Fin Gall (37 page)

             
Magnus’s breathing took on a quick, gasping, panicked quality. He looked up at Morrigan with a pleading look.

             
“Tincture of monkshood,” Morrigan said softly.             

             
Even in the dim light of the fire, Morrigan could see how red Magnus’s face had become. He clawed at his throat and fell on his side, legs kicking at the air.

             
Morrigan took a step closer. She had heard of what monkshood could do, but now in actual practice the tincture seemed much more effective than she had thought it would be. Of course it was hard to know just how much he had swallowed.

             
Magnus’s eyes were bulging and a strangling noise was coming from his throat. His arms and legs jerked uncontrollably, as if he was being attacked by a swarm of bees. His back arched and fell, arched and fell.

             
The spasms grew worse. Magnus’s heels pounded on the soft ground, his hands clawed up clumps of dirt and leaves.

             
Then suddenly he stopped, froze, lay tense and motionless. His wide eyes looked into Morrigan’s and she could see the terror there, the absolute terror.

             
“Off to hell with you, you heathen pig,” Morrigan said, and, as if following her command, Magnus exhaled, loud breath, and his body went entirely limp.

             
Morrigan took a step closer. Magnus’s eyes were closed. He did not seem to be breathing. Then his body gave one last jerk that made Morrigan jump and gasp. It was, she guessed, his soul’s last desperate effort to cling to the corporal, to save itself from the eternal fires.

             
For a minute or so Morrigan just looked at him, the color draining from his face as if the rain was washing it away. Then she stepped around the fire and the blanket shelter, over to where the princess Brigit was watching, her eyes wide with shock.

             
Morrigan crouched down in front of her. Brigit’s eyes stayed on hers like a bird hypnotized by a snake.

             
“Do you know who I am?” Morrigan asked.

             
Brigit nodded. “Morrigan nic Conaing. Flan’s sister.”

             
“That’s right. Now I can let you go, Brigit, or I can kill you here and now. No one will know.”

             
“Kill me?” The words came out as barely a whisper. Apparently it had not occurred to Brigit that Morrigan would consider that an option. “Why kill me? You’d damn your soul to hell for eternity!”

             
“That would be for God to decide, not you.”

             
“Please, please, don’t kill me. Whatever is in my power to promise, I promise to you.”

             
“Very well. There are two things. The first is that you will never mention seeing me here, and what has happened. Ever.”

             
Brigit nodded vigorously. “On my hope of heaven, I swear it.”

             
“Good. The second is that you deliver a message to my brother. And it, too, must be a secret held to your heart forever. Do you swear it?”

             
“I do.”

             
“Good.” Brigit would not betray her, Morrigan knew it. She thought for a minute, tried to compose a message simple enough that Brigit would remember it, sufficient for Flann to understand. Just a few words. When she had, she told Brigit. Brigit squinted at her, a confused look on her face. Morrigan said it again and made Brigit repeat it. Then Morrigan took the knife she kept in her belt and cut the bonds free from Brigit’s hands.

             
Brigit sighed with relief, rubbing her chaffed and bleeding wrists.

             
“Come here,” Morrigan said and she led Brigit under the blanket, by the fire, where they found just the tiniest degree of comfort. Brigit took a poultice from her basket and bound it around Brigit’s wrists. Brigit smiled with relief.

             
“Now, you must go,” Morrigan said. “The River Boyne is in that direction, not far. Take the dubh-gall’s horse and follow it north. Can you find Tara?”

             
“I think so. But my father’s men are out looking for me. I should think I will find them soon, along the river.”

             
“Good,” Morrigan said.
Good you have told me this,
she thought. It had not occured to her that Máel Sechnaill would be roaming the countryside, but of course he would, his daughter captured by the dubh-gall. “Go, and remember our bargain.”

             
“I remember. Bless you, Morrigan,” Brigit said. She stood and with practiced ease set the blanket and saddle on the dubh-gall’s horse. It was only a few minutes before she led the animal out of the clearing and disappeared in the dark.

             
This is going better than I had hoped,
Morrigan thought. The hand of God was truly at work. She stood and looked down at the dead Norseman and in death hated him even more. Her eyes fell on his sword, lying where he had dropped it, just before he would have cut her down. The silver inlay, wet with the rain, glinted in the firelight. Overhead a flash of lightning lit up the clearing and the thunder crashed not a second later.

             
Morrigan bent over and picked up the sword. “Iron-tooth,” she said. Suddenly the night became much more complicated.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Let us make our drawn swords glitter

you who stain wolf’s teeth with blood.

