Viking's Dawn

by Henry Treece

  ‘What must we do, Wolf?’ he said, seeing the widening space of sea between the ships.

  Wolf Waterhater shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘I say, leave the Pictish ship, Thorkell, and let them sink their treasure where they will. That is what I say.’

  Thorkell turned to the old man and said, ‘Go your ways, father. My men and I will go back to our ship. May your old god help you in your need.’

  The man in the black robes and the catskin cap smiled slowly and said, ‘It is a pity that you do not give us back the man who cut the ropes. He is a Pict. I can see it in his face.’

  Ragnar said bitterly, ‘You can have him. He is a nuisance to our venture.’

  Thorkell looked stern. He loved Wolf. Then from the Nameless Wolf’s voice came back, ‘No, black master, if you want me you must swim for me – as must all the others!’

  With that he hoisted the sail again, and since he had a following wind, swept past the captured boat for a distance of three lengths. Then he threw down the staying-stone and waited.

  The Vikings laughed again and leapt overboard, to swim to the Nameless. Harald found himself in the salt water alongside Horic, who swam like a fish and ducked him many times before they boarded their own ship again.

  When they were all aboard, Thorkell said, ‘We have lost five men. Where are they?’

  Aun and Gnorre got up from their seats and said, ‘We did not wish to waste any time, Thorkell. We put them over, on the far side, while you were gossiping.’

  Then they all laughed, all except Wolf, who seemed more interested in the strange signs that the old man in the black robes was making than in anything else.

  ‘Come away, Wolf,’ said Björn. ‘He is not your master.’

  Wolf shook his head sadly. ‘One never knows, friend,’ he said. ‘Their arm is still a long one.’

  Then Thorkell ordered the sail to be hoisted, and Harald noticed that the thin haze had become a clearly defined coastline.

  9

  The Visitor

  Darkness had settled on the rocky inlet where the Nameless lay. The Vikings had lit a fire on the shore and clustered round it, wrapped in their sheepskins, eating pieces of salt pork, which they grilled on the ends of sticks.

  Now, when the fight was long over, Harald found himself shivering from crown to toe with the delayed shock of the battle. He began to remember things he had seen at the time but had half-forgotten since, in the excitement of pulling in to shore. He remembered some of the horrors of the fight and Harald shuddered and turned away from the fire.

  Behind him lay a dozen of the Vikings, on heaps of sacking, all of them wounded, in leg or shoulder or chest. Kragge sat with Ivar, whose right arm hung limply from a great sword gash. Ivar was gripping his underlip with his teeth, trying not to show that he was in pain. Kragge was telling him some long story, meant to take his mind off his wound. But Ivar was not listening, Harald could see that.

  Hasting had taken an axe blow across the thigh, and lay asleep near Björn, who washed the wide wound in fresh spring water to keep the inflammation away. As Harald came up, Björn smiled a little sadly and whispered, ‘Hasting will not fight again, lad. The best he can hope for is a thatched hut and a herd of cows. He will go on a crutch for the rest of his days.’

  Harald said, ‘He would rather die, I think, Björn.’

  Björn said, ‘He may yet do that, Harald, for these are cold nights to be sleeping out in.’

  Harald tried to make signs then that Hasting was awake, so that Björn should not say anything more. But Hasting had heard what was said. He made no reply, but only turned himself over and hid his face in the sacking.

  Aun, Gnorre and Horic sat together, unscathed. They ate warm oatcakes and drank corn-wine, which they had heated in their cups at the fire. They offered some to Harald, but he refused it, not liking its sour taste. He sat down beside them and said, ‘We did not come out of that very well, did we?’

  Aun said, ‘It was a foolish venture, for we gained nothing and though we slew the greater part of their crew, we have lost some good men. Five I threw overboard myself, with Gnorre’s aid, and here are two more who may not last the night out.’ He nodded back to where Hasting and Ivar lay.

  Gnorre said, ‘Yet a start had to be made. A crew is not a crew until it has fought together, whatever the gain. That is the price one pays.’

  Horic sat smiling, twisting his length of twine, saying nothing. Harald had the feeling that the Laplander did not care for battles, though he fought fiercely while in them.

