Grimarr whirled around at this affront, but before he could speak, Bersi pointed to the town and shouted, “My Lord! Vík-ló is attacked! See! Lorcan is here! The Irish are coming over the wall!” Grimarr turned to look in the direction Bersi pointed. He had a dumb, confused expression on his face.
“My Lord, we must fight them! Now!”
Grimarr said nothing, just stared off toward the collection of low, thatched buildings. Behind him, his men had begun to advance, to take up their arms in a meaningful way. Thorgrim took another step back, and once he was sure Grimarr could not surprise him he turned to look.
The Irish were indeed coming. The earthen wall that surrounded the longphort was visible here and there between the buildings, and where Thorgrim could see it, he could see men climbing to the top and stumbling, leaping, sliding down. He remembered the ease with which Starri had gone over that wall. The low barrier was useless without warriors defending it, and all of Grimarr’s warriors were there with him by the river. The Irish would open the gates if they had not done so already, and then all Vík-ló would lay at their feet.
Like Grimarr’s men, the Far Voyagers were also looking off toward the town, the fight between Thorgrim and Grimarr a minor thing compared to this. The only ones not watching the Irish onslaught were the people of Vík-ló who were running toward the river, or more correctly, away from the attackers.
With the close-packed buildings right in the way, it was hard to even guess how many men were coming over the wall. A lot, quite a lot, that much was clear. Some had helmets, some had mail or leather, all had shields and weapons glinting in the morning sun. The Irish. They had come at last, and they had come in force.
“Damn them, damn them all!” Grimarr shouted and Thorgrim turned back to see him shove Bersi out of the way. “We finish this now!” He was looking at Thorgrim, pointing at him with his sword. “This Norwegian son of a bitch and me, we finish this now!”
Thorgrim could sense the unease ripple through Grimarr’s men. This was madness, but clearly Grimarr had gone mad. And Thorgrim saw his chance.
“Listen to me, all of you!” he shouted, holding his arms wide in a gesture that took in his men and Grimarr’s as well. “The Irish will butcher us like sheep if they find us standing here with our cocks in our hands! Let us stand shield to shield! Let us kill them all, before they kill us!”
And with that, Grimarr’s men cheered, actually cheered, which was more than Thorgrim had ever expected. Their blood was up, they were ready for a fight, but not a bloodbath against the Norwegians for the sake of Grimarr’s personal vengeance.
This was different. This was a fight that they knew was just, honorable and necessary, brought to them like a tribute by the Irish they loathed.
“You men!” Thorgrim shouted to his own men who were just as eager as Grimarr’s to be at these newcomers and just as unwilling to stand there by the river and be overrun. “Follow me!” He raced forward, turning his back on Grimarr, ignoring him, a bigger insult than any verbal thrust he could have made. He wondered if Grimarr would come up from behind and stick a sword through his back. He did not think the Dane would do so dishonorable a thing, but neither did he think Grimarr’s mind was working quite right.
He turned back to see if his men were following and to see what Grimarr was up to. The Far Voyagers were rolling forward, but Grimarr had not moved from the where he had been standing when Bersi told him about the attack over the walls. Sword and shield in hand, solid and motionless as a tree, Grimarr stood on his patch of ground, his mouth open, his eyes wide, as his men streamed past him and toward this new fight.
Thorgrim’s men, by virtue of having been closest to the plank road, were now leading the attack toward the town. They were at a near run, but Thorgrim slowed them down, his sword held high as he slackened his pace. It would not do to go charging stupidly into this battle. That was what Grimarr had done in his attack on Thorgrim, and if he and Thorgrim had been allowed to go at it with sword and shield for another five minutes, then such recklessness would have cost Grimarr his life.
Thorgrim eased his advance to a walk and then he stopped. “Hold a moment!” he said, and behind him the sound of marching fell abruptly to silence. Most of his men and Bersi’s were hidden from the town by the tall grass and the contour of the ground. The enemy could not see them but Thorgrim, at the head of the line, could see the enemy. Or at least that small part of their force that was showing itself. He could see men here or there, among the houses, but if the rest were drawn up in a shield wall, or gathered together for a single assault it was in some place hidden from his sight.
