Dark Sail on the Horizon

By Gavin Chappell

The seas of Northern Europe, one thousand years ago. As the first Christian millennium draws to a close, the old ways of the heathen Vikings are on the wane. A Christian king sits upon the throne of Norway, bringing a religion of peace and humility with fire and the sword. The reign of the Vikings nears its close, while dark forces stir far to the east, ready to snatch the kingdom of Asgard from the Gods.

Against this backdrop Erik the Cunning, Halldor the Honourable and Gudrun Ravenseye plough the waves. Merchants of Norse descent from Northern England, their peaceful trading voyage to Denmark is transformed into a wild quest for vengeance when they are attacked by the evil pirate-wizard Ulf-Hedin, prompting them to embark upon a feud as bloody as any waged by their savage ancestors. Across the seas they must pursue their foe, a man immune to mortal weapons. From the Hebrides to the isles of Orkney and on into the cold Arctic Sea and the lands of the giants beyond, they sail with vengeance in their hearts, desperate to discover a means to despatch their seemingly invulnerable foe. Yet even when the success of their quest is prophesised by the spirit of a long dead witch, it becomes clear that nothing is simple in a world of warriors and wizardry...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gavin Chappell
• Release date: May 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458125446

Gavin Chappell

Gavin Chappell was born in northern England and lives near Liverpool. After studying English at the University of Wales, he has since worked variously as a business analyst, a college lecturer and an editor. He is the author of numerous short stories, articles, poems and several books.

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Dark Sail on the Horizon

Gavin Chappell

Copyright Gavin Chappell 2011

Published by Schlock! Publishing at Smashwords

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PROLOGUE

By the time I found the wharfside tavern, the storm was at its height. The waters of the Liffey were choppy and disturbed, echoing the dark and swirling skies that poured rain upon the pointed roofs of the Norse colony of Dublin. As I hurried up the wharf, a line of tethered longships on my left rose and fell with the unsteady water. My clothes were sopping wet from the rain, and it was with a sense of relief that I banged open the door and hurried into the bright light and noise of the tavern.

I picked my way through the crowds of foreigners, Norsemen and Danes for the most part, careful to ensure that I did nothing to offend them. Native Irishmen have a low standing in Dublin, and King Sigtrygg would most likely turn a blind eye to any who got themselves knifed in a barroom brawl. Besides, my mission was too important - and I’d been too well paid - for me to jeopardise it. I reached the bar, and ordered a mug of mulled ale.

The barkeep, a squint-eyed old man whose accent hinted at a childhood spent in my own homeland of Connacht, handed me my order and I paid in silver pennies. They had just been introduced that year, which dates me, if you like. I took a swig of ale, and let the warmth course through my chilly body. Then I leaned over to the barkeep again.

‘I hear the Red Daughter drinks here, when she’s not at sea,’ I murmured. At the name, the barkeep went still, and stared warily at me. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I said grinning. ‘It’s just that I’m looking for her. I don’t know her by sight. Is she here?’

The barkeep, a taciturn man for a Connacht-man, was about to answer when a sudden roar of laughter broke out from a booth on the far side of the bar. I glanced over to see a whole crowd of thickset Norsemen sitting around a smaller, slighter figure. Looking more closely, I caught a glimpse of long, lustrous waves of red hair, and a soft, beardless face. I realised that this was a woman. And from the way she held herself amongst these fierce Vikings, I could tell that she was no mere trull. Suddenly, she looked up, and caught my eye. She scowled most beautifully in my direction. Beside her, one of her companions rose heavily to his feet.

A hand landed heavily on my shoulder.

‘That’s her,’ the barkeep told me when I turned round to face him. ‘The one you were staring at. And I’d better warn you, my friend, she courts no man, nor lets no man ogle her. Certainly not tonight.’

‘Why not tonight?’ I noticed that the barroom had suddenly gone silent. I turned around slowly and collided with the most massive man I have ever seen. He had been standing directly behind me, and now he was glaring down. His thick black beard bristled, his tiny, piggy eyes blazed above great rolls of fat, and two arms almost as thick as my thighs were folded across a mighty chest.

‘Ah, greetings,’ I tried.

The Viking glared down at me, and rumbled; ‘Ingunn wants you to sit with us.’

‘Ingunn?’ I asked. ‘Who is that?’

The Viking bristled, but before he could speak, the barkeep leaned over and whispered in my ear; ‘Ingunn the Red, of course. Her who we Irish call the Red Daughter.’

I glanced at him, then turned to the Viking and grinned. ‘Why, in that case, then,’ I said cheerily, though inside I was quaking, ‘I’d be delighted to meet her.’

