Fin Gall (7 page)

             
“Perhaps,” Thorgrim said, and though he loved to be with a woman as much as any man, still when the evening’s foul mood came on him he could not stand the thought. “Did you know that Dubh-linn is a Danish longphort?”

             
Ornolf squinted like he was confused. “It’s Norwegian,” he said.

             
“Not any more. Or so the port reeve tells me. The Danes under some bastard named Orm drove the Norwegians out less than a year ago.”

             
Ornolf looked around, wide-eyed. “Well, it seemed a lot of these whore’s sons were Danes, but I did not know they had control of the longphort.”

             
“And here we are with a hold full of plundered Danish goods.”

             
Ornolf gave a wave of his hand, dismissing Thorgrim’s concern. “No matter. These sons of bitch Danes are as greedy as any men. A good price and they won’t care a damn if we took these goods from their mothers, and humped them in the bargain!”

             
“I broke the port reeve’s finger. Or nearly did,” Thorgrim said.

             
“Damn me! And I thought you were having no fun at all tonight!”

             
Thorgrim looked away, irritated by Ornolf’s refusal to see the seriousness of their circumstance.

             
Or maybe I’m just an old woman...
Thorgrim thought.

             
But now someone else was approaching, a tall and well formed man, clean-shaven with silky hair hanging down his shoulders. He was well dressed, clothes that projected money and power. His blue eyes were mostly steady, but he took in everything.

             
“Good evening, gentlemen,” the stranger bowed, courteous but not overly so. “My name is Magnus Magnusson. You are new to Dubh-linn, I believe. I welcome you.”

             
“And who are you,” Thorgrim asked, “to welcome us?”

             
“No one of consequence.” Magnus’s tone was disarming.

             
“Pleased to meet you!”  Ornolf thrust a meaty hand at Magnus, and Magnus took it and shook.

             
“You do not look a man of no consequence,” Thorgrim observed.

             
“I am an associate of Orm’s who is lord of Dubh-linn, that much is true,” Magnus said.

             
“So you are a Dane, then?” Ornolf asked. “The lot of you here, Danes?”

             
“Yes,” Magnus said. “But it is no matter. Danes, Norwegians, Swedes, we are all here of a purpose. Settle this savage place. Establish trade.” He smiled, the kind of smile meant to win converts.

             
“There, Thorgrim, you see?” Ornolf roared. “I have been telling Thorgrim,” Ornolf said to Magnus, “that you Danes are not nearly the treacherous sons of whores most make you out to be.”

             
“Indeed,” Magnus smiled. “We are not.”

             
“Well, then,”Ornolf said, “I would be proud to drink with you and call you friend.”

             
Be your friend’s true friend, to him and his friends,
Thorgrim recalled the old saying.
Beware of befriending an enemy’s friend
.

             
Who are the enemies, he wondered, and who the friends?

Chapter Nine

A man should drink

in moderation

be
sensible or silent.

                       
Hávamál

              F

or a man of no consequence, Magnus Magnusson commanded a lot of respect
, or so it appeared to Thorgrim Night Wolf. With a word Magnus cleared a half dozen men from the table so that he and Ornolf and Thorgrim would have a place to sit in relative private. With a wave of his arm and a nod, mead and wine and food appeared.

             
“So,” he said, after they had all drunk deep and Ornolf had set into the chicken, “you have been lucky in your raiding?”

             
Thorgrim made a low growling noise, despite himself. He did not care for questioning, could see that this Magnus was too smooth by half. But he understood that it was his own rash actions that had put them in a compromised position, so he held his tongue.

             
“Lucky?” Ornolf raved, spitting bits of chicken. “Damned unlucky. England was a paradise once, gold everywhere, monasteries and churches bursting with the stuff. You just had to bend over to gather it up. Now? Picked bloody clean. Back when I was your age, when men had balls, we took all there was. Not a damned thing left!”

             
“Really? I had heard your hold was quite full.”

             
“Heard?” Thorgrim asked. “From who, the fat one who was poking around our longship?”

             
Magnus smiled. “Asbjorn. A fat one indeed. I heard you nearly broke his finger. I’m sorry you did not cut his throat.”

