Double-Sided Viking Axe
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In a single leap, Thorgrim leaped from the top of the palisade wall. His first thought was to make sure that the rest of his crew had escaped; he saw them running along the far side and realized they must have made it to the trees on the other side before the raiders could close in around him.
He turned back toward the palisade as he landed in an open patch of ground between the two sides. Men-at-arms were still pouring into the area now that more space existed for their entrance.
“Thorgrim!” called a voice behind him. It was Jarl Hrani, who was just starting to clamber up one of the wooden stakes supporting the palisade. “Thorgrim! Get out of there!”
Thorgrim ignored him. “I need a sword!” he shouted over his shoulder.
Jarl Hrani’s eyes narrowed but Thorgrim didn’t hear what else he said. The enemy was already moving forward and Thorgrim needed no second urging to get clear.
The enemy seemed to come out of nowhere. They came running from the woods and the hillside beyond, shouting like madmen, waving their weapons, and hurling insults at Thorgrim and his men. One of their number, tall and broad with a great shaggy mane of hair and beard, ran straight at Thorgrim as if he would charge right through him.
Instead, he stopped only inches away, jabbing his spear at Thorgrim’s chest. He laughed or maybe shrieked, and Thorgrim knew this was no friendlier foe than those who had just fled to the trees.
“Where did you think you were going?” Thorgrim asked the man as casually as possible.
He heard a grunt, or rather felt it, as the spear point stabbed down through his mail shirt and his skin. A second later the shaft was yanked free as the attacker stumbled back. He fell on his rear end but scrambled up again within seconds and charged at Thorgrim once more.
This time the weapon struck home, punching into the soft flesh of his stomach and knocking him back against the palisade wall. The spearman followed his attack with a wild slash with his other hand. But Thorgrim grabbed it and twisted, pulling the arm to break it and then flinging his opponent off his feet.
The man went crashing backward onto the palisade where he sprawled unconscious.
A dozen of Thorgrim’s men had joined the fight now—not because they’d been eager for combat but because they knew their leader well enough to know he would never leave himself so exposed while they remained unprotected behind him.
They fought hard, slashing their blades across their foes’ backs and arms in hopes of disabling them long enough for others to take their places. Thorgrim saw one of their own go down under the weight of a heavy sword thrust. Two more, men he recognized from the ship, died when arrows found their hearts.
But most of the enemy attackers were still on their feet. Their faces shone wet with sweat; they were panting, their chests rising and falling in great gasping breaths.
They were not fighting with anything like the discipline of a disciplined force. The enemy line seemed random, with many men attacking one way and others rushing forward and back, stabbing here and then there, chopping a leg off or breaking an arm, or gouging an eye.
Some tried to use their shields to defend themselves. Others swung them as clubs, bashing in skulls. And all the time Thorgrim and his men fought back, cutting deep wounds into necks and arms and shoulders and legs and backs until finally there was one enemy left standing, a small man with short dark hair, blood running down his face from two gaping holes.
Thorgrim kicked him once, hard, knocking him senseless, then looked up at the other defenders on the palisade wall. They, too, had taken losses: three men, including Jarl Hrani, who had been knocked from his perch on a stake. But most of the rest still stood, some looking dazed by the ferocity of the assault.
“Hold your position!” Thorgrim shouted. “Don’t move!”
As they listened, Thorgrim surveyed the battle. Now that the fighting was underway, his men seemed less willing to flee but more determined to win. They were holding their own and doing much better than Thorgrim expected.
His men were good fighters. He could tell from how the enemy fought that these were a band of brigands more interested in plunder than victory. Most likely they had come for no more purpose than to harry the ships and make certain they stayed outside the harbor.
But they were fighting now. So he should be fighting, too. Not alone, though.
“Hrani! Get over here.”
Jarl Hrani dropped back down beside Thorgrim and together they watched the enemy. The men defending the palisade were growing nervous again, unsure of how much longer they could hold their ground. As soon as one of Thorgrim’s men fell, it would all collapse.
And we’ll be dead, too.
“You’re wounded,” said Hrani. “Are you sure you want to fight?”
“Not if I don’t have to,” Thorgrim answered. “This isn’t my battle, and it’s not your war either. It’s yours. Just keep me covered.”
