Fin Gall (34 page)

             
Magnus shouted in surprise. He swept down with his sword, deflecting the spear end before it did serious damage to his genitals. But now his defense was off and the boy pulled the butt end of the spear back and swung it around like a club and would have smashed in the side of Magnus’s face if Magnus had not brought his shield up at the last instant.

             
Magnus staggered back to regroup, get fighting room, with a whole new appreciation for his adversary. He readjusted the grip on his shield and circled to the right, eyes on the young man as he followed him with the tip of his spear.

             
I have seen this one before...
Magnus thought.
In Dubh-linn?
But there was no man in Dubh-linn who would not recognize Magnus Magnusson.
Where, then?

             
The young man attacked again, jabbing with the spear and swinging it like a quarterstaff as Magnus deflected the thrusts.
He is good, but he is young...
Magnus thought. As long as he did not underestimate the boy, he would beat him. Most likely.

             
“You’re no Irishman, boy,” Magnus said as they both took a step back, assessing. “No Irishman fights with your skill. Are you a Dane?”

             
“I am from Vik, in Norway!” the boy said defiantly.

             
“Vik! I am from Trondheim myself, but I have fallen in with these cursed Danes!” It occurred to Magnus that he could use a second, now that Kjartan Swiftsword had doubtless been killed. Maybe the boy would be swayed.

             
The young Norwegian attacked again, a furious barrage of dagger point and blunt end that Magnus was just able to fend off, and it gave Magnus the idea this boy did not want to deal.

             
Norwegian?
Magnus was breathing hard, but so was the boy. And then he remembered.

             
The idiot Norwegians from the mead hall!
And it suddenly occurred to Magnus that the boy could not be alone, the others must be near by. He glanced over at the distant trees, from where the boy had come, gasped at the sight of fifty or so men racing across the field, and his inattention was rewarded by a hard blow to the side of his head.

             
Magnus staggered again, and again he caught the second blow with his shield. But this time he stepped into the boy, shoving him with the shield, trying to get him off balance and far enough away to bring the sword to bear.

             
The boy stumbled back and Magnus thrust. The boy twisted out of the way and seized Magnus’s wrist and held it tight.

             
Magnus tried to force the sword up, up, to where he could put the point through the boy’s throat, and the boy pushed back with surprising strength. And then the boy looked down and his eyes went wide and he spoke, just one word, “Iron-tooth!”

             
And then it was the boy’s turn to pay for his inattention. Magnus jabbed with the boss of his shield and hit the boy hard in the jaw. He lost his grip and staggered back and Magnus slashed with his sword, opening up the boy’s tunic right across his chest and behind it a line of white flesh erupting red with blood. The boy fell back, swinging with his spear as he went down. Magnus stepped up, ready to knock the spear aside and finish the boy before his fellows could overtake them.

             
And then, behind him, his horse made a snorting sound, a clomping of hooves in the soft grass. Magnus spun around. The girl had pulled herself half on the horse, draped over the saddle, her hands still tied. She was kicking the animal, urging it forward. Far across the open ground to the west, Magnus could hear dogs, and they were close.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Myself I know

that in my son

grew
the makings

of
a worthy man.

                    
Egil’s Saga

              M

agnus shouted in rage. He took one last swipe at the youth on the ground, but it was more out of frustration than in any hope of killing him. The boy, bleeding but still in command of himself, turned the sword aside with the spear shaft and thrust the weapon at Magnus, but Magnus was done with him and had already turned and run off, his sword and shield still in hand.

              Magnus had bigger problems now.

             
“Get back here, you miserable bitch!” he shouted as he ran after the horse, which was gaining speed with each kick the girl delivered to its flanks. The Norwegians were coming across the field to the east and someone else - he had to guess it was Máel Sechnaill’s men, coming from the west and if he did not catch the horse and ride hard, then one or the other of them would spill his guts on the grass.

             
“Stop!” he shouted again, just because he was too angry not to shout. The horse was opening up a lead but the rope which was tied from the girl’s neck to the reins was dragging behind, making a swath through the wet grass, and Magnus set his eyes on that.