He looked back once more. His men were stopped, faces grim but ready, shields on arms. Behind them stood Bersi’s men, similarly arrayed, but with a more impatient quality as their way was blocked by the Far Voyagers. “Bersi!” Thorgrim shouted and gestured for Bersi to come to him. He genuinely did not know how the man would react to that, and was somewhat surprised to see Bersi jog through the crowd of men and up to where he stood.
“Listen, Bersi, it’s pointless for us to all rush in and hope for the best,” Thorgrim said, pointing with Iron-tooth toward the plank road and the cluster of buildings that flanked it. “These Irish are like to outnumber us, maybe seriously outnumber us.”
Bersi nodded. He was looking past Thorgrim toward the town and the parts of the wall that were visible. No more men were coming over. They were all inside Vík-ló’s defenses now.
“What are they doing?” Bersi asked.
“My guess is they were expecting a fight at the wall, and now they’re wondering where we are. It looks like they’re searching some of the houses.”
“You think they outnumber us,” Bersi said, “but I see only a handful.”
“There are more,” Thorgrim assured him. “They would not have come over the wall if they did not have men enough to finish the work. They know how many men are usually at Vík-ló but they do not know how many are here now. They’re probably gathering for an attack, getting ready to sweep through the town.”
Bersi nodded again but said nothing more. Thorgrim guessed he was the sort who preferred to not make decisions, and that was fine, because Thorgrim was the sort who did.
“They’ll form up in some sort of line, or swine array, I’d wager,” Thorgrim continued, “and they’ll come down the road, looking for us. They’ll want a stand-up fight, shield wall to shield wall, because they’ll have numbers and they’ll reckon they can slaughter us that way. And they likely can. So we’ll need to set some sort of trap for them, and here’s what we’ll do. You split your men in two and have them work around to the north and the south, out of sight.”
Thorgrim swung Iron-tooth to the left and right, pointing at the worn paths that ran off in either direction, and then pointed back toward the plank road. “We’ll form a shield wall here, across the road, where we can be seen from the town. With any luck they’ll think we’re all the men here. They’ll attack us directly, and when they do, you hit them from behind, from both directions.”
Bersi nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Good.”
Thorgrim almost laughed. Bersi did not question why Thorgrim was giving orders, and he did not hesitate to obey them. Rather, he seemed relieved to not have to make any decisions on his own. He turned and pushed his way back to his men.
Thorgrim pulled his eyes away from Bersi and looked to his own men. “Form a shield wall, here,” he said, pointing to a spot twenty feet up the plank road. His men advanced and they formed a wall, Harald and Ornolf in the center, and Agnarr, Godi and the others taking their places. It was a good spot, with marshy, weeded ground on their flanks which would discourage men from attacking there. The wall formed quickly, and the Far Voyagers stood bold and ready, each shield overlapping its neighbor, swords, battle axes and spears held ready. But they were a small force, and lined up in that manner they looked smaller still, as if it would be little problem for Lorcan’s men to roll right over them.
Only Starri and Thorgrim did not take a place in the line. Thorgrim wanted to stay back, to be able to keep an eye on the entire shield wall and be ready to jump in where he saw weakness, or to fill a gap where a man had been cut down. Starri did not take his place in the wall for other reasons. One was that he had no shield. He never carried such a thing into a fight, for the same reason he never wore a helmet or mail. He had no interest in protecting himself.
What’s more, no one wanted to stand next to him. A shield wall depended on every man holding his ground, keeping his shield overlapping his neighbor to form a near solid defensive line. But Starri could not be counted on to stay put. When the battle madness was on him, no one knew what he would do. He might well break from the line and fling himself at the enemy; fine behavior for a berserker, not for a man in a shield wall.
