Fin Gall (The Norsemen)

by James L. Nelson

  Chapter Six

  It is uncertain

  where enemies lurk

  or crouch in a dark corner.

  Hávamál

  D

  onnel the sheep herder opened his eyes and his first thought was, no rain. For the second day in a row the dawn came with clear skies and the promise of sun, and that was enough for a poor man like Donnel to think it was his lucky day.

  He sat up. His brother Patrick and he had slept in the meadow where they bedded down the flock. They were five miles from home, twenty miles from Dubh-linn, which lay to the south. Two days herding would get the flock to the town, where the finn gall would pay in silver for fresh meat.

  First he counted the sheep. It was as integral a part of waking up as opening his eyes. Fourteen. Very well. Then he looked for his brother.

  He didn’t see him, and that was odd. Patrick was younger by a few years, but generally reliable. Donnel kicked off the much-worn wool blanket, got to his feet. The morning breeze from the ocean was cool and he pulled the cowl of his cloak over his head and picked up his staff.

  Patrick was off beyond the flock, standing at the edge of the great cliff that ran down to the beach and the sea beyond. He was looking out to sea. His back was to the sheep. Donnel could not imagine what he was doing.

  He shook his head and trudged off through the dew-wet grass toward his brother. “Patrick, what are you doing, now?” he called when he was close enough to be heard over the breeze.

  Patrick turned. “Come here and look at this, Donnel!”

  Donnel hurried over. The cliff was high and rugged, and if the wind had been at their backs Donnel would have been nervous about approaching so close.

  He stepped up beside Patrick. Below them, the white sands that ringed Barnageeragh Bay stretched away in a semicircle, and beyond that the sea glittered in the early morning sun.

  “A boat, is it?” Donnel asked.

  “Sure it’s a boat. And a fair sized one at that.”

  For a moment they were silent, looking down at the battered curragh laying half on its side on the beach. It rocked slightly with each incoming wave, as if, in its death throes, it were making one final effort to free itself.

  “Should we have a look, then?” Patrick asked.

  Donnel glanced back at the sheep. They were grazing and, being sheep, would much prefer to remain where they were rather than be herded off. They weren’t going anywhere. And the Lord knew what might be found on board a wrecked ship, particularly one of that size.

  “Come on.”

  The young men worked their way north to where the pasture met the steep path to the beach. They had been this way several times and were quite familiar with the tricky climb. For the moment thoughts of the riches the curragh might hold were set aside as they concentrated on picking their way down the steep trail, still slick with mud and crumbling from the recent rains.

  At last they reached the soft sand that lapped like the sea against the cliff and crossed the beach to the wreck. Up close they saw it was much larger than they had thought at first, three perches long at least. It lay at an odd angle, it’s deck tilted toward the sea. The mast was broken and the single yard lay across the gunnels, snapped in three places and held together by the remnants of the sail. There seemed to be no real damage to the hull.

  Donnel and Patrick slowed their pace as they approached. There was a haunted quality about the wrecked ship, as if the souls who had perished in the storm were not ready to leave, and it made the boys waver in their determination to see what was aboard.

  Slowly, as if they were sneaking up on it, they crossed the sand to the curragh’s side. Together they reached out and placed hands on the gunnel, stood on tiptoes and peered over.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” Donnel shouted. He and Patrick leapt back, their hands flying from forehead to abdomen to shoulders as they crossed themselves, then turned and fled.

  They were twenty feet from the wreck when the panic began to ebb and they stopped and turned back. For a long moment they just stared at the ship. Finally, Donnel spoke.

  “They’re but dead men. They can’t harm us now.”

  Patrick nodded. The two young men retraced their steps, this time walking around the bow of the ship to the low side. They could see the whole deck from where they stood, the chalk-white, bloated, waterlogged bodies strewn fore and aft. They could see gaping wounds washed clean of blood by the rain and seas.

  “Whatever do you think happened?” Patrick whispered, but Donnel did not answer. Instead he climbed over the side of the boat, dropped to the deck, began stepping cautiously around the dead.

  “It was the finn gall, I’ll wager,” Donnel said at last. It was no great mystery who had killed these men. The mystery was who these dead men were.

