Viking at Drumshee
Chapter One
'Watch his left side! I'm guarding his back.'
That was the first time that Conn had heard that terrible note of fear in his
father's voice. For most of the battle Patrick had seemed to be concentrating on
keeping his fourteen year old son out of trouble, but now all that was swept
aside. Prince Brian Boru, heir to his brother King Mahon of Munster, and the
great hope and hero of the Dalcassian tribe, was in such deadly danger that
every man of the tribe, whether he be fourteen or forty had to do their all to
defend him.
On and on came the Vikings. There seemed to be no end of them. The rain
glinting on their iron helmets and dripping from the straight nosepieces; they
seemed unbeatable by the leather-clad, poorly armed Irish. Taller, much taller
than the Irish, these Vikings seemed like giants, blond haired giants wielding
their enormous two-handed axes, sweeping all before them as they pressed on.
A short scream came from the man in front of Brian and then the man collapsed
in a great fountain of blood. A Viking's battle axe had split him down the
middle from head to foot. Conn shuddered, but kept his eyes unwaveringly fixed
ahead of him. Prince Brian was all that mattered, he told himself. His father
would guard at the back and he, Conn, must keep anyone from getting too near the
left hand side. Resolutely he took a firmer grip on his heavy spear and kept it
moving ahead of him creating a gap in the Viking ranks through which Prince
Brian moved as one with a charmed life.
Another Irishman went down. This time there was not even time for a scream.
Surely, now, even Brian Boru, himself, would be forced to retreat, but no, the
mighty voice rose up, louder than any trumpet.
'Charge!' he yelled, a thousand lights flashing from his sword as it split
the millions of rain drops.
'Charge!' echoed Conn, hearing with displeasure how thin and reedy his boy's
voice sounded compared to the voice of his hero. He did not care, however. He
was a man now and could fight as well as any of them.
'Brian Abu,' came the response from the Irish warriors.
Just above Conn's head a Viking battle-axe reared and then began to descend.
Without meaning to, Conn lowered his spear and watched, as if frozen, the mighty
weapon coming nearer to his head. And then it stopped. The bright sword had
flashed, the battle axe had fallen to the ground and the head of its owner
rolled beside it.
'Keep your spear up, boy,' said Brian Boru, and once again, his flashing
sword sliced off yet another Viking head.
They were working in partnership now, Brian of Boru and Conn of Drumshee. It
was as if they had trained to do this for months. Conn swept the great spear in
wide, semi-circular movements, and then when some Viking was unwise enough to
try to push the annoyance aside Brian Boru neatly sliced his head off. Behind
them, Conn could hear his father grunt with effort as his sword went in and
stabbed the enemy. But still the Vikings came. There was no end to them. There
must have been five or six ship loads of them had come up the river Fergus from
Limerick and had fallen on Prince Brian's band of guerrilla warriors. The
Vikings knew that they must kill Brian. If they killed Brian then his warriors
would go back to King Mahon. King Mahon, childless, peace-loving and busy with
his prayers, would be of no threat to them.
Thank God for the rain, thought Conn. The heavy black sky, so full of rain
clouds, was bringing this October day to a close, even earlier than usual. The
Vikings would not risk fighting once darkness fell. Brian Boru's troops knew
this bleak countryside too well. For many weary months, ever since Prince Brian
had so bitterly quarrelled with his brother, King Mahon, they had camped out
here, fighting the roving band of Vikings. They had had success, too, although
they had paid for their successes as bit by bit the numbers of their band of
guerrilla warriors, killed by the Vikings, or by disease and by semi-starvation,
had got smaller and smaller. Now, perhaps, they were going to pay the ultimate
price of their daring. This was no chance band of Vikings out to rob cattle or
to plunder abbeys; this was a military force sent out from Limerick to capture
the renowned Brian Boru and to kill him, or to bring him in chains back to
Limerick.
