Fin Gall (The Norsemen)

by James L. Nelson

  Thorgrim, who had been sleeping on the deck beside her, stirred and sat up. Morrigan glared down at him and there must have been something about her appearance that he found amusing, because he smiled, which made her want to slap him.

  “Good morrow,” he said.

  “Is that Ireland?” Morrigan snapped, pointing toward the shoreline.

  Thorgrim stood slowly and looked out over the rail. “Ireland?” he said.

  “Don’t mock me,” Morrigan said.

  “Yes, that is Ireland. Even the Red Dragon does not sail so fast that we might leave Ireland behind in one night.”

  “Why are we so far from land?”

  Thorgrim grinned and Morrigan was certain she would have hit him at that moment if she was not suddenly afraid she would vomit, so she clenched her teeth and glared.

  “We stood off shore all night. There are rocks, close to land. A great danger in the dark.”

  “And trolls too, I suppose? And evil spirits?”

  “Those too.” Thorgrim’s hand went to the cross and the hammer around his neck, a gesture Morrigan had noticed he did more and more frequently.

  “How are we to find the crown now?”

  Thorgrim looked out toward the land again. He seemed to be really studying it. “That headland, there,” he said, pointing. “Just around there, there lies the beach where I buried the crown.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I recognize it.”

  Morrigan was mollified at first by Thorgrim’s confidence, but as the Red Dragon continued her rolling and swooping motion she soon found her concern for the crown, or Máel Sechnaill, or Ireland itself, waning until she cared not a whit about any of it. She curled up on the deck, hugging her cloak close to her, wishing it would all stop. She fell in and out of sleep.

  Some time later the men forward built a fire in a portable stove and cooked pork they had taken from the baggage train. A quirk of wind brought the smell to Morrigan’s nose, and she leapt to her feet and leaned over the side of the ship. She retched, miserably, and tried to vomit, but there was nothing in her stomach.

  Thorgrim came to her side. He had a cup in his hand. “Here is water with a little mead mixed in. Drink this, it will help.” There was genuine concern in his voice, actual tenderness. Morrigan would not have thought the fin gall capable of such a thing. She took the cup and drank and relished the liquid in her parched mouth. It helped.

  Thorgrim set a couple of thick furs on the deck. “Lay down,” he said, easing her onto the bed. “We will be closer into land soon, and the seas will not be so rough.”

  Morrigan looked at him with more gratitude than she had felt for anyone in a long, long time. “Thank you,” she said.

  Thorgrim shrugged. “You cared for me when I was wounded,” he said. “And for Harald, which is far more important. And you, with plenty of reason to hate us. Us dubh gall.” He smiled when he said that.

  Morrigan shook her head. “The Danes are dubh gall. You are fin gall.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  Morrigan closed her eyes. When she opened them, Thorgrim was still there, looking at her. She did not want him to leave, not then. She wanted to hear his voice.

  “Why does Ornolf carry such a beautiful sword, with silver inlaid, and you such a plain one?” she asked.

  Thorgrim looked down at his sword, which lay in its sheath on the deck beside her. He picked it up as if he was discovering it for the first time. “This is not my sword,” he said. “This is one I took at the mead hall when we escaped. My sword is a Frankish blade, far better than Ornolf’s. His name is Iron-tooth.”

  Fin gall, like children, Morrigan thought. Naming their swords...I imagine they give their penises such fearsome names as well. “Why don’t you have him... it...now?”

  “Iron-tooth was stolen. In Dubh-linn, by some whore’s son named Magnus Magnusson. Do you know him?”

  “Yes.” Arrogant, vicious, plotting Magnus Magnusson. He had caught her alone once, at the mead hall, where she had been sent for a breaker of ale. He raped her. Not because he wanted her, but because she was Orm’s.

  “Yes, I know Magnus. And he is a whore’s son.”

  “I pray to the gods that I will meet this Magnus again, so I may kill him and get my sword back. It’s a great dishonor, to lose one’s sword. Worse, to have your enemy carry it.”