  “Are they fishermen?” Patrick asked. Donnel shook his head. There were too many of them. And though their bodies had been looted and stripped, Donnell could see in the remnants of the clothing that these were wealthy men, king’s men, not common folk like him and Patrick.

  “I don’t know...” Donnel began and then he gasped, tried to scream, but only a choking sound came out. Then Patrick screamed and Donnel found his voice and screamed as well, a shrill sound of unadulterated panic.

  He looked down. One of the dead men, his face white, his eyes bulging, had a hold of Donnel’s ankle.

  Chapter Seven

  Who can tell

  at the table

  if he laughs with angry men?

  Hávamál

  T

  he sun was setting, brilliant and red, and the wind was gusting hard by the time the longship Red Dragon found the mouth of the River Liffey and Ornolf’s warriors readied for the hard pull upstream.

  For two mostly miserable days they had remained tied up in the cove where Ornolf and Thorgrim had buried the crown. The storm howled around them, dumping rain as they huddled on deck under an awning spread over a frame set up to bear it. They heard sounds from the shore that might well have been trolls, or something worse. The Vikings, to allay their fears, and for want of anything better to do, ate and drank themselves into insensibility.

  Finally the storm blew itself out, leaving in its wake blue sky and winds gusting hard. They got underway with a single reef in the sail and Thorgrim taking careful note of the landmarks that would lead them back to the little bay.

  They worked their way down the coast with two long tacks before fetching the mouth of the Liffey, but the wind was foul for them to sail up to the longphort of Dubh-linn, so with a fair amount of grousing the Vikings stowed the sail and broke out the long sweeps.

  Now Thorgrim stood at his place at the tiller, shielding his eyes from the brilliant orange glow of the setting sun, and guiding the ship between the muddy banks, the low rolling green hills.

  Ornolf the Restless was roaring drunk.

  He was up in the bow, a cup in his hand, flinging curses at the gods and anyone he could see on shore. His hand rested on the stump of the prow, where the long tapering dragon’s neck was generally fastened. The dragon head was always removed when approaching land, in case any land spirits should see it and be frightened, though Thorgrim wondered how a carved head could be any more off-putting than a drunk Ornolf.

  He scanned the southern bank of the river. There was a scattering of houses, some sheltered behind circular stonewalls, or wattle fortifications. A church sat back from the water a little ways. That close to a Norse longphort, it must have nothing of value, Thorgrim thought. Or, more to the point, it had nothing left of value.

  There were a few people as well, a plowman guiding his oxen through the last bits of daylight, some children gleaning a field. A woman was washing clothes in the river and Ornolf shouted to her as they passed. She looked up, watching the longship glide by. Thorgrim wondered if she understood the Norse tongue. He did not think so. If she did, she would have fled in terror to hear what Ornolf was suggesting.

  The men, well practiced at the sweeps, pul
led with powerful, even strokes. Young Harald pulled an oar with the rest, and Thorgrim watched him when he saw Harald was looking away. Not so long ago, his boy could barely manage that work, though Harald would never admit it. Instead, he would set his teeth and pull and pretend that he was not struggling at the limits of his strength.

  But now he pulled with the same ease as the older men - lean forward and sweep the oar blade toward the bow, lean back and pull - over and over, a steady mechanical rhythm that they could keep up for the better part of a day if they needed to.

  Thorgrim looked away before Harald saw him watching. Ornolf was shouting. “Ah, you Dubh-linn sons of whores! Lock up your wives, and your daughters, too, if you wouldn’t have Ornolf the Restless bugger them all!”

  Thorgrim spit in the river. He wished Ornolf would shut up. He felt the black mood coming on.

  Nightfall. It often happened around that time of day, became worse as the earth grew dark.

  During the day, Thorgrim Ulfsson was pleasant enough. He was, in fact, known for an unusually even temper. The men were happy to come to him for orders, or with problems, rather than deal with the raging Ornolf. But when the sun set, Thorgrim became irritable and prone to fighting. It was the spirit of the wolf, or so he had come to call it, and it made him snappish and mean. It was not something he liked. He’d tried to resist it. But it was the way he was.

