Read Online TLV - 01 - The Golden Horn by Poul Anderson - Free Book Online
Authors: Poul Anderson
Tags: Historical Novel
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corsairs, whose smaller and doubtless foul-bottomed craft had less speed, though they looked rakish enough. A roar went up among the Varangians. Harald climbed the mast and peered ahead, sensing a thrill run through his body. These would be the first Moslems he had seen, other than slaves or traders in Constantinople. Their force was somewhat less than that of the pursuit.
The chelands darted forward like unslipped hounds. Harald heard faintly a clamor of trumpets as the pirates readied for battle, saw their galleys go into formation and spit stones from engines mounted on the decks. Then fire sprang from the chelands, the blue Greek fire which burned on water, pumped from nozzles by men sworn to keep the secret of its making. A gout of flame ran up the rigging of one enemy craft, smoke lifted thick, then red and yellow burst free. As Harald's dromond wallowed up, he saw men run screaming, ablaze. Most leaped overboard in search of a better death.
"Damnation," Harald grumbled, "will we get no fight at all?"
"Oh, we will that," Halldor told him. "Only wait and see."
Fire took out just three vessels; otherwise it missed, or hit but was quenched. Meanwhile the Greeks closed, and it became a strife of ship against ship. The Thracian shouted orders. His steersmen sent the dromond against a chosen galley. That one veered to avoid the ram, but the beak sheared through oars and Saracen rowers shrieked as shafts recoiled on them and broke bones. The Byzantines had drawn their own oars in on that side. Hulls grated together, grapnels bit fast, the linked craft became a battlefield.
Harald had already marshaled his Northerners. Now he led them in boarding the enem y. Dark, tur baned faces glared at him from behind shields, spears, uplifted blades. The king's son attacked a man in the line who was almost black of skin. The westering sun flared off eyeballs, teeth, curved swords that whistled about and downward:
He caught that blow on his shield. It had taken him weary, often bruising hours of practice with wooden weapons, to master the Southern war gear. A shield here was metal-rimmed, meant to deflect rather than catch a hostile edge; it was held by loops through which the forearm passed. A fighter moved it only slightly, yet it was in its own way a tool of attack, letting him strike past top and sides while he pressed close or withdrew to gain room for a swing.
Steel dinned. Harald hewed with care, seeking an opening. His was the greater reach, weight, strength, but strugglers were still crowded together; he almost had to elbow men aside to get at his chosen prey. Then suddenly he saw his chance. His straight blade whirred, struck the wrist behind the scimitar, made blood spout. The pirate wailed and stumbled backward. Harald followed.
Defensive line breached, the fray spilled widely across the deck. Harald finished off his first opponent. Hardly could he turn to see what was happening elsewhere, but three more were upon him. Metal banged on his helmet, rattled along his byrnie. He sought a corner where he could make a stand, but the three kept him surrounded as wolves might harry an elk.
All at once, the corsair circling to get at him from behind uttered a yell. Harald struck aside the blade of a comrade and turned on his heel. Ulf Uspaksson was there, an ax awhirl in his hands. The Saracen lay dying at his feet. The Icelander whooped and smashed in the helmet of another. Harald killed the third.
"Thanks!" gasped the king's son. "Best we stay together."
Ulf nodded. "Bare is brotherless back," he said, a word old in the North.
They sought their fellows. Harald bellowed orders to get into formation, fight like soldiers and not like tavern brawlers. The Varangians heeded, although, perhaps, they would have done this anyway. Most of them knew as much about war as their chief did. The pirates fought desperately, calling on their God; a few Norsemen forgot themselves and shouted the names of Odhinn and Thor.
Ulf took a slung
The chelands darted forward like unslipped hounds. Harald heard faintly a clamor of trumpets as the pirates readied for battle, saw their galleys go into formation and spit stones from engines mounted on the decks. Then fire sprang from the chelands, the blue Greek fire which burned on water, pumped from nozzles by men sworn to keep the secret of its making. A gout of flame ran up the rigging of one enemy craft, smoke lifted thick, then red and yellow burst free. As Harald's dromond wallowed up, he saw men run screaming, ablaze. Most leaped overboard in search of a better death.
"Damnation," Harald grumbled, "will we get no fight at all?"
"Oh, we will that," Halldor told him. "Only wait and see."
Fire took out just three vessels; otherwise it missed, or hit but was quenched. Meanwhile the Greeks closed, and it became a strife of ship against ship. The Thracian shouted orders. His steersmen sent the dromond against a chosen galley. That one veered to avoid the ram, but the beak sheared through oars and Saracen rowers shrieked as shafts recoiled on them and broke bones. The Byzantines had drawn their own oars in on that side. Hulls grated together, grapnels bit fast, the linked craft became a battlefield.
Harald had already marshaled his Northerners. Now he led them in boarding the enem y. Dark, tur baned faces glared at him from behind shields, spears, uplifted blades. The king's son attacked a man in the line who was almost black of skin. The westering sun flared off eyeballs, teeth, curved swords that whistled about and downward:
He caught that blow on his shield. It had taken him weary, often bruising hours of practice with wooden weapons, to master the Southern war gear. A shield here was metal-rimmed, meant to deflect rather than catch a hostile edge; it was held by loops through which the forearm passed. A fighter moved it only slightly, yet it was in its own way a tool of attack, letting him strike past top and sides while he pressed close or withdrew to gain room for a swing.
Steel dinned. Harald hewed with care, seeking an opening. His was the greater reach, weight, strength, but strugglers were still crowded together; he almost had to elbow men aside to get at his chosen prey. Then suddenly he saw his chance. His straight blade whirred, struck the wrist behind the scimitar, made blood spout. The pirate wailed and stumbled backward. Harald followed.
Defensive line breached, the fray spilled widely across the deck. Harald finished off his first opponent. Hardly could he turn to see what was happening elsewhere, but three more were upon him. Metal banged on his helmet, rattled along his byrnie. He sought a corner where he could make a stand, but the three kept him surrounded as wolves might harry an elk.
All at once, the corsair circling to get at him from behind uttered a yell. Harald struck aside the blade of a comrade and turned on his heel. Ulf Uspaksson was there, an ax awhirl in his hands. The Saracen lay dying at his feet. The Icelander whooped and smashed in the helmet of another. Harald killed the third.
"Thanks!" gasped the king's son. "Best we stay together."
Ulf nodded. "Bare is brotherless back," he said, a word old in the North.
They sought their fellows. Harald bellowed orders to get into formation, fight like soldiers and not like tavern brawlers. The Varangians heeded, although, perhaps, they would have done this anyway. Most of them knew as much about war as their chief did. The pirates fought desperately, calling on their God; a few Norsemen forgot themselves and shouted the names of Odhinn and Thor.
Ulf took a slung
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