Fin Gall (24 page)

             
Thorgrim rushed to the fight, but before he could join in, the men on the other side of the baggage train, recovered from the shock of the ambush, came leaping over the traces and around the wagons, swords and spears in hand, slinging bright painted shields and leather covered shields off their backs and onto their arms. Thorgrim stopped himself short, twisted aside as a sword was thrust at his neck, a shield battered his own sword aside.

             
And just as the new men plunged into the fight, just as Thorgrim’s men might have been overwhelmed, just as the guards saw themselves gaining the upper hand, Egil Lamb and his men, their timing perfect, came charging out of the brush with war cries bursting from their throats.

             
The men guarding the baggage train hesitated, confused by this fresh attack. And in that instant the fight was over.

             
The man facing Thorgrim turned to look for this second attack and Thorgrim drove his sword right through the man’s chest. The big man with the wild hair was down, felled by three swords, but not before he had driven his spear into Hall Gudmundarson’s throat.

             
Thorgrim stood panting, sword in hand, looking at the dead and wounded around him. Of his men, only Hall was dead and a few others wounded, but just slightly.

             
“Egil, hurry up the road and see that the others are not returning,” Thorgrim said.

             
Morrigan stepped out of the woods. If she felt any horror at what she had just seen, she did not show it. She walked over to the big man, who lay by the wagon, eyes wide, bleeding his life away, the blood mixing with the rain and running in rivulets down the muddy path.

             
She spoke to him, in Irish. He glared up at her. She spoke again. He spit the words at her, three words, then closed his eyes and did not move.

             
Thorgrim stepped up to her side. “What did you say?”

             
“He’s an Irishman. I asked him who is master is.”

             
Thorgrim looked down at the man. By the clothes, by the weapons, it was clear he was no Norseman. But the man who had led the procession was a Dane, there was no mistaking it.

             
“What did he say?”

             
Morrigan was frowning. “He said ‘Cormac Ua Ruairc’”.

             
“Who is that?”

             
“He is the brother of Donnchad Ua Ruairc, who was ruiri, the king of Gailenga. Donnchad was husband to Brigit, the daughter of my lord Máel Sechnaill. Until my lord killed him.”

             
Thorgrim grunted. These Irish seemed to kill one another faster then the Vikings could, but he had no time to sort out the complicated relationships that Morrigan described.

             
“Skeggi, get these wagons turned around,” Thorgrim said. “You men, go catch those horses that bolted. Snorri, go tell Egil Lamb we are moving now.”

             
With some difficulty and not a little cursing the wagons were wheeled around and the baggage train, led by its new owners, headed back from whence it had come. Thorgrim spit rainwater from his mouth and shivered in the cold. His only comfort came from the thought that his enemy, whoever he was, now deprived of his food and shelter, would be more miserable still.

             
Asbjorn the Fat watched the fight from the relative safety of the oak grove. Wearing only torn trousers, shivering in the cold, filthy, starving, an iron collar around his neck, Asbjorn for the first time since he had come to that low place was able to forget his misery as he watched the ambush, and the slaughter of his tormentors.

             
He had expected the traitor Magnus to kill him back at the monastery of Baldoyle, but their enmity ran far too deep for that. Magnus would have his fun. He would torture Asbjorn first, make him suffer crushing humiliation.

             
He had stripped Asbjorn all but naked, had put an iron collar around his neck, had his man Hallkel Half-wit lead the prisoner like a cow, stumbling along bare-foot behind the wagons. Asbjorn could barely comprehend how quickly his fortunes had changed.

             
He spent the night staked out like an animal at the edge of the camp. Morning had brought no relief, just greater misery, with the cold rain falling on his corpulent, naked body, the iron collar digging into the soft flesh of his neck, as Hallkel led him along.

             
The baggage train was approaching the oak grove when Asbjorn stumbled, fell in the mud, and was too miserable to get up, even with Hallkel pulling on the chain and kicking him. The wagons were a hundred yards ahead of them when they rolled into the ambush in the trees.

             
Hallkel Half-wit, as his name implied, was not the brightest of Magnus’s men, but he was loyal and he followed orders. And his orders had been to look after Asbjorn the Fat. So rather than abandon Asbjorn and charge into the fight, Hallkel led Asbjorn into the woods, where they hunkered down in the bracken and watched the quick, bloody, one-sided battle.

             
“Keep quiet,” Hallkel whispered to Asbjorn as the wagon train was turned around, the ambushers heading back toward the place they were hiding.

             
Asbjorn shook his head.
Idiot,
he thought. As if he was going to call out to men who had just slaughtered the entire guard of the wagon train. But as he sat there, completely silent, completely still, save for the involuntary shivering, clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering, Asbjorn Gudrodarson recognized an opportunity.

             
He did not speak as the baggage train rolled by, the raiders’ feet making sucking noises in the mud as they walked. He remained silent even as he looked into the face of the man leading them and recognized Thorgrim Night Wolf, the very man they were hunting, now hunting them. He did not speak until the entire train had rolled out of sight, back the way it had come.