             
Thorgrim nodded. That was good to hear, anyway, that Asbjorn was not universally loved. “We’ve had some luck, despite what Ornolf says.”

             
Magnus nodded and his thoughts were moving down some new path. “You were off the coast, in this last storm. Any luck then? Find any of these Irish out at sea?”

             
Thorgrim shook his head.

             
“Ha! Irish at sea?” Ornolf raged. He stopped, looked at Thorgrim. His smiled faded. “Oh, no. Not a damned one.”

             
Thorgrim looked at Magnus. The Dane had not missed that, Ornolf’s awkward retreat.

             
“You’re certain?”

             
Thorgrim leaned back and folded his arms. “We had some luck. A trader, loaded to the gunnels. Danish, it turned out. I think you can guess why we are keeping it to ourselves.”

             
“And that was it?”

             
Thorgim’s eyes met Magnus’s and held them, and for a long moment they just sat there, unmoving, each staring the other down. Thorgrim thought of the young nobleman he had fought for the crown, the moment when they had gripped one another, each holding the other in check. This was like that, but here it was will and not brute strength.

             
“That was it.”

             
Magnus looked away and nodded, but the nod seemed to be in answer to his own internal question, and not anything that Thorgrim had said. Then he turned back and smiled, as if any unpleasantness had been whisked away.

             
“Still, it was a lucky take,” Magnus said. “And we Danes are not too worried, when a man has goods to sell, where he got them. It’s a dangerous world, you know.”

             
“Ha!” Ornolf roared. “You’ve said it! Dangerous as long as Norwegians are at sea, and led by Ornolf the Restless! A drink with you, Magnus Magnusson!”

             
Ornolf held his cup aloft, and so did Magnus and they drank. Magnus raised his hand and the master of the mead hall appeared as if conjured up by the Dane.

             
“Vali, these men are my guests,” Magnus said, gesturing to Thorgrim and Ornolf, “them and all the bold men who sailed with them. Let their cups never be empty tonight, or you will answer to me!”

             
“Yes, sir,” Vali said, backed away and began barking orders to the slave girls, who swept around the crowded hall, filling the Norwegians’ cups to overflowing, then filling them again as they were quickly drained.

             
Thorgrim took a deep drink, felt the warm, sweet mead run down his throat. He looked around. The scene in the hall was reaching its zenith, the roaring, singing, shouting and fighting coming to a crescendo that would soon begin to taper off until all the men there were asleep or dead. He had seen it many, many times. It was like a battle that reached a point of ultimate fury, a madness that could not be sustained for long, and then as more and more men dropped, came to an end.

             
At the far end of the table, young Harald was already face down, one of the first casualties of the night, his mouth open, his snores lost in the din. He looked almost angelic, an odd contrast to the wild men around him.

             
Thorgrim Night Wolf smiled, drained his cup, set it down and stood. “Thank you for your kindness, Magnus Magnusson, but I must go.”

             
“Go? Won’t you have another cup with me?”

             
“Forget him!” Ornolf shouted. “He is like an old woman when he gets this way! I will have another cup with you, and then the iron in my trousers will be cooled and ready for another thrust in the fire, eh!”

             
Thorgrim left them, pushed his way though the men. He recalled that there was no one aboard the
Red Dragon
now, save for the six men he had left behind, and Thorgrim was not happy about that. He was wary by nature, and the strange turns of the evening had only made him more so.

             
He looked around the mead hall, picking out his own men, considering whether or not to order them back to the ship. They were well mingled with the Danes now, and well in their cups, as drunk as Ornolf had ever been on his best day. There would be no getting them out of the mead hall now. Thorgrim did not even try.

             
He stopped where Harald was slumped over the table and gave the boy a hard shake, which had no more effect than to make him groan, a feeble sound, and try to brush Thorgrim’s hand away.

             
At least he is still alive
, Thorgrim thought. He had not been entirely certain. He pulled Harald to his feet, bent and grabbed him around the waist and hoisted him over his shoulder like a sack of grain. He pushed his way out of the mead hall and into the cool of the night.

