Viking Boy

by Tony Bradman

  FOR NICK, AND FOR TOM,

  WHO SHOWED ME THE WAY

  CONTENTS

  ONE – MEN’S WORK

  TWO – FIRE IN THE NIGHT

  THREE – GUNNAR’S OATH

  FOUR – NIGHTMARE CREATURES

  FIVE – AT THE GOD HOUSE

  SIX – THE RIGHT ROAD

  SEVEN – THE KING OF KAUPANG

  EIGHT – A SILVER ARM RING

  NINE – FRIENDS AND ENEMIES

  TEN – SHADOW OF THE PAST

  ELEVEN – BLADE ON BLADE

  TWELVE – A SLAVE’S DEATH

  THIRTEEN – FOOD FOR THE FISHES

  FOURTEEN – A FINE-LOOKING CRAFT

  FIFTEEN – THE EAGLE FEATHER

  SIXTEEN – DARK BLOOD FLOWING

  SEVENTEEN – THE RAINBOW BRIDGE

  EIGHTEEN – CUTTING THE THREADS

  NINETEEN – FATHER AND SON

  TWENTY – STORM OF BLADES

  TWENTY-ONE – FIGHT TO THE DEATH

  Three voices speak in the deep darkness by

  the giant roots of Yggdrasil, great

  tree of worlds, its colossal bulk rising

  high into the sky above.

  “Spin and weave…” says the first,

  the oldest, voice of that which has been.

  “A line of silver thread…” says the

  second, voice of that which is now.

  “One little snip … and then you’re

  dead,” says the third, voice of all that

  which is yet to come.

  The Three Sisters cackle, and their vast

  web trembles. It stands around them,

  endlessly tangled and knotted and

  pulsing with life.

  Sudden light in the darkness, a small

  glowing pool like a shimmering mirror.

  Three faces leaning over it, reflecting

  the gleam, eagerly searching the ripples

  for what they might see. Soon an image

  appears on the surface.

  “Who’s that?” says the oldest, peering.

  “Is it the boy, our chosen one?”

  “It’s him and no other,” says the second.

  “Happy as a dolphin leaping.”

  “He’ll suffer before we’re done,” says

  the third, and they cackle again. They

  join bony hands and dance wildly round

  the pool, chanting as they caper, their

  hair like nests of snakes, their ragged

  black cloaks whirling…

  “Men’s fates we weave from birth to death

  We number each and every breath

  We are the Norns who always win.

  Now let this Viking tale begin…”

  ONE

  MEN’S WORK

  GUNNAR WAS DOWN by the sheep pens when he heard the rhythmic thumping of hoofbeats and the jingle of harness and weapons sounding distantly through the crisp autumn air. He frowned and looked up, along the track that led from the steading’s gate to the dark forest, then turned and ran to the longhouse.

  His parents were sitting together on a bench by the hearth, smoke from the fire rising to the hole in the thatch. A pot hung above the flames, and the smells of woodsmoke and stew wrapped themselves round him like the furs he slept beneath at night. They were laughing, and Mother was ladling stew into bowls.

  Everybody said Gunnar and his father were as alike as two ears of corn, although Gunnar couldn’t see it. They both had shaggy brown hair, but Father’s hair and beard were flecked with grey. They both had hazel eyes, but Gunnar’s were darker. And they both had strong features and broad shoulders, but Father was tall, and even at fifteen summers Gunnar was still half a head shorter. Mother’s hair was golden, and Father said her eyes were the colour of the sea, changing from blue to green to grey according to the light, or her mood.

  “Ah, here’s our boy, just in time for supper as usual,” said Father, grinning at him. Like Gunnar, he was wearing a tunic and leggings and leather boots. Mother wore a green gown and a silver necklace, and she smiled too.

  “I swear you could smell my stew from the other side of the mountains,” she said.

  “Riders in the forest,” Gunnar said breathlessly. “Heading this way.”

  Father stood up, his smile gone. Mother’s face clouded over.

  “How many?” said Father, his voice steady, eyes fixed on his son’s.

  “Hard to say,” Gunnar answered. “Six, maybe seven at the most.”