  Now the sun was dipping behind the low hills and the longphort was in view up-river, a wooden fortress of sorts and a smattering of ill-conceived houses along a muddy road. Two buildings loomed above the others, and Thorgrim guessed them to be a temple and a mead hall. He knew in which of those the men would be worshiping as soon as the dock lines were secure.

  “Ease your stroke!” Thorgrim barked and the men fell into a slower rhythm as the longship made the careful approach to the docks. Thorgrim ran his eyes over the various ships tied up there - ocean-going knarrs and longships, smaller warships and curraghs. Quite a lot of ships. Apparently Dubh-linn was every bit the trading center Ornolf claimed it was.

  Around the far end of the up-river dock Thorgrim could see an unoccupied spot. He leaned into the tiller, swung the bow around, angling Red Dragon toward the space. “Pull and ship your oars!” he shouted. The men gave one long pull and then ran the sweeps in through the oar holes and laid them out on deck in a neatly choreographed move, while Ornolf bellowed, “Hah! You row like a bunch of old women! It’s a good thing Ornolf’s here to roger all the girls in Dubh-linn, cause you’d never be able to do it, you bunch of limp peckers!”

  Thorgrim scowled and kept his eyes on the dock as Red Dragon swept around the corner. Harald was foremost, as ever, standing up in the bow by his raving grandfather, a thick dock line in his hand.

  The bow turned in toward the dock and Harald leapt, a long jump over the water, though if he had waited a moment more the ship would have been along side and he could have stepped across. The boy hit the dock, stumbled, ran forward and looped the rope around a cleat, checking the ship’s way as it came along side.

  “There’s my grandson, the only one besides me on this ship with balls or brains, eh?” Ornolf shouted.

  One by one the rest of the men tumbled over the side, some attending to the dock lines, some staring around. There were a few men among them who had been to Dubh-linn before, but most had not, and their curiosity was palpable.

  Ornolf came rolling aft. “Hey, Thorgrim, we made it, and still alive!” Most men would not approach Thorgrim in his present mood, so late in the day, but Ornolf was either unafraid or completely oblivious. The two men had been together a long time. They had been through too much together for either to take much offense at what the other one did.

  Ornolf handed Thorgrim a brimming cup of mead and Thorgrim gladly took it and quaffed it down.

  “We’ll make a fortune here, our holds full as they are,” Ornolf said and Thorgrim nodded his agreement.

  “We need to arrange some gift for whatever miserable whoreson is in charge here,” Ornolf continued, “to show our respect.”

  “I’ll see what we have, that might do him honor,” Thorgrim said.

  “Good, good. Now, I am going to bear my grandson away to the mead hall and teach him how to drink and fornicate like a man! Will you join us?”

  “No,” Thorgrim said. He wondered if he should forbid Harald to go. Thorgrim was not enthusiastic about giving his son over to Ornolf’s influence. Hallbera the Fair, Harald’s mother, Ornolf’s daughter, had once begged Thorgrim to keep the boy away from his grandfather, and Thorgrim wondered if he must honor her memory by doing so now. Thorgrim loved Harald far more than he loved even his own life, but he knew the boy was not the cleverest of creatures, and could easily be led into Ornolf’s bad habits.

  But Harald was not a child any more. He was trying hard to take his place among men. Forcing him to stay behind would not help.

  He felt the anger like tongs squeezing his temples. It was hard to think with the spirit of the wolf sweeping over him.

  “I’ll stay with the ship. Leave a dozen men behind,” Thorgrim said, then turned to lashing the tiller before he said anything else, anything less helpful.

  Forward, he heard Ornolf roaring out about the damage he and his men would do to Dubh-linn. Then, once he had the men sufficiently excited about the pleasures that awaited them, he told off a dozen to stay behind, which resulted in the predictable curses and arguments.

  “Father?”

  Thorgrim looked up. Harald was there. The boy seemed to carry some invisible shield that warded off Thorgrim’s anger. If the black mood made Thorgrim hate all the world, still he loved his son.

  Thorgrim grunted in reply.

  “I’d be happy to stand watch with you, father, or take the watch so you can go with the others.”

