by Tony Bradman
If everything went to plan, there would be a lot fewer sea-wolves by the time they made it to the hall, where those that hadn’t been killed could be surrounded.
‘Do you think they will ask for mercy?’ said Finn. Kjartan shook his head.
‘Not while Red Swein lives,’ he said. ‘He is their lord and master, and they are sworn to follow him wherever he might lead, even if it is to their deaths.’
‘But he might already have been killed,’ said Finn. ‘What will they do then?’
‘Oh, you will not catch such a warrior in a fishing net,’ said Kjartan. ‘I think the Fates have a different end in store for Red Swein. I will be waiting for him at your father’s hall, and perhaps what happens there will change things for his men.’
He said no more, but Finn noticed how he frowned and gripped the hilt of his sword. There was no time to ask what was in his mind, though – they had far too much to do. Finn sent Egil and Njal to round up as many people as possible to dig pits and prepare other surprises for the sea-wolves, and he was pleased to see that nobody argued. The villagers worked for the rest of that day, and some even kept going through the night. By morning the village was full of hidden traps.
Then it was time to organise the war-bands, and almost nobody argued about that, either. Finn called everyone to the hall once more, and he and Kjartan decided who would fight together and in which part of the village they would wait. Of course Kalf made a fuss, loudly demanding that he be made leader of his war-band, until Kjartan quelled him with a look.
‘I think we should just let him have what he wants,’ Finn whispered. ‘It will be easier that way – he won’t stop complaining otherwise.’
Kjartan shrugged. ‘So be it,’ he said. ‘Little things loom big in small minds.’
A group of girls was hanging back – Gunnhild and Freydis and Signy, and half a dozen friends of the same age. They were all wearing rough tunics and trousers, and had their long hair tied up in ponytails. Gunnhild stepped forward at last.
‘We girls are going to fight together,’ she said. ‘I’m just letting you know.’
‘Well, thanks for that,’ said Finn. ‘We boys will try not to get in your way.’
‘Good,’ Gunnhild snapped, and walked away, the others following her.
Finn watched her go, then realised that Kjartan was looking at her with his eyes narrowed. ‘She is a brave girl, that one,’ he said. ‘I only hope she lives.’
Finn went cold all over. Of course there was a possibility that Gunnhild might be killed, along with many more of the villagers, even if they did manage to fight off the sea-wolves. It was a sickening thought, and suddenly he wished he hadn’t been so horrible to her just now, or at any time in the past. But he could do nothing about it, and he pushed the thought from his mind. Then something else occurred to him.
‘We would all have a much better chance of living if you taught us some of your war-craft, Kjartan,’ he said. ‘It would be a great honour to learn from you.’
‘There is not that much to learn, Finn Ottarsson,’ said Kjartan. ‘You shouldn’t believe what you hear in the songs and stories. True, there are a few great fighters, but it takes talent and years of experience to become one. Fighting is brutal and savage, and most Vikings are just killers, the kind of men who never think of glory and fame, and who will stab you in the back if it is the easiest way to win.’
‘I... I didn’t know...’ Finn murmured, unable to hide his disappointment.
‘Ah, so Ylva was right, you do want to be a Viking, and now I have crushed your dreams,’ said Kjartan. ‘I will tell you one thing, though. It is hard to stand in the shield-wall and fight against men who want to kill you. But it is much harder to be a farmer, to build a village and bring children into this world of woe and protect them. Your father is ten times braver, no, a hundred times braver than any Viking.’
Finn had no more questions for Kjartan after that.
* * *
They were ready for the sea-wolves that evening, but they didn’t come. They didn’t come the next day either, and time seemed to pass very slowly for Finn. He went round checking on everybody until Egil and Njal told him to stop, then he paced up and down in front of his father’s hall, worrying. The hall itself was packed with the very young and very old, looked after by Astrid. Ylva had come to help her.
It had been cold all day, the sky a pale blue, and once the sun went down it grew even colder. The moon appeared, a curved sliver of silver, and soon frost glittered on every surface. Finn waited with Egil and Njal in the shadows by a house near the quayside gate, their breath making clouds in the chill air. The gate was open, the sea calm, almost sluggish, the moon’s twin riding gently on its surface. The village was quiet except for the lowing of cattle and the bleating of sheep in their pens.
