The Lord of Vik-Lo: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 3) (33 page)

  Lorcan rejected those suggestions. Sandarr, he understood, did not care about taking this other ship, he wanted only to get to Vík-ló and capture the longphort before Grimarr returned. But Lorcan was not afraid of Grimarr as Sandarr was. Besides, Lorcan and his warriors were the hunters, not the hunted. They would not find their prey by seeking safety ashore or running off north. They would find it by lying in wait.

  The others, the Irish warriors who manned the oars and worked the sail were not very happy to learn they would be spending the night at sea. They did not like the ship, or the sea, or the constant motion, or the thought of what might be waiting beneath the dark water.

  But there had been food and ale and mead aboard, and that had quieted them some. Nor did anyone care to protest too loudly in Lorcan’s presence, and since Lorcan was always present in the confines of the vessel, it meant no one protested at all, at least not verbally. Any other sort of protest Lorcan was happy to ignore. As frightened as the men might have been of the sea, they were more frightened by far of Lorcan.

  He prowled the deck of the ship, secretly reveling in the feel of it underfoot, the roll and pitch, the sounds of the water along the side. The ship was motion and power and speed. He could see why the
dubh gall
loved ships so. With their ships they could move their warriors, their supplies, even their horses swiftly up and down the coast. They could carry the machines of war on these tireless vessels and strike from out of the mist. And now he could as well, and soon he would double his ability to do so.

  “There!” The voice came ringing back from the bow, where one of the younger men, with brighter vision, stood clutching the long, curved, vertical piece that terminated in the carved image of a snarling horse’s head. Lorcan, who had been staring aimlessly out into the fog, stood straighter and peered forward.

  “There, nearly right in front of us, but some ways off,” the young look-out called again. Lorcan frowned and squinted. Sandarr stepped up beside him and stared as well.

  Then Lorcan saw it. A dark spirit, a vision, the low hull of a long ship, the oars like dragonfly wings from that distance. He wanted to turn on Sandarr and laugh in his face, but he understood that the stupid bastard would find it more galling still if he let the rebuke go unspoken.

  “There,” Lorcan said. “There are your damned
fin gall
.” Ronnat translated. Sandarr did not reply.

  One of Lorcan’s men named Ultan, younger than Lorcan but not so very much younger, stepped aft. Ultan was a bright fellow, and capable, and Lorcan had taken him aboard the ship in expectation that he would serve as an ad hoc second in command, which he was.

  “Lord Lorcan, should we set the sail?” Ultan asked.

  Lorcan looked out to weather. He felt the wind on his face, a light breeze, too light to drive the ship faster than the oars would drive her, and what they needed now was speed.

  “No,” Lorcan said. “We will keep to the oars. We will go faster with the oars.”

  He knew that because he had been paying attention. He understood that Sandarr thought he was just a great, ignorant beast, incapable of learning the workings of something so complex as the longship. It was the same arrogant view all these Northmen had of the Irish, generally to their regret, often resulting in their deaths.

  Because Lorcan was not some dumb animal. And he had been paying attention.

  When they had set the sail, and adjusted the sail, and adjusted it again, and changed the direction in which the ship had been sailing, Lorcan had been paying attention. He watched what Sandarr did, watched him haul and slack away this or that rope, took note of when he shifted the baulk of timber he called a beitass, figured out how the sail worked best and what was the most advantageous angle it should make to the wind. His men might be ignorant, and might not give a damn for ships and the art of seamanship, but they could be made to learn and they could be made to give a damn. And now Lorcan felt confident that he could teach them.

  Lorcan’s eyes had not left the
fin gall
ship, which he already considered the second ship in his fleet. It had been coming almost straight on, its course directed toward
Water Stallion
’s right side. But now it was swinging south, it’s shape growing longer as it turned broadside to them.

  “They are running, the cowardly dogs,” Lorcan said. “We will chase them down and kill them all. Ultan, see there are two men at each oar. We will overtake them. Then, when we are almost up with them, we’ll get under arms and make ready for battle. We must row fast and not lose them in the fog.”

  “Yes, Lord Lorcan,” Ultan said and turned and moved forward, calling out orders. Now Sandarr was speaking, and Lorcan did not need a translation to know his words would be some form of argument. Because that was all he did, the
dubh gall
turd, he argued.

  “Sandarr says it is a fool’s errand to go after this ship,” Ronnat said. Lorcan was not at all surprised to hear that was Sandarr’s opinion, but he said nothing as Ronnat continued. “He says you have the ship you want. He says Grimarr will slip north in the fog and return to Vík-ló and then it will be hard work to get him out of there.”

  “Tell Sandarr he may believe as he wishes,” Lorcan said. “We are going to capture the
fin gall
ship.” Even the day before Lorcan would have been more diplomatic in his dealings with Sandarr, because the day before he still felt he needed him. He was not feeling that way so much anymore.

  Then Lorcan sighed and decided he would throw Sandarr a bone. Why, he did not know, but he reckoned it was because he was generous by nature.

