The Wolves and the Oak
James L. Nelson
Thorgrim found the oak about ten miles up the River Lietrim from the longphort of Vík-ló. It was five minutes after that that the wolves found Thorgrim.
The small band of Norsemen had left the longphort two days before, moving fast up into the hills that ringed the walled town. They carried swords and battle axes on their belts, and long-handled felling axes over their shoulders. They wore no mail or helmets, carried no shields. They were a raiding party of sorts, but they were looking for wood, tight-grained, long and straight, not silver or slaves. For once they were not seeking battle, but rather hoping to avoid anyone who might object to their presence in the countryside.
There were ten of them – Thorgrim and Harald, Starri Deathless, Godi and a handful of volunteers who were bored and restless in the confines of Vík-ló. They were looking for one single oak. Thorgrim had assured them – warned them, really - that there would be no fighting. But they had come anyway because, Thorgrim was certain, they did not really believe him.
Aghen the shipwrite was with them as well. This whole thing had started with Aghen, who had been master shipwrite at Vík-ló even before Thorgrim had arrived aboard Far Voyager. He had helped Thorgrim repair the damage that his vessel had suffered in a collision with a renegade tree trunk in the middle of a storm that had nearly been the end of them all. Thorgrim, not easily impressed by most men, had been impressed with Aghen’s skill and his knowledge, honed like a fine chisel by many years of building ships.
After Far Voyager had been lost Thorgrim looked to Aghen to help him build a new ship that did not carry the heavy weight of bad luck that his late vessel had borne. Aghen was pleased to do so. Building ships was what he did, and he and Thorgrim Night Wolf enjoyed a friendship and a mutual respect, kindled even before Far Voyager had burned to the waterline.
Summer was gone and fall was starting to show its age by the time the keel blocks for the new ship were set on the ground, perpendicular to the river bank. Thorgrim and Aghen took care to see they were level and secure, ready to receive the keel, the backbone of the ship on which the rest would be raised. Then, with blocks and tackle and considerable cursing, Thorgrim and his men hauled a long, straight oak trunk out of the river where it had been tied to the bank, waiting for ax and adz to turn it from a felled tree into an integral part of a living sea-boat.
With Aghen overseeing the process they went at the trunk with wedges and mauls and axes. They slabbed off one side, a straight run nearly forty feet long. And it was then that they found the pocket of rot, a patch of soft, crumbling wood half way down the length of the trunk, invisible from the outside. A ship could no more be built on a rotten keel than a house built on sand, or a man’s reputation built on bragging and lies.
“This won’t do,” Aghen said, poking a finger into the punky wood. Thorgrim watched the bits of oak fall to the wet grass.
“Is there another tree?” he asked.
Aghen shook his head. “None that will serve for a keel. We have wood enough for strakes, and for stem, sternpost. Frames. But not for the keel. I was counting on this one.”
For a long moment the two men were silent. “So where shall we get one?” Thorgrim asked, though he was pretty sure he knew the answer. He hoped he was wrong, but he had seen a bit of the country around Vík-ló and he knew there were no big oaks to be had anywhere nearby.
“This tree, and the others, they came from the wooded country to the north, ten miles or so. There are more there. They can be floated down the river.”
“Really?” This surprised Thorgrim. “I would have thought the river too shallow that far up.”
Aghen shrugged. “It’s shallow in places. Too shallow. Too shallow to make it easy, anyway. But it can be done.”
“You did it before?”
“We did. It was an ungodly pain in the ass.”
And that was pretty much what Thorgrim was anticipating as he and his men trudged through the gates in a cold, driving rain and made their way inland and uphill. They followed the river toward the high country that ringed the longphort like the ramparts of some race of giants, some race long dead whose earthworks had become overgrown as they returned to their natural state.
Thorgrim kept an eye on the water. The river, he saw to his relief, remained wider, deeper and faster than he had thought it would. He could see bends and shallow places through which he knew they would have a miserable time maneuvering a trunk of any size, but for the most part it was not as bad as he had feared.
The Northmen were alone in that country, or nearly so. In the late afternoon of the first day they saw others far off, far enough that the creatures might not have been people at all; they might have been stray cattle or a herd of deer, it was hard to tell with the distance and the rain.
The Northmen kept an eye on them, expecting them to disappear into the wood but they did not. Instead they followed along for a while, maintaining their distance, and that told Thorgrim two things. First, it meant that they were indeed people, because a herd of some sort would have disappeared long before. Second, they were not some innocent band of travelers.
Even from that distance the people watching them would have guessed they were Northmen come from Vík-ló. Travelers, lightly armed, would have run like a herd of deer at the sight of Northmen abroad. But these men were not afraid, and that meant they were likely a band of outlaws, half-wild men who lived in the open country and took what they could from anyone unfortunate enough to cross their path.
For some time the strangers continued to track them, and then at last they turned away and disappeared beyond a low rise. Even outlaws did not care to tangle with fin gall, or so Thorgrim guessed.
That night the Northmen found a small stand of trees that offered virtually no protection and they spent the night there. It was too wet by far to consider a fire, so they ate their dried beef cold and drank the mead they carried in wineskins and slept as best they could, with two men always awake and keeping watch.
The morning was gray but the rain had come to a stop. The gods, apparently, had decided to favor the band with a rare act of kindness. Thorgrim had been long enough in Ireland to know that a respite from the rain was rare indeed. The band of woodcutters made what breakfast they could, then hefted axes once again and with Aghen taking the lead continued on along the river bank.
The trees grew thicker as the land sloped up toward the distant hills, and soon they were in among real forest; alder, birch, oak, and others Thorgrim did not recognize. They moved along quietly, soft leather shoes on the damp undergrowth. No man among them could have said why they felt a need for stealth, they just did. There was something unsettling about the woods.
They were all well acquainted with the forests of their native countries, Norway and Denmark and even Sweden, and perfectly comfortable there. But this Irish forest was different. The trees and the brush were soaked and dripping, the sky when it was visible through the branches was gray and lifeless. The breeze stirred the tops of the trees and sent little showers of water raining down, and the cold gusts wrapped around the men in their damp clothes like a breath from the grave. A forest like that most certainly sheltered trolls and spirits and other unworldly things that would not welcome the presence of foreigners come to cut down some noble tree.
Thorgrim made an effort to not think of such things as they walked along, his eyes and Aghen’s moving from tree to tree, looking for just the right one while the others searched the bracken for threats. The Northmen remained wary because it was their nature to be wary.
“Night Wolf!” It was Starri who spoke, and though his voice was no more than a harsh whisper it made Thorgrim and several others jump.
“Yes?”
“Here’s a fine oak,” Starri said, patting the trunk of a massive tree. Starri Deathless was a berserker, a lunatic in many ways, a savage fighter in battle but not always the most sensible creature. Despite that, he and Thorgrim had become good friends.