  ‘Now there will be nothing but rowing for us all,’ said Aun. ‘We have lost the relief men, and unless we pick up two others when this night is over, you may still live to see Thorkell and Ragnar at the oars.’

  Harald turned to look towards the leaders at this. They sat apart from the Vikings, talking heatedly. Thorkell was waving his right hand about, and thumping it into the palm of his other, as though to emphasize the points he was making. Ragnar was shaking his head gravely. Harald wanted to creep nearer to them, to find out what they were saying, when there was a sudden blast on the horn from the Viking who was acting as scout on the hilltop above. All men who could left the fire, for its glow would make them an easy target to anyone above who could use a bow. They ran into the shadows, drawing knives and swords, unhooking the axes from their girdles.

  There was a silence; then at last the sound of one man coming down the pebbled slope above them. Harald shivered as he heard the small stones falling on to the beach. He was not a coward, but he felt the spear he held shaking violently. He hoped that if there was to be an attack, he would not have to strike at anyone. He had not yet recovered from the shock of the earlier encounter; another on the same day would be too much.

  Then a man came into the glow of the fires, and the flickering light glinted on the copper armbands and neck-ring which he wore. Upon his head he had a broad-brimmed iron helmet, which flung his face into shadow. A long parti-coloured cloak of red and green worsted hung from his shoulders, secured with a bronze brooch.

  He was a small dark-haired man, though his shadow made him look bigger. He carried an iron-shod staff in his right hand, but no other weapon that could be seen.

  Beside the fire he halted and looked round inquiringly, a smile on his dark face. Aun muttered, ‘That is a brave man, to walk into our camp smiling and without a sword.’

  ‘He claims a herald’s privilege,’ said Gnorre. ‘He must come from the king of these parts, whoever he is.’

  Now Thorkell stepped forward, his own sword sheathed, and said to the stranger, ‘Do you come in peace?’

  The dark man laughed and said, speaking Norse easily, ‘I might ask the same question of you, Viking, but I do not wish to insult you.’

  Ragnar joined Thorkell. ‘If I were to lay this blade once across your neck, you would join your fathers,’ he said. ‘How would you like that?’

  The small dark man stared back at him and said, ‘If I blew once upon this whistle, a hundred arrows would turn you into a hedgehog. How would you like that?’

  Thorkell laughed and said, ‘We are tired from a voyage and have lost some good men. If you wish to fight, let us wait till the morning, and when we have had a night’s rest, we will come up the hill to you.’

  The dark man said, ‘I know of your fight this afternoon. It was my folk you killed. I am pleased to see that they gave a good account of themselves too. I am pleased, too, that you let my father sink his treasure where he wished. Had you taken it from him, we should have shot you through with arrows an hour ago when you were all round the fire. We are a lawless people in many ways, but we insist on serving our gods as we wish and without any hindrance.’

  Ragnar said, ‘You speak up bravely for a little man.’ There was an insulting smile on his face as he spoke.

  The other said, ‘Better a small warrior than a tall coward.’

  Ragnar said, ‘There is light enough here for us to try each other’s skill with any weapon you name.�
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  Thorkell was silent, for it was against the law for any man to prevent another from fighting, if he thought fit. Though they all saw that he was displeased with Ragnar. Even Hasting said, ‘That Ragnar will be the end of us all, unless a check be put on him.’

  Aun fingered his axe. ‘I wish I might let Peacegiver talk a word to Ragnar,’ he said.

  ‘There may come a chance,’ said Gnorre.

  The small dark man by the fire glanced up the hill as though wondering whether he should blow his whistle. Then he shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘If you will come to my steading as guests, so be it, and none shall harm you. If you still wish for death, so be it, and none shall hinder you from having it. I do not care. I only speak the words of my father who sent me to you.’

  Thorkell held out both his hands and said, ‘We come as guests, chieftain. I will speak for my crew. Is that good?’

  The other said, ‘That is good,’ and took Thorkell’s hands in his own.

  It was at that moment that Aun saw Ragnar make a slight movement, as though to draw a knife. Such an act of treachery would bring death on them all, he knew. He sprang forward, dropping his axe on to the beach and flung both arms about Ragnar. In the shock of the impact, both men stumbled and fell. Even as they did so an arrow stuck quivering in the spot where Ragnar had been standing.

