“True.” Asbjorn had been considering that. “But see what an ugly and misshapen thing it is. I am guessing that Ornolf has fashioned a sail from something. Perhaps the tents he plundered from Cormac.”
Orm did not reply. After a while he said, as if speaking to himself, “If they are coming down the River Boyne, they are most likely coming from Tara, which means they have delivered the crown to Máel Sechnaill. So we will have vengeance, and nothing more.”
Whoever was in command of the distant longship, Ornolf or Thorgrim or someone they did not know, they were not eager to cross wakes with Swift Eagle. No sooner had they cleared the headland south of the River Boyne than they hauled their wind and stood off, sailing as directly away from the Danes as they could. That gave Asbjorn hope.
The Swift Eagle fell into their wake and took up the chase, and it was quickly apparent that it would not be a long chase at all. The ship ahead, with its undersize and poorly constructed sail, was no match for Orm’s ship, wonderfully built, perfectly maintained, her bottom newly cleaned. With every mile of southing they made, they came up on their quarry, hand over hand.
Soon they could make out individual men on board the ship. And not so many. Not half the complement of Orm’s longship.
Like Swift Eagle, this other had shields mounted on the shield rack along her side. Unlike Swift Eagle, which sported an unbroken line of shields from bow to stern, starboard and larboard, this other ship had only a clutch of shields amidship. Not even enough for every man aboard, or so it appeared.
“Whoever this is, I don’t think it will be much of a fight,” Asbjorn said but Orm only grunted and kept his eyes forward.
It did not matter. Asbjorn was certain now that this was Ornolf’s ship. He had inspected her closely enough in Dubh-linn to recognize the sweep of her sheer, the arc of her bow and sternposts, the height of her mast.
You’ll pay now for your treachery, Ornolf Hrafnsson, Asbjorn thought. He was mightily relieved to know that now Orm would have someone besides himself on whom to take out his anger.
The Red Dragons grew more morose with each passing minute as the longship in their wake closed with them, slowly and inevitably. It was like a storm moving up over the horizon. You can dread it, you can prepare for it as best you can, but you cannot avoid its fury.
“Odin All-Father and Thor the Thunderer, you think you can toy with Ornolf the Restless this way?” Ornolf bellowed at the sky. “Well, I shall be in Valhalla soon, and then we shall have a reckoning!”
Thorgrim shook his head. He didn’t think the old man could be so crazed, not stone sober as he was. Ornolf assumed he would be welcome in Valhalla, but Thorgrim wondered what such threats did for his chances.
“Ornolf, shut your great blustering mouth!” Snorri Half-troll shouted, voicing what the others were clearly thinking as they turned their scowling faces from the longship astern to Ornolf and back again. It was a sign of how desperate the men were that Snorri would dare say such a thing.
“What? You give orders to me, you dog?” Ornolf blustered, drawing his sword, as Snorri Half-troll drew his.
“Enough!” Thorgrim roared. “There’ll be fighting a’plenty here, and soon, I’ll warrant,” he said, and the others seemed to see the truth of that. It was as if the entire longship took a deep breath. Ornolf and Snorri sheathed their swords.
They were sailing almost due south, paralleling the Irish coast, their long yard hauled all but fore and aft. Astern of them, the other ship was doing the same. Generally when the Vikings went into battle they would strike their yards and often lower their masts as well. But that would not happen now, because the Red Dragons were vastly outnumbered and would not offer battle if they did not have to.
Thorgrim wondered if the Danes, with their well-crafted sail and weatherly ship, would try to sail higher on the wind, come up to windward of the Red Dragon and blanket her sail.
No. He could see they were not. In fact, they were sailing a lower course, which would bring them down wind of the Red Dragon, but would also make them sail faster. Thorgrim could make out individual shields now on the starboard side. There had to be fifty at least. This fellow was not much worried about tactics, not with such an advantage.
They plowed on south for another twenty minutes before Thorgrim decided it was time to ready for the fight. He called the order, and with grim and set faces the men donned what helmets and mail they had, took up their shields and swords and spears.
Harald armed himself and took his place amidships. Thorgrim did not protest. It was only right that the boy should die a warrior’s death. But Thorgrim could not muster any of the joy he had felt while fighting the Irish. Perhaps once the swords rang out against one another he would feel it, but not now. They had been so close.