The others stopped and shuffled around, looking up into the branches overhead. Thorgrim nodded.
“Fine tree,” he agreed, “but it’s too far from the river. We need one right on the bank, one that will drop into the water.”
“Oh…,” Starri said.
“Also, this isn’t an oak,” Harald said. “It’s a poplar.”
“Yes, there’s that, too,” Thorgrim agreed.
They moved on, closing with the river again, and it was less than ten minutes later that Aghen called, “Here! This may be our keel.”
Once again the others converged on the tree, which was truly an oak, a white oak, and stood fifteen feet from the bank of the river. Aghen was standing on the north side of the trunk and sighting up and Thorgrim stood on the south side and did the same. They walked slowly around as if engaged in some odd mating ritual, eyes searching the gray bark for imperfections.
“Long enough?” Thorgrim asked at length.
“I should think so. Looks straight and I’ll wager the grain is good. I would be happier if it had another ten inches around, but it should do.”
“Good,” Thorgrim said. He stepped away from the tree and lifted his felling ax and once again Starri spoke.
“Thorgrim!” he said, his voice still in a harsh whisper, but urgent this time, with no note of doubt, the tone of a man who senses danger.
“What?” Thorgrim also spoke low and urgent. He saw the others tense, saw heads swivel left and right, axes raised. Harald slipped his sword from its sheath.
“I don’t know…” Starri said. “There’s something out there. More than one…”
They heard a rustle then, a movement low in the brush. They turned, caught a flash of something moving quick through the undergrowth. Then, to their right, something else. A low growl.
A few of the men took a step back and Thorgrim took a soft, tentative step in the direction of the sound. Then the brush rustled again, shook, and a low, gray shape moved like a ghost into the open, dark eyes bright, teeth white, a menacing, guttural sound coming from deep in its throat.
Thorgrim heard one of the men gasp. He took another step toward the animal. He had his felling ax in his hand and he wondered if he should drop it and pull his sword, Iron-tooth, wondered if he would have time before the animal was on him.
“Lone wolf?” Harald asked in a voice barely audible. The world seemed to be teetering between calm and mayhem and no one dared push it one way or another.
“I don’t know…” Thorgrim said and then there was another rustle, another throaty growl to the left and another wolf pushed through the bracken, and behind it another, and then two more between them and the first animal. They crouched low, eyes up, teeth prominent, spittle dripping from red mouths.
“Make a circle, make a circle…” Thorgrim said, speaking just loud enough to be heard and no louder. He took a slow, careful step back, eyes locked on the animal that had first appeared to their right. He heard the others shuffling back as well, forming up, forming a human wall with weapons in front, ready to fight off an assault from all sides. It was a dim hope, but it was the best they had.
“Speak to them, Thorgrim!” Starri hissed.
“What?”
“Speak to them! You are the Night Wolf, they are your kind. Speak to them.”
Thorgrim shook his head. “I don’t think…”
Starri’s suggestion received no further debate. The first wolf, the big wolf, let the growl in its throat build and then it leapt, came right off the ground as it flew at the Norsemen, mouth wide. Godi swung his ax at the animal and missed and then the man beside him hit the wolf hard in the head, knocking it sideways before its teeth found flesh.
The other animals moved at the same time, bursting out of the bracken, coming at the ring of men, howling, jaws wide, coming from all sides. Harald thrust with his sword and a howl turned into a yelp of pain as a wolf tumbled sideways. Thorgrim swung his ax – no time now to go for Iron-tooth – and managed to hit a wolf in mid-air, but with the flat of the ax which did no more than knock the animal aside.
And then their meager show of defense collapsed. No one knew how it happened, who had broken, who had panicked, but the ring of men lasted through the first few seconds of the attack and no longer. Suddenly they were running, all of Thorgrim’s band, turning and fleeing down the steep bank toward the river, only ten feet away. Perhaps it was the call of the water, some deep sense that it was their element, not the wolves’, some impulse that sanctuary could be found there. There was no thought and certainly no discussion. They just broke and ran and leapt from the soft shore into the cold, rushing stream.
It was deeper than Thorgrim had thought, and swifter. He hit the water and stumbled and fell. He was underwater and the current tossed him along. He kicked and found his footing and tried to stand but the river tumbled him over again. Once more he kicked out, once more found the river bottom underfoot and stood.
This time he was ready for the force of the stream. He braced himself and kept his feet. He whipped the hair from his eyes and wiped the water away. He was up to his waist in the bitter cold river and it pushed and tugged at him. He could see Harald, steady on his feet. With his left hand he held one of the other men by the tunic, keeping the man’s head above the water as he gasped and spit. With his right Harald was lifting a second man from the river as if he was fishing.
Starri was up, and so was Godi who, like Harald, had managed to grab up two others. The rest had also found their feet, though one man was a good four rods downstream, having been tumbled that far before recovering himself.
The wolves were on the bank, pacing, snarling, waiting. They were no more than fifteen feet away but that was enough, because the animals could clearly sense that the water was not the place for them, that all their advantages of stealth and speed, agility and the power of their jaws would be lost once they were fighting to stay afloat. So they moved silently up and down the bank and watched in impudent frustration.
“Down stream!” Thorgrim said. “Let us move down stream, we have no choice!” The others nodded and let the rushing water push them along. The river was nearly fifty feet wide at that point and moving fast. They braced against it, holding themselves back, the stream swirling and tumbling around them. Sometimes they would lose their footing and the water would push them over like some malignant spirit, rolling them along, thumping them against the bottom, tossing them downstream until they could gain their feet again or one of their fellows could get a fistful of tunic or cloak or hair and pull them up.
Thorgrim had no sense for how long they had been in the river before the wolves abandoned their chase. One moment he could see the pack on the riverbank following their progress, waiting for these vulnerable intruders to come back into the forest, into their terrain. And then he was fighting with the current again, and the next time he looked up the wolves were gone and he did not see them anymore.
Despite the wolves’ apparent absence, neither Thorgrim nor any of the others much felt like going ashore until they had put more distance between themselves and the pack. They continued on downstream, fighting the brunt of the water as the sun dropped lower behind the trees. Thorgrim could hardly feel his legs, numbed with the cold, and he knew they had better get out of the water soon when he heard Aghen’s voice calling from a place further downstream, around a bend and out of sight.
“Thorgrim!” Aghen shouted. “Thorgrim, see here!” Thorgrim let the water push him along as he tried to keep his footing. He came around the bend and found that Aghen had crossed over to the south side of the river and was standing waist deep in a calm place in the crook of the bend. He was looking up. He was smiling.
Thorgrim followed his eyes. Looming over the shipwrite was an oak, a magnificent oak, four feet in diameter and rising a hundred feet above their heads. It was straight as an arrow, or nearly so, with massive branches reaching out in several directions. A great profusion of leaves bespoke the vitality of that wondrous tree.
Thorgrim worked his way over to Aghen’s side and looked up as well. “Beautiful,” he said.
