Page 6 of Summer Warrior

“And how might we do that?” asked Domnall. Somerled knew his cousin did not ask because he doubted it could be done; he only wanted to know how Somerled would do it. His men had learned from the battles won thus far to trust him. His methods might be unusual but, against so many Norse, he had to be clever. Always outnumbered, they had gained the three longships they had now by stealth, not greater numbers. In such a manner, he had stalked the wild boar and the deer in the woods of Morvern. Now he stalked the Norse pirates.

Over his shoulder, he sighted a herd of black long-haired cattle grazing nearby, as yet undisturbed by the Norsemen on the beach below. An idea came to him.

“Take the men and kill enough cows for hides to cover all the warriors except the archers. Be careful not to make noise to cause the raiders to look up. Bring the hides to me and I will tell you what shall be done.”

Somerled was a man content with silence, broken only by the sounds of God’s woodland creatures and the conversation of a good friend. But he had been their choice of leader and that required voice.

His men returned with the hides, and he told them, “First, you will move around the hill, allowing yourselves to be seen wearing whatever you have on. Then, wearing the skins, the long hair side out, you will march around the hill again. When that is done, turn the hides inside out and march across the hill one last time.”

His captains hesitated only a moment before nodding and moving to carry out his order.

From the top of the rise, he watched the Norse. Of the raiders who had already landed, one shouted, pointing up the hill, drawing attention to Somerled’s men repeatedly circling. Since the two ships still in the water had not come ashore and of the three that had, only two had fully disgorged their raiders onto the beach, he knew the Norse were rethinking their intended course of action. To them, Somerled’s men would appear as three well-armed divisions of warriors.

When his men had completed the last round, Somerled rose and with the sound of shuddering steel, slid his sword from its scabbard and held it high. Gripping his shield tightly in his other hand, he shouted in Gaelic. “Be of good courage, men. Remember your loved ones the Norse have taken from you and those they have slain this day. This is our land we fight for! Our lives we defend!” Then, roaring out his war cry, he leaped from the top of the hill and rushed like a fast-moving gale down to the beach.

A screaming tempest of deadly blades and spears followed in his wake, his men shouting the revenge they would claim that day, the justice they would dispense. In his mind, Somerled saw the faces of the fathers, mothers and children lying dead at Drimnin and the boys whose parents were lost to them forever.

From the rise above, his fifteen archers loosed their arrows, following his orders to pick off the leaders and strongest of the pirates.

With shock still on their faces, the Norse raiders fell dead on the beach.

Somerled slashed his way through shield and skin, ripping wildly into the raiding party, delivering death to the first to face him.

He fought for his slain father and the fallen MacInnes chief; he fought to restore his family’s ancestral lands; he fought for the people of Argyll, long subdued under the Norsemen’s blades; he fought for the village of Drimnin. And, in the remotest part of his mind, he fought for a red-haired vixen he would never know unless he proved himself worthy against the Norse menace.

Using the edge of his shield, Somerled dashed out a Norseman’s teeth and with the might of a madman, he laid low the warrior whose glazed eyes spoke of his death. Then, in front of the enemy fleet and his own men, he tossed aside his sword and shield and yanked his dagger from his waist. With a great show, he carved the dead Norseman’s heart from his chest and flung it toward the enemy ships, shouting in Norse, “And so will be all of you if you darken these shores again!”

At his order, his men did the same to the pirates they had killed, flinging their foes’ hearts at the floating longships. So wildly did Somerled’s grim gift enthrall his warriors, they tore into the raiders with strength beyond their own, bathed in their enemy’s blood.

Seeing the hearts of their companions torn from their chests, the Norse raiders who were left standing fled the beach for their ships. Many drowned in their mail coats. Three of the five dragonships made it away from that crimson shore. The rest had not enough crew for the oars and fell under the fury of Somerled and his men.

The Norse warlord who led the pirates stood on the main longship, his hands fisted on his hips. His long sun bleached hair hung in greasy strands, a woven band holding them from his eyes. His face reflected his great anger. On his chest shimmered a large piece of gold jewelry, catching the sun. No matter his harsh demeanor, as the Norseman watched the ruin of his landing party, he must have decided discretion was the wiser choice. He shouted an order in Norse to his warriors to row for the open sea.

Somerled heaved a sigh of relief as the Norse in the remaining longships pulled at the oars with all their might. As they set out to sea, the war song of Somerled and his warriors called to them from the blood-soaked beach.

Angus, wiping the blood from his face, came up to Somerled. “What made you think to rip out their hearts?”

Somerled liked not the grisly gesture but it had been necessary. “They are no Christians. As pagans, they had to believe we were more vicious than they, else they would not have fled as they were more than twice our number.”

“The show worked,” said Angus, shifting his gaze to the blood running from Somerled’s upper arm. “You are wounded, Brother.”

Only then did Somerled feel the pain of his wound. “’Tis nothing. Scratches from the pirates; they did not stop me.”

Somerled gave his brother a wide smile as he wiped the blood from his face. He had successfully fought back the Norse raiders who had, with greater numbers, defeated his father and killed the MacInnes chief. He and his men had dispensed justice for Drimnin and added two longships to their growing fleet.

He felt as if destiny had taken him by the hand and was leading him forward.

“Lord,” one man said approaching Somerled, “should we roast the dead cattle for the evening meal?”

Surprised at the manner of address, he nodded, “Aye, the men will be hungry. Put the beasts to good purpose, and the men not needed for that task shall return with me to Drimnin to bury the dead.” The man and his companions raced up the hill, eager for the meat they would dine on this night. They had not eaten so well in some time.

Somerled and Angus walked among their warriors still on the beach. Only a few of his men had been badly wounded and they were being tended by ones who had a talent for healing. Another half dozen sported wounds that were slight in nature.

“We found the girls,” said Domnall coming toward him with two young women in tow, their faces still showing fright but also relief at being rescued. “They were tied in the bow of one of the ships left behind.”

Down the hill ran the two boys from Drimnin, shouting their joy. “Deidre!”

The girl, who had the same dark coloring as her brothers, opened her arms and swept the two lads into her embrace. “Thank God you live, little brothers,” said Deidre, hugging them tightly. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I thought never to see you again.”