Thorgrim grabbed the hateful thing and jerked it up and it came free of Starri’s body, its end jagged and ugly, blood soaked. Fresh blood welled up in its wake, and to Thorgrim’s utter astonishment Starri gasped and moaned.
Gently, Thorgrim rolled Starri onto his back. The spear had pierced his right side, just below his shoulder, and it had made a terrible mess going in. The skin was ragged and torn, the blood coated his chest and mixed with the mud into which he had fallen. Thorgrim was accustomed to seeing Starri blood-covered at the end of a fight, but it was not usually his own blood.
He heard footsteps behind him and Harald knelt by his side. “He…he lives?” Harald asked.
“He does,” Thorgrim said. They were quiet for a moment and then Thorgrim looked up. “What of the fighting?” he asked. The sound of battle was gone and he had not even been aware of its going.
“They made it to the trees,” Harald said. “The Irish who attacked us. They reached the trees and disappeared into the wood and Bersi said not to follow. You were not there, and so I figured Bersi was in command.”
Thorgrim nodded. “Yes, that’s right. And Bersi did the right thing. In the woods they might have cut you down one man at a time.”
Harald nodded. “The other half of the Irish, the ones fighting by the trees, they retreated as well.”
“The horn must have been the signal,” Thorgrim said. “He’s a clever one, whoever is leading those Irish warriors.”
At that moment Starri made a groaning noise, soft and weak. His eyes fluttered but remained closed.
“Will he live?” Harald asked. The boy had still not figured out that some things were as much a mystery to his father as they were to himself.
“I don’t know,” Thorgrim said. He shook his head as he looked at Starri, pale and motionless on the ground. It was so odd to see Starri not moving. Starri was never still, even when sitting quietly.
Had the spear struck just an inch to the left Starri would already be making the journey to Odin’s corpse hall. But now his death, if it came, would be long and agonizing and not at all the end he had so often envisioned. And how long would it be before death overtook him? An hour? A few days? Or would he live on as a broken cripple, the worst of all fates?
No, Starri would die in battle. He would live long enough for that. Even if he had to drag himself into the fight, even if Thorgrim had to carry him, which he would, Starri would go down fighting.
Thorgrim picked up one of Starri’s battle axes and set it on Starri’s stomach and wrapped Starri’s hand around the grip. He looked up. More of his men were gathered around, looking silently at their stricken fellow.
“Find a cloak or some such, something we can carry him on,” Thorgrim ordered. “We’ll bring him back to Sea Hammer.”
Chapter Twenty-One
A coward believes he will ever live
if he keep him safe from strife
Hávamál
The sun had gone behind the western mountains. The camp was all but lost in the deep shadow, the first stars making their blinking presence known when they lay Starri down near Sea Hammer’s stern. Thorgrim had ordered a bed made up for him in the after end of the ship, the place where Thorgrim generally slept. They had piled up furs to make a deep and comfortable pallet and laid him down, moaning and moving his head side to side. There was not much more that they could do.
Most of the men who sailed aboard Sea Hammer, who had been seafaring and raiding for more than a few years, had some knowledge of the healing arts. They could set broken bones. They could stitch gashes left by sword or ax. Some could even amputate a limb with a reasonable expectation of success. They could treat the sort of injuries they most often encountered. But they could not do much beyond that.
And Starri’s injuries were certainly beyond that, his body pierced clean through. They had washed the wound, washed the blood and dirt from Starri’s chest. Bersi suggested that they stitch him closed but Thorgrim rejected that idea. He did not know why. He had an idea that there might be spirits that could get trapped inside Starri if they did that. But he really did not know what to do, so he laid a damp cloth over the wound and left it like that.
Once Starri had fallen asleep or lapsed into unconsciousness, Thorgrim wrapped the wounded man’s fingers around the handle of his battle ax and gently lashed them in place with a soft leather thong. He had no notion of when Starri might die, but he could at least be certain he had a weapon in his hand when he did.