             
He was breathing hard, and the strength was leaving his legs when he heard the renewed vigor of the barking dogs and he knew they had broken out in the open ground and that spurred him one. A burst of speed and he leapt for the rope, straight out as if he was diving into the water. In midair it occurred to him that if the end tied to the girls came tight, and not the end made fast to the reins, then it would likely break her neck. But there was nothing for it. He needed the horse more than he needed the girl.

             
He hit the ground with a thud that nearly took his breath. He felt the rope under him, quickly snaking away, and he dropped his sword and clawed frantically for it. His fingers wrapped around the cordage and he held on, as tight as he had ever held any lifeline in a storm at sea.

             
The horse hit the end of the rope and the reins came tight, twisting the horse around and jerking it from it’s feet. With a shout the girl flew from the saddle, hitting the ground hard, unable to break her fall with her hands.

             
The three of them, Magnus, the girl and the horse struggled to their feet, but Magnus was up first. He jammed his sword in his sheath as he ran, slung his shield over his back. The girl was standing when Magnus snatched her around the waist and tossed her over his shoulder, so quick her shout of protest came out as no more than a grunt.

             
He could see the dogs now, charging across the field, and behind them, men on horses, wearing bright tunics. King’s men. Irish warriors.

             
Magnus grabbed the horse’s reins. He tossed the girl over the horse’s neck, her legs kicking hard, trying to make contact with him, but he kept clear. He got a foot in a stirrup, swung up onto the horse. The men and dogs were still a quarter of a mile away - he still had a chance. He kicked the horse hard in the flanks, reined him around. The Irish were coming from the west, the Norwegians from the east. Magnus raced off, due north.

             
It was easy enough for Thorgrim to follow Harald’s trail. Even if he had not made it obvious, leaving torn bits of cloth on branches along the way, Thorgrim Night-wolf and his men would have been able to follow the broken twigs, the wet, flattened grass as easily as a beaten path.

             
They were armed with everything they had, which was still meager by the Vikings’ standards. They all joined the hunt, all forty-two men, all that was left of the original crew. There were not enough men now to guard the longship and hunt for Harald. They would have to band together if they had any hope at all.

             
Thorgrim heard the dogs first, far off but getting closer. “Hold up,” he said, held his hand in the air. He strained his ears against the rustling of trees, the birds in the brush. There were many dogs, and that meant a big hunting party. They might have been driving game, but he doubted it.

             
“Come along,” he said, hurrying forward, his pace much faster now and soon he was running over the trampled grass.

             
They came to a place where a struggle had taken place, the grass flattened and the turf chewed up, but there was no blood anywhere.
Did Harald fight here?
Thorgrim wondered. If so, he would have expected to find either Harald or his opponent lying dead. Or at least some blood.

             
They raced on, and it seemed that they and the dogs were converging on the same spot. They pushed through a patch of wood and now a new sound came to Thorgrim’s ear. A fight. He could hear the clash of weapons - not iron on iron, but weapons, still - the grunt and thump of combat.

             
They broke out of the woods. A quarter mile off, in the middle of the wide open ground, two men were fighting. One was Harald. Thorgrim was certain of it.

             
“Oh, by the gods!” Thorgrim shouted. His son, locked in a fight, within his view, beyond his reach. “Come on!” He broke into a run, forcing his legs on, his no longer young legs, he could feel every inch of ground he covered, but he was frantic to get to his boy. Weeks of worry, and now he had found Harald and Harald might be cut down before could reach him.

             
The dogs sounded louder, but Thorgrim could not take his eyes from the fight. He saw Harald stumble back, his arms flung out, the one he was fighting making a broad sweep with his sword.

             
“No!” Thorgrim shouted. Harald was down, lost in the grass, dead for all Thorgrim knew. And the other one had turned away and was chasing after a horse that already had another rider mounted on it. The horse stumbled, but then it was up again, and the two were mounted and riding off.

             
Harald was not dead. Thorgrim knew it, deep inside he was certain of it, and as he ran, his eyes locked on the place where Harald had fallen, he saw his son rise, gripping his chest, saw him stumble towards them, one foot planted laboriously after another.

             
And behind Harald, Thorgrim saw the dogs and the riders.

             
There were thirty men on horseback at least and they were riding hard. They wore tunics and helmets that shone dull in the overcast.