Then, louder so they all heard, Thorgrim called out, “We’re not going to fall back now! Stay put!” Then he pointed to a young warrior whose name he couldn’t remember but whom he thought might be ready for command and told him to take ten men and join Thorgrim’s group.
When he turned to follow, another of the young warriors he had named stepped up to join him. Together, they formed a wedge-shaped shield wall between Thorgrim and his remaining men and the enemies beyond the palisade walls.
Now I’m trapped, Thorgrim realized. We’ve lost our advantage; we’re in a narrow space where we can’t maneuver and our opponents are better armed. But the men on the palisade were losing confidence and Thorgrim knew he could draw their attention again, perhaps lure them away to where he could strike at them with a smaller force.
It wouldn’t be as good a fight as if they faced one of their numberless hordes, but it would mean fewer losses.
That would be fine with Thorgrim if he had more time to think about it. But time was something he didn’t have.
The enemy had already begun to shift. They began to break formation and withdraw. Thorgrim did the same. There would be no further attack from the enemy this day. Thorgrim was happy enough to see his plan succeed.
The men on the palisades would return to their ship, which would still be there when the tide changed, and the ship and its crew would sail home to whatever fate awaited them. He was pleased enough to think that if any of them survived, perhaps some of them might find their way to his hall and share what they’d learned in their raid.
Perhaps even learn a thing or two himself, if he could figure out why the raid succeeded while all those before had failed.
He was thinking these thoughts when the next phase of the battle came. Thorgrim found himself staring up into a pair of eyes: huge green eyes, set in an ugly face with bristling black hair and a hooked nose, and a beard as red as a ripe tomato.
A large mouth opened wide as the bearded man bellowed his rage. In response, Thorgrim drew his sword from its scabbard and raised it high above his head. He felt the wind rushing over his skin as he shouted his defiance.
“I am Thorgrim Night Wolf, son of Hallgrim! You will die here today!”
There was nothing more to say. The battle ended then, as the enemy broke and ran. Their leader screamed curses at them, trying to get them to turn and face him again, but none did. Some of the defenders took off after the fleeing brigands.
Others looked back once at their leader and then fled with him. And then most of them simply ran, too afraid of what he might do to them as they were to risk dying themselves.
Thorgrim let them go. His men waited until the last man was gone until the only sound that remained was the rush of waves against the hulls of their ships and the shouts of men who had been too long at sea and were too hungry to care about anything else.
Thorgrim’s men were exhausted by the time everything was quiet again. Many of them were bleeding, some from wounds that needed treatment and some from blows that would heal on their own.
Some of them were injured worse than others, which meant some would stay behind and tend to their comrades’ hurts, and some would be sent to collect provisions and bring them back to their ship.
It wasn’t the kind of victory any man wanted. It would not impress the king. But it would be remembered by those who fought and by those who died. Thorgrim had done what he had come here to do. He had seen the enemy. He had killed them. It had cost him dearly—he counted seven dead men among his company’s number, including three who had fallen on the battlefield.
But that was the price, the toll, it had taken. That and his life. Or the lives of the men left alive in his company. If he’d been wrong, if he had made mistakes along the way or gotten lucky instead of smart, he could not know.
But now, standing beside the corpse of the bearded man, he knew it could never happen again. He couldn’t leave the safety of his walls again until he’d seen every foe, no matter how small, and he’d put them down.
When I was young, I would have been happy with a handful of enemies, he thought, shaking his head at what seemed like foolishness. Now that I’m older and more experienced, I realize how many we need.
***
By the time Thorgrim woke up, everyone was awake. Everyone except Thorgrim himself, that was, for some reason. Maybe he’d slept too much, too hard. It was impossible to sleep through all of the commotions, though.
As he got out of bed, the first person he saw was Gunnar, sitting on a stool outside his door. He had a jug in front of him on the floor and was pouring water from his leather pouch. He nodded when he saw Thorgrim and drank deeply, then wiped his lips and offered the jug to Thorgrim. “Drink,” he said.
Thorgrim hesitated only briefly before taking the jug. It was cool to his hand, wet with condensation, and tasted clean, as if it had just been drawn from ice-cold mountain springs. He drained half the contents and handed it back to Gunnar.