             
The air felt good - moist and clean - after the smoky, hot, reeking hall, and Harald was no great burden as Thorgrim made his way back down the plank road to where
Red Dragon
thumped against the wharf. The six men on board were all as drunk as any up in the mead hall, but that had not made them any happier about being left behind.

             
Thorgrim climbed aboard under their surly stares and deposited Harald on a pile of furs. He stretched and looked around. The night was quiet, save for the lap of water, the muted noise from the hall, but Thorgrim’s nerves were firing, his senses wolf-keen. But he was helpless as well. The pack had run off, he was all but alone.

             
He made his way forward. “There’s some Dane bastard named Magnus, has ordered free drink to all from our ship. You had best get up to the hall before Ornolf has it all.”

             
The surly looks were transformed as if by magic, and the men leapt to their feet and rushed off, fearing no doubt that Thorgrim would come to his senses, revert to his usual miserable self in the nighttime.

             
Thorgrim watched them hurry up the road. There was nothing those men could do to help if trouble came. Thorgrim alone, in the black mood, was more dangerous than those six drunks, so he let them go.

             
He wandered aft, wrestled his furs out from where they were stowed, laid down. He feared sleep on nights like this because he knew it would be a night of wolf dreams, but sleep, like death, took him at last.

             
He was in among the strange wolf pack again, though he no longer held the precious thing in his mouth. The wolves moved around him, watching him, but he could not tell if they would attack, he did not know if they were friends or enemies. He felt taut, like a length of rigging under great strain.

             
And then the wolves turned on him. At some unseen signal they turned and the pack leapt with teeth flashing white and Thorgrim flew into the fight, snarling and ripping away at the killers bounding at him

             
He sat up, the sweat coating his body, the cold touch of iron under his chin. First light, the town of Dubh-Linn was lit gray-blue, and a dozen armed men were on board the
Red Dragon
. Thorgrim looked up the length of the spear to the bearded face of the soldier who held the lethal point unwavering against Thorgrim’s neck. The soldier expected that the threatening iron would be enough to stop Thorgrim from making any quick move. He was wrong.

             
Thorgrim took firm hold of the bearskin that covered him, flung the skin aside, flung it over the spear, tangling it in the shaft. He sprung to his feet, Iron-tooth in his hand. The spearman was trying to pull the shaft from the fur when he died, the heavy blade of Thorgrim’s sword nearly taking his head off.

             
The spearman’s body had not hit the deck when Thorgrim flung himself at the next man, who came at him with a shriek, battle-ax raised. Thorgrim wore only his tunic and trousers, there was no time to grab up his shield. He caught the swinging ax with Iron-tooth’s blade and delivered an awkward punch with his left hand.

             
The ax-man was a big man, and even a solid punch would not have done much. He kicked upward as Thorgrim swung. Thorgrim just managed to close his legs and ward off the blow that would have ended his fight then and there. The ax-man shoved with his shield and Thorgrim, off balance, stumbled back.

             
There was someone behind him. Thorgrim had not realized it. He leapt to his right, his eyes on the ax coming at him, saw a spear-thrust miss by inches. He half-turned, drove Iron-tooth into the man’s gut, grabbed him by the collar of his tunic and pulled him in front like a shield, just as the wicked ax was coming at his head.

             
The ax struck the spearman instead of Thorgrim. Thorgrim let go and leapt away, looking for fighting room. There were none of his men there and he had a vision of them waking up thickheaded on the floor of the mead hall, waking as he did with spear points in their beards. Would they fight? Some, but it would not matter.

             
Harald was forward, kneeling, hands clasped behind his head, four men around him with swords and spears and Thorgrim was glad at least that his son was not fighting. It would be like Harald to follow his father into this suicide attack.

             
The ax-man was coming at Thorgrim again, and now two more men, and two behind them, circling in as Thorgrim parried here and there. Spears reached in with tentative thrusts, taunting, each looking for a reaction that the other could exploit. The ax-man was circling behind. Thorgrim could just keep him in his peripheral vision, and that was trouble. He had to get his back against something.