by Tony Bradman
“And just what kind of tale will that be, Grim?” said Skuli. “One about how brave you were? It had better not be. You and your lads behaved like a bunch of frightened girls. It was only me and the boy who stood up to them.”
“So you don’t want me to kill him?” said Grim, looking puzzled.
“Did I say that?” muttered Skuli. “The boy definitely takes after his father, which means I want him dead more than ever. Get on with it, Grim.”
“Yes, of course,” spluttered Grim. “You men, hold the boy!”
Gunnar went cold as the nearest two Wolf Men moved towards him. Then he sighed. What was the point of struggling? Maybe it was better to give up, to end all this anguish. Grim was advancing, dagger in hand, and Gunnar could almost feel the steel blade slicing into his throat already.
Then Mother grabbed a knife from the belt of the nearest Wolf Man and slashed at Grim with it, an arc of blood spraying from his cheek. Skuli and the other Wolf Men stared at Mother with their mouths open.
“RUN!” she screamed at Gunnar, their eyes locking for an instant, and he knew she was giving him what might be his only chance to live.
So he fled. He dodged the grasping hands of a Wolf Man, who slipped and fell behind him. He ran past the people of the farm, hurdled the still-terrified, whining dogs, and headed for the gate and the forest beyond.
He heard Skuli yelling and realized he was being chased. An arrow whistled past his cheek. He ducked to one side, and a second arrow just missed him. A third hit the gatepost as he ran through the open gate. But now his feet were on the track into the forest, the trees ahead of him like a solid wall of darkness, the cold wind rustling through their tops and making a noise like the sea.
Ten paces to go, five paces … and he was swallowed up, the outside world gone, the shadows between the trunks as black as death.
FIVE
AT THE GOD HOUSE
GUNNAR KEPT RUNNING as long as he dared. At last he slowed down and stepped off the track, groping through the undergrowth until he came to what felt like a huge oak. He curled up between its roots, hugged himself and sobbed.
After a while he pulled himself together, wiping his eyes and nose on the sleeve of his tunic. He listened for the sounds of a search, but all he could hear was the wind still sighing in the tree-tops. He guessed they would come after him as soon as the sun rose, and that didn’t leave him much time to work out a plan. Where could he go? What was he going to do?
It was hard to think clearly with a mind so full of grief for Father – and hatred for Skuli. Gunnar had never hated anyone before, but now he savoured the feeling, letting its heat flood through his veins. He had sworn an oath of vengeance against Skuli, and he was determined to fulfil it, even if he had to go to the ends of the Earth and back to do so…
That thought hit Gunnar like a blow to the face. No, he wouldn’t go to the ends of the Earth – he would travel to Valhalla instead and fetch Father back! As Mother had said, he was just a boy, so how could he take revenge on Skuli? A man like that would eat him alive. But he could fulfil his oath by freeing Father, who could then kill Skuli and save Mother. Odin must bring the fallen heroes back to life somehow – otherwise how could they fight for him?
But he had no flying wolf to take him to Valhalla. He didn’t even know where it was, or if it was possible to get there by some other means – none of the old stories went into that kind of detail. Then he remembered what Brunhild had said – you must pray to Odin for anything more. Well, if anyone knew where Valhalla was it should be Odin, the God who had created it.
Gunnar looked up. The sky was beginning to lighten, a pale glow seeping into the darkness. He thought quickly; he could pray to Odin here in the forest of course, but there was a better place, somewhere he had been for the midwinter ceremony at Yuletide, for the blood sacrifices before the spring planting, for the harvest festival – the temple they called the God House.
He rose to his feet, found the track once more, and headed into the gloom. By the time the sun had risen fully he was out of the forest and on the track towards the mountains. After a while he came to the top of a ridge and walked down into a valley. The track took him through a grove of ancient oak trees, scraps of morning mist clinging to their branches, and then into a broad clearing.
He shivered at the sight of the wooden building in front of him. The God House had always made him nervous. It looked like a dragon, its walls painted to resemble scales, its entrance a mouth with fangs carved into the curved doorposts, a pair of yellow eyes above. And to complete the picture, leading up to the door was a red flagstone path like a fiery tongue.
Suddenly Gunnar heard squawking and he glanced up. Two crows were staring at him from the roof, heads tipped to one side – the sheen of their black feathers reminded him of Brunhild. They squawked again, and flapped their wings and hopped about, making Gunnar feel even more uneasy. He frowned at them, took a deep breath … then stepped over the temple’s threshold.
The wooden floor was smooth, polished by the feet of those who came to worship there. Huge uprights – each one the trunk of an enormous tree – held up the roof beams, and every surface was carved with pictures of Gods and giants, elves and dwarves, men and strange beasts, scenes from all the old stories. An altar stood at the far end, a flat-topped rock stained with the blood of sacrifices. In his mind Gunnar could see the bleating lamb, the knife flashing and the blood pulsing out, while the people of his steading looked on and chanted prayers.