‘I wish they’d hurry up,’ Egil muttered, his teeth chattering. ‘I’m frozen.’
‘You’ll soon warm up if they do come,’ said Njal. ‘Wait... what’s that?’
Finn had seen something too, a dark shape moving on the water. He peered into the night, and realised it was a sleek longship making for the shore. Its sail was furled, both banks of oars were beating up and down like the wings of some great bird, and the only sound was a gentle splashing. A warrior stood by the dragon prow, his chain mail gleaming in the moonlight, with more men behind him. The longship hit the beach, its keel grinding on the sand, and the warrior leaped down, his sword drawn.
It seemed that Red Swein had arrived at last.
CHAPTER NINE
Two Blades
Finn sent Egil and Njal running off to tell everyone, then stepped further back into the shadows, making sure he couldn’t be seen from the gate. He watched as a dozen or so sea-wolves entered the village, several of them holding flaming torches aloft. Red light glinted off the blades of their swords and axes and spears. They fanned out in a wide semi-circle facing the houses, and Red Swein walked in behind them.
He was just as Solveig had described him – the raven-black hair with a white stripe through it, the scar running over one eye. But Solveig hadn’t mentioned the cruel mouth, or the air of evil and menace that seemed to crackle around him as he scanned the village, like some great eagle searching for its prey. He wore a billowing cloak that was the colour of blood, and he held his sword casually at his side.
‘Well, this isn’t much of a welcome, is it, lads?’ he said with a wolfish grin. ‘We’d better find out if the villagers are still at home, or whether they’ve run off.’
His men moved forward and kicked in the doors of the nearest houses. Finn slipped away, keeping to the shadows as he ran along the main street. He passed groups of fighters waiting in the shadows, and glimpsed more on the roofs. Eventually he came to the open space in front of his father’s hall, where Kjartan stood waiting. Just at that moment Egil and Njal came running up from the other end of the village.
‘It’s as you thought, Kjartan,’ said Egil. ‘They’re at the forest gate too.’
Suddenly a light blossomed in the darkness, as flames leaped from the roof of a house down by the quayside gate. Finn could hear the sea-wolves cheering.
‘Time to unleash the hounds, boys,’ Kjartan growled. ‘Let the hunt begin!’
Finn grinned now too, and realised from the expressions on the faces of Egil and Njal that they felt the same mixture of terror and excitement as he did. He turned and ran back towards the quayside gate to get things going, his friends doing the same in other parts of the village. Two more houses had gone up in flames by the time Finn reached the first group of fighters, and they were impatient to get started. A sea-wolf was swaggering up the street towards them, unaware they were there.
Finn nodded, and a net came swirling down from a roof on to the sea-wolf, tangling him in its folds. The fighters – older men, with a few women – emerged from the shadows, but they hesitated, seemingly unsure about what to do next. Finn’s heart sank – if they couldn’t do what they had to, the plan wouldn’t
work. Then Solveig pushed through the others and rammed a spear into the sea-wolf’s chest, penetrating the chain mail. ‘That’s for Andari,’ she hissed, but the man was already dead.
The other fighters looked shocked, and Finn knew he had to say something. ‘You see? They are not gods, and Solveig has shown you how easy it is to kill them!’
He ran on, hurrying to find the next group so he could encourage them as well. But there was no need – they had also made a kill, and soon Finn could hear yelling and screaming from elsewhere in the village. Kjartan’s plan was working – three sea-wolves fell into hidden pits and were impaled on the stakes at the bottom, and Finn saw three more brought down and killed with spears or beaten with clubs.
It didn’t all go the villagers’ way – some of the sea-wolves fought them off, wounding half a dozen and killing two of the older men. There was no time to grieve, though – Finn kept everyone pushing the sea-wolves to where they wanted them.