  “Ronnat, tell Sandarr I think we can take this
fin gall
ship quickly. The warriors I left on shore should be near at hand, not far off. They should have been following us. We will use them to man the second ship and he will take command of it. Then we will fight Grimarr at sea, fight him while he is weak, his men still weary and injured from the fighting on the beach. After we take them at sea, then Vík-ló will lay open to us. Then he will be Lord of Vík-ló.”

  Ronnat translated. Sandarr made a grunting sound and said no more.

 
Lord of Vík-ló
, Lorcan thought.
That’s a joke, nothing more
. Once he, Lorcan, had the
fin gall
ship, and Grimarr’s ships, then there would be only one lord in that land, only one lord in all of Leinster. And it would not be Sandarr, and it would not be Ruarc mac Brain. It would be Lorcan. Lorcan mac Fáeláin and his heirs, down through the ages. It would start now.

There’s roaring where I’ve grasped the tall

sea-weed since giving up my life.

                      The Tale of Sarcastic Halli

The
fin gall
ship was heading south, and by the time Lorcan’s men arranged themselves doubled up on the rowers’ benches and began to pull again it was nearly swallowed up by the fog. It had been stumbling confusion as Ultan passed the orders for the oars to be double-manned. This was all new to the Irish warriors. Men who could have quickly and effortlessly formed a shield wall or gone blow for blow, sword and ax, with any Northmen, now staggered around the crowded and unfamiliar deck as if they had each been kicked in the head by an angry horse.

  Ultan pointed and pushed men to where they needed to be. The men sat beside those already at the oars, took up the looms and stared at them as if they had just fallen from the sky. Lorcan wanted to start shouting, wanted to start beating men with the flat of his battle ax, but he restrained himself as he knew that would not ease the confusion any.

  Sandarr said nothing but Lorcan could hear the unspoken rebuke, just as Sandarr had earlier heard his. Lorcan did not think their partnership could last much longer, but happily it did not have to. Lorcan was fairly certain that one of them would soon be dead, and that one was not him.

  Once the oars were manned Ultan gave the word to pull, all together. Lorcan knew that Ultan, too, had been closely watching Sandarr’s ship handling, taking in all he could about the workings of the vessel, and now he was able to instruct the men in their efforts. Slowly, stroke by stroke, they fell into it, leaning forward, oars down, pulling back. But now there were two men at each oar, and they had to learn how to work together, another hill to climb.

  Lorcan looked up, past the bow. The
fin gall
ship was gone, disappeared into the fog. He felt a stab of panic. He stood motionless, but his eyes swept the indefinite edge of the mist. And there it was, not a ship so much as a dark image in the less dark distance, a specter fading into the gray horizon.

  “Pull you bastards, pull, or I’ll flay you alive!” Lorcan shouted. He could not contain himself. The thought of losing their prey after so correctly guessing where to lie in wait was intolerable. If he had to look at Sandarr’s smirking face, he would split the
dubh gall
’s head like firewood.

 
Water Stallion
gathered way, her speed climbing from a dead stop to a slow forward motion, and then to something more pronounced than that, a muscular progress as the double-manned oars bit deep and swept the long, narrow ship forward. And as if by magic the distant ship, the
fin gall
, their prey, seemed to grow more distinct, changing from a moving shadow to an actual ship, a solid thing not a ghostly image. The fog was lifting and
Water Stallion
was closing in and the
fin gall
could not run forever.

  During the dark hours, when they had been all but drifting, and the steering was not so critical, Lorcan had set one of his men at the tiller. But now Lorcan pushed him aside and took the tiller himself, the oak bar familiar under his hands. He had steered enough over the past day that he knew how the ship would react to his touch, both under sail or driven by the oars. He knew how much and, more important, how little to push the tiller one way or the other to get the big ship to react to the rudder that hung off the right side.

  He pushed it away from him now, just a bit, and watched the bow to see when
Water Stallion
would begin her turn, and then he pulled it back as she did and the ship steadied up on the new course, her bow pointing directly at the back end of the
fin gall
ship. This was another thing he had come to love, the ability to make this massive vessel react to his slightest touch. Here he was, standing on the largest moving man-made object he had ever seen, and yet he was able to change its course with less effort than it would take him to drive an ox cart. Incredible.

  The men on the rowing benches had the rhythm now, swinging the oars and pulling the stroke. They were big men, strong men, Lorcan’s chosen warriors, and the work of rowing was no great hardship. Lorcan could feel the vessel building speed beneath him. It was like stored power, like a bow string pulled back as far as it could be pulled, filled with lethal potential. And it was his.

  He pushed the tiller over a bit more as the
fin gall
ship moved past
Water Stallion
’s bow and he realized he had made a mistake. If he had been on land, on horseback, chasing another rider and coming at him at an angle as he was the ship, he would not have followed right behind. He would have aimed for a point ahead of the other rider, to intercept him, to cut him off.

  It was no different with ships on the sea. He realized that now.

  “Damn it!” he said out loud and pushed the tiller further away, swinging his ship on a course nearly parallel to that of the
fin gall
, rather than aiming for his stern. Because of his foolishness he had given the
fin gall
some extra time and distance, but it would not help them in the end. It would just give them a few more minutes to contemplate the death that was coming.