  The Vikings gasped. ‘There are sharp eyes above us,’ whispered Horic, smiling secretly. ‘They see all.’

  Thorkell still held the other’s hands. They smiled at each other. ‘Your friend is hot-tempered,’ said the dark man. ‘But then, it appears, so are my own watchers, so that makes all even.’

  Now Aun let Ragnar rise again. For a while the two men glared at each other like wolves about to fight. ‘I shall not forget you, Doorback,’ said Ragnar darkly.

  ‘I shall be ready for you, Raven,’ said Aun. ‘Come for me when you please.’

  Then the Vikings followed their leader up the hill, carrying their wounded, but leaving six men to keep a guard on the Nameless as she lay beached.

  10

  After the Feast

  After the feasting, Harald lay in the dark of the long pine hall, wide awake. He could not get off to sleep partly because of the excitements of the day, partly because of the groaning wounded who lay near the fire in the centre of the hall; but perhaps most of all because of the memories of the feast that had only just ended, memories which flooded in a great noisy tumult through his head.

  Once again he heard the wild music of harp and flute that had filled the hall; he saw the dancers, skipping like elves above the crossed swords, their fierce faces lit with an ecstasy he had never observed on a man’s face before. He saw in his mind’s eye the long trestle table, with its torches set along it and the meat and drink scattered here and there in profusion. And at the head of the table, the old chief, Dubghal and his son, Feinn, with bright Thorkell between them, all of them laughing and singing as though they had known each other always. The boy recalled how, at a certain point in the feasting, Feinn had taken out his razor-keen hunting knife and had nicked Thorkell’s wrist and his own and had placed them together so that their blood mingled.

  Then the Vikings and the Picts had roared with approval and had slapped each other so hard on the back that at least three fights started – and finished just as quickly when the old chieftain glared down the hall.

  And he recalled poor Hasting and Ivar, propped up against the wall, their faces ashen pale, the food beside them untouched, their weak hands letting drop the wine horns that their comrades offered to them. Ivar had stared blindly towards the table, now without power of speech; Hasting had tried once or twice to speak to Aun, but could not make his voice heard above the general flurry of sound in the hall.

  These things had impressed Harald deeply; but perhaps even more disturbing was his memory of Ragnar, seated down the table from his friend, brooding darkly and never saying a word to anyone, hacking savagely at the meat which was placed before him and drinking constantly of the strong heather-honey ale of which only the Picts held the secret. At first, they had all watched Ragnar anxiously, since they were afraid that he might start a quarrel out of jealousy. Yet as the evening wore on, and nothing untoward had happened, they had forgotten him.

  Once Thorkell had looked round the table and had asked for Wolf, but no man had seen Wolf that night. Someone said that he had volunteered to stay with the Nameless, and that had satisfied Thorkell. The old chief, Dubghal had said wryly, ‘That Wolf is one of our folk, I think. I should like to speak with him.’

  The young chief had said quickly, ‘He has lived with the Northmen almost all his life, father. You cannot call on him.’

  Harald had wondered what this meant and Horic had said in a whisper, ‘They of the old faith choose a red-haired one to lie on the stone at Midsummer. I think Wolf was wise to stay with the Nameless. It is every man’s right to choose the manner of his own death!’*

  Then, when the Picts had sung and told their stories, the old man Dubghal had asked if any of the Vikings had a skill in entertaining, and Horic had been pushed forward to do his winter dance on the long table. This time he improved on his earlier performance, for he brought the creatures of air and forest into the very hall. Standing in the flickering torchlight, he had extended his long arm towards the rooftree, and everyone had not only heard, but seen the wild geese coming down from Iceland and flying south through the firesmoke, to disappear before they reached the far wall. Then a bear had walked in at one door and out of another. At last a wolf had howled outside the hall and Horic had made the motion of inviting it in; but by this time the Picts had had enough of the illusion and the old chief, afraid that one of them might hurt the Laplander in his excitement, had bidden the entertainment to stop. Later he had called Horic to him and had offered him much gold to stay with them, for he knew that the Laplander was of the same old faith which he himself followed. But Horic had shaken his head and had said that he only did these things for amusement’s sake, and that if he were forced to do them, his power would leave him. So Dubghal had reluctantly let the little man take his place at the foot of the table once more.

