Dubh-Linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2) Read Free Page A

return to Dubh-linn, three large, drunk and well-armed men had set upon Thorgrim as he left the mead hall. They were looking to make a name for themselves, and were full up with tales of the Night Wolf. The fight had been brief, and had ended very badly for the three men. Had ended, indeed, with each one face down in the mud in various states of dismemberment. Thorgrim met with nothing but polite respect after that.
      Thorgrim was aware of these things, and he thought that his reputation would help him secure a place among a ship’s company, but he found just the opposite to be true. He was well treated to be sure, men were eager to buy him food and drink, his company, when he was in the proper frame of mind, was sought after, but when it came to joining a ship, there never seemed to be room for another man. It took a month of that before Thorgrim finally understood that no ship’s master wanted another man who was also accustomed to command, who might question orders, who might become the focal point for unrest. It was pointless to try to convince anyone that he wanted no more than to take his place in the shieldwall, to do his work, to go home.
      In all fairness, Thorgrim had to admit that he would not want a man like himself aboard either.
      He had begun contemplating the idea of building a boat that could take him and Harald back to Vik when Arinbjorn White-tooth had sought him out on the quay. “Thorgrim Ulfsson, I hear that you are in hopes of joining a ship,” he said.
      Thorgrim looked him up and down. Good clothes, silver inlay on the hilt of his sword, silver and gold broach holding a cape of bear fur. He was a well-made man, and had more the look of a jarl than a farmer or fishermen about him. No, not a jarl. The son of a jarl.
      “You hear right,” Thorgrim said. His mood, never particularly buoyant, was now all but awash from the constant frustration, disappointment and Ireland’s ceaseless, tormenting rain. If it had been later in the day, he would have been unapproachable. But then, if it had been later in the day, he would have secured himself in a place that could not be found.
      “I am in need of a man such as you,” Arinbjorn said.
      “Really? It seems no others are.”
      “Maybe the others are afraid of the Night Wolf. I am not. I’ll welcome any man who can use a sword or a battle ax aboard my ship.”
      Thorgrim had only one condition, and that was that Harald be welcome aboard as well, and Arinbjorn agreed to that with enthusiasm. And so, two weeks later, Thorgrim Night Wolf found himself closing with the Irish coastline, ready to vault over the side of a longship into the shallow water, ready to push up a narrow path and fall on the unsuspecting people of the ringfort and the monastery supposed to be just beyond the high banks of the shoreline.
      Black Raven ’s stern rose up, just a bit, as the swell from the sea passed under the keel, then down it went as the bow came up in turn. There was land on either side of them now as they entered the wide estuary, and the ocean rollers gave way to flatter water. The sun was up, the sky gray but without rain, the shore a muted stretch of green and brown, the longships things of beauty as they swept forward with gathering momentum.
      “Look, there!” Arinbjorn said. He was pointing beyond the starboard bow. Thorgrim followed his arm. There were men standing on the low ridge of land that bordered the water. They were just visible against the gray sky, four or five of them.
      “Sheep herds, you think?” Arinbjorn asked. “Fisherman, perhaps?”
      “Perhaps…” Thorgrim said, with no conviction. And just as the word left his mouth, three more appeared, mounted on the pathetic little beasts that the Irish called horses. They seemed to be watching the approaching ships – indeed, what else would they be looking at? Then they whirled around and disappeared from sight.
      Very well , thought Thorgrim, we still have plenty