Fin Gall Read Online Free

make.
                  And suddenly the Irishman’s strength was like that of a child to Thorgrim, and Thorgrim twisted his hand back and plunged the knife into the Irishman’s chest, plunged the wicked needle-point right through the mail. Inches away, the Irishman’s eyes went wide and he coughed, then coughed again and this time blood came from his mouth and he went limp. Thorgrim let him fall to the deck.
                  For a moment Thorgrim just stood, until his breathing settled and the madness subsided, like water rushing back after a wave. The world returned to the place it was meant to be, and Thorgrim became aware of the quiet.
                  He turned. The fight was over. Twenty Celts lay dead. Not a man had surrendered, they had all fought to the end against odds of five to one. Thorgrim had never seen the like, not even when Vikings fought Vikings.
                  Then he remembered the bundle. He dropped to his knees, shot a furtive look over his shoulder, because he had a feeling that whatever it was, it was not something for all the men to see.
                  He set his shield down and lifted the thing. It was heavier than he would have imagined, and bound tight with leather cord. Thorgrim pulled the dagger from the dead nobleman’s chest and cut the cord, unwrapped the bundle slowly.
                  He knew it was made of gold before he knew what it was. He caught a glimpse of the yellow metal, luminous even in the muted light of the storm. He unwrapped layers of canvas.
                  It was a crown. Thorgrim had seen crowns before - there were enough minor kings in Norway - but he had never seen the like of this. A band of solid gold a quarter inch thick and two inches high, with a series of filigrees like little battlements running around the top. On each of the filigrees and around the band there were mounted jewels and bits of polished amber, but lovely, with as little ostentation as was possible in a thing such as a crown. The whole surface was etched with a delicate woven pattern, not unlike the intertwined beasts favored by Norse artisans.
                  Thorgrim stared at the crown and turned it over in his hand. Its beauty worked on him like magic, enthralled him. He had no sense for how long he squatted there, turning the thing around in his fingers. Then he heard Kotkel shout and he started with a guilty flush. He shoved the crown back in the canvas, grabbed up his shield and held the crown hidden behind it. He stood and turned back to his fellow Norsemen.
                  Harald was unhurt, save for a scrape on the cheek that left his pale skin smeared with blood. He was smiling, laughing louder than he generally did. Thorgrim recognized the flash of exuberance that comes on the heels of a fight. He himself was too old and too battle-worn to feel that flash any more, but he had experienced it many times in the younger days. Everything was sharper with youth - fighting, feasting, lying with a woman. Things wore dull with age.
                  Harald was helping Sigurd Sow pull the mail shirt off one of the dead Irishmen.
                  “Thorgrim!” Ornolf came rolling down the deck of the curragh. “Great lot of work for nothing!”
                  “Oh?” Thorgrim adjusted his grip on the crown. He could taste guilt in his mouth.
                  “These bastards...” Ornolf kicked one of the lifeless bodies to further punish the dead man for his disappointment. “They have some silver on them, and some damned fine mail. A few swords worth the having. You wouldn’t expect a bunch of fishermen to have such fine weapons. But beyond that, nothing.”
                  “I don’t think they were fishermen.”
                  “No? What then, coastal traders?”
                  “I don’t