At last he returned to his father’s hall. Kjartan was where Finn had left him, but now the villagers had formed a wide circle around the open space. Many held torches, their leaping flames bright against the darkness, the flickering light falling on the surviving sea-wolves. They stood back to back in the centre of the circle, their swords pointed at those surrounding them. Finn could see there were no more than fifteen or sixteen sea-wolves left, and several were bleeding from wounds.
‘Kill them all!’ screamed a woman in the crowd, and Finn realised it was Luta, Ranulf’s widow. Her granddaughter Signy stood beside her, and so did the rest of the girls’ war-band led by Gunnhild. Finn’s heart leaped when he saw that his stepsister was still alive, and that her spear-blade – and those of her friends – were stained with blood. Gunnhild saw him looking at her and grinned, and Finn smiled back. Egil and Njal had survived as well, and took their place beside him.
There was more yelling in the crowd, like a pack of hounds baying for blood. The sea-wolves yelled too, calling out curses and bloodthirsty threats.
‘We cannot kill them all yet, because they are not all here,’ said Kjartan, his voice booming out. Everyone instantly fell silent. ‘Where... is... Red Swein?’
‘I am here,’ said Red Swein from behind the far side of the circle. He pushed through, roughly shoving several people out of his way. Another sea-wolf followed, and Finn realised it was the tattooed warrior who had killed Ranulf. Both walked forwards slowly, swords held at their sides, and neither seemed particularly worried. If anything, Swein seemed faintly amused. ‘Wait, don’t I know you?’ he said, staring at Kjartan with narrowed eyes. ‘By the gods, Eirik, look! It’s Kjartan!’
‘So it is,’ said Eirik, the tattooed warrior. ‘It must be twenty years since we saw him last. We fought him and his friend in that village... what was his name?’
‘Ingvar,’ growled Kjartan. ‘And you killed him, Swein.’
‘Ah yes, I remember him well,’ said Swein, raising his left hand to touch the scar over his eye. ‘And I’m guessing these farmers paid you to organise their defence against us, just as you did back then. Well, you’ve done a marvellous job.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Swein,’ said Eirik. ‘We weren’t expecting them to set traps for us, were we? It’s one thing to dig pits for us to fall into and to sneak up on us in the dark. It’s something else to face a crew of angry sea-wolves in the open...’
Eirik strode up to the nearest villagers and snarled at them. But even though they looked scared, they held their ground and several jabbed at him with spears. He batted the spears away with his sword, but he also quickly stepped back.
‘They are not paying me, Swein,’ said Kjartan. ‘This is Ingvar’s village, and the Fates have brought you here so I can take vengeance on you for his death.’
‘And I am Ingvar’s grandson,’ said Finn, stepping forwards, gripping the hilt of his grandfather’s sword. This time the blade seemed almost to leap from the scabbard.
‘Is that so?’ said Swein, his wolfish grin returning. ‘Well, I don’t have to worry about a mere boy, even one with a sword. But you might be a different matter, Kjartan. There was a time when you were known all across the North as a great fighter... what did they call you? Kjartan Skull-splitter? But now you are old, so perhaps the Fates have brought me here to send you to Valhalla instead...’
Suddenly Swein attacked, springing at Kjartan, swinging his sword in a sweeping arc at his head. Kjartan raised his sword to parry the blow, and the two blades crashed together with a clang. Swein struck at him again, and Kjartan parried the second blow, then swung his blade at Swein in turn. There were gasps and screams from the crowd, and the sea-wolves cheered, egging on their leader.
Finn watched, fascinated, as Swein and Kjartan fought their duel. It was clear they were both great fighters, the kind of whom Kjartan had spoken. They soon settled into a rhythm of blow and counter-blow, a duel that looked like a dance. Their blades flashed and flew, striking blue sparks off each other, and for a while Finn was sure that Kjartan would win. His blade moved more quickly, testing and probing, and Swein began to give ground, grunting with effort, his face pale and grim.
But Kjartan faltered at last, and Finn could see that the old Viking’s chest was heaving, his breath coming in gasps. Swein stopped retreating, and laughed.
‘I was right,’ he said. ‘You’re good, Kjartan, but age has stolen your strength, and soon we will find out if it’s true that an old man’s blood is as thin as water.’
