Those days were gone now. If they did not get this task completed his mother would be dead and her hall burned to the ground. He closed his eyes and bit his lip to suppress a surge of panic in his heart.
‘Which way now, Pol?’ Skar said. The priest looked up at the sky, turning a couple of times as he searched for something. Einar guessed he sought the patterns in the stars that could tell men which direction they were headed. Looking up himself, Einar saw the great rectangle of stars that made up Odin’s waggon. He followed the stars that made up the shaft until he found Aurvandill's Toe, the bright star who men said was the frozen toe of the giant Aurvandill, thrown by Thor up into the sky to show men the way to the north.
Pol raised a finger to it too, then glanced in the opposite direction. ‘This way,’ he said, and started off at a jog, heading roughly south-west across the field. The others fell in behind him.
They travelled for some time like this, crossing fields and woods and clambering over little walls built from dry stones piled on top of one another. In the moonlight the pale grey, lichen-covered stones looked like bones. They kept the lake on their right. Sometimes it was close and other times it was just a glimmer of silver moonlight on black water glimpsed on the other side of woods or gorse undergrowth, but it was clear to all that their route took them around the lough shore. As time wore on, Einar began to feel like the weapons he bore were getting heavier and heavier. His lungs ached from the effort and the straps of the shield he had been given dug into his right shoulder.
Eventually Pol held up a hand and they stopped.
‘We’re nearly there,’ he said to Ulrich. ‘We now need to make sure we aren’t spotted by the guards they’ll have posted.’
Ulrich glanced round at the others then turned back to Pol. ‘You and I shall go forward and see what’s going on,’ he said. Pol nodded. ‘The rest of you take a bit of rest. Then prepare for battle.’
Forty-Seven
Einar and Affreca lay on their bellies on the top of a little knoll not far from the shore. Ulrich, returned from his scouting mission, lay beside them. The Christian priest sat a little way away, wrapped in his black cloak. Skar were somewhere ahead in the darkness, creeping forwards. The attack was under way.
To their right, the obsidian waters of the lough were speckled with reflexions of the stars, disturbed only by little ripples from the faint breeze. The moon shining down though skittering clouds which masked it every now and again. A little way offshore was their target: an island that was large enough to be inhabited. A wooden jetty marked a landing spot and there was a boat tied up at it. Despite the dark the stars and moon gave enough light that they could see a palisade of wooden stakes defending the jetty. The rest of the island was wooded and a mound rose above the trees, steep sided and topped with another sharp-pointed palisade that formed a ring. It could only be some sort of fort. The rest of the shores were covered with thick bushes.
Einar was surprised to see another encampment on the shore opposite the island. The moonlight showed earth ramparts behind which a fire glowed. Now and again the outline of a man carrying a spear was silhouetted against the firelight.
‘Pol tells me we have to get rid of those warriors first,’ Ulrich whispered.
‘What do you want us to do?’ Einar asked.
‘It must be done silently so I want you to stay out of the way while the others take care of them,’ Ulrich said. ‘My Úlfhéðnar are experts in delivering silent death so I don’t want you clattering around and giving away their position. You, princess’ – he nodded to Affreca – ‘I might need your skills with the bow. When I give you the signal, do you think you could cover the lads with a few arrows if required?’
Affreca unslung her bow. ‘I won’t be able to hit much in the dark,’ she said, sounding doubtful. ‘How do I know I’m not shooting one of our side?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell you who to shoot,’ Ulrich said.
Einar frowned. He tried hard not to look like he was disappointed then realised no one could see him in the dark.
They settled down to wait. The only sounds were the stirring of the wind and the odd splash from the lough that might have been a fish jumping or a wave lapping in the darkness. Einar watched the fort and saw no sign of the Úlfhéðnar. He wondered how Ulrich would know when they were going to attack. The undergrowth and trees round the fort were black as pitch.
