Fin Gall Read Free Page B

Wolf felt the red madness - that was what he called it - creep in around the edge of his eyes. He tried to hold it back, to remain in the present world. He breath was coming sharp and fast.
                  The axeman let go of the ax embedded in Thorgrim’s shield, fumbled for his sword, too late, as Thorgrim ran his blade through the man’s throat, the shower of red blood mixing with the blowing sea spray.
                  There was shouting and screaming all around now and Thorgrim looked for his next fight, but he could hardly move in that press of bodies. The curragh came back into focus, the colors vivid as the battle spirit passed.
                  He was nearly all the way aft. He looked to his left. One of the Irishmen was there, but he was not fighting, in fact he was kneeling with his back to the fight. Thorgrim thought he must be praying, or puking - it was madness otherwise to turn his back to the attackers - but then he saw the man was reaching for something in the space beneath the deck boards.
                  The Irishman stood and turned. He was a young man, perhaps twenty, and there was nothing of the peasant or poor fisherman about him. He wore mail, sword and dagger, and had the bearing of one who was used to command. He held a bundle in his hands, wrapped in canvas, about the size of a bread loaf. His eyes met Thorgrim’s and for a second they stared at one another, then the young Irishman turned to toss the bundle over the side.
                  “No!” Thorgrim shouted and lunged. He did not know what was in the bundle, but if the Irishman would risk his life to keep it from the Norsemen’s hands, then Thorgrim was sure he wanted it.
                  The bundle was over the water when Thorgrim’s sword came sweeping up from under, striking the mail-clad arm and twisting the Irishman around so he dropped the canvas-wrapped thing back on the deck of the curragh.
                  Again they faced one another. The Irishman had no weapon in his hand, but Thorgrim could see no trace of fear on his face. Thorgrim waited for him to go for his sword, knew he could hack the young man down as he struggled to free the long weapon. But the Irishman went for the dagger instead, whipped it out and held it in front of him with the ease and confidence of long use.
                  Thorgrim paused. Heavy sword and shield against a light, quick dagger in a confined space. An interesting tactical problem, but the Norseman’s fighting blood was up and he did not care for subtlety. He took a step forward, pushed with his shield, launched the point of the sword at the Irishman’s throat.
                  He missed. The Irishman ducked quick and Thorgrim’s sword found air. The Irishman grabbed the edge of his shield and yanked it hard, throwing Thorgrim off-balance, and now the Norseman’s heavy weapons were a liability.
                  Thorgrim saw the dagger coming up at him, an uppercut that would slice up under his mail. The blade seemed to move slow, the red fog was at the edge of Thorgrim’s vision. He saw his own hand drop Iron-tooth and grab the Irishman’s knife hand, envelope his hand so the Irishman could not let go of the dagger if he wanted to.
                  They stood, every muscle straining, the strength of each man holding the other in check, a perfect balance of force and resistance. Their faces were inches apart and through the mist Thorgrim could see the hatred on the young noble’s face.
                  Then the Irishman spoke. Thorgrim could not understand the Gaelic words but the fury was unmistakable.
                  There was a strength that came with the red madness and Thorgrim felt it surge through him. He felt the sound building in his gut. He opened his mouth and he howled, a terrible sound he would not have thought himself able to