Then he swiftly strode forward, chopping and hacking at Kjartan, using his sword more like an axe to beat down his opponent. Now it was Kjartan’s turn to give ground, and he moved slowly back towards the hall, trying to hold Swein off. Everyone was yelling, the sea-wolves for Swein, the villagers for Kjartan. Finn kept yelling, ‘Kjartan! Kjartan!’ over and over, desperately willing him to win.
It was not to be. Kjartan stumbled and fell backwards, dropping his weapon. Swein paused for a brief instant – and plunged his sword deep into Kjartan’s chest. Then he yanked the blade free, raising it in triumph as his men shouted their approval.
Finn ran over to Kjartan and knelt beside him. Dark blood flowed from the old Viking’s chest, and red bubbles had formed at the side of his mouth. He wasn’t dead yet, though, and he gripped Finn’s arm. ‘Ingvar’s... sword...’ he whispered, his eyes glittering fiercely. ‘Use... Ingvar’s... sword.’ Then the light in his eyes went out.
Finn eased Kjartan’s hand from his arm and rose to his feet. Swein was facing away from him, taking the acclaim of his men. ‘Are you ready for some fun, lads?’ he was yelling. ‘We’re going to kill them all and burn this village to the ground!’
The villagers looked terrified, and some were already turning to flee. Suddenly Finn felt a cold fury rise from the pit of his stomach and flow into every part of him, from his toes to his fingertips. He felt as if he might almost burst.
‘Red Swein!’ he screamed, striding forward. Swein turned round, just in time for Finn to ram Ingvar’s sword through his chain mail, into his gut and out through his back. The sea-wolf toppled over, his eyes wide with surprise.
A deep silence fell, and for an instant all that could be heard in the open space before Ottar Ingvarsson’s hall was the sound of the torch flames flickering in the cold wind. Then the villagers roared, and swept over Red Swein’s men like the sea.
Finn sank to his knees and felt the fury drain out of him.
The village was safe.
CHAPTER TEN
Viking Funeral
Ottar returned four days later, the two trading ships arriving at the quayside with the morning flood tide. Finn was there to meet his father and accompany him back to the hall. There, he told him everything that had happened since he had been away.
‘We managed to stop the fires spreading,’ Finn said at last. They were standing outside the hall, looking down on the village. ‘So we only lost six houses.’
‘Houses can be rebuilt,’ said his father. ‘But we can’t bring ba
ck the dead. Not those who died here, nor those who died in poor Andari’s village, for that matter.’
Another five people had died in the battle with the sea-wolves, three men and a woman, and young Bjarni, who had fought bravely. More had been wounded, and Astrid and Ylva were caring for them. Eight of the sea-wolves lived, though not Eirik, the tattooed warrior – Ranulf’s widow Luta had made sure that he died. The rest had surrendered, and were being held captive in an animal shed, along with the three men Swein had left to guard his ship. A dozen people from Andari’s village had also been on the ship. They had been taken to be sold as slaves, but they were free now.
‘I know,’ said Finn. ‘I wish I could have done better, and saved them...’
‘You did your best, Finn, and I am very proud of you. And I am sure that your grandfather would have felt the same. His Viking blood runs in your veins.’
‘But I’m glad your blood runs in my veins too – the blood of a farmer. I wanted to ask you, Father – can I come with you on the trading voyage next year?’
‘Of course you can!’ Ottar smiled, and squeezed Finn’s shoulder.
‘Although I do have one condition...’ Finn said, looking into his eyes.
‘Oh yes?’ said his father, his smile fading. ‘And what would that be?’
‘I want to give Kjartan a proper Viking funeral – in Swein’s ship.’
‘Do you, now?’ Ottar frowned. ‘You do realise we could sell that ship, don’t you? It’s a beautiful craft and we could get a pretty price for it.’
‘I know that, Father. But we owe it to Kjartan to give him the best send-off we can on his journey to Valhalla. That’s what I think the Fates always intended.’
‘So be it,’ said Ottar. ‘It will be a fitting end to Kjartan’s story.’
* * *