  Morrigan’s eyes moved from the sword to Thorgrim’s face. He had a far-away look, a despondent look, and Morrigan’s heart went out to him, even though it was just a stupid piece of iron, an instrument for killing. Though perhaps he was thinking about more than the sword. “Don’t you hate me,” she asked, “for my part in stealing Harald?”

  Thorgrim did not answer right off. He looked out to sea for a moment, then back at her. “If there is one thing we Norsemen understand, it is vengeance. It is as much a part of who we are as longships and farming. We do not love our enemies, like you Christ followers say you do. We take our vengeance on them. So I know why you did what you did, and I don’t hate you for it. The same way I don’t hate the wolf that kills my cattle, though I will kill him for it.”

  “Will you kill me, for what I did?” The thought of dying right then did not seem so unwelcome.

  “Not unless I have to. I’m grateful that you made sure Harald was safe. A Viking would have cut his throat.”

  Morrigan smiled and her stomach turned and she was not sure it was the motion of the ship in that instance. She had assured Thorgrim that Harald was safe. But Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid was a hard man. You had to be, if you wished to survive a week as a king in Ireland. She did not, in all honesty, know that Máel Sechnaill would be scrupulous in preserving the hostages’ lives. She closed her eyes and prayed for Harald’s safety, and as she did she fell asleep.

  It was some time later - she did not know how long - that Morrigan opened her eyes. She lay still on her bed of fur. Things had changed. The light was different now, and she realized she must have slept through the bulk of the afternoon. The motion of the ship was different as well, the swooping and rolling was gone and the ship was very steady.

  “Thank you, dear Jesus,” she said out loud, but soft, as she understood that the heathens did not care to have the name of the true God spoken on board their ship.

  She sat up. They were not far out to sea any longer. The point of land that Thorgrim had mentioned was now close by on the larboard side and the men were at the oars, pulling to get the ship around the far end.

  Morrigan lay down again, and when she woke the next time, the longship was pulled partway up on a beach, with lines running ashore and a gangplank over the side. Armed Vikings were at various places along the shore. The sun was making a dull spot of light through the thick clouds as it headed toward the west. The smell of grass and dirt was strong on the offshore breeze.

  “Good morrow, my beauty!”

  Morrigan turned. Ornolf was seated on a sea chest on the other side of the afterdeck. He had a cup in his hand. He took a long drink and wiped his ample beard with his sleeve.

  “Where is Thorgrim?”

  Ornolf nodded toward the shore. “Gone off to have a look around. Make sure there are none watching us.”

  Morrigan nodded. She was not happy to be left alone here, with Thorgrim off. But Ornolf seemed to be in one of his rare, subdued humors, judging from the fact that he had not yet suggested fornication, despite Morrigan’s having been awake for a full minute.

  “Is this the beach? The beach where the crown is buried?”

  Ornolf nodded. “We rounded the headland under oar, with the wind on our prow. Thorgrim insisted we keep the dragon’s head mounted.” He nodded toward the bow and the long tapered figurehead lashed to the stem. “Not everyone was happy with that. Most figure it’s only good spirits will be frightened off by such a thing. The evil ones don’t care.”

  Morrigan did not care either, about such nonsense. “Have you dug it up yet?” she asked eagerly.

  “No. No hurry, we are her
e for the night in any case. Better to make sure none of those sheep-biting Irish are ready to fall on us again, before we reveal its whereabouts.”

  That made sense, so Morrigan did not argue, despite her great eagerness to get at the Crown of the Three Kingdoms, to hold that ancient and powerful thing in her hands. “When will Thorgrim be back?” she asked, but Ornolf only shrugged.

  “Hard to say, with Thorgrim,” Ornolf said after another drink. “In any event, you don’t want to talk to him now, not with the sun going down.”

  Morrigan looked out toward the beach. She had noticed that before - Thorgrim could be more kind than she would have thought a fin gall could be, but when the darkness came on, he seemed to change, his mood growing black along with the sky.

  “Thorgrim is a singular man,” Morrigan said. “Why does the anger seem to come on him with the dark?”

  “Huh!” Ornolf made a chuckling sound. “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “Thorgrim is a shape-shifter. That is why he is called Kveldulf. Night-Wolf. Do you know what a shape-shifter is?”