“I’ve never seen its like,” Aghen said.
They climbed up the steep and muddy bank and the others did as well. While the rest fell gratefully to the near-dry ground, Thorgrim and Aghen continued their scrutiny of the oak. Not only was the size and shape near perfect, it grew not more than ten feet from the bank, leaning toward the river, and it would be easy enough to drop it right into the water. And better still, it was on the south side, which meant the fast-moving stream flowed like a moat between Thorgrim’s men and the wolf pack, which may or may not have abandoned the hunt.
Thorgrim and Aghen took another five minutes to examine the trunk, sighting up from all angles, but they could see nothing to change their opinion that the tree was as nearly perfect as a tree could be.
By some amazing good fortune Thorgrim found he was still holding his felling ax. It was not through any conscious effort on his part; he had completely forgotten that he was holding it until he looked down and saw with surprise it was still in his hands. But he kept that surprise to himself and asked, “Does anyone else still have their ax?”
Of the seven felling axes that had come with them, three were still in hand, but that would be enough. Thorgrim and Godi took the first go at the tree, positioning themselves facing one another, far enough apart for each man to swing with no danger of hitting the other. Godi looked at Thorgrim and nodded. This was Thorgrim’s ship, it was only right he should get the first bite of wood.
Thorgrim brought the ax back over his shoulder and swung with a motion that was as familiar to him as scratching an itch or drawing a sword. The blade, honed by Starri Deathless to an absurd sharpness, cut down into the bark and the wood beneath. Thorgrim wiggled the ax handle, pulled the blade loose, swung again and a big chip flew free, leaving a light-colored gap like a mouth opened in surprise. Then Godi swung and as his ax bit Thorgrim drew his own back again, and soon the men fell into a steady rhythm, the chips flying and making a pile on the ground at the base of the tree.
After twenty minutes Thorgrim and Godi were spelled by two of the others, and so it went for the next hour or so as the gap in the tree grew wider with each stroke of the axes. They chopped until it was too dark to see where to strike, and only then did they leave off and dig into their sacks for what food and drink still remained. Each man found a place on the ground to bed down, and though it was damp and cold, it was at least soft.
Thorgrim was half asleep when Starri’s voice jerked him awake.
“Do you see, Thorgrim? I was right.” There was a self-satisfied tone to his words.
“Right? About what?” Starri was not often right about things, and they both knew it. He was a berserker and he viewed the world from a different angle than most men.
“The wolves. Even though you would not talk to them, as I said you should, still they came to help you. To help the Night Wolf.”
“Help?” Thorgrim asked, not necessarily wanting to engage in this conversation, but too intrigued now to miss whatever odd reasoning Starri had come up with. “They were there to eat us. If the river had not been at hand we would all be wolf scat by morning.”
“No, no,” Starri said. “They never sunk a tooth into one of us. They chased us into the river. They wanted you to find this tree. Think on it. This tree will be the keel of your new ship, the very backbone. The strength of the whole thing will depend on this tree. The wolves knew that you couldn’t settle for a tree that wasn’t perfect. So they showed you the way, drove you along until you found the tree you needed.”
“Humph,” Thorgrim said.
“Doubt me if you will,” Starri said and his tone suggested he thought Thorgrim was a fool to do so. “I know the spirits that drive them.”
They woke before dawn, drank from the river, ate what they could find, relieved themselves in the woods. By Thorgrim’s best guess they had cut more than half of what they needed to cut to bring the tree down, and he did not think it would be more than an hour before the great oak began its slow topple toward the river. He picked up his ax and Godi picked up his and they went at it again.
For another hour the woods rang with the steady rhythm of the axes biting the thick trunk. The chips continued to fall and pile up as one man relieved another. And then, with a groan and a creak, the tree leaned toward the river, slowly, deliberately, as if it was trying to get a look around the bend. The men with the axes took a step back, as did the others. For a moment everything was silent and motionless, and then the tree leaned farther over the water and it gave a rending, cracking sound where the trunk had not yet been cut through.
Faster and faster it fell toward the river and the Northmen looked on, transfixed, as the massive tree came down in a burst of water and leaves. The top of the tree fell across the northern bank of the river, bridging the stream from side to side. The flowing water piled against the obstacle and made the branches wave as if they were in a high wind.
“Let’s get those branches cleared away, get this thing ready to float downstream,” Thorgrim said. He was not sure how the spirits of the land would feel about them taking this mighty tree and he was anxious now to be gone. “Harald, Godi, take some axes and cross over to the north side and cut the far end off the trunk, about ten feet from the north bank there.”
“Why are you doing that, Night Wolf?” Starri asked. “We have a bridge now, side to side.”
“Exactly,” Thorgrim said. “A bridge. A bridge for us, or for the wolf pack if they are still on the hunt for us.”
Starri shook his head. His expression suggested that he pitied Thorgrim and his lack of insight, but he said nothing.
Harald and Godi splashed into the river, axes held high, using the tree to steady themselves, and soon the blades were rising and falling on the far end of the oak. The tree had come down at an angle across the stream and they would not lose much of its usable length cutting away what they were.
There was only one other ax, and that too was carried out into the water and the bigger branches that would hang up on the river bottom and impede their attempts to float the tree downstream were cut away as well.
Twenty minutes later Harald and Godi finished their work and the tree swung downstream as the far end was freed from its hold on the bank. One by one the limbs came free as well and were maneuvered toward the shore. Several were the size of trees in their own right, and would also be brought back to Vík-ló if at all possible.
The men worked fast, but still the going was slower than Thorgrim had hoped. As the sun reached its high point at noon, he called for the men to come back onto the bank and have a meal from their dwindling supplies.
Gratefully the woodcutters climbed out of the river and found trees to lean against as they fished in their sacks for dried meat. Thorgrim remained standing. Someone was missing, he could see that even without counting heads.
Starri… Starri was not among them. Thorgrim felt a touch of relief. If any of the others had disappeared without warning it would have been cause for worry, but for Starri it was as close as he could come to normal behavior.
Thorgrim found a chunk of dried pork and with some effort bit off a piece and chewed. He looked out at the river and the oak floating free with just the near end resting in the mud and holding it in place like a beached longship. Cast it off and it was ready to sail away.
He looked down at Aghen, sitting nearby. “I think we’ll be able to make some distance down the river today. The tree is about ready to go.”
Aghen nodded and was about to say something when suddenly Starri burst from the undergrowth like a pheasant, but with that preternatural quiet with which he moved.
“Night Wolf!” He spoke in a harsh whisper. “They’re coming, closing in!”
“Wolves?”
“No, I don’t think so. Sound like men.”
Thorgrim turned to the men on the ground. “Up, up, to arms!” he said, matching Starri’s whisper. “Men are coming!” He did not doubt Starri’s words. He might have been wrong about most things, but in this sort of situation he was almost always right.