                                            
Egil’s Saga

              T

horgrim moved through the shadows along the edge of the camp, ducking behind clumps of brush, tents, carts. A big fire was burning in the center of the camp and the Irish soldiers stood around it, their eyes blind to the dark as they stared into the bright flames. Thorgrim could smell the burning wood and roasting meat. He could smell men and blood.

              But the Irish were not foolish and they were not lax. There were guards around the perimeter, men not staring into the flames, but looking out into the night, their eyes trying to pierce the dark and the driving rain, but they would not see as well as Thorgrim Night-Wolf.

             
Around the back of a donkey cart, Thorgrim, crouched low, stepped silently, saw a guard ten paces away, shoulders hunched against the rain. He carried a shield over his shoulder, a spear in his hand, which he leaned on as he looked out over the countryside. Thorgrim stalked, one step, two steps, so low to the ground he could not be seen. So close to the guard he could smell him. On powerful legs he leapt and hit the guard and brought him down. The man died quick and silent, wide-eyed, blood running like the rainwater, his throat torn clean out.

             
Thorgrim moved on, and his heart had no more pity for the man than the wolf has for the hind brought down on the hunt.

             
He circled the camp, halfway around, searching for the boy. There were more men at the far end of the camp, far from the warming fire. A half-dozen perhaps, and some seemed alert and some bored and they all seemed miserable in the cold rain that was soaking them.

             
Thorgrim retreated into the dark, circled wide, approached the men from beyond the perimeter. Harald was much closer now, his nearness reverberated in Thorgrim’s head, the nearness of kin.

             
There was a guard directly in Thorgrim’s path. The Night Wolf moved on silent feet toward the man. He was three feet away and the guard still had not seen him when lighting flashed and lit the scene like day, just an instant, and Thorgrim saw, frozen on the guard’s face, a look of shocked horror. The guard made the first note of a scream and Thorgrim killed him before another sound came from his throat.

             
“Father?”

             
It was Harald’s voice, soft and weak, come from the dark. It snapped Thorgrim from his dream-state like a bucket of seawater. He crouched lower and pulled the big knife from his sheath, his mind racing now, when before he was driven by instinct alone.

             
Harald...

             
Then, as if an answer, from the dark, came a call, “Tomrair?”

             
Thorgrim retreated a few steps. The dead man was like a mound of earth in the dark.

             
“Tomrair?” The voice was closer.
Was this the dead man’s name?

             
“Tomrair!” the man shouted again, and then something in Irish which Thorgrim did not understand, and then the speaker appeared out of the dark and saw Tomrair, stretched out on the ground. He knelt quick, rolled him over, and Thorgrim sprang from the dark, leading with the big knife, right for the man’s throat.

             
The man screamed in surprise, twisted and Thorgrim’s knife missed its mark. The man shouted. Thorgrim recognized the tone of outrage and terror. He swung wildly at Thorgrim with his fist but he could not really see what he was swinging at and Thorgrim buried the knife in the man’s side, right under his arm.

             
The man fell writhing and Thorgrim let the knife go with him. The damage was done, the alarm sounded. Men were shouting, feet making wet sucking noises as soldiers raced toward the sound of the fight.

             
There were two spears on the ground and Thorgrim snatched them up and leapt away. A figure loomed out of the dark, stood over Thorgrim’s still thrashing victim and Thorgrim hurled a spear at his chest. He heard a thumping sound, a gasp as the man tumbled back with the impact and Thorgrim raced off into the dark.

             
He moved further around the perimeter of the camp, hunched over, while chaos broke out behind him and spread like fire.
Good, good...
he thought. Dark, rain, chaos, they were all powerful allies. He had only to find Harald.

             
There was a tree fifty paces off, Thorgrim could just make out its looming shape against the night sky. A small, flickering fire beneath it lit up some sort of shelter held up by poles. There were men there, five or six, and they looked for all the world to be guarding a prisoner.

             
Thorgrim stopped to get his breath back. He had only one chance to make a surprise attack, and if Harald was not there, under that shelter, then the opportunity was lost. The shouting was growing louder, more men were running. He did not have long to think on this.

             
He started jogging toward the tree and then running. He could feel the mud sucking at his shoes and the rain cool on his face and his eyes were locked on the half-dozen uncertain-looking men in front of him. He felt the edge of reason leaving him, the berserker rage start to build. It came out as a scream that started low and built with every pounding footfall.

             
The men at the tree raised spears, unslung shields, peered into the dark but they could not see from where this unearthly sound was coming. Twenty paces away, then ten, and Thorgrim leveled his spear and ran on, ran right for the closest man. And that man did not see Thorgrim at all until a second before Thorgrim’s spear tip ducked under his shield and embedded itself in the man’s stomach.