Then he saw it. A black shape slid out of the dark and over the top of the palisade. In one instant it was there, the next gone. It was a man, Einar knew, but one who moved as quickly and silently as a cat. Or a wolf stalking its prey. A moment later another followed, then another and Einar knew the Úlfhéðnar were in the fort and the defenders did not even know it. He looked at Ulrich and saw the flash of his white teeth in the moonlight. The little captain was pleased at the work of his men. Then figures were moving this way and that, shadows against the firelight.
Einar could imagine the scene that was unfolding inside the little fortification. The defenders’ shock as they realised there was an enemy already among them. The sheer terror at the sight of what looked like wolves but walked like men, bearing black weapons, instruments of death that they put to work with heartless, ruthless efficiency.
There was little noise save a few thumps, a splash and a couple of muffled cries as men died, their final screams snuffed out by stifling hands that clamped over their desperate mouths or choked their throats in a pitiless iron grasp. There was nothing that could alert those on the island that anything was going on.
After a short while all movement in the redoubt ceased and the sound of an owl hooting came floating through the darkness.
‘That’s the signal,’ Ulrich said. ‘Let’s get down there.’
Einar, Affreca, Ulrich and Pol, moonlight showing their way, jogged down the hill. When they got to the gate of the encampment it was open. Skar stood in the entrance, waiting for them.
Just outside the gate was what looked like a thorn tree and, in the light from the fire inside the fort, Einar could make out that little strips of cloth had been wound round its branches and stuck on its thorns. He had no time to examine the curious tree further as they hurried in through the gate.
The lough-side fort was little more than a semicircular ditch about thirty paces across, bordered on one side by the water. The earth from the ditch had been thrown up into a rampart behind it and a wooden palisade erected on top. There was a hut inside made of turf and gorse and a large fire glowed in the centre of the area, providing welcome heat and light in the chilling dampness of the Irish winter night.
There had been seven defenders. All were now dead, their corpses scattered round the compound in the various places they had met their brutal deaths. Four of them were Irish spearmen, which was obvious from their long cloaks, pinned at the shoulder with a heavy brooch, and their distinctive haircuts – long at the front and shaved at the back. The other three wore padded leather armour and their long blond hair was braided in a strange fashion on top of their heads. They were not Norse, Einar surmised, but they were not Irish either. He wondered what they were doing in this Gods-forsaken lake in the heart of Ireland.
‘Warriors who fight for money,’ Skar commented. ‘Men whose only king is whoever pays them. These are the sort of men Ricbehrt employs to guard his hoard. It looks like we’re in the right place, anyway.’
‘There’s no boat here,’ Sigurd said. He spoke quietly but his face showed his anger and frustration at not finding what he had expected in the fort. ‘They must send one from the island over when they need to travel to it.’
Pol shrugged. ‘No matter.’
‘And how do you expect we get ourselves across?’ Ulrich demanded. He too spoke in a whisper so that his voice would not carry across to the island. ‘I thought that was why we took this place? To get their boat?’
Pol shook his head.
‘So what do we do?’ Skar said. He loomed over the priest, his presence an intimidating tower tha
t radiated menace. His hands and arms were wet with blood that mixed with the black paint he had smeared his skin with. ‘Walk on water?’
‘In a way, yes,’ Pol said, moving away from the daunting giant and over to the water. ‘I told you this island used to be on the old road pilgrims took coming from Iona to the holy island of Saint Patrick at the Red Lough in Tyr Connal. Did you see the holy tree outside?’
Einar recalled the thorn tree decked with rags.
‘Pilgrims leave a piece of their or a relative’s clothes on it to ask for healing,’ Pol continued. ‘There’s a holy site on the island too. Patrick was supposed to have converted a druid there.’
‘And what is there now?’ Ulrich asked.
Pol shrugged. ‘My guess is Ricbehrt’s secret hoard. The Bishop of Armagh owned this island but he must have leased it to Ricbehrt. Nothing is sacred, it seems. Unfortunately money has corrupted even my Christian brothers.’