  The sky grew brighter, the gray fog almost white and growing thinner by the minute. Lorcan looked to the west and was startled to see the land just visible through the haze, the high cliffs and the hills beyond rising up from the water, distinctly solid in that watery, misty world. Lorcan was particularly surprised to see how close they were to shore. He had imagined they were many miles out to sea, safe from the rocks and breaking surf. But there was the coastline, just down wind and less than a mile off.

 
It does not matter, we can see land now
, Lorcan thought, but still he was shaken to realize just how close they had come to the shore and the death that waited there.

  They continued south, the
fin gall
ship and
Water Stallion
in pursuit, rowing near parallel courses.
Water Stallion
, with her larger crew, her fresher crew, oars double-manned, was moving faster through the water than the
fin gall
, but not significantly faster. They were making progress, that was clear, but that progress was so gradual that Lorcan felt his patience wearing thin, his aggravation mounting.

  When he could stand it no longer he would yell at the men to row harder, and for a few minutes they would, and
Water Stallion
would move noticeably faster. But then they would begin to tire, and the rapidity of their stroke would diminish like the light fading at the end of the day, and soon they would be once again moving at the pace they had maintained through most of the morning hours.

  Sandarr
had stepped away and was leaning against the side of the ship, his eyes on the chase, his mouth shut. Lorcan thought of what he had said;
Grimarr will slip north in the fog
… He had dismissed Sandarr’s words, mostly because he did not wish to give the man the satisfaction of taking him seriously, but the words had bit, and they continued to gnaw at him.

 
Grimarr, you whore’s son, where are you
? Lorcan wondered. He turned and looked out to the east, quite involuntarily, but there was nothing to see there but the low, gray rollers that disappeared into the fog some ways off. How far, it was impossible to tell. A few miles, perhaps. But beyond that there could have been a fleet of a thousand ships moving north and he would not have known it.

  Lorcan pressed his lips together hard and forced himself to concentrate of the
fin gall
ship ahead, but the thought of Grimarr only compounded his anxiety. He had no idea where the bastard was. He knew that he had not come north from the beach the day before, had not rounded the headland, at least not during the daylight hours. They had been watching that stretch of water the whole time. He felt certain that Grimarr would not have sailed north at night, but that was based on nothing but a hunch, and he did not trust his sea-born hunches as much as those hunches he had on shore.

  Sandarr was not wrong to think it would be hard to dislodge Grimarr if he made it back to Vík-ló. The wall around the longphort was not terribly impressive, but it was a wall and it had to be surmounted before the place could be taken, and many Irishmen would die in the effort. If Vík-ló was in danger of falling to the Irish, Grimarr could take to his ships and put to sea, and then Lorcan would have only a squalid, miserable abandoned longphort for his efforts.

  No, he had to catch Grimarr on the water. And that meant he had to dispose of the
fin gall
quickly.

  “Put your backs into it, you miserable bastards!” Lorcan called down the deck. He could not help himself.

  The gap between the ships dropped off from a mile to three quarters of a mile, to half a mile, and the
fin gall
vessel grew more distinct as they neared and the fog continued to thin. Lorcan could see the shields mounted on the ship’s side and he could see the gaps where shields were missing, lost in the fighting on the beach, no doubt, perhaps left behind with the corpses of their owners. He could see the steady rise and fall of the oars. He could see the long yard, the sail lashed tight to it, laid out along the gallows just as
Water Stallion
’s was.

  Lorcan pulled the tiller toward him, the smallest of adjustments, bringing
Water Stallion
’s bow a bit to the west, pointing more directly at the
fin gall
. It was time to close with them, to race over the gap between the ships and fall on them with ax and sword. It was time to end this dance with these damned, cowardly, fleeing whores’ sons and take their ship and go after his real target; Grimarr Giant, the so-called Lord of Vík-ló.

  Suddenly the
fin gall
ship turned, spun around like a leaf in a stream, until her bow was pointed north. For a moment Lorcan just stared at it, unsure what was happening, startled by this sudden change after more than an hour of watching the ship hold a steady course.

  “Pathetic bastards, they are running like rabbits with the hounds after them!” Lorcan crowed. He could only guess that they were hoping to make an abrupt turn and gain some distance with that unexpected move, but it had not worked, not at all. It had made matters worse for them, in fact. Lorcan pulled the tiller a bit more and
Water Stallion
turned more westerly still. Now, rather than having to approach at an angle, they were making directly at their quarry.

  Three more strokes, with
Water Stallion
fairly flying over the sea, and Lorcan realized the
fin gall
ship had stopped. Rather than try to run away north, the vessel had come to a standstill, the oars pulled in, no motion at all save for their rocking and pitching in the swell.

  Sandarr, still leaning against the side of the ship, straightened and crossed over to where Lorcan stood, his eyes never leaving the distant vessel. Two more strokes and Lorcan called “Stop rowing!” and the men stopped, some lifting their oars out of the water, some not.
Water Stallion
slewed around, turning broadside to the swell and rolling side to side.