             
“Do you know who that was, that attacked the wagons?” Asbjorn asked, speaking softly.

             
“No,” Hallkel said. He was still looking down the road, toward where the wagons had gone. Asbjorn could hear the confusion in his voice. Hallkel was not sure what had happened, or if he had done the right thing, or what he should do now.

             
“Those were Irish raiders,” Asbjorn said. “We Danes are no match for them.”

             
“Hah!” Hallkel made an indignant sound. “There are no Irish that are a match for us.”

             
“You think we Danes, Orm and his men, could best an Irish army?”

             
“Of course! We are as good fighting men as any in the world! Better.”

             
“Hmmm,” Asbjorn said. He waited.

             
“What? What are you saying?”

             
“Well, it doesn’t look well for you then, does it? You’ve joined with the Irish against Orm, and now you say that the Irish will lose.”

             
Hallkel was silent as he chewed on that. “I haven’t joined with the Irish...,” he protested, but there was more confusion than conviction in his voice.

             
“You follow Magnus. Is Magnus riding beside Danes, right now? No, he is riding with an Irish king, who wants only to drive us into the sea. What will happen to those who follow Magnus, when Orm defeats the Irish, as you say he will?

             
“Look at me,” Asbjorn continued. “I could have joined Magnus. But I would rather suffer this great humiliation now, than suffer what Orm will do to those who turn on him.”

             
That speech left Hallkel silent for some time. When he finally spoke again, he sounded more confused, more frightened then ever. “What can I do?” he asked.

             
“I will tell you what to do,” said Asbjorn.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The traveler must

train
his wits.

All is easy at home.

                    Hávamál

              M

agnus Magnusson was riding the cliff edge. To his left the
wet fields rolled away inland, their usual startling green color muted in the rain and fog. To his right, the steep, rocky ledges fell to the breaking surf below.

             
He looked out over the water, to the place where the sea and fog melded into one another. He hoped very much to see the Norwegian longship come dipping out of the mist, hoped the Norwegians would decide the safest bet was to keep an eye on the shoreline, so that he could keep an eye on them. Magnus was worried.

             
The deal was simple enough. The Crown of the Three Kingdoms, and Cormac Ua Ruairc’s rule over Brega, Leinster, and Mide, in exchange for the combined Irish army deposing Orm and setting Magnus in his place. An alliance of Irish and Danes. Once they stopped fighting one another, all of Ireland would be at their mercy.

             
The alliance with Cormac had taken months of terribly dangerous negotiations. One misplaced word, one betrayal by any of the several men involved, and Orm Ulfsson would have put Magnus to death, just as he wanted to. Through it all, Magnus had steered his course true, had managed to pull together all these elements, fire and water. But now things seemed to be coming apart, and Magnus was starting to wonder if the time had come for him to cut and run.

             
He reined his horse to a stop and stared off north along the coast. Cormac and that bastard Niall Cuarán had ridden off by themselves.
What are they plotting?
Magnus wondered. Once they had the crown, they would have no further need of him. The truth of that had occurred to Cormac and Niall Cuarán, Magnus could see as much, and they were intending to take advantage of the fact.

             
He looked over his shoulder.
Maybe I should just run now,
he thought. There was no other way to extract himself, that he could see. His men were outnumbered by the Irish, and though they were better armed and better able to fight, they might well be butchered if they tried to leave.

             
I could ride back to Dubh-linn, tell Orm we were attacked by an Irish war party. Everyone was killed.
Chances were if he did that, Cormac would kill all his men, so there would be no one left to speak against him. It would be most important of all, of course, that Asbjorn be killed.

             
Perhaps I should kill Asbjorn now,
Magnus thought.
Yes.
Regardless of what he decided to do, Asbjorn was too much of a liability to be left alive. He had had his fun with the fat whore’s son. Time to end it.

             
He wheeled his horse around and headed back toward the place where they had made camp. The baggage train would be coming from that direction, with Asbjorn on his leash following behind. He heard hoof beats, twisted in the saddle, saw the familiar shape of Kjartan Swiftsword riding toward him.

             
“The riders are well spaced, and I sent Vifil Ketilsson, he has the fastest mount, sent him on ahead to see what beach those Norwegians might come to tonight,” Kjartan said, reigning up beside Magnus.

             
“Good,” Magnus said, though he wondered how the Norwegians would find the beach in that weather, or if they would even dare close with the shore. Or if they had decided to just piss on the crown and row back to Norway. He scowled as his mind wrapped around those thoughts.

             
“Where away, Lord Magnus?” Kjartan asked after they had rode some distance in the wrong direction.

             
“Back to the baggage train. I’ve had my fun with Asbjorn. Time for him to die.”

             
Kjartan did not say anything. He had favored killing Asbjorn straight off.