‘It’s perfect for a greedy rat like Ricbehrt.’ Ulrich said. ‘Out here beyond the reach of his Holy Roman Emperor. He can stash and sell whatever weapons he wants, as long as the deals and the goods stay outside the borders of the Empire. So how do we get out there?’
Pol turned and strode into the water of the lough. To everyone’s amazement, instead of sinking deeper the further he got from the shore, he stayed at the same level, his feet only finger-breadths beneath the surface. It was indeed like he was walking on water. Einar felt his jaw drop. He looked round at the others who wore similar expressions.
Pol stopped and turned around, arms spread.
‘It’s a causeway, you idiots,’ Ulrich hissed.
Pol pointed at him and nodded, a broad grin on his face. He walked back to the shore. ‘It goes all the way to the island, just below the surface. That’s why you can’t see it,’ he whispered. ‘The locals know to steer boats away from it. This fort here on the shore guards the way onto the island.’
‘So we’re already past their front gate,’ Skar said, a grin spreading across his face that in the shadows cast by the moonlight was positively wicked.
‘All right lads, listen. Then this is what we must do…’ Ulrich said. They gathered round him while he outlined his plan.
‘When we get there show the defenders no mercy,’ he finished, looking round at the dark shape of the island. ‘Odin owns them all now.’
Forty-Eight
Einar gripped the shaft of his axe. Despite the cold of the night, there was sweat between his fingers. He gritted his teeth and tried to control his breathing, his anxiety ratcheting ever higher at the sound of each splashing footstep that grew ever closer. The fact that he was sitting with his back to the approaching enemy did nothing to calm his pounding heart.
Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it – the thought circled around inside his head. When the Úlfhéðnar had attacked the little fort, he had been annoyed that he had not been given a task. Now, for the second step in their attack, he was pivotal to the plan.
He was ‘the staked goat’, was how Ulrich had described him. From being with them, hearing their tales and watching them work, Einar was learning fast that one thing about the Úlfhéðnar and their way of warfare was that often their skills depended on an understanding of how people behaved and they used their enemies’ own actions to beat them. It was not magic that brought them victory but cunning and trickery. Ulrich said that this was the behaviour loved by their God, the one-eyed Odin, and by doing this they were honouring him. Einar had never considered killing – murder – as a form of prayer before.
Men told to stand guard, particularly during the night, can only pay attention for so long. After a while their minds start to wander towards: their rumbling stomach, the pretty girl whose tempting warmth waited back in their beds or the unruly brats of children they have back home; instead of what they are supposed to be looking out for – an approaching enemy. For that reason watches were changed at regular intervals. This was what Ulrich’s plan rested on.
The splashing footsteps belonged to the new contingent of watchmen crossing the causeway behind Einar to replace the men in the shore fort. For the plan to succeed, they needed to think there was nothing wrong. For that reason Einar was planted in full view beside the fire, a dead Irishman’s cloak wrapped around his hunched shoulders, trying his best to look like a bored, tired warrior, waiting for his watch to end. As in Strangrfjordr he was the bait, like a goat staked out to lure a wolf to the hunters.
Einar closed his eyes for a moment, making one more attempt to calm the frantic drumming of his heart. Then one of the newcomers called out. The man spoke in Irish and Einar could not understand his words. The tone was questioning, with a hint of good-natured joshing. The voice was only a few paces behind him.
Einar looked up. On the other side of the fire the rampart rose up. He saw Affreca come over the top of it. In one swift movement she swung one leg over and straddled the rampart. Her bow was already drawn, an arrow notched. The thought crossed his mind that in the eerie glow of the firelight she looked like Hel, the Queen of the Dead. Her eyes were blank as she sought her target, then they sharpened to points of cold black stone as she loosed her first arrow.
The missile zoomed over Einar’s head, close enough for him to feel the wind it made as it passed. A wet thump and a choked gargle from just behind him told Einar that it had found its mark. The man toppled past Einar into his view, the feathered shaft of Affreca’s arrow protruding from his still-open mouth, his eyes still filled with the surprise that had overtaken his last moment of life.