The men leapt to their feet, the clumsy axes left on the ground as they pulled their swords and battle axes. They arrayed themselves in a half circle, facing toward the wood, waiting, listening.
It was less than a minute later that they heard it: the soft sound of men moving through the wood, the occasional snap of a twig that sounded like a thunderclap in the quiet. Their faces were grim, their hands readjusting their grip on weapons.
Then Thorgrim saw the first of them through the trees, fifty feet away. A big man, ugly, bearded, wearing the clothes of an Irishman, but with a half-wild look. Not a farmer or such. A hunter, maybe, but too wild even for that. Thorgrim recalled the band of men they had seen on their way up to the high country and wondered if they had been trailing his band since then.
Their eyes met and the Irishman stopped. For a long moment they just looked at one another, and then the Irishman reached over his shoulder as if scratching his back, but when his arm came down again there was a long, wicked-looking sword in his hand.
Another man stepped up beside the first, and he too had a sword. And then the Northmen could see the brush moving as more and more of the Irish band appeared out of the woods.
Outlaws, Thorgrim thought. They had no community, no particular reason to not kill as they chose and no strong attachment to their own lives. They were as dangerous as men could be.
“Stand ready,” Thorgrim said, speaking loud now, the need for quiet gone. “If these bastards want a fight we’ll kill them and be off down river.”
He heard men grunt in reply. The big Irishman stepped forward, as did the man beside him, and then another and another appeared from out of the brush, then more to the left and right of where Thorgrim and his men were making their stand.
A lot of these whores’ sons…Thorgrim thought. He could see now the Irishmen were twice their number. More than twice. They moved in slowly, pressing in from each side, their approach cautious but not hesitant. They all carried weapons, swords and axes, and some had shields as well.
Then Harald spoke in a loud and steady voice, spoke in Irish and Thorgrim could see the look of surprise on the Irishman’s face to hear his language coming from one who was obviously Norse. The man’s eyebrows came together and he frowned as he listened.
Harald turned to Thorgrim. “I told him we have no silver, and that it was not worth them all losing their lives just to try and get what we do have.”
Thorgrim nodded. It was a good try, but it had not worked, he could see that. The big Irishman was grinning now, and the others were as well. He spoke, addressing Harald.
“He says they’ll kill us all just for the fun of killing fin gall,” Harald translated, “and then they’ll eat our flesh.”
“Well, they can try,” Thorgrim said. This would be a hard fight with long odds. Not impossible but close to it. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Starri’s arms were jerking in that spastic, pre-battle way of his.
The Irishman took a bold step forward, parting the brush like a ship through the water, closing quickly with them, and the rest did the same, a net drawing around them. Thorgrim shuffled his feet, securing his grip on the forest floor, felt the muscles in his arm tense and his fingers take a stronger grip on Iron tooth’s hilt.
And then one of the outlaws off on their left flank screamed, an unearthly shriek and with it came the thrashing sound of someone rolling and flailing in the bracken. And then another screamed and all eyes moved to the right.
From deep in the undergrowth a wolf - the big grey - exploded through the leaves and came down on another of the Irish. The man gave a gurgling shout and flailed with his ax but the wolf was on him and he could not get his blade on the animal before his throat erupted in a welter of blood.
They could not see the wolves which moved through the woods, low and silent. Another of the Irishmen shrieked and went down. Thorgrim looked at the big man, the leader, and he could see the terror in his eyes. Swords, axes, these were the things men like him knew and they did not frighten them. But the silent wolves, the quick, unseen wolves with their wicked teeth, that was something else.
The Irishman spun around, reacting to something at his feet, something Thorgrim could not see. He screamed and slashed with his sword, slashed again, and then he turned and fled, running hard, still screaming, and a second later he was swallowed up by the forest.
“There, Night Wolf, do you see!” Starri cried. “Do you see how…” He got no further than that. The grey wolf leapt from the undergrowth right in Starri’s path, burst out of the vegetation airborne, mouth wide, and it seemed to Thorgrim he could see nothing but teeth.
But if there was one man there who was quick as a wolf it was Starri Deathless. He held his battle ax up, handle horizontal, and the wolf’s jaws came down on that, biting into the wood as man and beast tumbled back in a flurry of fur and hair and limbs. Then Godi was there, leaping forward, looking for the chance to drive his sword through the wolf without killing Starri as well.
More wolves came out of the brush, four or five, leaping out from cover, snarling, snapping. Thorgrim caught one with Iron tooth in midair. The animal impaled itself on the blade, fell howling to the ground, Thorgrim’s sword still in its side. Thorgrim put his foot on the animal’s heaving side and tried to pull the blade free as another leapt at him.
He drew back, turning his shoulder to the wolf, bracing for it, when he caught a blur to his right and Harald stepped in, sword coming down like an ax and cleaving the wolf nearly in two.
“The river! Get to the river!” Thorgrim shouted. It had worked before. The men turned and flung themselves toward the water, splashing down into the current. Godi had managed to dispatch the wolf that was tangled up with Starri and now he lifted Starri with one hand as he gripped his sword in the other. Starri’s face was red with blood from vicious bites, and he had a stunned look as Godi tossed him in the river then leapt in after.
The tree that was floating in the stream served as a handhold and they clung to it as they struggled to get their footing. Thorgrim wrapped an arm around the trunk and did a count of his men. All there. Incredible.
He looked back toward the shore. The big grey was still alive and taking a tentative step onto the end of the oak. Its head was held low and it was making its now familiar snarling sound as it inched out onto the trunk.
“Get the tree free of the bank!” Thorgrim shouted. “All together, pull! Pull!”
The others understood. They wrapped arms around the trunk, dug feet into the soft river bottom and heaved and heaved again. The tree took a tentative jerk away from the bank and the wolf took a tentative step back, confused, uncertain.
“Pull!”
They pulled again and this time the end of the tree came free of the shore like the moment when a ship floats free, waterborne. The wolf leapt back ashore and howled as the Northmen took a fresh grip on the trunk and pushed it around so it would float parallel to the shore, the small end downstream. The current caught the trunk and swept it along and then the Northmen were not pushing at all, they were just holding on as their odd ship carried them toward the sea.
Thorgrim looked back toward the shore. The grey wolf was standing there, not howling now, just watching, and some of its comrades were there as well. A few bore visible wounds, bright red blood on grey and white fur.
Wolf spirit… Thorgrim thought. He wondered if Starri would change his opinion now, now that the wolves had shown beyond doubt that they had no interest in assisting the Northmen. He doubted it. Starri did not generally change his opinions, no matter how overwhelming the evidence to the contrary.
But the truth – a truth which Thorgrim would admit to himself alone - was that he had been close to believing Starri. He had seen strange things in his life, and lived even stranger things. Why couldn’t the spirit of the wolf be sent to aide him in his task? The gods had their ways of doing things which were mysteries to the men of Midgard.