  “No.”

  “Of course not. You Christ followers don’t know anything. On some nights, when the darkness comes, Thorgrim changes. From what he is.” Ornolf seemed to falter in his explanation. “He turns to a wolf.”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Morrigan said, the words no more than a whisper, and she made the sign of the cross.

  “Sure, you would be right to use what charms you have. Thorgrim can be a dangerous man. After the change.”

  Morrigan was silent for a long moment. She of course did not believe in such things as men turning into wolves. At least she had grave doubts. “I think that is nonsense,” she said at last, with as much conviction as she could muster.

  “You do, do you? Well, how do you think he knew those Irish were there, following us? Or how he knew to bury the crown in the first place. This magic allows him to see things you and I can’t see.”

  Morrigan thought on that for a bit. “Aren’t the men afraid of him?” she asked.

  “They keep clear of him, when the night comes on. But shape-shifters like him don’t turn on their own. And they know things, as I said. See things. They can be a great benefit.”

  Again Morrigan was silent, trying to understand all this. Finally she asked, “You have seen him? Yourself? Turn into a wolf?”

  “Well,” Ornolf began but he was interrupted by the sound of feet padding up the gangplank. It had grown much darker, and they could just make out the shape of Thorgrim as he came up over the side of the ship. Morrigan made the sign of the cross again, though she could not help but notice that Thorgrim was not, in fact, a wolf.

  He came aft, with the dark, scowling night-look on his face, and sat down heavily. There was mud on his shoes and a tear in his trousers. He looked at Ornolf and then at Morrigan, then looked at Morrigan again and squinted, as if trying to look into her mind, and Morrigan realized she was staring, as if she was staring at some freakish creature she had never seen before. She quickly looked down at the deck, then out at the beach, which was nearly lost in shadow.

  “Well?” Ornolf asked.

  “The Irish soldiers are not here. They are probably still digging up the other beach. There are some sheep herds a mile or so to the north. Nothing else.”

  Ornolf grunted. “Good. Let us get this damned thing that’s given us so much trouble.”

  He stood and Thorgrim stood as well. Thorgrim held out a hand for Morrigan, almost grudgingly, and she took it and he helped her to her feet. They grabbed up shovels and headed for the gangway. Amidships, Svein the Short lit a torch and followed behind.

  They marched down the springing gangway and crunched across the gravely beach. Thorgrim led the way and he moved with none of the uncertainty he had displayed on the other beach while pretending to look for the Crown of the Three Kingdoms. The Vikings spread out on the beach or sitting around the small fire they had blazing began to fall in behind.

  Ornolf had explained to them all what the crown was, after Morrigan had explained it to him and Thorgrim. Ornolf told the men how it had happened to be buried on the beach, and why they now had to retrieve it and bear it up to Tara.

  It had surprised Morrigan to realize that Ornolf and Thorgrim were the only ones of the Northmen who knew of the crown’s existence. But none of the others had raised the least objection to a task that was unlikely to gain them any spoils. They were loyal to their leaders, these fin gall.

  Thorgrim stopped two perches from the water’s edge and looked down. There was a flat rock at his feet, and scratched on it, faintly seen in the torchlight, was a single rune, a straight line with two shorter lines coming off at an angle to the right. No one would have seen it who was not looking for it.

  “The rune means wealth,” Ornolf told Morrigan. “Very lucky. See, the stone is undisturbed.”

  Thorgrim lifted the stone and tossed it away, revealing the recently turned earth underneath. He took his shovel and stuck the blade gently in the ground and began to toss the dirt aside.

  Morrigan realized she was holding her breath. All her life she had heard of the Crown of the Three Kingdoms. Most people thought it was no more than a myth, but she knew differently. And since it had first come to light that the crown was ordered given to Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid, and had gone missing, there was little else she had thought about. And now it would be in her hands.

  The Vikings stepped closer, peering down into the hole. Thorgrim wielded his shovel gently, digging deeper, and then he stopped. He handed the shovel to Snorri Half-troll and got down on his knees. He scooped some earth away with his hands and then pulled a canvas bundle from the hole, brown and dirt-covered.

