The Lord of Vik-Lo: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 3) Read Free Page B

his sword which was beside him on the after deck and buckled the belt around his waist. He walked forward, between the lines of men heaving at the oars. Each of them had at his side a sword or a battle ax, whatever his preferred weapon, ready to grab. Helmets were there as well, shields on the shield racks along the ship’s sides. They would not have time to don mail, but that was no matter. These Irish dogs would be cut down and fed to the creatures of the sea before they put a blade on any of the Northmen.
      Eagle’s Wing was pierced for thirty-two oars, sixteen per side, which meant it took only about half her crew to row her. But no man was idle now. Most of the oars had two men sitting side by side on the thwart and putting considerable strength of arm into the pull.
      “You men who are doubling up on oars, leave off, come with me!” Grimarr said, his voice a low growl. “To arms!”
      One by one the men stood up from the thwarts until the oars were single banked. They took up their weapons, settled helmets on their heads and followed Grimarr forward. It would not do to plow into the middle of a fight with all of the men holding oars in their hands rather than weapons.
      Grimarr reached the bow and stood beside the great arching prow with its intricate carvings that tapered up to the stylized head of a screaming eagle. A quarter mile or less, and he could see the fight was slacking off, the surge of motion fore and aft not what it had been, the rise and fall of weapons less frequent. He reached up and pulled on his beard. This was not good. This was not a hopeful sign. But even if every man of Fasti’s crew was dead at least the Irish would not have time to carry the treasure off.
      He turned back to the men. “Pull, you bastards!” he hissed. Pointless, but he could not help himself. He turned back. They were closing fast. And it was then that Grimarr saw him.
      Even with the distance between them there could be no mistake. Like Grimarr, Lorcan mac Fáeláin was a giant of a man, nearly as big as Grimarr himself, nearly as broad. Grimarr had met him once face to face, the one time the Irish and dubh gall had tried to broker some sort of understanding. It had not gone well. But Grimarr had learned then what sort of man Lorcan was and why the Irish willingly bent to his will.
      Here was Lorcan mac Fáeláin again, standing near the aft end of Sea Rider , a great battle ax in his hand. Grimarr could see the blood glinting wet on the blade. He reached down and drew his own sword and crushed his teeth together in frustration.
      The fight was over. He could see that. The Irish were falling back, arms slack, their dull-colored tunics blood-spattered and torn. They were spent, but they were the ones left standing and Grimarr did not like to think of the state in which they had left Fasti and his men. The Norsemen would have sold their lives dearly, they would have taken some effort to kill. And now Grimarr meant to swoop down like a demon of  vengeance.
      But as he stared at the great, broad back of Lorcan mac Fáeláin, Lorcan seemed to feel the heat of his gaze. He turned, and Eagle’s Wing was close enough now that Grimarr could see the look of shocked surprise on Lorcan’s face. The ship had seemed to appear out of nowhere, a deadly foe dropped from the sky or shot up from the depths of the sea.
      Lorcan was not the only one to see the ship now. Another man turned, pointed, shouted in surprise, and then all of the Irishmen turned and gaped at the sudden appearance of this bearer of death astern. They began to back away. All except Lorcan, who raised his ax and advanced toward the oncoming ship.
      “One pull and ship oars! To arms!” Grimarr shouted. He heard the grunt as each of the men took one last hard pull, the grind of wood on wood as the oars were hauled inboard, the clatter of the long wooden shafts dropped on the ship’s deck. There was no need for quiet now, and Grimarr gave out a