“But not this time,” he said out loud, knowing no one could hear him. Sometimes, he thought, a wolf is just a wolf.
The small band of Norsemen had left the longphort two days before, moving fast up into the hills that ringed the walled town. They carried swords and battle axes on their belts, and long-handled felling axes over their shoulders. They wore no mail or helmets, carried no shields. They were a raiding party of sorts, but they were looking for wood, tight-grained, long and straight, not silver or slaves. For once they were not seeking battle, but rather hoping to avoid anyone who might object to their presence in the countryside.
There were ten of them – Thorgrim and Harald, Starri Deathless, Godi and a handful of volunteers who were bored and restless in the confines of Vík-ló. They were looking for one single oak. Thorgrim had assured them – warned them, really - that there would be no fighting. But they had come anyway because, Thorgrim was certain, they did not really believe him.
Aghen the shipwrite was with them as well. This whole thing had started with Aghen, who had been master shipwrite at Vík-ló even before Thorgrim had arrived aboard Far Voyager. He had helped Thorgrim repair the damage that his vessel had suffered in a collision with a renegade tree trunk in the middle of a storm that had nearly been the end of them all. Thorgrim, not easily impressed by most men, had been impressed with Aghen’s skill and his knowledge, honed like a fine chisel by many years of building ships.
After Far Voyager had been lost Thorgrim looked to Aghen to help him build a new ship that did not carry the heavy weight of bad luck that his late vessel had borne. Aghen was pleased to do so. Building ships was what he did, and he and Thorgrim Night Wolf enjoyed a friendship and a mutual respect, kindled even before Far Voyager had burned to the waterline.
Summer was gone and fall was starting to show its age by the time the keel blocks for the new ship were set on the ground, perpendicular to the river bank. Thorgrim and Aghen took care to see they were level and secure, ready to receive the keel, the backbone of the ship on which the rest would be raised. Then, with blocks and tackle and considerable cursing, Thorgrim and his men hauled a long, straight oak trunk out of the river where it had been tied to the bank, waiting for ax and adz to turn it from a felled tree into an integral part of a living sea-boat.
With Aghen overseeing the process they went at the trunk with wedges and mauls and axes. They slabbed off one side, a straight run nearly forty feet long. And it was then that they found the pocket of rot, a patch of soft, crumbling wood half way down the length of the trunk, invisible from the outside. A ship could no more be built on a rotten keel than a house built on sand, or a man’s reputation built on bragging and lies.
“This won’t do,” Aghen said, poking a finger into the punky wood. Thorgrim watched the bits of oak fall to the wet grass.
“Is there another tree?” he asked.
Aghen shook his head. “None that will serve for a keel. We have wood enough for strakes, and for stem, sternpost. Frames. But not for the keel. I was counting on this one.”
For a long moment the two men were silent. “So where shall we get one?” Thorgrim asked, though he was pretty sure he knew the answer. He hoped he was wrong, but he had seen a bit of the country around Vík-ló and he knew there were no big oaks to be had anywhere nearby.
“This tree, and the others, they came from the wooded country to the north, ten miles or so. There are more there. They can be floated down the river.”
“Really?” This surprised Thorgrim. “I would have thought the river too shallow that far up.”
Aghen shrugged. “It’s shallow in places. Too shallow. Too shallow to make it easy, anyway. But it can be done.”
“You did it before?”
“We did. It was an ungodly pain in the ass.”
And that was pretty much what Thorgrim was anticipating as he and his men trudged through the gates in a cold, driving rain and made their way inland and uphill. They followed the river toward the high country that ringed the longphort like the ramparts of some race of giants, some race long dead whose earthworks had become overgrown as they returned to their natural state.
Thorgrim kept an eye on the water. The river, he saw to his relief, remained wider, deeper and faster than he had thought it would. He could see bends and shallow places through which he knew they would have a miserable time maneuvering a trunk of any size, but for the most part it was not as bad as he had feared.
The Northmen were alone in that country, or nearly so. In the late afternoon of the first day they saw others far off, far enough that the creatures might not have been people at all; they might have been stray cattle or a herd of deer, it was hard to tell with the distance and the rain.
The Northmen kept an eye on them, expecting them to disappear into the wood but they did not. Instead they followed along for a while, maintaining their distance, and that told Thorgrim two things. First, it meant that they were indeed people, because a herd of some sort would have disappeared long before. Second, they were not some innocent band of travelers.
Even from that distance the people watching them would have guessed they were Northmen come from Vík-ló. Travelers, lightly armed, would have run like a herd of deer at the sight of Northmen abroad. But these men were not afraid, and that meant they were likely a band of outlaws, half-wild men who lived in the open country and took what they could from anyone unfortunate enough to cross their path.
For some time the strangers continued to track them, and then at last they turned away and disappeared beyond a low rise. Even outlaws did not care to tangle with fin gall, or so Thorgrim guessed.
That night the Northmen found a small stand of trees that offered virtually no protection and they spent the night there. It was too wet by far to consider a fire, so they ate their dried beef cold and drank the mead they carried in wineskins and slept as best they could, with two men always awake and keeping watch.
The morning was gray but the rain had come to a stop. The gods, apparently, had decided to favor the band with a rare act of kindness. Thorgrim had been long enough in Ireland to know that a respite from the rain was rare indeed. The band of woodcutters made what breakfast they could, then hefted axes once again and with Aghen taking the lead continued on along the river bank.
The trees grew thicker as the land sloped up toward the distant hills, and soon they were in among real forest; alder, birch, oak, and others Thorgrim did not recognize. They moved along quietly, soft leather shoes on the damp undergrowth. No man among them could have said why they felt a need for stealth, they just did. There was something unsettling about the woods.
They were all well acquainted with the forests of their native countries, Norway and Denmark and even Sweden, and perfectly comfortable there. But this Irish forest was different. The trees and the brush were soaked and dripping, the sky when it was visible through the branches was gray and lifeless. The breeze stirred the tops of the trees and sent little showers of water raining down, and the cold gusts wrapped around the men in their damp clothes like a breath from the grave. A forest like that most certainly sheltered trolls and spirits and other unworldly things that would not welcome the presence of foreigners come to cut down some noble tree.
Thorgrim made an effort to not think of such things as they walked along, his eyes and Aghen’s moving from tree to tree, looking for just the right one while the others searched the bracken for threats. The Northmen remained wary because it was their nature to be wary.
“Night Wolf!” It was Starri who spoke, and though his voice was no more than a harsh whisper it made Thorgrim and several others jump.
“Yes?”
“Here’s a fine oak,” Starri said, patting the trunk of a massive tree. Starri Deathless was a berserker, a lunatic in many ways, a savage fighter in battle but not always the most sensible creature. Despite that, he and Thorgrim had become good friends.
The others stopped and shuffled around, looking up into the branches overhead. Thorgrim nodded.