Ornolf came aft to take his rightful place by the tiller. “So who do you think this whore’s son is, anyhow?” he asked. “Some treacherous Dane gone a-viking?”
“No. I think it is Orm. Orm of Dubh-linn.”
“Really?” Ornolf frowned. “Why do you think so?”
Thorgrim shrugged. “I don’t know. Just that those Danes were damned eager to get the crown, and it makes sense to me they would not stop. I would expect them to send a longship to look for us.”
“No doubt you are right, Thorgrim Night Wolf,” Ornolf said. For a moment they were silent, staring at the ship that was growing perceptibly nearer. “Ah, these bastards!” Ornolf shouted in frustration. “Twice our numbers and all the weapons they could want!”
“We had to die sometime, Ornolf.”
“I don’t mind the dying, but I hate the thought of being cast into the sea. A man of my status needs a real funeral. Weapons, animals, carts. Slave girl at my side. All set on this longship and consigned to the flames. That is how a man such as me should be borne off to Asgard!”
“If you wish to be burned up with the Red Dragon we had better do it now. But I don’t think the others will care for that plan.”
“Hah!” Ornolf snorted. “They should be honored to burn up with Ornolf the Restless!”
Thorgrim smiled. And then he had an idea.
Chapter Forty-Five
Let us go our ways silently;
Though the cove-stallion’s ride
be fallen, trouble is astir.
Gisli Sursson’s Saga
I
t was not above twenty minutes before the longship with the red and white sail was so close that the Red Dragons could hear the slap of water under her bow, the creak of her rigging over the sound of their own. Her bow was up with the Red Dragon’s stern and no more than five perches down wind. The Danes along her gunnels were keeping up a steady rain of arrows, but the Red Dragons, hunkered down behind the shields in the shield rack, were in little danger from that quarter.
Thorgrim could clearly make out Orm, standing on the after deck, Asbjorn the Fat standing beside him. He wondered if Orm would call for their surrender. He doubted it. He doubted Orm would waste his breath. Orm would understand that the Norwegians would much prefer to die fighting than become the slaves of Danes.
Orm, in truth, would most likely prefer that as well.
“Stand ready!” Thorgrim shouted to the men behind the shields. “Listen for my orders!” Just forward of where he stood and down below the ship’s side, Egil Lamb was coaxing a fire in soft tinder.
Ornolf, who had walked the length of the deck, flinging curses at the Danes and bolstering the men for the fight, now came aft, an extra shield in his hand. “You might want this,” he said, and by way of emphasis an arrow struck with a thud and embedded itself in the curved sternpost four feet from Thorgrim’s head.
“Thank you.” Thorgrim held the shield with his left hand, the tiller with his right. The two ships were still moving through the water as fast as they possibly could, but the Danes were starting to edge up to windward a bit, getting in place to draw alongside, lash the ships together and pour over the Red Dragon’s gunnels.
“Hurry that al
ong, Egil Lamb,” Thorgrim called and Egil shot him an ugly look as he blew on the tinder.
“Unship your shields!” Thorgrim called forward and along the gunnel the men lifted the shields from the shield rack and slipped them over their arms, still holding them up to form a protective wall against the arrows and now spears that were raining down on them.
“Are these bastards going to run out of arrows or aren’t they?” Ornolf wondered out loud.
Arrows, spears, swords, men, they have all they need, Thorgrim thought. He felt a solid blow to his shield. He looked over the rim. An arrow was embedded deep in the wood.
“All right, here they come!” Thorgrim shouted. The Danes’ ship was all but even with the Red Dragon and turning up to come alongside. Fore and aft Thorgrim could see Danish warriors swinging grappling hooks on stout lines to bind the two ships together. Those men would have been easy targets for archers, but the Red Dragon had no archers, no bows or arrows.
The distance between the ships dropped quickly as the Dane swung in toward the Red Dragon. The men on board the Danish ship had shields on arms now, helmets in place and swords and spears held in their hands. By Thor, there are a lot of them, Thorgrim thought. Easily a hundred, and hardened fighters by the look of them. This had all the makings of a slaughter.
