Fin Gall (2 page)

             
“His aim could be a little better!”

             
“Ah, you young men are soft, like women! You don’t know what real fighting is!”

             
Thorgrim smiled at Ornolf’s jibing. He did not feel soft and he did not feel young.

             
“I’ll see my grandson does not become a feeble woman like the rest of you, count on it!”

             
Thorgrim had only half an ear for Ornolf, his concentration mostly on the set of waves over which they were riding. He renewed his grip on the tiller, waited, waited for the flat spot, the tiny break in the cresting seas where he could turn the longship.

             
And then it was there, not perfect, but the best he could hope for. He leaned hard on the tiller and watched the tall dragon prow sweep around, falling off the wind, and the men amidships hauled the big yard around.

             
Another wave came up under the longship and twisted it around and Thorgrim fought back with the steeringboard to keep the ship from turning too far. The wind and seas were behind them now, and the once laboring ship was racing down the waves, rising stern-first and sliding forward down the water hill until the wave passed under and bucked the bow up high. The wind seemed suddenly not as fierce, and with the thought of a victim under their bow, the men seemed absolutely buoyant.

             
“There! There!” Ornolf had his sword in hand and he used it to point forward. The other ship was cresting a wave, half a mile down-wind.

             
Irish... Thorgrim thought. It was a curragh, a large one, running down wind with a scrap of sail showing. It could be a fishing boat or a coastal trader. Not likely to have anything of great value aboard.

             
The Vikings did not care, they were ready for a fight. Amidships men were freeing swords from sheaths and hefting axes and spears. The round shields came off the gunnels. Kotkel the Fierce was swinging his ax in an arc so that others had to duck out of his way. Some thought Kotkel a berserker, and if he was not, he was close enough.

             
Olaf Yellowbeard and his twin brother, Olvir, were settling their shields on their arms. Vefrod Vesteinsson, known as Vefrod the Quick, pulled off his heavy fur cape and dropped it onto the deck. Harald slid his helmet on his head and adjusted it until it sat right. Thorgrim wondered if the fishing boat would put up enough of a fight to sate all those eager men.

             
The next rising sea showed that they had halved the distance to their prey - the waddling curragh was no match for the longship in speed. Thorgrim felt the battle-madness creeping over him, and he breathed deep because he did not want to give himself over to those spirits.

             
Down into the trough of the waves, and up again, closer to the Irish vessel, which now was running for all it was worth, the sail spread nearly full. They had spotted the stalking wolf.

             
That rig will not last in this wind
, Thorgrim thought, and as if his mind controlled such things, the curragh’s mast crumpled and fell. The sail smothered the forward end of the boat, and the curragh swung around broadside to the sea and rolled hard.

             
Now the longship was on them, the Vikings whooping it up, gathering at the gunnel as Thorgrim tried to steer the vessel, like steering a runaway sleigh he could just barely control. There was a better chance they would be killed trying to bring the ships alongside than in any fight with these Irish fisherman.

             
Thorgrim heaved the tiller, then leaned back, working the longship around. On board the curragh they were hacking at the fallen sail and rigging, trying to make fighting room, swords and axes rising and falling and men clad in mail standing at the gunnel ready to meet the Norsemen.

             
Thorgrim waited for the right set of the waves, then pulled hard, swinging the longship broadside to the curragh, and for the first time it occurred to him that for a fishing boat she carried a damned lot of well armed men.

Chapter Two

The morning sleeper

Has much undone

The quick will catch the prize.

                      Hávamál

             
T

he two ships slammed together, the longship’s larboard side to the curragh’s starboard. They hit harder than Thorgrim had intended, but he had little control in those wild seas. If the curragh had been made of sterner stuff it might have sent them both to the bottom, but the leather-sheathed craft made little impression on the longship’s oak planks.

              Thorgrim left the tiller and rushed forward as the Vikings readied themselves to break over the curragh’s side. Vefrod Vesteinsson was foremost. Ax in his hand, foot on the gunnel, he shrieked and launched himself over the narrow gap between the ships and into the twenty or so armed men on board the curragh. Kotkel the Fierce was next, pushing in front of Ornolf who was too wet and fat to move with any speed.