Now Starri was whirling around like a dancer, arms out, a battle ax in each hand, the sort of frenetic, mindless activity he did when his insanity needed some outlet, when a fight was in the offing but the bloodletting had not yet begun.
Thorgrim needed no such outlet. He stood nearly motionless, eyes everywhere, though in truth his mind was whirling as madly as Starri’s arms. He watched Bersi’s men head off, crouching a bit to keep themselves hidden by the tall grass and the low, rolling ground, and he wondered if they would fight. It was a risk, a great risk.
He could have insisted they stay and stand in the shield wall and then there would have no way for them to shirk the battle. Instead, he had ordered them to slink away and to enter into the slaughter only after it had begun. And he had no doubt it would be slaughter. If Bersi timed it right, the Irish would have a hard time of it. But Bersi might decide that the right moment to advance was the moment when all of Thorgrim’s men had been killed. The temptation to do so would be strong.
Thorgrim stepped forward and pushed his way through the shield wall between Harald and Ornolf until there was only open ground and the plank road between him and the gathering force of Irish warriors, two hundred yards away. He shook his head in disgust. If the Norwegians and Danes had not been so foolishly distracted fighting amongst themselves they could have seen this coming and killed half of the Irish before they even got over the wall. Now, because of their own stupidity and carelessness, they would have a long and bloody fight on their hands.
The Irish had seen the shield wall, that was clear. Even from that distance Thorgrim could see arms pointing and heads turned in their direction. Warriors were streaming out from behind the buildings and forming up on the road not far from Grimarr’s hall. Small clusters of men at first, and then dozens and then a hundred or more, gathering in a disorderly group. The sun reflected off bright weapons and helmets and the polished bosses of shields. Their chain mail seemed to ripple with dark and light.
Thorgrim could hear a voice above all of them and though he could not make out the words, nor would he have understood them if he could, he recognized the note of command. The crowd of men parted like water and a massive figure emerged from the press, more than a head taller than the next man, a heavy black cloak on his shoulders, a shield in one hand, battle ax in the other, what seemed to be an acre of chain mail covering his chest. At first Thorgrim thought the man had a cloth wrapped around his face, but then he realized it was a beard, a great tangle of beard that hid everything from his nose down.
“That’s Lorcan,” Harald said. “Their jarl, the chief of the Irish here abouts.”
Thorgrim nodded. He had never seen Lorcan, but he had heard quite a bit about the man in the short time he had been at Vík-ló. “He is just as I imagined,” Thorgrim said.
That voice of command belonged to Lorcan, and his bellowing did not cease as he gestured and pointed and pushed men into position. And his men hustled to obey.
“Harald, can you make out anything Lorcan says?” Thorgrim asked. Harald cocked his ear toward the distant Irishman and for a moment was silent, then shook his head.
“I can hear him, father, but I can’t make out the words.”
Thorgrim grunted. “No matter. I can well guess what he’s saying.”
What Lorcan was doing, organizing his men for an attack against an enemy shield wall, Thorgrim had done many times in the past. Sometimes it was a powerful enemy and his chief task had been to get his men’s battle madness up, to get them to that place where they were eager to fling themselves into the murderous storm of ax, shield and spear. And sometimes he had been in a better place, preparing an overwhelming force to roll down on a much weaker adversary, the place where Lorcan was now.
Thorgrim turned and looked at the faces of his own men and he recognized their various expressions; some stoic and unreadable, some clearly holding down the terror, some looking bored, which Thorgrim knew was just another mask for fear. Harald looked focused, ready, but Thorgrim knew that the boy was thinking about that sword blow coming down where his neck and his shoulder met, and at the same time trying very hard to not think about it.
“Well, there’s a lot of the sons of bitches,” Thorgrim said, loud enough for all his men to hear. “But they’re not Norsemen or Danes, they’re just Irish.” He knew that would not bring any great relief. Most of these man had fought Irish, and they knew they were not an enemy to be dismissed.
“You know your business, and the work you have to do today,” he went on. “Stand fast. Hold your ground. Let them come at you and kill them. Hold your ground until Bersi’s men come and ram spears up their asses and the day is ours!”