Fifteen feet between the ships, then ten. The flight of arrows stopped as all the men on the Danish ship made ready to board. Five feet and the grappling hooks flew, a dozen lines arching through the air and hooking over the Red Dragon’s gunnels and the Danes hauled hard on the lines, drawing the ships into their awful embrace. The Red Dragons made no move to cut the lines. They did not move at all.
Both ships were still making considerable speed through the water when they slammed together, gunnel to gunnel, with a cracking and snapping sound as the shield racks were crushed under the impact and the fabric of the ships took up the shock.
Then the morning was split by a great roar of voices, a wild shout as Danes and Norwegians both launched themselves into battle, crying their battle cries, smashing shield into shield as the Danes tried to pour over the rail and the Norwegians tried to stop them.
Thorgrim let go of the tiller - it was useless now in any event - and raced forward, drawing Iron-tooth as he ran.
One of the Danes had managed to get around the Norwegian shields and landed on deck right in Thorgrim’s face. Iron-tooth sang in Thorgrim’s hand, whistled through the air. The Dane raised his spear shaft to block the stroke and Iron-tooth clove the wooden shaft in two like it was a dried and rotten twig. The Dane swung his shield at Thorgrim and Thorgrim danced back, clear of the blow, and ended the fight then as Iron-tooth found his mark on the Dane’s chest.
Thorgrim felt the red madness creeping around the edges of his vision and Iron-tooth seemed to move of his own will. He slashed out at the crowd of Danes who were pushing over the rail, pushing the Norwegians back, as irresistible as the tide. It was shieldwall to shieldwall but the Danes with their great numbers were onto the Red Dragon’s deck now, and more were coming, and they were surrounding the struggling men of Vik.
Snorri Half-troll, his great ugly face split in a grin, was hacking for all he was worth at the two men in front of him, but he did not see the man to his side, did not even know he was there until the man drove the vicious point of his spear right into Snorri’s side. Snorri went down with a great shout and one last lash at his enemy and Thorgrim cut the spearman down, too late to do Snorri any good.
The Norwegians had been pushed back to the midships line and they were falling fast. Thorgrim watched helpless as Gizur Thorisson’s arm, the one that they had bound the day before, was cut clean off and then Gizur was chopped down as he screamed in pain.
Thorgrim was howling and shouting as loud as any, louder. He plunged in where Ornolf was bound around by fighting men and Iron-tooth cleared a path for the jarl.
“Thorgrim! Isn’t it time?” Ornolf yelled and his words brought Thorgrim back from the thoughtless fighting madness that was consuming him, back to the reality of the ship, the men, their only hope.
He backed away, Iron-tooth lashing out at the Danes who challenged him, until he was aft and away from the fight. He looked up. The makeshift sail was still straining at the sheets and buntlines, still hauled fore and aft and driving the Red Dragon along. Egil Lamb was dancing from foot to foot. He held a flaming torch in his hand.
“Now, Egil Lamb!” Thorgrim shouted. Egil swung around and touched the torch to the edge of the sail. It burst into flames and Egil ran forward, setting the sail on fire all along it’s length. It caught fast, the dry cloth curling, charring, blazing as the fire worked its way up.
Thorgrim turned to the men on the braces. “Now, now!” he shouted and Harald on the leeward brace let the line fly and the three men on the weather brace hauled away. The blazing yard and sail swung athwart ships, turning over the fighting men’s heads, swinging out over the Danish ship.
Someone among the Danes saw what was happening. Thorgrim heard a warning shouted over the brawl, but it was too late. The Red Dragon’s sail, fully involved, and the yard which was now burning as well, fetched up against the mast and sail of the Danish ship. There was a moment’s hesitation and then the Danish rig caught fire too, the grand red and white striped sail collapsing as it burned through, the tarred ropes lighting up, orange and yellow lines against the blue sky.
“May Thor strike you dead!” Thorgrim heard someone roar and looking up he saw Orm Ulfsson looking right at him, pointing with his blood-stained sword.
“He’ll take us both!” Thorgrim shouted back. The Red Dragons were backing away quicker now, letting the Danes push them to the weather side of the ship. Overhead the rigging and sails and spars of both ships were burning well and bits of flaming cloth and rope were dropping onto the deck below.