The ambush erupted. Skar was already clambering over the rampart behind Affreca. The door of the little shelter banged open and Ulrich, Sigurd and Atli came rushing out. Einar sprang to his feet, shrugging off the cloak. He spun round to face his enemies, axe shaft gripped in both hands.
There were five of them, all Irishmen by their dress, armed with spears and linden-wood shields. They had just stepped ashore and were standing, gaping open-mouthed at the sudden death of their companion. One had flinched into a defensive crouch but the other four still stood, surprised, with their arms at their sides.
Einar hefted his axe above his head, preparing to strike the man closest before he recovered. He saw the look in his eyes change from surprise to dismay. He was older than Einar. The firelight showed lines around his eyes above a plaited beard. He wore the strange Irish haircut.
Einar hesitated. It was like killing an unarmed man. The Irishman bore weapons but was as defenceless as he would been if naked. Then Einar perceived the smallest of movements in the man’s spear and he knew his chance to win this encounter with ease was about to disappear.
He brought the axe down.
His opponent was already moving to duck sideways, but the heavy curved blade caught him just left of his crown. With a nauseating crunch the axe cleaved his head in two, splitting it apart between the eyes, down to just above his upper jaw. Hot, dark blood welled up around the axe and gushed out down the shaft to splatter Einar’s hands. The man collapsed as if the bones in his legs had been smashed along with his skull.
A small voice somewhere inside Einar told him that what he had just done would haunt him in time to come. He had no time to mull it over now though. Ulrich, Atli and Kari rushed past him and took down the two warriors on either side of Einar’s victim.
The remaining two turned and began to run back into the water and onto the causeway. Two dark shapes erupted from the water before them. Hallgrimr and Bodvar rose up from where they had been crouching in the water, their blades struck and the two fleeing Irishmen collapsed into the dark lake, weak gurgling the only sounds to escape from their slashed-open throats.
In moments it was all over. Muttering curses at the cold, Hallgrimr and Bodvar ran straight to the fire to draw its warmth and Einar marvelled at the strength of these men who had been able to lay, submerged to their heads in the dark, bitterly chilling water while they waited to spring the ambush.
For a few moments t
here was silence as everyone caught their breaths. Einar pulled his axe from the head of the man he had killed, trying not to look down at the man’s eyes, which seemed to glare balefully up at him.
‘Looks like you really are Thorfinn’s son,’ Skar said, clapping a hand on Einar’s shoulder. ‘A skull cleaver like your dear old father, eh?’
‘Grab those spears and let’s take the island,’ Ulrich said.
The others took the weapons of the dead men and then they set off across the causeway. Pol led the way and the rest followed behind him. Every so often he tested the way ahead with his staff to check they remained on course.
The causeway stretched in a straight line from the shore to the island. It was wide enough for three of them to walk abreast. It was flat like a paved roadway a hand’s breadth beneath the surface of the lough so their feet caused splashes and Einar could feel the cold water seeping into his boots and around his toes. The causeway stones, coated with lake slime, were slippery beneath their feet. As they walked, Einar felt a thrill of excitement. Despite his misgivings the bloodshed gave him a feeling of power that he could feel tingling in his fingers as they gripped his axe.
He tried to go over all the things Skar and the others had told him during the last few days about fighting. Keep a balanced stance. Never turn your back on an enemy. Keep your shield high. Hoard your energy. Only hit when you think you can do damage. All these and a thousand more instructions and lessons swirled around in his mind as he crossed the lake. He felt like he was in a dream. Around him the calm water of the lough was like polished black metal, reflecting the dark sky above that was now clear and dotted with stars. It was as if he was striding across the sky like one of the Gods. He was Thor, coming to wage war on the Jötnar. He looked at the dark outline of the tree-covered island and wondered was the one-eyed War God, Odin, perhaps watching from deep in those shadows?
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