  Thorgrim stood and the Vikings took a step forward. Gently, Thorgrim unwrapped the canvas. Morrigan pressed her hands to her mouth. She felt a tingling down her back.

  The canvas fell away from the crown and Thorgrim held it high for all to see. The light of the torch fell on the gold and the jewels and Morrigan sucked in her breath. It was magnificent. Like nothing she had ever seen, and she had been raised in the seat of the high king of Tara.

  The gold was thick and substantial and glowed a deep, rich yellow. On each of the filigrees that ran around the upper edge of the crown there was mounted a precious jewel - a diamond, a ruby, a sapphire - and Morrigan could just see in that light the elaborate and delicate etchings that arched and swirled over the surface of the crown. It was unearthly. She had never seen its like. She had to have it in her hands.

  But instead, Thorgrim handed the crown to Ornolf, who frowned and turned it over in his hands. “Not a bad piece of work, for your Irishman,” he pronounced and handed the crown to Snorri Half-troll, who also examined it and then passed it on. For the next minute or so the crown was passed from one heathen hand to the next, defiled by the touch of the barbarians, until Morrigan could stand it no more.

  “Give me that!” she snapped as Egil Lamb passed it in front of her to Sigurd Sow. She snatched it from Egil’s hands, held it tight, ready to fight anyone who tried to take it back. The fin gall looked at her, surprised, but no one made any attempt to take it back.

  “Very well,” Morrigan announced, emboldened by the fact that she was not challenged. “I will keep a care of this, until we reach Tara.”

  “Why you?” someone asked from the crowd.

  “Because I am the only one here who is not a damned thief and a murderer!” she snapped.

  The Norsemen were silent for a moment, then Ornolf broke the silence with his great bear laugh. “She’s right, you know! By the hammer of Thor, the little vixen is right!”

  And with that the others laughed as well and headed off, back to their fire, leaving Morrigan clutching the Crown of the Three Kingdoms. And now that it was in her hands, she did not think she could ever let it go.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  A bad friend

  is far away

  though his cottage is close.


  Hávamál

  I

  t took Asbjorn the Fat four days to make his way back to Dubh-linn, and the only easy part was convincing Hallkel Half-wit to assist him. Indeed, it took only a fraction of Asbjorn’s persuasive powers before Hallkel was for all practical purposes Asbjorn’s thrall.

  Hallkel used the butt of his knife to knock the collar off Asbjorn’s neck. He gave up his cloak and his shoes so that Asbjorn, stripped nearly naked, would have some cover. He went ahead, scouting the way back toward Dubh-Linn, in case there were more ambushes, with Asbjorn following a dozen perches behind.

  Asbjorn used Hallkel the way he would have used any thrall. He sent him for wood to build fires at night, and off to the small ringforts they passed to beg or steal food. Hallkel, terrified of being caught up it the retribution Magnus would suffer, as described by Asbjorn, made every effort to bring comfort to his master. But for all his efforts, there was little comfort to be had, running from their enemies, exposed to the rain and the cold night air, walking for miles every day. Asbjorn’s feet bled and his stomach was in a constant agony of hunger.

  The two men assumed at first that Magnus and his Celtic allies would try and hunt them down. They hurried across open ground, moving from one hiding spot to the next, pausing to see if there was anyone on their trail before moving on. But as the first day passed, and then the second, with no pursuit, they gave that up. They walked boldly down the road, across open fields, their only goal to reach Dubh-Linn and the safety of the longphort.

  By the evening of the third day, even Asbjorn, who had no head for directions, knew where he was, and where away sat Dubh-linn. It gave him an immense sense of relief. Anyone they might now encounter would be one of Orm’s men. He, Asbjorn Gudrodarson, would live.

  Sometime in the black hours of the morning, with Hallkel Half-wit snoring loud and sleeping the dead sleep of the stupid, Asbjorn slipped the knife from his belt and slashed Hallkel’s throat. He did not need anyone at Dubh-linn who might contradict the story he would tell Orm. He did not need tales of his humiliation tossed around the mead hall for the amusement of the mob.