The men cheered. They raised weapons and banged them on shields and yelled insults and shouted their battle cry.
And two hundred yards away, Lorcan’s men cheered as well, and then rolled forward in their inexorable advance.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The warrior’s revenge
is repaid to the king,
wolf and eagle stalk
over the king’s sons.
Egil’s Saga
Harald and Ornolf made an opening and Thorgrim pushed through to his place behind the shield wall. He was alone. Starri was gone. Where, he did not know, and he did not have time to wonder about it. Lorcan’s men were advancing, and they were coming on fast. Not a steady, disciplined approach but rather something just on the edge of a disorganized rush.
“Steady men, stand firm!” Thorgrim shouted. The Irish were building momentum and Thorgrim guessed they would be at a full run by the time they hit the shield wall. They could see the Norsemen were few in number. They smelled blood and easy prey, and they were eager for it.
Lorcan was at the center of their line. Thorgrim expected him to slow his advance, to get his men under control, but he only moved faster with every step, and the others followed behind, keeping pace, none daring to get ahead of him. Fifty yards and Thorgrim could see Lorcan’s wild hair flowing behind him. His cloak was shucked back over his shoulders revealing massive arms; the shield and ax looked undersize, like toys in his hands.
No wonder men follow him, Thorgrim thought. He’s a frightening bastard. It had been a long time since Thorgrim had been afraid of any man, but he could well see how one might fear the likes of Lorcan.
All along the shield wall men shuffled in place, digging heels in where they could, bracing, adjusting their grip on weapons and swords, making ready for the impact of the men rushing at their wall of wood and iron, steel and flesh. Shields made dull thumping sounds as they banged against the shields next to them in the line, chain mail made its familiar rustling noise.
Twenty feet remained between the Norsemen and the Irish. Thorgrim adjusted his grip on Iron-tooth, and as he did, an unearthly shriek ripped through the morning, cutting through the pounding of running feet, the clank of weapons, the shouts of men with their blood lust up. Everything seemed to stop and Starri Deathless burst like a pheasant from the tall grass to the right, still shrieking, battle axes in hand.
He had shed his tunic and streaked his face and chest with black mud. He made a wild, undulating cry as he exploded from
the place where he was hidden, racing at the on-coming Irish, weapons held high.
Starri was only one man, one against more than one hundred. Any of the Irish with a spear or sword could have cut him down in his headlong, heedless rush. But his surprise attack and the horrific sound of his screeching battle cry and his utterly demonic look were so stunning that the left wing of the Irish line staggered to a halt. Men who had been focused on the shield wall, which seemed to offer little danger, were now knocked into confusion by this assault from an unexpected quarter. It brought them up short, confused and frightened by this seeming change of fortune.
Then Starri was on them, leaping high in the air and whirling the axes the way he had been whirling his arms moments before the fight. The Irish warriors in front of him had time only to begin raising their shields when the axes came down on their heads. One man was helmeted, the other not, but it made no difference, as the power of Starri’s attack split their skulls in a welter of blood.
Now there was a gap in the Irish line and Starri flung himself through. Thorgrim saw his axes rise again but Starri himself was lost to sight behind the startled, stumbling men, and Lorcan’s plan of attack crumbled like dry-rotted wood. The men on the right end of his line were unaware of what was happening on the left and they kept up their charge, yelling, weapons held high, pounding down the plank road. And then as one they seemed to realize that the left side of the line had stopped and, worse yet, they were getting ahead of Lorcan, who had also pulled up short at Starri’s attack.
One by one they slowed and Thorgrim saw their expressions change from rage to confusion as the discipline of the line collapsed. And then Thorgrim saw a chance.
“At them! At them! Advance!” Thorgrim shouted. It was insane to give up this carefully staged defense and fling themselves at a much stronger enemy, but Starri’s madness had become his madness, the berserker’s blood seemed to course through him as well.
The Lord of Vik-lo: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 3) Page 35