  Thorgrim straightened and looked at his son. A decent, honorable young man, he thought. He gets it from his mother. He sure as hell does not get it from me or Ornolf...

  “No. You go. You’ve earned it,” Thorgrim said, the words coming in little bursts.

  Harald nodded, tried to disguise his obvious relief, turned and hurried forward. Ornolf the Restless was already leading his men up the plank road to the mead hall.

  Thorgrim sat on the after deck, his cloak wrapped around him, staring out at the water. Forward, the disgruntled dozen sat in a huddle and drank and shot ugly looks aft. They blamed Thorgrim for having to stay. Thorgrim knew it and did not care.

  For some time, he did not know how long, Thorgrim stared up river as the Liffey slowly disappeared from sight in the setting sun. With nothing to distract him, his thoughts turned into a disjoined jumble of anger and depression and loathing, an ugly and unfocused surge of emotions. He knew he had to stand, walk, do something - just sitting made the black mood worse - but he could not pull himself to his feet.

  There were voices from forward, men talking, but he dismissed the sound as the babble of angry men who would rather be at the mead hall.

  The loud bang of a deck board lifted and dropped made him jump and he looked up, annoyed. It was nearly black night, with a smattering of stars gleaming to the east. The men who had been left behind were pulling up the deck planks, revealing the cargo stored below. Someone Thorgrim did not recognize was climbing down to inspect. Olaf Yellowbeard was holding a lantern for him.

  With a growl Thorgrim stood and walked forward. His men stood aside as he approached, and watched with nervous expressions, which only irritated him further.

  “What’s this?” Thorgrim demanded.

  Sigurd Sow coughed nervously. “This fellow, he said he had to come aboard.”

  Thorgrim looked down at the man in the hold. He was dressed like a Norseman. A wealthy Norseman. His fine-made clothes covered a corpulent frame.

  “I am Asbjorn,” the man said, wiping his hands together. With some effort he struggled out of the hold and on to the deck. “I am the port reeve.” His tone was curt and officious. The Vikings shuffled nervously. Some
cleared their throats. Thorgrim felt his anger rise.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve come to inspect your cargo. A certain percentage will be claimed by King Orm.”

  Thorgrim just stared at the man. In younger days, in the wolf-spirit, he might have killed the reeve by now, but age had taught him how to hold the anger at bay. For a while.

  Sigurd stepped closer. “Let me talk to this one, Thorgrim, no need to concern yourself.”

  “No,” Thorgrim said and pushed Sigurd aside, not hard, but with feeling. To Asbjorn he said, “Make your inspection and get out. We’ll do a reckoning in the morning.”

  Asbjorn grunted but he clearly saw where discretion was warranted. He struggled down into the hold, continued to poke through the goods there as the Red Dragon’s men lifted up the deck planks and Thorgrim, with forced control, watched in silence.

  “These are Danish goods,” Asbjorn observed, and there was a hint of accusation in his tone.

  “Yes,” Thorgrim said.

  “But you are Norwegian?”

  “Yes. Aren’t you? Isn’t this a Norwegian longphort?”

  “No, it is not.” Asbjorn struggled out of the hold again, and again made a wiping motion with his hands, as if to rid himself of the Red Dragon’s filth, and the motion irritated Thorgrim to the extreme.

  “Dubh-Linn is a Danish longphort, and has been for this past year or more. And you,” Asbjorn poked an accusing finger into Thorgrim’s chest, “have some explaining to do.”

  Thorgrim looked at the finger like he could not believe what he was seeing. He heard someone gasp. His hand shot out like a snake, grabbed the fat digit before Asbjorn could withdraw it. He twisted, felt the bones on the edge of snapping. Sigurd Sow grabbed his arm, Snorri Half-troll grabbed his shoulders and the others pulled him back as Asbjorn screamed like a pig. Thorgrim felt Asbjorn’s finger slip from his grasp.

  The Red Dragon crew pulled Thorgrim back five feet, a safe distance, and held him tight. “You better get out of here, now,” Sigurd Sow said to the port reeve. Asbjorn stared hatred at Thorgrim, and Thorgrim stared it back, but both men were sensible enough to keep their mouths shut.