watching from a distance who first realized the danger. They were closer to the walls, and they were not so caught up in the drama on the river bank, and it was their shouts that drew the attention of the others.
Grimarr’s men stood in a line by the river bank and Thorgrim could see they were no longer watching
the fight. He could spare them just a glance as he braced himself for Grimarr’s next attack, but it was clear there was something happening, something beyond their lord’s battle that was attracting their attention. Men were shifting nervously, looking and pointing to somewhere off in the distance.
Once again Grimarr came at Thorgrim, bellowing, hacking with his big sword. Grimarr was a man who was used to overwhelming any comers with his size and strength. Thorgrim had realized that in just the few seconds they had been fighting. There was no subtlety or art in the man. Thorgrim doubted he had even needed subtlety or art to stamp his enemies under foot.
But now Grimarr was in a fury and that was bound to make him even more reckless in his fighting. That, Thorgrim knew, would mean opportunity, as long as he did not let Grimarr get a hand on him, or a blade in him.
Grimarr led with his shield, backhanding it into Thorgrim, clearing Thorgrim’s sword away, trying to knock him off balance before he came in with his own blade. Thorgrim let the shield push him back, and when Grimarr did slash at him Thorgrim was nearly beyond the reach of the sword’s tip. Thorgrim turned Grimarr’s sword aside, then stepped in quick and thrust. He felt Iron-tooth skim off chainmail, no hurt done, though Grimarr howled with outrage.
And then Bersi was racing up from the line of men, twenty feet back, and calling “My Lord! Lord Grimarr!” Thorgrim’s eyes never left Grimarr’s face, but he stepped back and back again, retreating well out of the arc of Grimarr’s sword, not allowing himself to be distracted by whatever this new thing was.
“You bastard! Get back here!” Grimarr shouted at Thorgrim as if he had not heard Bersi, and Thorgrim realized that he had not. Grimarr advanced again, but then Bersi was up with him, a hand on his arm, restraining him.
The Lord of Vik-lo: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 3) Page 34