“Fine tree,” he agreed, “but it’s too far from the river. We need one right on the bank, one that will drop into the water.”
“Oh…,” Starri said.
“Also, this isn’t an oak,” Harald said. “It’s a poplar.”
“Yes, there’s that, too,” Thorgrim agreed.
They moved on, closing with the river again, and it was less than ten minutes later that Aghen called, “Here! This may be our keel.”
Once again the others converged on the tree, which was truly an oak, a white oak, and stood fifteen feet from the bank of the river. Aghen was standing on the north side of the trunk and sighting up and Thorgrim stood on the south side and did the same. They walked slowly around as if engaged in some odd mating ritual, eyes searching the gray bark for imperfections.
“Long enough?” Thorgrim asked at length.
“I should think so. Looks straight and I’ll wager the grain is good. I would be happier if it had another ten inches around, but it should do.”
“Good,” Thorgrim said. He stepped away from the tree and lifted his felling ax and once again Starri spoke.
“Thorgrim!” he said, his voice still in a harsh whisper, but urgent this time, with no note of doubt, the tone of a man who senses danger.
“What?” Thorgrim also spoke low and urgent. He saw the others tense, saw heads swivel left and right, axes raised. Harald slipped his sword from its sheath.
“I don’t know…” Starri said. “There’s something out there. More than one…”
They heard a rustle then, a movement low in the brush. They turned, caught a flash of something moving quick through the undergrowth. Then, to their right, something else. A low growl.
A few of the men took a step back and Thorgrim took a soft, tentative step in the direction of the sound. Then the brush rustled again, shook, and a low, gray shape moved like a ghost into the open, dark eyes bright, teeth white, a menacing, guttural sound coming from deep in its throat.
Thorgrim heard one of the men gasp. He took another step toward the animal. He had his felling ax in his hand and he wondered if he should drop it and pull his sword, Iron-tooth, wondered if he would have time before the animal was on him.
“Lone wolf?” Harald asked in a voice barely audible. The world seemed to be teetering between calm and mayhem and no one dared push it one way or another.
“I don’t know…” Thorgrim said and then there was another rustle, another throaty growl to the left and another wolf pushed through the bracken, and behind it another, and then two more between them and the first animal. They crouched low, eyes up, teeth prominent, spittle dripping from red mouths.
“Make a circle, make a circle…” Thorgrim said, speaking just loud enough to be heard and no louder. He took a slow, careful step back, eyes locked on the animal that had first appeared to their right. He heard the others shuffling back as well, forming up, forming a human wall with weapons in front, ready to fight off an assault from all sides. It was a dim hope, but it was the best they had.
“Speak to them, Thorgrim!” Starri hissed.
“What?”
“Speak to them! You are the Night Wolf, they are your kind. Speak to them.”
Thorgrim shook his head. “I don’t think…”
Starri’s suggestion received no further debate. The first wolf, the big wolf, let the growl in its throat build and then it leapt, came right off the ground as it flew at the Norsemen, mouth wide. Godi swung his ax at the animal and missed and then the man beside him hit the wolf hard in the head, knocking it sideways before its teeth found flesh.
The other animals moved at the same time, bursting out of the bracken, coming at the ring of men, howling, jaws wide, coming from all sides. Harald thrust with his sword and a howl turned into a yelp of pain as a wolf tumbled sideways. Thorgrim swung his ax – no time now to go for Iron-tooth – and managed to hit a wolf in mid-air, but with the flat of the ax which did no more than knock the animal aside.
And then their meager show of defense collapsed. No one knew how it happened, who had broken, who had panicked, but the ring of men lasted through the first few seconds of the attack and no longer. Suddenly they were running, all of Thorgrim’s band, turning and fleeing down the steep bank toward the river, only ten feet away. Perhaps it was the call of the water, some deep sense that it was their element, not the wolves’, some impulse that sanctuary could be found there. There was no thought and certainly no discussion. They just broke and ran and leapt from the soft shore into the cold, rushing stream.
It was deeper than Thorgrim had thought, and swifter. He hit the water and stumbled and fell. He was underwater and the current tossed him along. He kicked and found his footing and tried to stand but the river tumbled him over again. Once more he kicked out, once more found the river bottom underfoot and stood.
This time he was ready for the force of the stream. He braced himself and kept his feet. He whipped the hair from his eyes and wiped the water away. He was up to his waist in the bitter cold river and it pushed and tugged at him. He could see Harald, steady on his feet. With his left hand he held one of the other men by the tunic, keeping the man’s head above the water as he gasped and spit. With his right Harald was lifting a second man from the river as if he was fishing.
Starri was up, and so was Godi who, like Harald, had managed to grab up two others. The rest had also found their feet, though one man was a good four rods downstream, having been tumbled that far before recovering himself.
The wolves were on the bank, pacing, snarling, waiting. They were no more than fifteen feet away but that was enough, because the animals could clearly sense that the water was not the place for them, that all their advantages of stealth and speed, agility and the power of their jaws would be lost once they were fighting to stay afloat. So they moved silently up and down the bank and watched in impudent frustration.
“Down stream!” Thorgrim said. “Let us move down stream, we have no choice!” The others nodded and let the rushing water push them along. The river was nearly fifty feet wide at that point and moving fast. They braced against it, holding themselves back, the stream swirling and tumbling around them. Sometimes they would lose their footing and the water would push them over like some malignant spirit, rolling them along, thumping them against the bottom, tossing them downstream until they could gain their feet again or one of their fellows could get a fistful of tunic or cloak or hair and pull them up.
Thorgrim had no sense for how long they had been in the river before the wolves abandoned their chase. One moment he could see the pack on the riverbank following their progress, waiting for these vulnerable intruders to come back into the forest, into their terrain. And then he was fighting with the current again, and the next time he looked up the wolves were gone and he did not see them anymore.
Despite the wolves’ apparent absence, neither Thorgrim nor any of the others much felt like going ashore until they had put more distance between themselves and the pack. They continued on downstream, fighting the brunt of the water as the sun dropped lower behind the trees. Thorgrim could hardly feel his legs, numbed with the cold, and he knew they had better get out of the water soon when he heard Aghen’s voice calling from a place further downstream, around a bend and out of sight.
“Thorgrim!” Aghen shouted. “Thorgrim, see here!” Thorgrim let the water push him along as he tried to keep his footing. He came around the bend and found that Aghen had crossed over to the south side of the river and was standing waist deep in a calm place in the crook of the bend. He was looking up. He was smiling.
Thorgrim followed his eyes. Looming over the shipwrite was an oak, a magnificent oak, four feet in diameter and rising a hundred feet above their heads. It was straight as an arrow, or nearly so, with massive branches reaching out in several directions. A great profusion of leaves bespoke the vitality of that wondrous tree.
Thorgrim worked his way over to Aghen’s side and looked up as well. “Beautiful,” he said.
“I’ve never seen its like,” Aghen said.