  “Who could it be?” said Mother, her hand on her husband’s arm.

  “We’ll know when they get here,” said Father. “It’s probably nothing, but we’d better make sure there’s a proper welcome, just in case. Ranulf! Arnor!” he shouted. Two men appeared from the shadows. “Get your hunting spears, and tell the others to do the same. Gunnar, fetch my sword.”

  Gunnar ran to his parents’ curtained-off chamber and raised the lid of the chest that stood at the end of their bed. It contained many things – clothes and furs, the best bowls and goblets. But lying on top was the sword Father had used as a young Viking, and in Miklagard as a soldier of the Greek Emperor’s guard. It was in a wooden scabbard lined inside with sheep’s fleece, the oily wool keeping the metal free from rust. An ivory hilt bound with age-darkened leather was topped off by a round pommel inlaid with gold and silver. The blade had a shallow groove running from hilt to tip, and was razor-sharp on both edges.

  Now Gunnar lifted sword and scabbard from the chest, partially pulled the blade free, and held it up so the glow from the hearth could fall on it. Faint lines twisted and writhed in the metal, almost as if the sword were alive and the red firelight brought back memories of the day it had been born in some ancient forge’s heat. Runes were carved on the blade, a cluster of spiky letters that spelled the sword’s name – DEATH-BRINGER.

  He pushed the blade back into the scabbard and hurried outside. A crowd had gathered, the people of the farm coming out to see who the visitors might be. Gunnar made his way through them, the men talking in hushed voices, the women clutching their children, everyone uneasy, but curious as well.

  Father was waiting with his men in front of the longhouse, Mother by his side. Gunnar handed him the sword and Father buckled it on.

  “It’s time you went indoors now, Helga,” Father said softly. “And best take the boy in with you. This will be men’s work.”

  “All the more reason for a woman to keep an eye on you,” snapped Mother. “But you’d better do as your father says, Gunnar.”

  “No, I won’t,” muttered Gunnar. “If you’re staying, I’m staying too.”

  “Would you listen to the pair of them?” said Father, rolling his eyes. “Maybe some day I’ll find out what it’s like to be obeyed by my family.”

  The men around him laughed nervously. Ranulf was staring wide-eyed at the gate, holding the shaft of his hunting spear as if he would never let it go, his knuckles white. Stout, balding Arnor stood beside him, chewing his lip.

  “Here they come,” Ranulf whispered. “They’re in full war gear.”

  “I can see that for myself, Ranulf,” said Father. Gunnar noticed him touching the small amulet of Thor he wore on a leather thong round his neck.

  The riders thundered through the gateway and up to the longhouse, seven men on powerful, snorting horses. They seemed enormous in the fading light, the setting sun’s rays glinting off their weapons, their shadows reaching out before them. They wore chainmail and helmets with holes for their eyes, and carried spears and round shields. Swords hung from their studded belts.

  “I bid you welcome to my farm, Skuli, son of Eyjolf,” Father said when the riders halted. “But I wonder why you’re so far from home on this chill autumn evening, and why you’re
armed for war. If it’s bad news you’ve brought, then I’d rather you stepped into the warmth of my hall and told me over supper.”

  “You have a good memory, Bjorn, son of Sigurd,” said the leading warrior, jumping off his horse. He removed his helmet and smiled, his teeth white in a bushy black beard. “We met only once, and that was two years ago.”

  “How could I forget a face as ugly as yours?” said Father, smiling too.

  “You’re calling me ugly?” said Skuli. “I’d like to know how a man as ugly as you could have persuaded such a beauty to be his wife. So this is Helga.”

  Skuli cast his eyes over Mother, grinning at her, before turning his gaze back to Father. There was a ripple of muttering in the crowd by the longhouse, but Gunnar knew this was the sort of banter men liked to indulge in.

  “I took pity on him, of course, daft girl that I was,” said Mother. “Now if you two boys would care to stop playing games, I’d like to go inside and eat.”

  “Wit as well as beauty, eh?” said Skuli, laughing. “As it happens, I do have some news for you, Bjorn. And we’d be happy to accept your hospitality.”