“Odin, all-father,” Thorgrim said softly, his hand resting on Starri’s hand, the one tied to the ax. “If Starri dies now, he dies of wounds he took in honorable battle. Sure there is no difference between that and being killed on the field? If he goes, I beg you will send the Valkyrie to lift him to your corpse hall. It’s all he ever wanted.”
He stood and looked around and wiped his eyes. He had no idea whether or not Odin paid heed to such a prayer, if the logic of his arguments carried any weight. Of course, he could not tell Odin anything the god did not already know, but he did not imagine such a plea would hurt.
Thorgrim left Starri to rest or die, whichever he would do, and climbed down the gangplank to the shore. He walked a few perches toward the camp, then stopped and looked around. There was little to see in the gathering dark. A few fires had been kindled and in the light of the flames he could see men moving around. The air was filled with the familiar sounds that marked the end of battle: moaning, the occasional cry, raucous laughter from men happy to still be alive, men who were feeling the remnants of the fighting madness and needed some release.
And there was the shrieking of the prisoners. Ottar had managed to find two of the Irish attackers wounded but still alive, and now he was making them pay for their audacity. He had ordered his men to raise tall wooden stakes and he had bound the Irishmen to them and now he was taking his time with the sorry bastards as he vented his fury. The night was filled with their screams and babbled words. Pleading, Thorgrim guessed. He could not understand what was said. There were several men in the camp who could have translated, but Thorgrim doubted that Ottar much cared what they had to say.
Thorgrim was disgusted by the entire affair. At the battle’s end, Ottar had been in a blind and senseless rage, racing around the killing place, slashing at the bodies of the few dead the Irish had left behind, screaming like the madman he was. At least a dozen of his men had been killed and Ottar was apparently determined to make those two poor bastards who had lived pay for that loss.
Thorgrim Night Wolf was not shy about killing, he did not slink from brutality, but this was pointless and dishonorable. It was worse than pointless. They might have applied less agonizing treatment to the prisoners and received useful information in return. They might have found out, for instance, who it was who had launched that clever attack, and what they were planning next. If they had let one prisoner go he might have returned to his fellows and told them of what happened to the others and thus put some fear into all of them. Now they would learn nothing, achieve nothing.
Thorgrim shook his head and pushed it from his thoughts. Kevin mac Lugaed and a handful of his men were approaching, and Thorgrim knew there was some hard negotiating on the horizon.
“Harald!” Thorgrim called because he knew Harald was lurking nearby, trying to be inconspicuous. “Go find Bersi and Skidi and Kjartan and tell them to meet me here. The Irish will want to talk. And you come back, too. I don’t want Kevin whatever-by-the-gods his name is to be the only one with a man who can speak both languages.”
Harald nodded and rushed off. He was still fetching the others when Kevin arrived, Eoin at his side and his house guard trailing behind. Kevin spoke and Eoin translated.
“Kevin says thank you for your good service today. That was the sort of treachery we are bound to encounter. But at least we showed that we can defeat any who would come against us.”
Thorgrim turned and spit on the ground. “We defeated no one,” he said. “They did just what they came to do. They hurt us an
d they pulled back before we could hurt them.” It always amused him how some men considered clever planning to be treachery when it was their enemies who were being clever.
Eoin translated. Thorgrim could not believe he was telling Kevin something he did not already know, but the man did not look pleased as he replied.
“Kevin says that he understands such an attack should not have happened. And it won’t again. But he adds that this shows that there is great wealth to be had at Glendalough, that they would make such effort to stop us.”
Thorgrim looked at Eoin and thought, A poor farmer will use every means he has to protect his one miserable cow, it does not mean the thing is worth a turd. But he was already tired of talking so he said nothing.
Before the silence could grow more uncomfortable, Harald approached with the others behind. Thorgrim turned to his son. “Tell Kevin that I called for my chief men so we might finish the business that was interrupted. Tell him I don’t think Ottar is in much of a talking mood, but that’s probably just as well.”