They climbed up the steep and muddy bank and the others did as well. While the rest fell gratefully to the near-dry ground, Thorgrim and Aghen continued their scrutiny of the oak. Not only was the size and shape near perfect, it grew not more than ten feet from the bank, leaning toward the river, and it would be easy enough to drop it right into the water. And better still, it was on the south side, which meant the fast-moving stream flowed like a moat between Thorgrim’s men and the wolf pack, which may or may not have abandoned the hunt.
Thorgrim and Aghen took another five minutes to examine the trunk, sighting up from all angles, but they could see nothing to change their opinion that the tree was as nearly perfect as a tree could be.
By some amazing good fortune Thorgrim found he was still holding his felling ax. It was not through any conscious effort on his part; he had completely forgotten that he was holding it until he looked down and saw with surprise it was still in his hands. But he kept that surprise to himself and asked, “Does anyone else still have their ax?”
Of the seven felling axes that had come with them, three were still in hand, but that would be enough. Thorgrim and Godi took the first go at the tree, positioning themselves facing one another, far enough apart for each man to swing with no danger of hitting the other. Godi looked at Thorgrim and nodded. This was Thorgrim’s ship, it was only right he should get the first bite of wood.
Thorgrim brought the ax back over his shoulder and swung with a motion that was as familiar to him as scratching an itch or drawing a sword. The blade, honed by Starri Deathless to an absurd sharpness, cut down into the bark and the wood beneath. Thorgrim wiggled the ax handle, pulled the blade loose, swung again and a big chip flew free, leaving a light-colored gap like a mouth opened in surprise. Then Godi swung and as his ax bit Thorgrim drew his own back again, and soon the men fell into a steady rhythm, the chips flying and making a pile on the ground at the base of the tree.
After twenty minutes Thorgrim and Godi were spelled by two of the others, and so it went for the next hour or so as the gap in the tree grew wider with each stroke of the axes. They chopped until it was too dark to see where to strike, and only then did they leave off and dig into their sacks for what food and drink still remained. Each man found a place on the ground to bed down, and though it was damp and cold, it was at least soft.
Thorgrim was half asleep when Starri’s voice jerked him awake.
“Do you see, Thorgrim? I was right.” There was a self-satisfied tone to his words.
“Right? About what?” Starri was not often right about things, and they both knew it. He was a berserker and he viewed the world from a different angle than most men.
“The wolves. Even though you would not talk to them, as I said you should, still they came to help you. To help the Night Wolf.”
“Help?” Thorgrim asked, not necessarily wanting to engage in this conversation, but too intrigued now to miss whatever odd reasoning Starri had come up with. “They were there to eat us. If the river had not been at hand we would all be wolf scat by morning.”
“No, no,” Starri said. “They never sunk a tooth into one of us. They chased us into the river. They wanted you to find this tree. Think on it. This tree will be the keel of your new ship, the very backbone. The strength of the whole thing will depend on this tree. The wolves knew that you couldn’t settle for a tree that wasn’t perfect. So they showed you the way, drove you along until you found the tree you needed.”
“Humph,” Thorgrim said.
“Doubt me if you will,” Starri said and his tone suggested he thought Thorgrim was a fool to do so. “I know the spirits that drive them.”
They woke before dawn, drank from the river, ate what they could find, relieved themselves in the woods. By Thorgrim’s best guess they had cut more than half of what they needed to cut to bring the tree down, and he did not think it would be more than an hour before the great oak began its slow topple toward the river. He picked up his ax and Godi picked up his and they went at it again.
For another hour the woods rang with the steady rhythm of the axes biting the thick trunk. The chips continued to fall and pile up as one man relieved another. And then, with a groan and a creak, the tree leaned toward the river, slowly, deliberately, as if it was trying to get a look around the bend. The men with the axes took a step back, as did the others. For a moment everything was silent and motionless, and then the tree leaned farther over the water and it gave a rending, cracking sound where the trunk had not yet been cut through.
Faster and faster it fell toward the river and the Northmen looked on, transfixed, as the massive tree came down in a burst of water and leaves. The top of the tree fell across the northern bank of the river, bridging the stream from side to side. The flowing water piled against the obstacle and made the branches wave as if they were in a high wind.
“Let’s get those branches cleared away, get this thing ready to float downstream,” Thorgrim said. He was not sure how the spirits of the land would feel about them taking this mighty tree and he was anxious now to be gone. “Harald, Godi, take some axes and cross over to the north side and cut the far end off the trunk, about ten feet from the north bank there.”
“Why are you doing that, Night Wolf?” Starri asked. “We have a bridge now, side to side.”
“Exactly,” Thorgrim said. “A bridge. A bridge for us, or for the wolf pack if they are still on the hunt for us.”
Starri shook his head. His expression suggested that he pitied Thorgrim and his lack of insight, but he said nothing.
Harald and Godi splashed into the river, axes held high, using the tree to steady themselves, and soon the blades were rising and falling on the far end of the oak. The tree had come down at an angle across the stream and they would not lose much of its usable length cutting away what they were.
There was only one other ax, and that too was carried out into the water and the bigger branches that would hang up on the river bottom and impede their attempts to float the tree downstream were cut away as well.
Twenty minutes later Harald and Godi finished their work and the tree swung downstream as the far end was freed from its hold on the bank. One by one the limbs came free as well and were maneuvered toward the shore. Several were the size of trees in their own right, and would also be brought back to Vík-ló if at all possible.
The men worked fast, but still the going was slower than Thorgrim had hoped. As the sun reached its high point at noon, he called for the men to come back onto the bank and have a meal from their dwindling supplies.
Gratefully the woodcutters climbed out of the river and found trees to lean against as they fished in their sacks for dried meat. Thorgrim remained standing. Someone was missing, he could see that even without counting heads.
Starri… Starri was not among them. Thorgrim felt a touch of relief. If any of the others had disappeared without warning it would have been cause for worry, but for Starri it was as close as he could come to normal behavior.
Thorgrim found a chunk of dried pork and with some effort bit off a piece and chewed. He looked out at the river and the oak floating free with just the near end resting in the mud and holding it in place like a beached longship. Cast it off and it was ready to sail away.
He looked down at Aghen, sitting nearby. “I think we’ll be able to make some distance down the river today. The tree is about ready to go.”
Aghen nodded and was about to say something when suddenly Starri burst from the undergrowth like a pheasant, but with that preternatural quiet with which he moved.
“Night Wolf!” He spoke in a harsh whisper. “They’re coming, closing in!”
“Wolves?”
“No, I don’t think so. Sound like men.”
Thorgrim turned to the men on the ground. “Up, up, to arms!” he said, matching Starri’s whisper. “Men are coming!” He did not doubt Starri’s words. He might have been wrong about most things, but in this sort of situation he was almost always right.
The men leapt to their feet, the clumsy axes left on the ground as they pulled their swords and battle axes. They arrayed themselves in a half circle, facing toward the wood, waiting, listening.