Now! Thorgrim drove his shield into the Dane standing in front of him, knocked him to the deck, leapt aside as the man flailed at his legs with his battle-ax. Thorgrim brought Iron-tooth back, swung him around in an arc and severed the halyard with a stroke.
The Red Dragon’s flaming yard came crashing down, falling across the longship’s deck and the Dane’s deck, cracking in two with the impact and scattering flaming debris in every direction. Danes fell screaming under the weight of the falling spar, but the Norwegians stood clear because they were ready for Thorgrim to do just that thing.
It was the signal. One by one Ornolf’s men backed away, stepped back toward the ship’s starboard quarter, fighting the Danes in their front as they did. Even now a nearly unbroken wall of flame stood where the yard had fallen across the ships.
Egil Lamb bent over and grabbed up Sigurd Sow by the arms, Sigurd bleeding fast from a sword blow that had opened up his shoulder. He pulled Sigurd out of the way and took an arrow in the side for his efforts, but he did not seem to notice. He hefted Sigurd Sow half to his feet and tumbled him over the side of the Red Dragon, down into the Irish leather boat that was tied alongside.
“Go, go!” Ornolf roared to the men as he himself laughed and swung his sword and took blow after blow against his battered shield.
One by one those men who were whole enough dragged their wounded brethren to the gunnel and deposited them over the side, then leapt over themselves. Happily, only a fraction of the Danes still living were still in the fight. Most had turned their attention to the flames, throwing burning material over the side, beating at flames with their swords.
Useless, Thorgrim thought. The ships were well ablaze now, their tar-coated sides engulfed. Even from where he stood, well aft, Thorgrim could feel the great heat of the fire. He had seen enough funerals to recognize when a ship was alight and would not be put out.
Someone was shouting orders to the Danes, high pitched and near hysterical. “Put the fire out! Put the fire out, you idiots! Let the Norwegians go, don’t worry about them, get the fire out!”
It was Asbjorn the Fat, standing on the deck of the Danish longship and waving h
is arms. His eyes were wide, his panic unadulterated, screaming deprecations at the men. He was in mid-scream when Orm leapt from the Red Dragon back aboard his own ship and severed Asbjorn’s head from his neck with a single stroke of his sword. Asbjorn’s rotund body stood upright for a second more, an almost comical sight, before it fell slowly forward in the manner of a tree chopped down at the base.
Asbjorn’s only concern might have been the fire, but Orm seemed not even to notice the flames. He leapt back aboard the Red Dragon, sword and shield in hand. He had lost his helmet somewhere in the fighting, and his hair was wild, his face smudged with soot, his eyes fixed on his enemy.
“Go on! Go on!” Ornolf shouted at the men. Thorgrim looked around. Most of the Red Dragons were in the Irish boat now, as far as he could see.
“Go, Ornolf, and I will follow!” Thorgrim shouted. Ornolf with a grunt hefted himself over the side. Thorgrim looked around the deck, saw none of his men. He looked down into the boat. He did not see Harald. He looked around again. Still no Harald.
“Where is Harald?” Thorgrim shouted down into the boat. This time he saw him, sitting on the bottom of the boat, half hidden by Sigurd Sow. Their eyes met, Harald’s eyes grew wide. “Father!” he shouted.
Thorgrim spun around and raised his shield because he knew from that one word what was coming. Orm’s sword crashed down on the shield, tore a great piece from the edge and Thorgrim felt the blow reverberate along his whole arm. He staggered, managed to lunge with Iron-tooth but Orm easily deflected the blow.
Thorgrim took a step back to gain fighting room. Both ships were fully involved now, with black smoke rolling up and away in the wind. Orm stood framed against the bright fire, the struggling men behind him, trying to save their ship and themselves.
Orm lunged, a tricky twist of the sword and Thorgrim just managed to knock the blade aside. Orm hit Thorgrim’s shield with his own, knocking Thorgrim back, but Thorgrim managed to get his sword past Orm’s shield. Iron-tooth ripped through the Orm’s tunic and scraped along the mail shirt beneath.
Fin Gall (The Norsemen) Page 32
