Glendalough Fair by James L. Nelson

the pine bough and the lap of the water in the river, rolling against the banks as if eager to take possession of the ships.
    When he was done he shouted an order and a hundred eager hands grabbed on to the sheer strakes of the two ships and heaved them toward the water. He and Harald and Starri remained aboard Sea Hammer , keeping their balance with some difficulty as she made her rough, jarring way to the river, and Bersi and some of his men likewise remained aboard Blood Hawk .
    The two vessels slid into the near-still water at almost the same moment, their bows dipping down as they dropped off the last roller, then surging up again like restless stallions. They settled and floated free on even keels and the men of Vík-ló cheered. They cheered and cheered, the shouts coming like waves from their throats. They cheered for what they had accomplished, they cheered for the end of winter’s misery, they cheered for the fine vessels floating tethered to the bank, the water-steeds that would take them to sea, take them a-viking, take them to where they wished to be, which was not the squalid longphort of Vík-ló.
    The ships had been launched just as the sun hit its zenith and the tide its fullest state. It was some hours after that, with the sun moving toward the west, that Thorgrim and the lead men of the longphort sat at the table in the great hall, the remains of a meal spread before them. The evening light spilled in through the western windows, lighting the room in a way no fire could.
    It had been a long and tiring day, and the fine weather and the successful launch of the two ships and the considerable amount of mead and wine that had been consumed dulled the edge of fury the men felt at Kjartan’s betrayal. And, in truth, his leaving was not really a betrayal at all.
    He had sworn no oath to Thorgrim, and what cost had been accrued in building Dragon he had paid for from his own share of the plunder. His leaving in the night had only felt like a betrayal, and that was enough to make the men furious, for a time. But by the time they gathered at the end of the day to discuss what they would do next, Kjartan and his band had all but dropped from their minds.
    Skidi spoke first. He was a blunt man and seemed to have no guile in him, which Thorgrim reckoned a good quality. On the other hand he made little effort to check his speech, saying what was on his mind, never caring what effect his words might have, which was not always so helpful.
    “This Irishman, this Kevin, he had a lot to say, as these Irishmen will,” Skidi said. “But I am not sure I believe a word of it.” Heads nodded at this, all save for Thorgrim’s.
    “He did have a lot to say,” Thorgrim agreed. Kevin had told them of the monastery at Glendalough, one of the finest, and one of the richest in Ireland. It had been plundered before, but not for some time, which meant the wealth would likely have been built up again. The Christ worshipers, Thorgrim had observed, did not care to be without their gold and silver.
    This information - the monastery at Glendalough, the potential riches – was something that the Northmen already knew. But Kevin told them more than that, information that was news to them.
    He told them that there was a river, or more correctly a series of rivers that would lead them from the sea nearly to Glendalough’s walls. Most of the journey could be made in their longships. It might be hard work getting the vessels upstream, but the return, when they were loaded down with plunder, would be simple enough with the lift of the current.
    Bersi had raised a concern then. “I’ve heard of these rivers,” he had said. “I’ve heard from men who have seen them, and they say a longship cannot float on them. I hear they’re deep enough for maybe half the distance to Glendalough, and then they’re shallow and rocky.”
    Kevin had nodded as he listened to Harald’s translation. “That’s right, they’re too shallow,” Kevin said.