I followed the Viking across to the booth, where he pulled up a stool for me to sit on, then stood behind me, resting his hands on the haft of a great axe. I sat before the crowd of bearded men and gazed at the slight figure of Ingunn the Red, my coward heart booming in my ears. For a moment there was silence. Then I started to speak, at the same moment as the woman. For this, the big Viking cuffed me around the head.

‘Silence,’ he rumbled.

‘You seem interested by our discussion,’ the Red Daughter said slowly, in a soft voice. She leant forward, placing her hands on the stained table surface with the fastidious delicacy of a cat. I shrugged, and returned her gaze impassively.

‘You must be having the most fun in the place,’ I said weakly.

She tossed her head back, grimacing. ‘Fun?’ she sneered. ‘We’ve been having precious little fun recently. Herbrand the Dane sank my fleet. All I have left is one longship.’

I raised my eyebrows. This wasn’t what I’d been expecting. Still, it might make things simpler, I thought darkly.

‘But you were laughing!’ I said indignantly.

‘Ragnar Lodbrok laughed when he was cast into the snake-pit of King Ella.’ A thin voice came from Ingunn’s left. I saw a shock-headed figure sitting at the warrior woman’s side; a blond Dane, smaller than his fellows and with a constantly calculating look. It seemed he had lost a leg at some time; one of them was wooden. He was staring at me now, evidently sizing me up.

‘Indeed, Thorkell Treebone,’ Ingunn said quietly. ‘And Bjorn here laughs in the face of defeat.’

From behind me, the giant rumbled; ‘I was laughing at the expression on Herbrand’s face when you hacked his hand off.’

Ingunn smiled thinly. She put back her beautiful head and laughed shrilly. ‘We may indeed have lost the fleet. But we got something from our foe.’ There was a hiss of metal, and the Red Daughter unsheathed a gleaming sword, holding it aloft.

The guttering lamplight glinted off the weapon, and writhing, serpentine patterns ran up and down the blade. The cross-piece was moulded to resemble a man with arms and legs spread wide. It wasn’t a Norseman’s sword; it was the kind my own folk used to make, back in the days of old when Good Queen Medhbh had fought the men of Ulster, or maybe even earlier. I’d been hoping to say my piece and get things moving, but this marvellous weapon had left me staggered.

‘Where did you find this?’ I demanded. ‘Did you rob a burial mound?’

‘I?’ Ingunn asked casually. ‘No, though that’s something I’ve done in the past’ - which for reasons that’ll soon become apparent, came to me as something of a relief -’No, I took this from Herbrand, in the midst of the battle where he destroyed my fleet...’

‘The fleet that was once your brother’s?’ I asked.

She stopped short, and gave me a closer look. ‘You seem to know a lot about me,’ she said in a cold, dangerous voice. ‘But you’ve been listening to lies if you think it was Thrond’s. We had part shares, until we went our separate ways.’

I laughed. ‘Many stories are told about you. You’re famous throughout Ireland. People say you are one of the warrior women of old, reborn as a foreigner.’

‘Do you believe that?’ Ingunn asked quietly.

I shrugged again. ‘Superstition,’ I said dismissively. ‘Still, you are a mighty warrior, and well-respected.’

‘More so than Thrond,’ she hissed.

‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘And furthermore, your brother has no weapons like this one, which you took from Herbrand.’

‘I cut his hand away, and pulled the sword from the stiffening fingers,’ she said dreamily, her eyes faraway. She licked her lips; a gesture that in another woman might have seemed erotic but in the Red Daughter was simply terrifying. ‘I would have slain him too, had his men not intervened and carried him out of my reach. By then only the Trollwife, my flagship, remained afloat out of my once-mighty fleet. I was forced to flee. But one day, when I have the gold to buy myself a new fleet, I will return, and cut the rest of him away.’

‘So it’s a money matter that’s troubling you?’ I asked. I had been a clerk once, in holy orders, until a misunderstanding concerning a novice nun had caused me to flee the west coast forever. As a result, I thought I knew a thing or two about finance. ‘Then what you need is someone who understands how to raise money. A trader. A clerk maybe?’

She stared at me from under hooded lids. ‘Do you offer yourself?’ she murmured.

‘Don’t trust him.’ Thorkell Treebone hissed. ‘These Irish clerks are all out for their own profit. You’d lose more than you’d make with this one.’

‘I’m no clerk,’ I blustered. It was true; I hadn’t been one in years I’d found plenty of better ways to swindle the unwary. ‘I merely make a suggestion. Offer advice, you see.’

‘Have you any other advice to suggest?’ Ingunn asked.