Harald rendered the words in Irish. Kevin spoke and Eoin translated. It was like single combat, a battle of translators.
“Kevin says that he apologizes again that he could not alert you to Ottar’s presence. He says there will be loot enough for all at the Glendalough Fair, and that Ottar and his men will make it that much easier for us to take and plunder the place. My lord hopes you will not change your mind about joining in with us.”
Thorgrim was not much impressed with the assistance that Ottar and his men had rendered thus far, but again he kept his own council. Before he could speak, however, Kjartan stepped closer and said in a low voice, “Night Wolf, might we all have a word? In private?”
There was an odd note in the man’s voice, much of the former arrogance stripped away. Thorgrim tried to see his face in the poor light but could see only shadows.
“Certainly,” Thorgrim said. He turned to Harald. “Tell Kevin that I must have a word in private with my chief men. Tell him to wait on us a moment.” Then Thorgrim, the captains of his fleet, and Harald moved off toward the water, far enough away that Eoin would not pick up their low talk.
“Thorgrim,” Kjartan began, “I need not tell you Ottar is a madman. You have seen that well this night.” The prisoners had stopped screaming by then, but the sound of their agony was still in every man’s ears. “But I have to tell you, he is more mad, and more despised by the gods, than you can imagine.”
“You’ve had dealings with Ottar before?” Thorgrim asked.
“He’s my brother,” Kjartan said. “We came together from Norway. Three years ago.” And then Thorgrim recognized the odd note in Kjartan’s voice. It was fear. The same fear Kjartan had shown in the village of the dead. Kjartan must have known then who had butchered all those people.
“What are you saying?” Bersi asked.
Kjartan was silent for a moment, as if summoning the resolve to speak. “I say we cannot trust him. And I don’t think we can trust this Irishman, Kevin, even though he never cheated us back in Vík-ló.”
Thorgrim could already see how this would play out. They had been tricked into this meeting on the river. Kevin had manipulated them into fighting in the company of another chief who was mad and unpredictable. Already the Irish of Glendalough had shown they would not be easily beaten. Any sensible man would have put back to sea and returned home.
But there were things to consider beyond being sensible. Honor was one. Thorgrim would not admit that Kevin had so easily tricked them. He could not tolerate even the suggestion that he and his men lacked the courage to join with the mad Ottar in a raid up river, or that the strength and cleverness of the Irish might make them shy away.
“So what do you suggest?” Skidi asked Kjartan in his grunting voice. “What is your council?”
Once again Kjartan was silent for a moment before he spoke. “I think the prudent thing to do is to abandon all this, to return to Vík-ló, to look for some other opportunity,” he said.
This time it was the others who were silent, considering Kjartan’s words. Finally Thorgrim spoke.
“You know we can’t do that,” he said. A statement.
“Yes, I know,” Kjartan said. In the dark Thorgrim could see the others nodding.
“Then it’s decided,” Thorgrim said. They would press on to Glendalough. They would face head-on whatever fates the gods had in store. They would endeavor to win glory and riches or to die well, and in the end there really was nothing more for which a man who went a-viking could hope.
Chapter Twenty-Two
[T]he Norwegians were defeated, by a miracle of the Lord, and they were slaughtered.
The Annals of Ulster
They retreated into the trees and the Northmen did not follow. Backed further away, weapons held at the ready, and still the Northmen did not follow. And when at last it was clear the Northmen were not going to follow them into the woods, that they had had enough of fighting, then Louis de Roumois led his men back to where they would meet up with Aileran and the others and make their way back to camp.
A boisterous energy was running through the men. Louis had seen it often enough, particularly at the conclusion of a successful action. He figured it was due to some imbalance of the humors, some trace of fear and excitement and madness still flowing in the blood, looking for a means to dissipate. He had felt it himself in the past and he had enjoyed it, but he did not feel it now.