             
Kotkel flung himself into the air and young Harald was behind him. Thorgrim felt the longship dropping away and he reached out and grabbed Harald’s collar and pulled him back just as the longship swooped down into the trough of a wave and the curragh was lifted high over their heads, with Kotkel clinging to the side.

             
The wave passed under, dropping the curragh down and for a second they were side by side again. There was not much left of Vefrod the Quick. He had been caught alone by the Irish and well dismembered in the few seconds the vessels were apart. They were still hacking at him.

             
“Get the hooks!” Thorgrim roared. “Grapple them!” They could not fight like this - already the next wave was lifting the longship up in the air, so they were looking down on the curragh, the bloody mess that had been Vefrod Vesteinsson, and Kotkel the Fierce, unseen, still hanging from the side.

             
Then down they went, and a half dozen grappling hooks soared through the air, snagging the leather boat, binding them together.

             
One of the curragh’s defenders lifted his sword, two handed, and slashed at Kotkel, who could do no more than watch. Olaf Yellowbeard cocked his arm, heaved his spear, caught the swordsman square in the chest. The Irishman toppled back and Kotkel pulled himself on board the curragh, ahead of the press of Vikings who poured shrieking over the side.

             
Thorgrim found a place on the curragh’s deck and leapt across, but the curragh was half the length of the longship and there was hardly room to fight. He pulled his sword, which was called Iron-tooth, from its scabbard and held his shield in fighting position, just in time to catch an ax coming down on his head. He had forgotten his helmet.

             
The ax hit the wood shield and embedded itself, with a force that jarred Thorgrim’s whole body. Thorgrim turned the shield aside. The man who wielded the ax foolishly hung on to the handle, exposing himself, and Thorgrim lunged.

             
His sword caught the man’s tunic, rent the fabric, glanced off the mail shirt underneath.
No damned fishermen
, Thorgrim thought. Fishermen did not wear mail. Mail was for men of means.

             
Thorgrim Night Wolf felt the red madness - that was what he called it - creep in around the edge of his eyes. He tried to hold it back, to remain in the present world. He breath was coming sharp and fast.

             
The axeman let go of the ax embedded in Thorgrim’s shield, fumbled for his sword, too late, as Thorgrim ran his blade through the man’s throat, the shower of red blood mixing with the blowing sea spray.

             
There was shouting and screaming all around now and Thorgrim looked for his next fight, but he could hardly move in that press of bodies. The curragh came back into focus, the colors vivid as the battle spirit passed.

             
He was nearly all the way aft. He looked to his left. One of the Irishmen was there, but he was not fighting, in fact he was kneeling with his back to the fight. Thorgrim thought he must be praying, or puking - it was madness otherwise to turn his back to the attackers - but then he saw the man was reaching for something in the space beneath the deck boards.

             
The Irishman stood and turned. He was a young man, perhaps twenty, and there was nothing of the peasant or poor fisherman about him. He wore mail, sword and dagger, and had the bearing of one who was used to command. He held a bundle in his hands, wrapped in canvas, about the size of a bread loaf. His eyes met Thorgrim’s and for a second they stared at one another, then the young Irishman turned to toss the bundle over the side.

             
“No!” Thorgrim shouted and lunged. He did not know what was in the bundle, but if the Irishman would risk his life to keep it from the Norsemen’s hands, then Thorgrim was sure he wanted it.

             
The bundle was over the water when Thorgrim’s sword came sweeping up from under, striking the mail-clad arm and twisting the Irishman around so he dropped the canvas-wrapped thing back on the deck of the curragh.

             
Again they faced one another. The Irishman had no weapon in his hand, but Thorgrim could see no trace of fear on his face. Thorgrim waited for him to go for his sword, knew he could hack the young man down as he struggled to free the long weapon. But the Irishman went for the dagger instead, whipped it out and held it in front of him with the ease and confidence of long use.

             
Thorgrim paused. Heavy sword and shield against a light, quick dagger in a confined space. An interesting tactical problem, but the Norseman’s fighting blood was up and he did not care for subtlety. He took a step forward, pushed with his shield, launched the point of the sword at the Irishman’s throat.

             
He missed. The Irishman ducked quick and Thorgrim’s sword found air. The Irishman grabbed the edge of his shield and yanked it hard, throwing Thorgrim off-balance, and now the Norseman’s heavy weapons were a liability.