I smiled. Finally, we were getting to the point. I reached inside my jerkin for the map.

‘Let me introduce myself,’ I said, as I pulled out the piece of parchment. ‘I am Conchobar of Connacht, son of Muirtearch the Merchant whose curraughs ploughed the waters of the Irish Sea and the Hebrides for many years. His fleet is gone now, I’m afraid, as is the old man himself, God rest his greedy soul, my inheritance with him. Somewhere off Anglesey they say. I was a young lad when he went down, and through many years of poverty my poor mother and I thought all his wealth was lost.

‘But one day, about four years ago, a man came to our little bothie near Roscommon; an old man who I failed to recognise. But my poor dear old mother, who was in the last days of a fatal illness, knew him as my old father’s first mate, Febal. He’d escaped the foundering of my father’s fleet, only to be caught by the Welsh and sold into slavery, where he’d remained until he raised enough wealth to buy himself free. He’d escaped the sinking ship with only one thing of worth, and he hadn’t wanted to sell that, d’you see...’

‘Frankly, no,’ Ingunn broke in, leaning forward. ‘I don’t see. What are you blathering about, Conchobar of Connacht? How will this help me buy myself a new fleet?’

‘Patience,’ I remonstrated gently, ignoring a dangerous look from the woman. ‘What Febal brought back with him, what he’d treasured through years of toil and the lash, was this parchment. My father thrust into his hands as the storm hit the ship, with the instructions that it should be given to me, his heir. Look!’

I unfolded the parchment on the table before them, and the Vikings all leaned forward, staring at the faint lines. Impatiently, Ingunn shouldered them aside, and tore the parchment from my hands. She peered at it in the light of the lamp.

She looked at me. ‘A map,’ she stated. I nodded. ‘What does the map show?’ she asked.

‘If you can read the passage beneath it...’ I suggested. She shook her head resolutely.

‘I can read runes perfectly well,’ she told me. ‘But your Christian scribbles mean nothing to me.’

‘Well...’ said I, and snatched the map back. Thorkell Treebone gave me a baleful glance, but I ignored it. I was in my stride by now.

‘The map shows the Hebrides,’ I stated. They nodded. I went on. ‘It also reveals the location of the island Innis Scathach, the Isle of Shadows, where legend tells us the Fomorian hero Conaing MacBalor was buried with his warriors around him...’

‘The who?’ Thorkell demanded. ‘We know little of your local legends.’

I smiled at him. ‘Fomorians,’ I began, ‘were evil sea-dwelling monsters, vicious creatures that terrorised Erin in the ages that followed the Flood. Deformed creatures that lurked around the margins of civilisation and preyed upon sea-travellers. There are some who say they initially poured out from Lochlann, or Norway as you would call it...’

An angry growl rose at this, but I shrugged carelessly. ‘I only repeat hearsay,’ I told them. ‘But to return to the point. The Fomorians were also the gods of the aboriginal tribes of Erin, the Nemedians, who the Gaels conquered hundreds of years ago. They were defeated, mostly wiped out, by the invading Tuatha De Danaan, whom my pagan forebears worshipped as gods, much as you worship old kings and giants like Thor and Odin...’

‘Thor and Odin are gods, you Christian fool,’ Ingunn hissed. ‘Get to the point. You’re so long-winded account, I wonder if a knife in the bowels might not shorten your account.’

I swallowed nervously. ‘Conaing MacBalor was one of the few Fomorians to escape the great defeat of Magh Tuired, where the Tuatha De Danaan crushed their evil forever. He fled across the sea, where he met with Mannanan MacLir, the sea-god, who was always a fierce foe of the sea-demons. They fought near Innis Scathach, and Mannanan defeated him and his warband, burying them in a barrow on the island, with all the loot they had amassed in a thousand piratical expeditions. For hundreds of years, the location of Innis Scathach was a mystery to the people of Ireland. But it would appear that my father discovered it in his travels, and now...’

‘And now you’ll tell us how to reach it!’ A sneering voice came from behind me. I turned in my chair to see the booth entrance was crowded with Vikings, all of them with drawn swords or axes at the ready. Bjorn had drawn his own weapon and was facing them, but the expression on the face of the speaker - a broad shouldered man with a small fringe of beard, a gold-chased helmet, and a broadsword in his single hand - suggested that he thought the man’s posturing absurd.

‘Herbrand Einhandi,’ Ingunn the Red murmured. Then this was the Viking chieftain from whom she had cut her wonderful sword! ‘So you want more than just your sword back.’

‘True,’ said Herbrand. ‘I want revenge, as well. But I do expect a return of the sword you stole. I’m afraid I need it, Ingunn.’