  The two men shook hands the Viking way, gripping each other’s forearms, and they went in, much to everyone’s relief, Skuli and his men leaving their weapons stacked in the porch, as guests should. Mother had the long tables put out and food and drink prepared, and soon the hall was filled with voices and laughter, flames leaping in the hearth. Gunnar sat near Father and Skuli and listened as they talked about many things – including, at last, Skuli’s news.

  “There’s word a band of raiders is sniffing around,” he said. “So I thought I ought to show myself – and warn the local farmers, of course. You have a fine holding. I would hate to see it looted and burned by a bunch of outlaws.”

  “That’s good of you,” said Father. Gunnar remembered they’d heard plenty of talk about Skuli recently. Their guest was a man with ambitions. He owned several farms, and some said he had fifty warriors at his beck and call. Some also said he had his mind set on becoming a jarl, perhaps even a king.

  “Well, you know how it is, my friend,” Skuli said. “I’d like people to think I’m a man who will help them. Just in case I need help myself some day.”

  “Help to do what?” said Father, his eyes fixed on Skuli’s, a slight frown on his face. “You’re the richest and most powerful man in the district.”

  “And you’re the most respected. Who knows what I couldn’t do with a man like you by my side? Don’t you want power and wealth too?”

  Father smiled at him and shook his head. “I’m happy enough with what I have, and I want no more. I like a quiet life these days.”

  “Are you sure?” said Skuli, leaning forward. “I’d hate to think you might oppose me in what I aim to do, Bjorn Sigurdsson.”

  “You have nothing to fear from me,” said Father, his voice steady. “So then,” he went on, “what else can you tell me about these raiders?”

  Skuli paused, studying Father’s face, or so it seemed to Gunnar. At last Skuli smiled. “Not much more, in truth,” he said.

  “Well, thanks for the warning,” said Father. “We’ll post guards from now on. You can never be too careful.”

  The conversation moved on, Skuli boasting about great warriors he had known and battles he had fought in. Father said little. Later, as Gunnar lay down to sleep, he went over Skuli’s stories in his mind, wondering if he would ever stand shoulder to shoulder with a band of warriors when he was a man.

  In the forest, wolves howled and shadows gathered in the darkness.

  TWO

  FIRE IN THE NIGHT

  SKULI AND HIS men left the next morning. In the days that followed, Father arranged for guards to be posted, the men of the farm taking it in turns to keep watch. But nothing happened, and after a while Gunnar forgot Skuli’s warning – until one night when he woke with the smell of smoke in his nostrils.

  It always smelled of smoke inside the longhouse, but they usually let the hearth fire burn down at night, and the smell shouldn’t have been so strong. There was a little light coming from the fire’s embers, and Gunnar could make out the shapes of sleeping servants round the hearth. He slid out from beneath his furs, raised his eyes – and his heart jumped. A tongue of flame was licking at the underside of the thatch, tendrils of smoke curling from it like snakes.

  “Father, Mother, wake up!” Gunnar yelled, yanking back the curtains to their chamber. “The roof is on fire!” His parents were soon out of bed and looking up at the flames, the servants waking too and crowding round them.

  “What do you want us to do?” said Arnor, appearing from the shadows.

  “Get everybody outside,” said Father. “Then start filling pots with water. We can probably save most of the roof if we get it damped down.”

  Arnor started pushing everyone towards the porch. He unbarred the door and opened it, but he didn’t get far. Gunnar heard a humming sound and Arnor grunted, falling back into the arms of the people behind him. Arnor was dead, three arrows in his chest, a dark bloodstain spreading across his tunic.

  Gunnar felt sick, hardly able to believe what he was seeing. Father stepped over Arnor’s body, slammed the door shut and banged the bar down into place again. He quickly moved to one of the small windows in the wall, pulled open the shutters a crack and peered out. More arrows thunked into the wood of the longhouse.

  “Who brings fire in the night and murder to my hall?” he roared.

  There was no answer for a moment. Gunnar glanced up and saw the flames spreading. His mother grabbed him and moved him towards another window, then turned to him with a finger across her lips and carefully pulled the shutters open.

