Read Online Dubh-Linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2) by James L. Nelson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James L. Nelson
Tags: Historical, Literature & Fiction, Thrillers, Sea stories, Genre Fiction, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense
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forward, charged for Starri, for the gap in the line. He burst through, found himself looking down the length of the Irish shieldwall, the man before him too occupied with the Norseman he was fighting to even see Thorgrim there, and with a vicious thrust Iron-tooth claimed his first victim of the fight.
A short Irish sword came slashing down, the man wielding it lost in the press, but Thorgrim turned it easily, then cut sideways and felt his blade bite, felt the man he struck go down. The wicked point of a spear embedded itself in his shield and he jerked the shield to the left, pulling the man wielding it off balance. Thorgrim had a glimpse of wide eyes, a dark moustache, and then Iron-tooth slid through the man’s ribs and with a shriek he was down, the scream choking in a welter of blood.
Someone backed into Thorgrim and Thorgrim started to wheel, to meet this threat, while keeping his eyes ahead as well. From the corner of his eye he could see Starri’s lanky arm, could see that his skin was not red, but rather it was bathed in blood. It was Starri who had backed into him, and so they stood, back to back, weapons flailing as the Irish struggled to kill them both, to patch up the rent in the shield wall, to push the Vikings back into the sea.
They might have done so, too, but just then a great shouting came from Thorgrim’s left and he had a glimpse of the massive bulk of Hoskuld Iron-skull, more bear than man, racing toward the gap in the line, a trail of men behind him. They broke right and left, slammed into the ragged edge of the torn shieldwall, began rolling up the length of struggling men.
Thorgrim took his eyes from the fight to watch Hoskuld plunge into the attack, and for that second’s lapse of attention received a sword thrust in the chest. The point pierced his mail and he felt the blade’s edge run along his flesh, but he swung his shield hard and caught the sword and knocked it away. He felt the blade slice him again as the edge of his shield slammed it aside. He counterthrust, plunging Iron-tooth through his attacker’s green tunic, twisting the blade, jerking it free.
The Irish shieldwall was crumbling. Men who just moments before had been so sure of victory now saw their tight defense collapse as more and more of the Vikings poured into the gap that Starri Deathless had cut in the line and Thorgrim Night Wolf had stepped in to widen. The Irish began to fall back, one step, then two, then the men toward the back of the shield wall, those far enough from the fight that they could risk turning their back on the enemy did so, racing back across the ground they had won, racing for the dubious protection of the monastery at Cloyne.
That was an end to it. Any man on that field who had seen combat before knew that once the running began it would not stop, and even to those who had not seen combat, that much was clear. The Irish fled down the road, tossing weapons aside. The wounded limped after them, only to be cut down by the Vikings if they were far gone in their wounds, or knocked on the head if they were still healthy enough for the slave market.
The Viking army charged after them. They waved their weapons and shouted and beat their shields and raced after the fleeing Irish for a good quarter mile before they were all doubled over, heaving for breath, spent and beaten like borrowed mules. They had won, but the fight was out of them. The killing was done. For that day at least.
Chapter Seven
Once more I have told my dream
to the makers of arrow-floods.
They will surely feel
my weapons bite their armor
if rage comes upon me now.
Gili Sursson’s Saga
Harald’s tongue was hanging out of his mouth and his eyes were wide, but he seemed not to notice, so intense was his concentration. Thorgrim was sitting on the ground and leaning back on his hands and looking down at him.
A short Irish sword came slashing down, the man wielding it lost in the press, but Thorgrim turned it easily, then cut sideways and felt his blade bite, felt the man he struck go down. The wicked point of a spear embedded itself in his shield and he jerked the shield to the left, pulling the man wielding it off balance. Thorgrim had a glimpse of wide eyes, a dark moustache, and then Iron-tooth slid through the man’s ribs and with a shriek he was down, the scream choking in a welter of blood.
Someone backed into Thorgrim and Thorgrim started to wheel, to meet this threat, while keeping his eyes ahead as well. From the corner of his eye he could see Starri’s lanky arm, could see that his skin was not red, but rather it was bathed in blood. It was Starri who had backed into him, and so they stood, back to back, weapons flailing as the Irish struggled to kill them both, to patch up the rent in the shield wall, to push the Vikings back into the sea.
They might have done so, too, but just then a great shouting came from Thorgrim’s left and he had a glimpse of the massive bulk of Hoskuld Iron-skull, more bear than man, racing toward the gap in the line, a trail of men behind him. They broke right and left, slammed into the ragged edge of the torn shieldwall, began rolling up the length of struggling men.
Thorgrim took his eyes from the fight to watch Hoskuld plunge into the attack, and for that second’s lapse of attention received a sword thrust in the chest. The point pierced his mail and he felt the blade’s edge run along his flesh, but he swung his shield hard and caught the sword and knocked it away. He felt the blade slice him again as the edge of his shield slammed it aside. He counterthrust, plunging Iron-tooth through his attacker’s green tunic, twisting the blade, jerking it free.
The Irish shieldwall was crumbling. Men who just moments before had been so sure of victory now saw their tight defense collapse as more and more of the Vikings poured into the gap that Starri Deathless had cut in the line and Thorgrim Night Wolf had stepped in to widen. The Irish began to fall back, one step, then two, then the men toward the back of the shield wall, those far enough from the fight that they could risk turning their back on the enemy did so, racing back across the ground they had won, racing for the dubious protection of the monastery at Cloyne.
That was an end to it. Any man on that field who had seen combat before knew that once the running began it would not stop, and even to those who had not seen combat, that much was clear. The Irish fled down the road, tossing weapons aside. The wounded limped after them, only to be cut down by the Vikings if they were far gone in their wounds, or knocked on the head if they were still healthy enough for the slave market.
The Viking army charged after them. They waved their weapons and shouted and beat their shields and raced after the fleeing Irish for a good quarter mile before they were all doubled over, heaving for breath, spent and beaten like borrowed mules. They had won, but the fight was out of them. The killing was done. For that day at least.
Chapter Seven
Once more I have told my dream
to the makers of arrow-floods.
They will surely feel
my weapons bite their armor
if rage comes upon me now.
Gili Sursson’s Saga
Harald’s tongue was hanging out of his mouth and his eyes were wide, but he seemed not to notice, so intense was his concentration. Thorgrim was sitting on the ground and leaning back on his hands and looking down at him.
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