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

the Black Raven closed fast with the beach. Up near the bow, one of the ship’s company was whirling around, practically spinning where he stood. He wore only leggings, no mail, no shirt, no helmet to cover the wild mop of hair. His beard thrust out in various directions like a shrub that is beyond control. He held a short sword in his left hand, a battle ax in his right. He was thin, and had he been clothed he might have seemed weak and emaciated, but stripped to the waist his muscles stood out like the gnarled roots of a tree.
      “Starri Deathless,” Arinbjorn said. “He’s a berserker. Leads a band of berserkers.”
      Thorgrim nodded. He could see at first glance that Starri was a berserker, a member of that cult of warriors who went mad at the prospect of battle. They plunged into a fight with a ferocity that was ordained by the gods, a blood-lust beyond even what the Vikings considered normal. Thorgrim had fought alongside berserkers before and he recognized the signs, the disdain for armor, the frantic energy in those moments before the fight.
      “I hadn’t noticed him until now,” Thorgrim said.
      “He keeps to himself most of the time. In a fight, he’s hard not to notice.”
      And then the Black Raven ran up on the sand and Thorgrim stumbled a little at the abrupt stop. The men leapt up, the oars were carried forward and stacked on the gallows amidships, and Thorgrim could feel his heart beat faster in his chest. He reveled at the thump of shields being lifted from their resting place on the gunnels, the odd metallic swish of mail shirts as the men vaulted over the low sides of the ship. They splashed into the surf and grabbed hold of the rails and pulled with a will. The shallow vessel came up on the sand. Long mooring lines were run up the beach to hold it in place.
      Harald looked over at Thorgrim, unsure if, at his age, he could join the others without his father’s say so. But Thorgrim gave the faintest of nods and Harald was off like an arrow, racing forward and then flinging himself over the side into the shallow water. He wore an iron helmet and a mail shirt, a shield on his left arm and a battle ax in his right hand. To Thorgrim he still looked like the little boy he once was, running around the farm in Vik with his play armor and wooden ax.
      Harald’s helmet, mail and weapons, like Thorgrim’s, had been borrowed from Arinbjorn before they put to sea. For all the cattle and land and buildings and slaves Thorgrim owned back in Vik, in Ireland he was nearly destitute, having lost everything in his fighting with the Irish. The only possession he had was, happily, his most prized; his sword, Iron-tooth, taken from him by the Danes and returned (he still did not know how) by the thrall he knew as Morrigan.
      At last it was only him and Arinbjorn aboard and they went forward to a place where the ship had been pulled up on the sand. Thorgrim put a foot on the gunnel, stood and dropped to the beach, Arinbjorn behind him. The last of the Viking fleet was coming ashore. The narrow strip of sand, with the sea on one edge and tall, scrubby cliffs on the other, was filling with the men who had come to fight.
      Thorgrim straightened and found himself standing beside Starri Deathless, who was still whirling around, and Thorgrim had to step back quick to avoid catching Starri’s battle ax in the jaw. And in that instant their eyes met and Starri froze, just stopped, as if he was turned to stone, and held Thorgrim’s gaze. Starri squinted and cocked his head, as if trying to get a closer look. Thorgrim held his eyes, not sure of the meaning of this, unwilling to look away. He would not be stared down, not by anyone, not even a berserker. Especially not a berserker, who, when not needed for the fighting was generally not considered fit for the company of men.
      But the look in Starri’s eyes held no threat or challenge or anything that smacked of hostility. Thorgrim could not imagine what