But Brian Boru was not daunted. Still he pressed forward. Still he encouraged
his remaining men onwards through the mist and the rain. Suddenly Conn
understood. Brian Boru was not leading a fruitless last charge which would
result in death for them all. He was enticing the Vikings towards the precipice
which overhung the eastern end of the lake. In the half-light, with the driving
rain in their faces, the Vikings would not see the steep cliff until it was too
late. With renewed hope, Conn drove his heavy spear against the neck of the
Viking in front of him and added his high, boyish voice to the deep,
trumpet-like tones beside him.
Nearer and nearer to the precipice they came. Now Conn could hear a
triumphant note in the voice of Patrick, his father. He, also, must have guessed
what Prince Brian was doing. The shouts of 'Boru' rose up above the war-cries of
the Vikings. The little band of desperate Irish had seen a glimmer of hope
although they were surrounded on all sides by the invaders from the sea, the
Vikings from the far north.
Conn's heart was thumping and his shoulder ached so much with the effort of
holding up the heavy long spear that he felt the pain all the way down his right
side.
'You must keep going,' some voice in his mind screamed at him.
'I can't, ' replied his exhausted body.
'You can!' replied the voice and Conn knew that he could. Suddenly he felt as
if a goblet of mead, that intoxicating mixture of honey and herbs, was coursing
through his veins. He broke into a run and, elbow to elbow with Brian Boru,
drove the Vikings through the thick mist, through the approaching darkness, down
the rocky precipice and then, sobbing for breath, he leaned on his spear and
listened to the splashing of the broken bodies of the Vikings tumbling
helplessly over the jagged rocks and falling into the icy waters of the lake
below.
'The rest of them are retreating, my lord!' Patrick's exultant voice seemed
to drive another draught of courage through Conn's veins. He stood a little
straighter and looked at Prince Brian. Brian looked the same as always, not even
slightly out of breath. He smiled slightly at his shield bearer.
'They've retreated,' he said wryly. 'But they haven't gone away. They'll be
back.'
Conn looked around and his heart sank They had been left in possession of the
field, but was that really all that was left of the band that had begun fighting
that morning? He counted the men and then counted again. There was no mistake.
Only twenty warriors were left for Brian Boru and of those twenty, one was a
fourteen year old boy. He looked at Prince Brian and saw that he, too, had
counted the remains of his band. It was too much to hope that the Vikings would
have sailed back to Limerick. They must know how many that they had killed. As
soon as light dawned, the Vikings would attack again and this time there would
be no mistake. Brian Boru and his men would be captured or killed.
'Best get some rest while we can,' said Brian, sinking down on the ground and
wrapping his bratt, or cloak, around him.
The other men arranged themselves around him without a word. In the half
light their faces were set in lines of despair. Conn could not bear to look.
Pulling his bratt around him, he stumbled away, his face wet with rain,
and with tears of despair. There was a small ring of rocks here. Even if the
rocks did not shelter him from the thick rain, they would shelter him from the
worst of the wind. He wedged himself half under an overhanging boulder and
buried his face in his knees.
It was the cold on his face that woke him. Soon after midnight the rain must
have ceased and now the moon and all of the stars were brilliant in the black
sky. Inside the thickness of his wool bratt his tunic had dried with the
heat of his body and now only his face was cold. Cautiously he got to his feet
and looked around him. Prince Brian and all his men were still asleep. They
should have left someone on guard, but the heavy rain had made this seem
unnecessary. Apprehensively Conn looked across the stony meadow to where the
river Fergus gleamed in the silvery light of the moon. There were the Viking
Dragon ships. Six of them! The large square sail in the centre of each ship and
the carved dragon heads on each end, the line of shields hung on the sides of
the boats: every detail was as clear as in broad day-light. With another quick
glance at the sleeping men gathered around their leader, Conn began to creep
forward, testing the uneven ground with each foot and taking care to make no
noise.
