Fin Gall by James L. Nelson Read Free Book Online Page B

suggesting.
                  The men, well practiced at the sweeps, pulled with powerful, even strokes. Young Harald pulled an oar with the rest, and Thorgrim watched him when he saw Harald was looking away. Not so long ago, his boy could barely manage that work, though Harald would never admit it. Instead, he would set his teeth and pull and pretend that he was not struggling at the limits of his strength.
                  But now he pulled with the same ease as the older men - lean forward and sweep the oar blade toward the bow, lean back and pull - over and over, a steady mechanical rhythm that they could keep up for the better part of a day if they needed to.
                  Thorgrim looked away before Harald saw him watching. Ornolf was shouting. “Ah, you Dubh-linn sons of whores! Lock up your wives, and your daughters, too, if you wouldn’t have Ornolf the Restless bugger them all!”
                  Thorgrim spit in the river. He wished Ornolf would shut up. He felt the black mood coming on.
                  Nightfall. It often happened around that time of day, became worse as the earth grew dark.
                  During the day, Thorgrim Ulfsson was pleasant enough. He was, in fact, known for an unusually even temper. The men were happy to come to him for orders, or with problems, rather than deal with the raging Ornolf. But when the sun set, Thorgrim became irritable and prone to fighting. It was the spirit of the wolf, or so he had come to call it, and it made him snappish and mean. It was not something he liked. He’d tried to resist it. But it was the way he was.
                  Now the sun was dipping behind the low hills and the longphort was in view up-river, a wooden fortress of sorts and a smattering of ill-conceived houses along a muddy road. Two buildings loomed above the others, and Thorgrim guessed them to be a temple and a mead hall. He knew in which of those the men would be worshiping as soon as the dock lines were secure.
                  “Ease your stroke!” Thorgrim barked and the men fell into a slower rhythm as the longship made the careful approach to the docks. Thorgrim ran his eyes over the various ships tied up there - ocean-going knarrs and longships, smaller warships and curraghs. Quite a lot of ships. Apparently Dubh-linn was every bit the trading center Ornolf claimed it was.
                  Around the far end of the up-river dock Thorgrim could see an unoccupied spot. He leaned into the tiller, swung the bow around, angling Red Dragon toward the space. “Pull and ship your oars!” he shouted. The men gave one long pull and then ran the sweeps in through the oar holes and laid them out on deck in a neatly choreographed move, while Ornolf bellowed, “Hah! You row like a bunch of old women! It’s a good thing Ornolf’s here to roger all the girls in Dubh-linn, cause you’d never be able to do it, you bunch of limp peckers!”
                  Thorgrim scowled and kept his eyes on the dock as Red Dragon swept around the corner. Harald was foremost, as ever, standing up in the bow by his raving grandfather, a thick dock line in his hand.
                  The bow turned in toward the dock and Harald leapt, a long jump over the water, though if he had waited a moment more the ship would have been along side and he could have stepped across. The boy hit the dock, stumbled, ran forward and looped the rope around a cleat, checking the ship’s way as it came along side.
                  “There’s my grandson, the only one besides me on this ship with balls or brains, eh?” Ornolf shouted.
                  One by one the rest of the men tumbled over the side, some attending to the dock lines, some staring around. There were a few men among them who had been to Dubh-linn before, but most had not, and their curiosity was