             
Thorgrim saw the dagger coming up at him, an uppercut that would slice up under his mail. The blade seemed to move slow, the red fog was at the edge of Thorgrim’s vision. He saw his own hand drop Iron-tooth and grab the Irishman’s knife hand, envelope his hand so the Irishman could not let go of the dagger if he wanted to.

             
They stood, every muscle straining, the strength of each man holding the other in check, a perfect balance of force and resistance. Their faces were inches apart and through the mist Thorgrim could see the hatred on the young noble’s face.

             
Then the Irishman spoke. Thorgrim could not understand the Gaelic words but the fury was unmistakable.

             
There was a strength that came with the red madness and Thorgrim felt it surge through him. He felt the sound building in his gut. He opened his mouth and he howled, a terrible sound he would not have thought himself able to make.

             
And suddenly the Irishman’s strength was like that of a child to Thorgrim, and Thorgrim twisted his hand back and plunged the knife into the Irishman’s chest, plunged the wicked needle-point right through the mail. Inches away, the Irishman’s eyes went wide and he coughed, then coughed again and this time blood came from his mouth and he went limp. Thorgrim let him fall to the deck.

             
For a moment Thorgrim just stood, until his breathing settled and the madness subsided, like water rushing back after a wave. The world returned to the place it was meant to be, and Thorgrim became aware of the quiet.

             
He turned. The fight was over. Twenty Celts lay dead. Not a man had surrendered, they had all fought to the end against odds of five to one. Thorgrim had never seen the like, not even when Vikings fought Vikings.

             
Then he remembered the bundle. He dropped to his knees, shot a furtive look over his shoulder, because he had a feeling that whatever it was, it was not something for all the men to see.

             
He set his shield down and lifted the thing. It was heavier than he would have imagined, and bound tight with leather cord. Thorgrim pulled the dagger from the dead nobleman’s chest and cut the cord, unwrapped the bundle slowly.

             
He knew it was made of gold before he knew what it was. He caught a glimpse of the yellow metal, luminous even in the muted light of the storm. He unwrapped layers of canvas.

             
It was a crown. Thorgrim had seen crowns before - there were enough minor kings in Norway - but he had never seen the like of this. A band of solid gold a quarter inch thick and two inches high, with a series of filigrees like little battlements running around the top. On each of the filigrees and around the band there were mounted jewels and bits of polished amber, but lovely, with as little ostentation as was possible in a thing such as a crown. The whole surface was etched with a delicate woven pattern, not unlike the intertwined beasts favored by Norse artisans.

             
Thorgrim stared at the crown and turned it over in his hand. Its beauty worked on him like magic, enthralled him. He had no sense for how long he squatted there, turning the thing around in his fingers. Then he heard Kotkel shout and he started with a guilty flush. He shoved the crown back in the canvas, grabbed up his shield and held the crown hidden behind it. He stood and turned back to his fellow Norsemen.

             
Harald was unhurt, save for a scrape on the cheek that left his pale skin smeared with blood. He was smiling, laughing louder than he generally did. Thorgrim recognized the flash of exuberance that comes on the heels of a fight. He himself was too old and too battle-worn to feel that flash any more, but he had experienced it many times in the younger days. Everything was sharper with youth - fighting, feasting, lying with a woman. Things wore dull with age.

             
Harald was helping Sigurd Sow pull the mail shirt off one of the dead Irishmen.

             
“Thorgrim!” Ornolf came rolling down the deck of the curragh. “Great lot of work for nothing!”

             
“Oh?” Thorgrim adjusted his grip on the crown. He could taste guilt in his mouth.

             
“These bastards...” Ornolf kicked one of the lifeless bodies to further punish the dead man for his disappointment. “They have some silver on them, and some damned fine mail. A few swords worth the having. You wouldn’t expect a bunch of fishermen to have such fine weapons. But beyond that, nothing.”

             
“I don’t think they were fishermen.”

             
“No? What then, coastal traders?”

             
“I don’t know.”

             
The crown, it seemed, was the only cargo, and twenty well-armed noblemen the crew. There was a tale here, and not a man left alive to tell it.