Five of the ships were large ones; graceful narrow shapes with carved heads
on each end and a striped square-rigged sail in the centre of the ship. These
were longships, Conn thought. He had heard Prince Brian explain the different
boats to his father. The men slept on these. He could see their hump-back shapes
now. They slept on the rowers' benches, heads sunk on to their knees, or else
stretched out on the aft-deck. They had left no watchman, either. They did not
need to. They knew how few of the Irish were left. At first dawn they would
seize them. With the lake and a treacherous bog to their back and the river in
front of them, there would be no escape for the Irish.
The sixth boat, however, was empty. This was a small, shallow boat. It would
probably be used in places where there was not enough depth of water for the
bigger longships. The Viking continually sent out raiding parties to seize
cattle for food and even women and children for slaves. This boat could be
beached anywhere. It was moored at a little distance from the others. Carefully
Conn looked all around. There was no movement from the sleeping Vikings. He
would be able to get closer and examine the small boat and see how it was built.
The water of the river Fergus was very clear and Conn could see down to its
sandy bottom. To his surprise, the boat was not flat underneath. He had never
seen a boat like that before. The few boats which he had ever known were
circular and flat-bottomed, but the bottom of this boat slanted to make a
knife-like edge to cut through the water.
So this is how they go so fast, thought Conn.
And at that very second, his hair was seized, his head was jerked back and
the bright light of a short sword flashed in front of his dazzled eyes.
For a moment, blinded by the light from the weapon, Conn closed his eyes and
waited for the massive two-handed axe to descend and to cut off his short life
for ever. His heart gave one mighty thump and then he opened his eyes again and
hope began to flow back. This was no massive axe, but a short sword, such as he
had often worn himself, a claymore, a boy's weapon, he thought contemptuously.
At the same instance, he realised that the Viking who held him was no giant, but
a boy of his age, or thereabouts. Taller than Conn, yes, but, the face above him
was beardless and the hand that held his hair seemed to lack power. With a quick
jerk, Conn spun around and drove his knee into the Viking boy's groin and heard
him gasp. Now the fight became vicious. The sword made contact with Conn's
shoulder. He felt the blood warm against his neck. His hand fumbled for his
sword, but the thick folds of his bratt made it difficult and Conn
abandoned the attempt and relied on his fists and his teeth and his lightly shod
feet. Kick. That had made contact. Fist now. The Viking boy rocked backwards and
then came on again with a quick rush. The point of his sword lunged against
Conn's breast, but there was no force behind it and the thick leather tunic
easily turned the blow away. The boy was tiring now. His breath came in quick
short gasps. Why hadn't he called for help? thought Conn, and that very thought
lent strength to his arm, as with one last desperate attempt to save his life he
lashed out with his fist and struck the boy on the chin. The boy dropped to the
ground like a felled ox. Quickly Conn snatched up the dropped claymore and stood
over him pointing the sword towards the Viking boy's heart. But there was no
need. For the moment the boy was unconscious. Conn bent over him. His breathing
was strong and even. Soon he would come to consciousness again and the first
thing which he would surely do now would be to call for help. With fingers which
shook a little in spite of all his attempts to hold them steady, Conn unwound
the belt around his tunic. His mother had woven it for him from the finest,
softest wool, just before he had gone off with his father. He hated to spoil it,
but he would have to gag this Viking quickly. He pulled open the boy's mouth,
stuffed some of the belt in, behind the strong white teeth, tied it around the
head and then with his dagger cut off a length and tied the boy's hands behind
his back. With a cautious eye on the dragon ships, rocking peacefully on the
broad waters of the Fergus, he shook the boy by the shoulder.
After a minute, large, pale blue eyes opened and the boy shook his head
slightly. He's all right, thought Conn. He doesn't even look dizzy. He can walk.
With the point of the sword he jabbed the boy and indicated to him to get up.
The boy stood up and glanced at the small boat as if measuring the distance
between it and him. Conn lifted the sword and held the point against the boy's
throat.
'Walk,' he whispered and it seemed as if the Viking boy must have understood
because he shrugged his shoulders and then began to walk steadily, almost
indifferently, just ahead of Conn.
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Drumshee Rebels (book 8)
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