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

Thorgrim straightened and looked around.
      “I’ll go, father!” Harald shouted just at the same instant that Thorgrim called, “Starri!” It was Thorgrim’s plan to position the folded lee cloth over the fractured planks, on the outside of the ship, to hold off the pressure of the seas and to slow the intake of water. That would require that a man be lowered on a rope over the side to see the cloth placed just right.
                  Harald wanted to go, of course, because Harald, with all the enthusiasm of youth, wanted to do anything that smacked of daring and heroics. The others might not want to go, but every man aboard would if so ordered, of that Thorgrim was certain. If any were not that sort of man, Thorgrim would not have had him in his company. But of all the men aboard Starri most perfectly combined strength, agility, and heedless courage.
      “What is it, Thorgrim?” Starri shouted. Unlike Harald, he had not divined what Thorgrim was about.
      “Will you go over the side on a rope and position this cloth over the shattered planks?” Thorgrim asked, shouting over the wind, his throat raw from the yelling and the considerable salt water he had ingested.
      “Over the side…?” Starri called back.
      “On a rope. To position the cloth, then we’ll haul you back aboard!” He waited for a reply but none came. He thought perhaps Starri had not heard him. He swallowed and prepared to shout the question again when a flash of lightning lit the deck and illuminated Starri in its harsh yellow light. It was less than a second, but time enough to see in Starri’s face something he had never thought to see there, something he had never seen before.
      Fear.
     

Chapter Five
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Gladsheim is the fifth, where the gold bright
    Valholl lies widely situated;
    And there Hropt chooses each day
    Weapon-dead men.
                                                                           Grímnismál
     
     
     
     
     
    For the briefest instant Thorgrim forgot about the wind, the breaking seas, the great rent in the side of his ship, so surprised was he by Starri’s reaction. He was not sure what to make of it. He wondered if the others had seen it. Even if they had not, Starri’s hesitance was clear.
      “Father! Let me go!” Harald shouted again, reaching out for the cloth, but at the same time Starri stepped forward.
      “Night Wolf…” he said, trying to speak low and still be heard over the storm, no easy feat. “What…what would the gods think, do you suppose, if I were to die in the sea? With no sword in hand?”
      Then Thorgrim understood. Starri had no fear of death. What he feared was the wrong sort of death.
      Starri Deathless was not a brave man, not in the conventional sense. Harald was. Harald was willing to risk his life in any way that might bring glory or gain to him and his comrades, of to defend the men with whom he sailed. His enthusiasm was augmented by skill, strength, and a youthful exuberance that was unencumbered by experience or deep thought. He was bold, and he was willing to die, but not necessarily eager to do so.
      Starri was not like that. Starri was not so much brave as insane. He threw himself into battle with a berserker rage unlike any Thorgrim had ever seen. Far from fearing death he courted it. But alas for him, his madness and preternatural fighting ability led to his slaying all comers, and the end of each battle always found him still among the living. And when that happened he wept bitterly that he had not been lifted by the Valkyries up to Valhalla, there to fight and feast until Ragnarok and the end of the known world.
      There was nothing on the earth that frightened Starri, save for a dishonorable death that would not please the gods.
      Thorgrim was still trying to think of an answer to Starri’s question when Harald grabbed hold of the lee cloth and