The Lord of Vik-Lo: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 3) by James L. Nelson
Authors: James L. Nelson
Tags: Historical fiction, Historical, Literature & Fiction, Sea stories, Genre Fiction, Norse & Icelandic
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correct. “Very well. If you think that is Vík-ló, then we shall set a course for there. If you’re right, the gods have at last done us a favor by not setting us down wind of that point of land. We would sink before we could work our way back to windward.”
As it was they were still in danger - serious danger - of sinking before they could get their ship to the Danish longphort. By keeping Far Voyager on a larboard tack they had been able to keep her damaged strakes mostly out of the water, but now they had to turn and run down wind and the pressure would again be on the weak part of the hull. But there was nothing for it. It was a race between the inflow of the water and the time it would take to run the ship up on the beach and there was no way to know which would happen first except by trying.
On Thorgrim’s orders the sail was cast off, the yard hoisted and swung into place. Agnarr turned the ship on the crest of a wave, a nicely timed evolution that saw Far Voyager all but spin in place. Her flogging sail rippled and filled as the next wave lifted her, and then she was running before the wind and sea, her sail a lovely symmetric curve, her wake riding up and down on the seas astern.
They closed quickly with the coast and with every foot of progress Agnarr became more convinced that they were indeed on a course for Vík-ló. Thorgrim, watching his men flinging buckets and helmets-full of water over the side, no longer cared if they were or not. It did not matter. They would have to beach Far Voyager at whatever place they fetched up, and if there was no place to beach her they would have to run her onto the rocks and take their chances in the surf. Once they made it to shore the ship would not swim long enough to take them out to sea again.
“Father, look!” Harald shouted, pointing just off the starboard bow, and before Thorgrim could say “What?” Harald was up on the stern rail and halfway up the curved sternpost, his fingers finding a grip in the serpent’s scales carved in the hard oak.
“There, father, smoke!” Harald was still pointing. Thorgrim looked in the direction he indicated and after a moment of squinting and turning his head he saw it as well, a column of black smoke rising from somewhere ahead. It was difficult to see against the dark band of the shore, and the wind pulled it apart as it rose up in the sky, but it was without a doubt smoke.
“What do you make of it?” Agnarr asked. He, too, was squinting toward the land.
“Not a hearth fire, or some such. Too much smoke by half.”
Starri Deathless, who had been sitting hunched against the side of the ship obsessively sharpening his knife, stood and sheathed the weapon. “I’ll go up and look,” he said. He trotted forward, grabbed one of the shrouds supporting the mast and climbed, squirrel-like, up aloft, an action that seemed to require no more effort from him than did the walk forward.
A moment later he was perched on the yard and looking west. “I can see flames!” he reported. “Whether they are on the land or something burning at sea I cannot say!”
“Well, it would seem we’ve found some sort of town,” Agnarr said, cheerfully. “Now we have only to see if they will welcome us or cut our throats.”
Thorgrim, a practical and cautious man, when caution was called for, prepared for both possibilities. He ordered the serpent’s head removed from the bow to indicate that they approached with peaceful intent, and to avoid frightening the spirits of the land. He instructed each of his men to keep their tongues still, to let him alone speak. He prayed that Ornolf the Restless might remain asleep, but he ordered mead to be held in readiness to pacify him if he did not. He told the men to keep their weapons out of sight but to be prepared to snatch them up in an instant if need be.
With his sheep’s clothing thus arranged, Thorgrim Night Wolf steered his ship toward the land. No
As it was they were still in danger - serious danger - of sinking before they could get their ship to the Danish longphort. By keeping Far Voyager on a larboard tack they had been able to keep her damaged strakes mostly out of the water, but now they had to turn and run down wind and the pressure would again be on the weak part of the hull. But there was nothing for it. It was a race between the inflow of the water and the time it would take to run the ship up on the beach and there was no way to know which would happen first except by trying.
On Thorgrim’s orders the sail was cast off, the yard hoisted and swung into place. Agnarr turned the ship on the crest of a wave, a nicely timed evolution that saw Far Voyager all but spin in place. Her flogging sail rippled and filled as the next wave lifted her, and then she was running before the wind and sea, her sail a lovely symmetric curve, her wake riding up and down on the seas astern.
They closed quickly with the coast and with every foot of progress Agnarr became more convinced that they were indeed on a course for Vík-ló. Thorgrim, watching his men flinging buckets and helmets-full of water over the side, no longer cared if they were or not. It did not matter. They would have to beach Far Voyager at whatever place they fetched up, and if there was no place to beach her they would have to run her onto the rocks and take their chances in the surf. Once they made it to shore the ship would not swim long enough to take them out to sea again.
“Father, look!” Harald shouted, pointing just off the starboard bow, and before Thorgrim could say “What?” Harald was up on the stern rail and halfway up the curved sternpost, his fingers finding a grip in the serpent’s scales carved in the hard oak.
“There, father, smoke!” Harald was still pointing. Thorgrim looked in the direction he indicated and after a moment of squinting and turning his head he saw it as well, a column of black smoke rising from somewhere ahead. It was difficult to see against the dark band of the shore, and the wind pulled it apart as it rose up in the sky, but it was without a doubt smoke.
“What do you make of it?” Agnarr asked. He, too, was squinting toward the land.
“Not a hearth fire, or some such. Too much smoke by half.”
Starri Deathless, who had been sitting hunched against the side of the ship obsessively sharpening his knife, stood and sheathed the weapon. “I’ll go up and look,” he said. He trotted forward, grabbed one of the shrouds supporting the mast and climbed, squirrel-like, up aloft, an action that seemed to require no more effort from him than did the walk forward.
A moment later he was perched on the yard and looking west. “I can see flames!” he reported. “Whether they are on the land or something burning at sea I cannot say!”
“Well, it would seem we’ve found some sort of town,” Agnarr said, cheerfully. “Now we have only to see if they will welcome us or cut our throats.”
Thorgrim, a practical and cautious man, when caution was called for, prepared for both possibilities. He ordered the serpent’s head removed from the bow to indicate that they approached with peaceful intent, and to avoid frightening the spirits of the land. He instructed each of his men to keep their tongues still, to let him alone speak. He prayed that Ornolf the Restless might remain asleep, but he ordered mead to be held in readiness to pacify him if he did not. He told the men to keep their weapons out of sight but to be prepared to snatch them up in an instant if need be.
With his sheep’s clothing thus arranged, Thorgrim Night Wolf steered his ship toward the land. No
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