Dubh-Linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2) by James L. Nelson Page A

four legged attackers and Thorgrim realized that the terrible howling he had heard, which he had taken for the pack leader, was in fact Starri Deathless. The other berserkers were with him. Nordwall had a dog clinging to his arm, whipping back and forth as the Swede worked his ax, and the short man seemed not to even notice.
      Jokul and a man Thorgrim did not know were back to back and surrounded by howling, snapping dogs looking for a way past the men’s lightning-fast blades. One dog lay still, two more were limping off. Thorgrim wondered if Cloyne just might be running out of dogs when he saw Jokul jerk back, twist, swinging his sword wildly, then collapse, the shaft of an arrow jutting from his back. The dogs were on him in an instant, tearing at his flesh. Thorgrim wheeled around. The guards were gathered on the wall above, and several were bringing bows to bear.
      “Come on! To the gate!” The archers were a threat much greater than the dogs. “Starri, get your men back, back to the wall!” He gave the order but he was not at all sure the berserkers were conscious enough of their surroundings to obey. All around them the dogs were growling and barking and hunching down for a leap, but they were holding back, not flinging themselves at the Northmen. Thorgrim realized that the berserkers were more vicious and wild even than the pack of dogs, and the dogs sensed as much.
      This was the moment. “Harald, with me!” Thorgrim shouted and ran on, closing with the big wooden doors that could welcome the world into Cloyne, or hold it at bay. An arrow stabbed into the ground at his feet and he nearly stumbled over it as he ran. Starri and the berserkers formed a sort of rear guard, holding the circling dogs back.
      Thorgrim could make out the heavy cross piece that held the big doors closed and he figured he and Harald would be enough to lift it out. Ten feet to the doors and three men burst out of the shadows at the far side, swords in hand, racing to meet them.
      The first came at Thorgrim, sword held high, and Thorgrim could see the wild swing coming. He held his shield to one side, sword to the other, opened himself up, inviting the clumsy stroke, and as it came he raised the shield and turned the blade aside and thrust for the man’s exposed chest.
      And that would have been the end of it, but the Irishman to his right chopped down at Thorgrim’s blade, an awkward move, but effective, knocking Iron-tooth’s point to the dirt. He tried to follow up with a slash at Thorgrim’s head, a mistake, as Thorgrim caught the man’s blade with his shield, stepped in and drove his heel down on the man’s knee. He felt the give of the bone, heard the crack and the shriek at the same moment.
      He turned his attention back to the first man. Beyond him he caught a glimpse of Harald trading blows with the third man. The Irishman knew his business, and even six months earlier Harald would have been no match for him, but Harald was not the same young man now. His sword and shield worked together as they fended off the Irishman’s sword and short sword, the blades glinting in the torch light.
      No time for this , Thorgrim thought. The man he was facing was the poorest swordsman of the three and Thorgrim did not waste time; a parry of his blade, catch the counter attack with his shield and he ended it there, then stepped over the man and drove his sword through the neck of the one Harald was fighting, ignoring Harald’s disapproving expression.
      “The gate!” Thorgrim shouted. He looked behind. The berserkers were fully engaged with the dogs and with the armed men who were now cautiously advancing on the invading force, finally realizing, perhaps, how few in number they were. Another of Starri’s men lay dead, and another was kicking and thrashing and clawing at an arrow that was run through his gut.
      He set his hands on the bar. “Help me with this!” he shouted and Harald grabbed on and they heaved