  And Harald recalled all these things as he lay in the darkened hall, the feast now ended. Here and there through the gloom, dark figures moved, though whether they were Vikings or Picts the boy did not know. And at times a strange whispering started up and seemed to pass through the hall before it faded and died. There was an air of general unrest about. But at last Harald fell into a light, troubled sleep, in which green-eyed wolves looked round the trunks of pine trees at him and called to him in Ragnar’s voice …

  Then suddenly Harald was awake again. The fire had gone out completely now, but the hall was full of movement. Then there was the flash of flint on iron and a torch flamed out. Harald saw that the Vikings were on their feet, their weapons drawn. There was a great shout in his ear. Aun yelled, ‘Out steel, we are betrayed.’ Then the hall was full of leaping shapes and swords rose and fell, vicious in the dim light.

  Harald found himself between Aun and Gnorre. Horic was somewhere behind them, grunting as he struck out. A Pict, wearing feathers in his helmet, came at them. Harald saw the mad light in his eyes as the man thrust out with a long leaf-bladed sword. The weapon seemed to flash before the boy’s very eyes, then the man screamed and tumbled forward with the impetus of his rush, almost knocking Harald’s feet from under him. Aun bent and swung up his axe again. Gnorre said, ‘Don’t fall, lad, or it will be your end. Keep your feet and we may win to the door.’

  They began a slow rhythmic movement across the hall. They passed Björn, who stood over the bodies of Hasting and Ivar. He was beset on every side, but spared a word as he swung his axe. ‘Do not stay, Aun Doorback,’ he said. ‘If Odin wills it, I shall come down to the ship again. If not, then he means me to travel with these two Vikings home.’

  Harald saw that Hasting and Ivar had not survived their wounds, gained earlier in the sea-fight. Then he saw Th
orkell at the far end of the hall, surrounded by their dark-skinned enemies. Feinn, with whom he had taken the blood-oath that night, pressed close at him, taunting him. ‘So this is what men mean when they say: “Trust a viper before a Viking!” I had not thought you would so soon forget your friend’s promise.’

  Thorkell swept his long blade about the circle that tried to close on him. ‘It is you, Feinn, who are the breaker of vows. I have done nothing worse than trying to get a night’s sleep since I last saw you.’

  Feinn and his followers laughed in derision, and lunged in at the golden-haired leader.

  Gnorre looked round and said, ‘I do not see Ragnar, or any of those who follow him rather than Thorkell. Come, Aun, we must spare a blow for Thorkell before we go!’

  The four of them pressed forward to where their leader fought. He was a fine sight, even though outnumbered. His hair was disarranged and his shirt of mail pulled on carelessly. Even the strappings of his hide breeches dangled behind him as he shuffled now in this direction, now in that, to meet and slash at a foeman. Yet, for all that, he looked a hero, even the son of Thor himself, thought Harald.

  Aun yelled, ‘Up Thorkell! Up the Nameless!’ Gnorre joined him in the cry, but Horic and Harald were silent. Yet all pushed on, and now, with the men beside him, even Harald felt a strange desire for battle. It seemed to him that now they were fighting with good cause, and not merely to win treasure. They were fighting a treacherous enemy, for their very lives, and to save their leader, to whom they had pledged themselves.

  They took the Picts by surprise. Some of them turned at Aun’s first shout and put up sword or small buckler as defence. But two at least of them were too late. Peacegiver rose and fell, rose and fell. Horic’s rough sword thrust to left and to right. Then a bundled dark shape launched itself at Harald. He heard Gnorre’s shout of warning, but it came too late. The man was on him, stabbing furiously with a short dagger. Harald felt the blade sear his shoulder, and then, in a great anger, he shortened his spear, and using it like a sword, struck with all his force at the man who attacked him. He felt the jar of the blow along his arm and then the man seemed to run on past him, sideways, dragging the spear from his grasp.