Pushing back her stool, Ingunn stood up and drew out her blade. She looked quietly at it, then her demure gaze flickered up to her opponent.

‘You want it back?’ she said lightly. Then her face twisted like a harpy’s. ‘You’ll get it back - three feet of Irish iron in your heart!’ And she threw herself over the table towards the one-handed man.

I ducked as she passed through the air inches from my head, and pitched from my stool onto the hard tavern floor. There I remained throughout the battle as Ingunn’s Vikings surged forward to aid their leader and Herbrand’s warriors returned the onslaught. At one point, I tried to grab the map, but Bjorn’s heavy boot crashed down on my hand as I tried to get out from under the table, and then his foe, a spiky-headed Dane from Herbrand’s crew, collapsed on the table with blood leaking from a mortal wound just below the belly. I gave up, and waited for the roar of battle to subside.

Across the bar from where I was crouching, I could see Ingunn the Red and Herbrand Einhandi struggling at the centre of the fight. The barkeep had come out from behind his barrels and seemed to be pleading with his remaining patrons (the battling Vikings had scared off the rest of the clientele) to cease their struggle before the Watch was roused. But after coming too close to Ingunn and Herbrand’s fight, he sank back into the barrels with a slit windpipe. Very nasty, I thought to myself, reassured that my own chosen vantage point was far superior.

Ingunn was whipping into Herbrand like a hurricane, but the one-handed warrior put up a masterly defence, despite his disability. These Norsemen and Danes are supremely tough, and can put up with almost any kind of punishment. The pair hacked at each other with their vicious blades, cutting and parrying, their booted feet stamping on the blood-soaked sawdust beneath their feet as they flung curses into each others’ teeth. But they must have been evenly matched. I saw no signs of either triumphing.

It was the same with the two forces. Though men had fallen on both sides, and dark shapes writhed beneath the tables, their steaming guts puddled around them, while others lay silent in pools of blood and brains, neither side seemed able to take control of the place of slaughter. It was nothing like the battles the bards sing of, where heroic champions hack down thousands of the foe with little disadvantage to themselves it was, rather, a bloody mess. But eventually, it seemed that Ingunn’s forces were winning.

Herbrand had evidently realised the same. He glanced desperately around him, as one by one his men began to retreat across the barroom towards the door, and his face was a picture of frustrated savagery.

‘No!’ he shouted, hitting out at one of his men. ‘Get back and fight!’

‘We need reinforcements!’ shouted another. ‘Call the men from the other ships!’

Hearing this, Ingunn paused in her advance. Though winning, they were exhausted, and many bled from minor wounds on their ill-protected bodies. Ingunn turned cautiously to Thorkell.

‘What do you suggest, Thorkell?’ I heard her murmur. ‘We can finish this lot off and get away with our honour. But if more warriors come, we’ll be defeated.’

‘Not sure I want to go to Valhalla yet, Ingunn,’ Thorkell replied quietly. ‘It might be better to live to fight another day. Get this treasure the Irishman babbled of - if it exists - then come back and settle our scores with this fool.’

‘But it seems that Herbrand is after the same thing as us,’ Ingunn said with a frown. ‘Still, no matter. Grab the map and we’ll escape out the back.’

No sooner had these words left her lips before the sound of running feet heralded the entrance of about a score more Vikings from the front. Ingunn called a retreat.

‘Come on, lads!’ she shouted. ‘We can get back to the Trollwife through the kitchens.’

I saw Thorkell stepping towards me with his eyes on the map, and I leapt up, grabbed it, and thrust it back in my jerkin. He eyed me darkly.

‘This is my map,’ I told him, trying to sound forceful. ‘If you want it, you’ll have to take me with you.’ Inside I was amazed. I’d been hoping to get the Red Daughter interested, but how had Herbrand learnt about Conaing’s burial mound? Perhaps there was rather more truth in the tale than I’d been willing to believe. Or perhaps my associates had been spreading rumours to ease my passage... But Thorkell seemed ready to accept my deal.

‘Come on, then, Irishman,’ he hissed. ‘We’re getting out.’ Already, most of the Red Daughter’s crewmen were speeding towards the bar and the doors to the kitchen. If we didn’t move quickly, the advancing Vikings would cut off our escape route. And I had no reason to want Herbrand to read the map. It would lead to all kinds of unnecessary complications, and I didn’t think I’d come out of them looking too good.

I hurried after the saturnine Viking.

Dawn found us half way across the Irish Sea. I stood with Ingunn in the stern, like her keeping a wary eye out for pursuit. She was silent, and had been for most of the voyage out, except when she told her men to ship oars