             
Thorgrim let the spear go. His sword flew from its sheath and he cut down the next man, then twisted around to look under the shelter. There was Harald, eyes wide with surprise, hand pressed to his torn tunic, leaning against the tree.

             
“Come on, boy!” Thorgrim shouted, met a leveled spear thrust at him, knocked it aside, kicked the spearman hard. The spearman’s fellow was practically climbing over him to get at Thorgrim, and as they fumbled with one another Thorgrim cut them both down as if he was chopping wood.

             
Another was coming at Thorgrim, wielding a sword which Thorgrim met with his own, the iron ringing loud. Someone was shouting, shouting for all he was worth, and Thorgrim had to guess he was calling for help. Thorgrim wanted very much to make him stop. But he had to get past the man with the sword, and that was proving difficult.

             
Thorgrim knocked the man’s blade aside and lunged but the man twisted clear, hacked down on Thorgrim’s sword, all but ripping it from Thorgrim’s grip. The man’s elbow caught Thorgrim in the jaw and knocked him staggering back. Swords ready, they faced one another.

             
The man behind was still shouting for help, then suddenly, as quick as he had started, he stopped, his words cut off in mid-sentence.

             
Thorgrim looked. Harald had found a spear and had driven it right into the man’s back. The man with the sword looked as well, turned his attention for a fraction of a second from Thorgrim’s sword, and in that instant Thorgrim lunged and drove the point home.

             
“Come along! Can you run?” Thorgrim shouted.

             
“Yes, father!” Harald said, but his voice was weak.
Yes, father...
It was practically the only thing Thorgrim had ever heard from Harald, Harald the Willing, Harald the Eager.
Yes, father...
A boy worth saving.

             
Thorgrim backed away from the tree, sword held ready for the next attack, but the guards there were dead and the rest had not yet discovered where the real fighting was. Not for long. Thorgrim looked at Harald. “Let’s hurry, son,” he said and Harald nodded. Thorgrim turned to run and Harald ran after him.

             
They ran into the dark in a straight line away from the camp, but that direction also took them farther away from Ornolf and the others. They would have to circle back around the Irish to get back to their fellows, and that would not be an easy thing.

             
Once they were well away from the camp, lost in the dark, Thorgrim turned to lead the way back toward where Ornolf’s men were hunkered down. He could not really recall how far off that was. A mile or five, he could not remember how far he had come.

             
He turned to look for Harald but Harald was not there. He looked back. Harald had dropped behind and was stumbling to catch up. Thorgrim met him half way. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

             
Harald shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, but the word came out more like a gasp. He was holding his tunic closed with his left hand.

             
“Let me see.” Thorgrim pulled the rent edges of the tunic apart. He could see a dark line on the white flesh, seeping blood that was washed away in the rain. It was far from nothing. But if Harald died he would die a warrior’s death, and that was what mattered, because then, if the gods were generous, father and son would feast together in Valhalla.

             
The shouting was louder now, and added to that the sound of dogs, barking and howling. Harald looked up sharp. He hated dogs, Thorgrim knew that. “Don’t worry, they will not track us in this rain,” Thorgrim said, but he was not so sure that was true. “Still, we must move.”

             
He put his arm around Harald, holding his weight, and Harald draped his arm over Thorgrim’s shoulders. The boy was heavy, heavy as a grown man, and together they limped off, toward the far trees where the Norsemen were hunkered down.

             
They were moving around the perimeter of the Irish war camp. Thorgrim could see the big fire now in the center of the camp and the figures of men racing in every direction, orders shouting in the Gaelic tongue, dogs barking.

             
Off to the west he could see men mounting up, mounted troops who would sweep along the flanks of the army. Something was buzzing in Thorgrim’s head, something was not right, and then he realized.
I can see!

             
He looked to the east. The darkness there had softened a bit, the black sky yielding just a bit to gray. Dawn came early at that time of year, and now like an assassin it was sneaking up on them.

             
“Now, Harald, we really must hurry,” Thorgrim whispered and he picked up his pace and Harald, dutifully, moved his legs faster, but his breathing was more labored.

             
Thorgrim wiped the rain water from his face and his eyes and looked around. It seemed the Irish soldiers were spreading out across the countryside. He could see movement in the dark, and figures just visible in the gathering light. Soon there would be no clear way back to the others.

             
They hurried on, foot after agonizing foot, with the sound of the dogs getting louder and Harald getting weaker with every step. They came to a place where the grass grew waist high. Thorgrim stopped. He could hear the dogs hard on their heels.