             
Magnus pulled his cloak further over his shoulders. His clothing was soaked clean through to his skin and the best he could hope for was that the cloak would block the wind a bit. As an experienced raider and campaigner, he was well used to such misery, but that did not make it any less miserable. He thought of the big, comfortable tents that Cormac and Niall Cuarán carried with them and he found himself longing for one, and bitterly resentful that he did not have one, and would not be invited into theirs.

             
“Those men left with the baggage train are taking their own time,” Kjartan observed and his voice pulled Magnus from his funk.

             
“What?”

             
“The baggage train. I would have thought it would be here by now, but I can’t even see it.”

             
Magnus looked down the worn, muddy strip that passed for a road. The baggage train was nowhere in sight. Sure, they could not see far, thanks to the rain, but far enough that they should have been able to see it by now.

             
“Let’s go give those lazy dogs a kick in the ass,” Magnus said, digging his spurs into his horse’s side, pushing the animal to a canter. Hard riding helped dispel his own irritation, doubt and suddenly gnawing worry.

             
The path ran over a low hill then dipped down into a stand of oaks. They crested the hill and still could not see the wagons. They had left an even number of Danes and Irish to guard it, along with the dozen slaves Cormac and Niall Cuarán brought for their own comfort. Magnus would have expected the Danes, at least, to show a little more initiative in getting things moving along.

             
They rode down into the arms of the oak grove, slowing their horses to a walk as the trees rose up on either side of them. The path twisted off to the right. They were just rounding the turn when they saw the first body. Vestein Osvifsson, who had been left in charge of the baggage train. They recognized him by his bright colored tunic, though when they had seen him that morning there had been a mail shirt over it. He was face down in the mud.

             
“By the hammer of Thor!” Kjartan shouted but Magnus’s stomach was twisting and he did not trust himself to speak. As they rounded the curve in the path more and more of the scene of the disaster opened up to them. Dead men strewn around the grass, hacked down with swords, run through with spears. Irish and Danes. If the men who had done this had lost any in the fight, they had taken the bodies with them.

             
Magnus looked on the scene in silence while behind him Kjartan cursed enough for the both of them. The bodies had been stripped of anything worthwhile - mail, purses, helmets, shields. There was not one weapon left that Magnus could see. He searched the ground, rode past the death scene, hoping desperately to see Asbjorn’s fat corpse staring blankly at the sky, but Asbjorn was nowhere to be seen.

             
“Damn!” Magnus said. He wheeled his horse around and rode back into the trees. Kjartan was on the ground, looking at the tracks.

             
“Bandits, do you think?” he asked.

             
“No,” Magnus said. Half these man had been killed with swords. Bandits did not carry swords.

             
“You can see here where they turned the wagons around,” Kjartan said, pointing to the torn-up, muddy patch on the ground. He straightened and followed the path with his eyes. “Headed back from whence they came.”

             
Magnus nodded. His mind was racing through the implications. How long ago did this happen? Judging from the state of the bodies, they had been lying there for an hour at least. The blood had been washed clean by the rain, leaving the horrible jagged wounds gaping open, and faces white as fine linen.

             
“Let me ride back and get a party together,” Kjarden suggested. “We may be able to run these whores’ sons down yet.”

             
“No,” Magnus said. “Let us go, you and me, and see where these tracks lead.”

             
Kjartan mounted and they rode off. The tracks were easy enough to follow, the horses and wheels of the wagons leaving deep cuts in the sodden grass. Magnus kept a sharp eye out for Asbjorn, or for Hallkel Half-wit, dead or alive, something to tell him how things lay. But he saw nothing.

             
The wagon tracks left the path once it emerged from the trees and ran down hill toward the water, and Magnus’s certainty and horror grew with every perch they rode. They crossed fields, winding around clumps of brush, following the wagons’ tracks down hill toward the sea.

             
They found the wagons on the beach. Abandoned, broken up, parts taken for firewood, most likely. Everything was stripped out of them - food, mead, utensils, weapons, everything. The horses were gone.

             
“Thor, strike those sons of bitches down!” Magnus shouted in pure rage. That fat loud-mouth Ornolf had utterly outfoxed him, standing off shore and then returning to the same beach to come up behind them. How had he known that they were following on shore?

             
Damn them all,
he thought.

             
Asbjorn was gone, and there was no doubt he was heading back for Dubh-linn, with tales for Orm of Magnus’s treachery. There could be no abandoning Cormac now and returning to Dubh-linn himself. But any status he still enjoyed with Cormac would be gone once this was discovered. He had nothing left.

             
Magnus slid down off his horse and walked around the shattered wagons. They had really taken everything there was to take, including the big tents. That at least gave Magnus reason to smile. Cormac Ua Ruairc and Niall Cuarán would be sleeping in the rain like the rest of the dogs.

             
Why would they take the tents?
Magnus wondered. Tents would not do them much good on board a longship. What they needed was a sail.

             
Magnus stopped short as he realized what they were about. “Oh, damn them!” he shouted into the rain and the fog.