             
Thorgrim saw Harald stop and look over his shoulder. He could taste Harald’s panic in his own throat as his son turned back and redoubled his effort to flee. He knew, as Harald did, that it was too late. The Vikings on foot would not reach him before the Irishmen on horseback.

             
“Oh, no!” Thorgrim shouted, a cry of despair, but his pace did not slow, not at all, and he charged with the full intention of throwing himself at the mounted men and dying in defense of his boy.

             
The riders were no more than a dozen perches behind Harald but Harald did not slow his limping, wounded gate. Thorgrim reached for the sword in his sheath. He felt strong hands on his shoulders, right and left, and the hands held tight and forced him to slow. He thrashed his shoulders trying to break the grip.

             
“Let me go, you whores’ sons!” he shouted. Snorri Half-troll was on his right side and Skeggi Kalfsson on his left. Thorgerd Brak was holding him as well.

             
“Damn you, let me go!” Thorgrim shouted, a pleading note in his voice. The riders had covered the distance to Harald and Thorgrim braced himself for the sight of his son run through with a spear or hacked down with a sword. But instead the riders circled him, blocking the boy from Thorgrim’s sight, trapping him like a fox at the end of a good hunt.

             
“Bastards!” Thorgrim shouted, the word encompassing everyone, everyone, but his beloved son.

             
Ornolf, who had been trailing far behind, came huffing up. “Thorgrim, stop this!” he ordered between heaving for breath.

             
“Let me go, Ornolf, you bastard, they’ll kill my son!”

             
“They’ll kill him anyway, and you too if you charge blind at them!” Ornolf shouted, then bent over and gasped for air.

             
“Let them have me, I’ll set Harald free!” Thorgrim shouted and thrashed and twisted with greater effort. He managed to shake Skeggi Kalfsson loose and punch him in the jaw, but left-handed. He did little damage and another jumped in to take Skeggi’s place.

             
“You coward, Ornolf, you black-hearted coward!” Thorgrim wailed. Ornolf straightened. He met Thorgrim’s eyes and the two men stared at one another, as if they were the only men on the field. “I will forgive that, Thorgrim Night Wolf, because I know you are sick with fear for your son, as I am for my grandson. We cannot save Harald if we are dead. We must live. We must be smart.” He paused, sucking air into his lungs, then added, “If they did not kill him when they came on him, there is a reason, and we must find it out.”

             
A quarter mile away, they could see Harald, hands bound behind his back, hoisted up onto a horse. The rest of the mounts pranced nervously, the dogs raced and yapped and barked. And then the entire war party wheeled around, turning backs to the Norsemen, and rode off, unhurried, the way they had come.

             
Thorgrim stopped struggling and the men let him go. He watched Harald as his son was led away. And then Harald turned, twisted in the saddle, looking back at his fellows who had not been quick enough to save him. It was like a dagger in Thorgrim’s heart, only worse, because a real dagger was quick, but this pain went on and on.

             
Cormac Ua Ruairc and Niall Cuarán were sitting on either side of a hearth before a blazing fire, eating chicken and tossing the bones into the flames. Off in the dark end of the house, some of the more prominent men of the small army were gaming or sharpening weapons or sleeping. The rest, nearly all of Cormac’s men, were spread out in the yard or the outbuildings of the small ringfort they had taken as temporary dwelling.

             
Those not at the ringfort were riding over the countryside. They were looking for information. Where the longship had sailed to. What Máel Sechnaill was about. What monasteries might be worth sacking before they withdrew back to the safety of Leinster. Cormac was still desperate to wear the Crown of the Three Kingdoms, but if the fin gall had carried it off to Norway, he would have to content himself with hurting Máel Sechnaill as best as he could before leaving Brega and considering his next step.

             
“We’re a bit thin here, you know,” Niall said, pulling the leg from another chicken and examining it in the dim light. “If Máel Sechnaill were to discover us, and fall on us, we’d be quite done, with our dubh-gall friends butchered and a dozen of our men scattered about the country.”

             
Cormac made a grunting noise. Niall, he felt, was often a bit backwards in his courage, and he did not care for it. He would prefer a second who would bolster his own sometimes wavering resolve, not add to his uncertainty.