  “We are the Wolf Men, bringers of fire and slaughter,” a voice outside growled at last. “And we will give you a choice of endings.”

  Gunnar peered through the window and felt his blood go cold. A line of fierce-looking warriors stood facing the longhouse beneath the star-filled sky. There were perhaps thirty of them, most wearing leather jerkins, only a few in chainmail. But they all wore wolf’s head helmets, and carried spears decorated with wolf tails and shields painted with pictures of snarling wolves.

  Several held torches, the flames casting shadows that danced, and three had war bows, arrows notched and ready to be fired. There were dogs too, five massive beasts straining at their leashes, their jaws parted to reveal white fangs, their wild eyes reflecting the red light of the torches.

  Another man stood in front of the line, and Gunnar realized he was the one who had spoken, their chief. He wore a mail shirt, but his head was bare, his grey-streaked black hair hanging to his shoulders. He wore a long wolfskin cloak, and the blade of his unsheathed sword glinted in the starlight. A couple of Wolf Men with torches moved up beside him.

  “A choice?” said Father. “That’s generous of you, but I’m sure I can guess what it is. Stay in here and burn, or come out with my gold and silver and anything else worth stealing. Then you’ll cut my throat anyway, and probably kill everybody else too. Or sell them as slaves, which is worse.”

  “I can see you know how this works,” said the chief. “But we’re not as bad as that. I’ll let the women and children and servants live, and maybe only sell a few. And maybe we’ll even let you fight for your life. We could do with some fun, eh, lads?” His men laughed and yelled their wild war-whoops and howled like wolves. “Your night guard wasn’t much of a challenge.”

  The chief nodded, and another of his men threw something round onto the ground. It rolled slowly towards the longhouse, and Gunnar realized it was Ranulf’s head, the eyes wide open, the hair darkened with blood.

  “Glad to hear you’ll give me a chance,” said Father. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Don’t think too long,” said the chief. “I can be very impatient.”

  Gunnar saw him nod, and the two men beside him ran forward and threw their torches high into the air. The flames flapped and hissed as the torches spun e
nd over end and thumped onto the roof, and the Wolf Men cheered.

  Mother hurried over to Father with Gunnar. “What are we going to do?” she said. “We don’t have much time… The roof isn’t going to last long.”

  As if to underscore her words, one of the roof beams groaned and crashed down in a shower of sparks. Everyone ducked, and the longhouse filled with acrid smoke and small, floating pieces of burning thatch. Father pulled his wife and son closer to him. “I can’t save everybody,” he whispered, his face anguished. “You two have to come first.”

  Then he turned to the others and spoke loudly so they could hear him above the sound of the flames. “It looks like we have no choice. Out you go, quickly now…” He didn’t wait to see whether they obeyed him, but hurried his wife and son back to the curtained-off chamber.

  “I think we can make a hole in the wall here,” Father said. “Help me.” He pushed hard at one part of the wall, and Gunnar and Mother pushed too. Soon the turves were loosening. “We’ll need to be ready. Put on some warm clothes, but nothing that will stop you running. We’ll make for the forest.”

  Gunnar and Mother busied themselves with finding clothes and pulling on boots. “We’re ready,” said Mother at last. She glanced up, and Gunnar followed her gaze. The fire had reached the thatch above them, and smoke billowed through the curtains.

  Father had pulled on a thick tunic and strapped his sword on his hip. “Here we go,” he said, giving the wall a kick. The turves shifted and buckled then collapsed, folding in on themselves, and a hole appeared.

  “Come on, Gunnar,” said Mother. They rushed out together – and ran straight into one of the Wolf Men. “To me, lads!” he yelled. “I’ve got a couple here!”

  Suddenly Gunnar heard a hissing sound and saw a bright gleam sweep clean through the raider’s neck. Gunnar blinked with the speed of it, then saw the Wolf Man’s head bounce away across the grass. The man’s body seemed to realize something final had occurred, and slowly crumpled to the ground.

  Father stepped over the corpse, Death-Bringer shining in his hand. Behind him the flames from the burning longhouse leaped into the sky.