“How are you?” Gunnar asked.
“Swell.”
Gunnar laughed and took the jug back. Then he poured more water into it and drank some himself before offering it to Thorgrim again.
Thorgrim smiled and shook his head. “Not right now, thanks. I’ll wait until I’ve eaten something and drunk a bit more.”
Gunnar shrugged as if this answer was expected. He stood and stretched his arms over his head, yawning widely as he did so. As he did, he revealed a tattooed design on his neck, one shaped as a cross. The mark of Odin, Thorgrim had heard some of the Irish calls it.
“You’re still sore at me,” Gunnar observed.
Thorgrim sighed and sat on the edge of his pallet, rubbing his hands over his face as he tried to wake himself. “I suppose I am. What was your part in this little adventure?”
Gunnar grinned sheepishly, then scratched the skin around the tattoo on his neck. “It didn’t seem likely there’d be much chance for plunder here and besides, I was curious about these people, see? They’re different than us, right? Different blood, even.
I want to learn about them and hear their story. Besides, this is my country. I don’t like people coming in here and trying to take what isn’t theirs. We have laws and customs and ways that must be followed. You can’t ignore that sort of thing just because you think someone’s weak or stupid and they aren’t following your way of doing things.”
“That’s the Irish for you,” Thorgrim said dryly.
“They are strange folk. Their king seems honest enough, but he has some very strange allies and friends. I wonder sometimes where he gets his advice and what he tells his priests and priestesses and such about our ways.”
A moment of silence passed between them, as they each reflected upon the strange ways of the other side. Finally, Thorgrim spoke. “And this priest of theirs, this holy one? Did you meet him?”
The grin broadened and Gunnar said, “Yes. And I was thinking maybe we could get him out of the church and talk some more.”
Thorgrim nodded and took the jug back. Gunnar poured him another drink and held the jug while Thorgrim took a big swig.
“He’s a clever fellow. But I’ve heard some of the stories he told the others. He’s not going anywhere anytime soon. He’s been imprisoned by the church of Saint Columba. It’s a powerful organization here and they’re bound to keep him under lock and key. Even if we managed to find him, do you really think he could convince them to let him go back to the monastery?”
“We’ll think of something,” Gunnar replied.
“You’re a bold one for a Dane,” Thorgrim remarked. “Didn’t you know better than to bring down those walls, burn that church, steal that silver?”
Gunnar looked away, toward the dark window of the room, as if he’d been caught with his hand in the firebox, which wasn’t far from the truth. “What we did here will put a stop to that nonsense. The people who were behind that nonsense are dead or captured. No more stealing, no more burning. That should make everyone feel safer and happier.”
“It won’t work,” Thorgrim said. “The Irish don’t care about justice or peace or anything but how they look in the eyes of the gods. Nothing will change here.”
“Don’t tell me what I don’t understand,” Gunnar said sharply. “I’m an earl and a man of power here. If I say nothing changes, then nothing changes.” He took a breath and sighed deeply. “But if we leave a few men behind to protect the monastery, maybe send a raiding party every so often to scare the holy folk, I think most of them will accept things as they are.
They’re scared of the Danes anyway and they’re not going to like having us here, but it’s better than the alternative.”
“So we’re just supposed to sit here, guarding a monastery and sending raiding parties against the monks?” Thorgrim asked. “Why bother to come here at all?”
“If we weren’t here, who else would guard Saint Columba? Who else could take care of these Irish lands?”
“Who needs protecting? There’s no one out here but these damned monks, some priests, and the people who live in the towns and villages.”
“Those are the ones who matter,” Gunnar replied. “They’re the ones who need protection from us, not the other way around.”
As Gunnar walked back toward his own quarters, Thorgrim watched him go. “What a fool,” he muttered to himself. “He’s not much older than me, not a day or two. I should have taken him aside and explained to him why this plan will never fly, but I didn’t want to ruin his fun.”
After a time, when the sound of Gunnar’s feet had faded along the hall and up the stairs, Thorgrim returned to his own small chamber. He took another drink of rum and stared into the flames until sleep found him again.
The End