As he pushed his way to the head of the line of retreating men, he grabbed Failend by the arm and pulled her along. She had moved back into the wood with the rest, had tried to make herself inconspicuous, but she was foremost in Louis’s thoughts and he was not likely to forget she was there.
“What in the name of God and all that is holy are you doing here?” he hissed as they walked. “What are you thinking?”
“I was just trying to do my part, to help keep the heathens from sacking Glendalough,” she protested, but her voice was as lacking in conviction as her words.
“Merde,” Louis spat. “Are you mad?”
He glanced over at her as he pushed his way through the brush. Her hair was a mass of brown tangles. The bruise Colman had left was mostly gone but now there was a streak of blood on her face. Her leine was torn and the hem was dark with dirt and blood. She still carried her short sword in her hand, and it, too, had blood drying on the blade. There was a weird look in her eyes, one he had not seen before. She did indeed look insane.
“No, I am not mad,” she insisted, despite appearances to the contrary. “Was I supposed to sit there in camp and let my bastard husband glare at me and insult me all day?”
Louis could understand why she would not care to do that, but he was too angry and, he realized, too confused to argue further. They walked on in silence, Louis parting the way through the brush, Failend following, and the rest of the surviving troops, which seemed to Louis to be most of them, making a ragged line behind.
The trees thinned and soon the walking was easier, and then they came out into the open country. The sun had just disappeared behind the mountains, the dark beginning to settle over the river valley, and Louis was happy to be out of the woods.
“This way, Captain,” Lochlánn said, pointing with his sword. He had pushed ahead to catch up with Louis, feeling it his duty, apparently, to remain at his captain’s side. Louis nodded and turned away from the river, Lochlánn on his right, Failend on his left and the rest behind. A few minutes later they came to the rutted and dusty road down which they had marched from their camp that afternoon. Louis called a halt, and most of the men dropped immediately to the ground, some sitting cross-legged, some lying on their backs.
Soon they could hear men coming down the road, a soft sound, much like the wind in the trees, but accented with the jingling of mail and the occasional thump of a weapon or a shield. Aileran’s men. Louis did not think the Northmen would have the will to sally forth from their camp.
“You men, on your feet, form a co
lumn,” Louis said in a voice just loud enough to be heard. The men stood reluctantly and fell into line on the road. “No, not that way,” Louis said. “Do you want to march back toward the heathens? The other direction.”
Seventy men turned around, facing in the direction from which they had come many hours before, and behind them Aileran and his men materialized out of the dark. Louis stepped forward and extended a hand. There was still light enough that Louis could see Aileran’s face, weary and strained, but his expression brightened as he saw Louis approach. The older man took Louis’ hand, squeezed it, then pulled Louis toward him and hugged him around the shoulders. Louis could see the other men-at-arms coming closer, smiling as well, thumping his back in approval.
“Well done, sir, well done,” Aileran said, releasing Louis from his grip. Louis stepped back. The others were nodding their agreement. The farmers with the spears might not have appreciated the action to the degree they should, but the men-at-arms understood it had been well planned and had been brought off neatly and well.
Louis nodded. “And you, too. That was a goodly fight. The heathens will not be so bold now, I think. Did you lose many men?”
Aileran shook his head. “Five did not make it out. I pray to God they were killed on the battle field and not left alive. You?”
Louis realized he had not made a count of his men, a gross oversight, but he did not want to admit as much. “We lost only a few. Far fewer than the heathens and Kevin mac Lugaed lost,” he said, confident that he was right about that.
“I don’t think the heathens will follow this night,” Aileran said. “I think they had their fill of us. And I don’t think they much fancy wandering around the countryside in the dark.”
Louis nodded. “I agree. My men are ready to drop from exhaustion. I propose we march a mile or so up the road and find a place to bed down. Set a guard, sleep on our weapons. March back to camp at first light.”
Glendalough Fair Page 16
