The Lord of Vik-Lo: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 3) by James L. Nelson Page A

one ashore would doubt that the Far Voyagers had been forced to beach the vessel, there was clearly no subterfuge there. With the strain put on the ship’s fabric by the mast and sail, the cracked strakes had opened further. The water began to pour in at twice the rate it had been, and once again the bailing took on a frantic aspect.
      Whatever had been burning had stopped burning by the time Far Voyager closed with the coast, and Agnarr was all but certain that they had found Vík-ló. “There, do you see where the water tumbles white?” he said, pointing forward beyond the larboard bow. “That’s the mouth of the river. The Leitrim, they call it.”
      Thorgrim nodded. He could see columns of smoke now, thinner trails rising up from beyond the low, gray-green shoreline, hearth fires from the buildings at Vík-ló. They continued on for another half hour and then Thorgrim ordered the sail stowed and the sweeps brought out. Absent the pressure of the mast and sail the leaking decreased, which was a relief to the weary men. But now they had to row, which was less of a relief, particularly with the seas still lumpy and coming from astern.
      They were just crossing the bar and closing with Vík-ló when Ornolf finally stirred. He moaned and shifted and turned under his heap of furs and Thorgrim thought, Not now, Ornolf, by all the gods! But Ornolf sat up and looked around, eyes half open, his beard and long gray and red hair in a tangle. Harald, who sat nearby, saw his grandfather rise from the deck and handed him a cup of mead. Without a word Ornolf took it and drank it down.
      Thorgrim hoped he would lay down again, but the old man showed a bit of his former self and struggled to his feet. “That Harald’s a good boy,” he said, “I have brought him along right.”
      “Yes, you have,” Thorgrim agreed.
      Ornolf squinted at the shoreline, which he had not been able to see from the deck. “Where are we?” he asked.
      “Vík-ló, or so Agnarr believes,” Thorgrim said.
      “Vík-ló? Damned Danes in Vík-ló, they’ll cut our throats,” Ornolf said.
      “Better to die with weapons in our hands than drowning, which we would surely do otherwise,” Thorgrim said and Ornolf grunted in agreement.
      Fore and aft, on either side, the wet and exhausted men sat on their sea chests and took long, rhythmic pulls at the oars, and with each stroke Far Voyager ’s beautifully tapered hull shot forward. The northern bank of the river seemed to drop away as they rounded the point, and there beyond it, huddled against the south shore, sat the longphort of Vík-ló.
      “Ha! It’s no Dubh-linn!” Ornolf pronounced, and he was right. The Danish town was a third the size of Dubh-linn, built on low ground and boasting perhaps thirty low, thatched buildings. In sunshine, on a summer day, it might well have looked inviting, but under the dull sky and the muted light, after days of heavy rain, it looked brown and drab and weary. But that did not concern Thorgrim Night Wolf, because splayed out at the foot of the longphort, deposited there by years of runoff carried down from the far hills by the River Leitrim, was a wide bank of mud, half awash, that would cradle Far Voyager like a babe in its mother’s arms. Four other ships were already resting there.
      “You men at the oars, double time now, double time!” Thorgrim shouted. “And stroke! And stroke!” The men leaned hard into the oars and Far Voyager knifed ahead, her speed building with each pull. The men knew what Thorgrim was about. They knew he wanted to run the ship as high up on the mud as he could and they knew this last effort would be the end of their misery for a while so they pulled with the will of finality.
      Far Voyager shot across the mouth of the Leitrim and closed quick with the south shore. Thorgrim looked over the side. He could see glimpses of the bottom as the river shoaled toward the bank. He could see mud below them and he