It was less than a minute later that they heard it: the soft sound of men moving through the wood, the occasional snap of a twig that sounded like a thunderclap in the quiet. Their faces were grim, their hands readjusting their grip on weapons.
Then Thorgrim saw the first of them through the trees, fifty feet away. A big man, ugly, bearded, wearing the clothes of an Irishman, but with a half-wild look. Not a farmer or such. A hunter, maybe, but too wild even for that. Thorgrim recalled the band of men they had seen on their way up to the high country and wondered if they had been trailing his band since then.
Their eyes met and the Irishman stopped. For a long moment they just looked at one another, and then the Irishman reached over his shoulder as if scratching his back, but when his arm came down again there was a long, wicked-looking sword in his hand.
Another man stepped up beside the first, and he too had a sword. And then the Northmen could see the brush moving as more and more of the Irish band appeared out of the woods.
Outlaws, Thorgrim thought. They had no community, no particular reason to not kill as they chose and no strong attachment to their own lives. They were as dangerous as men could be.
“Stand ready,” Thorgrim said, speaking loud now, the need for quiet gone. “If these bastards want a fight we’ll kill them and be off down river.”
He heard men grunt in reply. The big Irishman stepped forward, as did the man beside him, and then another and another appeared from out of the brush, then more to the left and right of where Thorgrim and his men were making their stand.
A lot of these whores’ sons…Thorgrim thought. He could see now the Irishmen were twice their number. More than twice. They moved in slowly, pressing in from each side, their approach cautious but not hesitant. They all carried weapons, swords and axes, and some had shields as well.
Then Harald spoke in a loud and steady voice, spoke in Irish and Thorgrim could see the look of surprise on the Irishman’s face to hear his language coming from one who was obviously Norse. The man’s eyebrows came together and he frowned as he listened.
Harald turned to Thorgrim. “I told him we have no silver, and that it was not worth them all losing their lives just to try and get what we do have.”
Thorgrim nodded. It was a good try, but it had not worked, he could see that. The big Irishman was grinning now, and the others were as well. He spoke, addressing Harald.
“He says they’ll kill us all just for the fun of killing fin gall,” Harald translated, “and then they’ll eat our flesh.”
“Well, they can try,” Thorgrim said. This would be a hard fight with long odds. Not impossible but close to it. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Starri’s arms were jerking in that spastic, pre-battle way of his.
The Irishman took a bold step forward, parting the brush like a ship through the water, closing quickly with them, and the rest did the same, a net drawing around them. Thorgrim shuffled his feet, securing his grip on the forest floor, felt the muscles in his arm tense and his fingers take a stronger grip on Iron tooth’s hilt.
And then one of the outlaws off on their left flank screamed, an unearthly shriek and with it came the thrashing sound of someone rolling and flailing in the bracken. And then another screamed and all eyes moved to the right.
From deep in the undergrowth a wolf - the big grey - exploded through the leaves and came down on another of the Irish. The man gave a gurgling shout and flailed with his ax but the wolf was on him and he could not get his blade on the animal before his throat erupted in a welter of blood.
They could not see the wolves which moved through the woods, low and silent. Another of the Irishmen shrieked and went down. Thorgrim looked at the big man, the leader, and he could see the terror in his eyes. Swords, axes, these were the things men like him knew and they did not frighten them. But the silent wolves, the quick, unseen wolves with their wicked teeth, that was something else.
The Irishman spun around, reacting to something at his feet, something Thorgrim could not see. He screamed and slashed with his sword, slashed again, and then he turned and fled, running hard, still screaming, and a second later he was swallowed up by the forest.
“There, Night Wolf, do you see!” Starri cried. “Do you see how…” He got no further than that. The grey wolf leapt from the undergrowth right in Starri’s path, burst out of the vegetation airborne, mouth wide, and it seemed to Thorgrim he could see nothing but teeth.
But if there was one man there who was quick as a wolf it was Starri Deathless. He held his battle ax up, handle horizontal, and the wolf’s jaws came down on that, biting into the wood as man and beast tumbled back in a flurry of fur and hair and limbs. Then Godi was there, leaping forward, looking for the chance to drive his sword through the wolf without killing Starri as well.
More wolves came out of the brush, four or five, leaping out from cover, snarling, snapping. Thorgrim caught one with Iron tooth in midair. The animal impaled itself on the blade, fell howling to the ground, Thorgrim’s sword still in its side. Thorgrim put his foot on the animal’s heaving side and tried to pull the blade free as another leapt at him.
He drew back, turning his shoulder to the wolf, bracing for it, when he caught a blur to his right and Harald stepped in, sword coming down like an ax and cleaving the wolf nearly in two.
“The river! Get to the river!” Thorgrim shouted. It had worked before. The men turned and flung themselves toward the water, splashing down into the current. Godi had managed to dispatch the wolf that was tangled up with Starri and now he lifted Starri with one hand as he gripped his sword in the other. Starri’s face was red with blood from vicious bites, and he had a stunned look as Godi tossed him in the river then leapt in after.
The tree that was floating in the stream served as a handhold and they clung to it as they struggled to get their footing. Thorgrim wrapped an arm around the trunk and did a count of his men. All there. Incredible.
He looked back toward the shore. The big grey was still alive and taking a tentative step onto the end of the oak. Its head was held low and it was making its now familiar snarling sound as it inched out onto the trunk.
“Get the tree free of the bank!” Thorgrim shouted. “All together, pull! Pull!”
The others understood. They wrapped arms around the trunk, dug feet into the soft river bottom and heaved and heaved again. The tree took a tentative jerk away from the bank and the wolf took a tentative step back, confused, uncertain.
“Pull!”
They pulled again and this time the end of the tree came free of the shore like the moment when a ship floats free, waterborne. The wolf leapt back ashore and howled as the Northmen took a fresh grip on the trunk and pushed it around so it would float parallel to the shore, the small end downstream. The current caught the trunk and swept it along and then the Northmen were not pushing at all, they were just holding on as their odd ship carried them toward the sea.
Thorgrim looked back toward the shore. The grey wolf was standing there, not howling now, just watching, and some of its comrades were there as well. A few bore visible wounds, bright red blood on grey and white fur.
Wolf spirit… Thorgrim thought. He wondered if Starri would change his opinion now, now that the wolves had shown beyond doubt that they had no interest in assisting the Northmen. He doubted it. Starri did not generally change his opinions, no matter how overwhelming the evidence to the contrary.
But the truth – a truth which Thorgrim would admit to himself alone - was that he had been close to believing Starri. He had seen strange things in his life, and lived even stranger things. Why couldn’t the spirit of the wolf be sent to aide him in his task? The gods had their ways of doing things which were mysteries to the men of Midgard.
“But not this time,” he said out loud, knowing no one could hear him. Sometimes, he thought, a wolf is just a wolf.