Now some of those people were dead and the future for the rest was bleak, unless he could do something about it. A prayer on its own might not be enough, not without an offering of some kind, and Gunnar had no lamb or goat to sacrifice on the altar. Other kinds of offering were sometimes made, things that were important to someone or had a value, however small. From his pocket, Gunnar pulled the only thing he had brought with him – Father’s amulet.
It was a simple image of Thor’s hammer carved in black stone, his last link with Father and home, with the life Skuli had stolen. He laid it on the altar.
“Hear me, great Odin,” he said softly. “I beg for your help in the task that lies before me. But most of all I ask you this – how can I get to Valhalla?”
“Well, the usual way is to die in battle with a sword in your hand,” said a quiet, deep voice behind him. “But you look a little young for that.”
Gunnar turned round. An old man stood in the doorway. He was tall, his face powerful and striking. His beard was white, and he wore the clothes of a traveller – a hat with a wide brim that dipped over one eye, a black cloak and tunic, thick trousers and strong boots. He had a bag slung over one shoulder, and he carried a wooden staff.
“You look tired and hungry too,” the old man said. “I’d be happy to share with you the food I have.”
For an instant Gunnar wondered if he should run. But the old man seemed friendly enough, and the mention of food had made the juices flow in his mouth. He needed to eat and he needed to rest. So he shrugged, and the old man walked out of the God House, beckoning him to follow.
A low byre stood near by. Gunnar recognized it as the place where beasts were kept tethered before they were sacrificed. The old man ducked inside and set about making a fire with straw and twigs he found in one of the stalls. Soon they were sitting, the fire crackling. The old man pulled cheese and a loaf from his bag and cut chunks with a small bone-handled knife. Gunnar tore into the food, not realizing how hungry he was until his stomach started to fill.
The old man had taken off his hat and Gunnar saw that the eye hidden by its brim till then was sightless, a milky-white ball like a shiny pebble. The other eye was the palest blue.
“So, what brings you to the God House this early?” said the old man after a while. “You look as if you’ve had an interesting night.”
Gunnar glanced down at himself. He was filthy, his clothes and hands stained with ashes and dried blood. Father’s blood. Hot tears filled his eyes and he tried to h
old them in. What was he doing sitting here with this old man?
“Thanks for the food,” he said, and rose to his feet. “But I have to leave.”
“What’s your hurry?” said the old man, throwing more twigs on the fire. “I might be able to help you get to Valhalla, if you really must go there.”
Gunnar stared at him. There was something strange about this old man, something that made Gunnar feel uneasy, although he couldn’t say why. He sat down once more and crossed his arms. “I’m listening,” he said.
The old man smiled and cut off more bread and cheese, handing the chunks to Gunnar. “You’ve heard the stories, so you know Valhalla is to be found in Asgard, home of the Gods,” he said. “You’ll also know that Asgard is one of the nine worlds, and that all nine are linked by the great tree Yggdrasil. But Asgard itself is joined to this world by the rainbow bridge, Bifrost.”
“I’ve heard of that,” said Gunnar. “How do I find it?”
“Ah, well, that might not be so easy.” The yellow flames of the fire were reflected in the old man’s solitary eye. “Some say one end of Bifrost stands in the Land of Ice and Fire, a whole month’s journey across the sea. And then of course you’ll have to deal with Heimdall, guardian of the bridge.”
“A whole month?” Gunnar’s heart sank. It hadn’t occurred to him that getting to Valhalla would take so long. He tried not to think of what might happen to Mother and the steading in the meantime. But he had no choice – he would have to follow his plan. “Where can I find a ship that will take me?”
“There are usually plenty of ships in the harbour at Kaupang.”
Gunnar had heard that name too, and had an idea it was a big town, but he knew nothing else about the place. “How do I get there? Is it far?”
“Three days by foot. Maybe more if the weather is bad.”
Gunnar groaned, but then he found himself yawning. His eyelids seemed to be growing heavy, and his limbs too. He looked at the old man through the skeins of smoke from the fire and saw that he was smiling again.
“Who are you?” Gunnar asked. “I don’t even know … your … name…”
“Oh, you’ll know it one day, Gunnar, when you fly with the eagle to the Land of Ice and Fire,” said the old man. It seemed as if his voice was coming from a great distance. “Sleep now; you must sleep…”
Gunnar lay down, his cheek cushioned on his hands. How did the old man know his name? He was sure he hadn’t told him. Gunnar had a feeling the answer might be important, although he couldn’t think why. Then a dark wave swept through his mind, filling it with blackness, and he knew no more.
He woke with a start and thought for a moment he was at home, until he sat up and remembered. It was almost dark outside the hut, a white mist creeping across the ground. Gunnar saw that the fire had gone out and he shivered. The old man had vanished, but he had left his bag, and Gunnar opened it. He found more bread and cheese, a flask of ale, a flint and a few silver coins.
And right at the bottom was a long grey feather from an eagle’s wing.
SIX
THE RIGHT ROAD
HE SOON GOT the fire going again with the flint and ate some more bread and cheese, washing it down with the ale in the flask. Then he sat and brooded, staring sometimes at the yellow flames, sometimes at the feather.
The old man had been friendly and generous – Gunnar guessed he had left the bag for him. But it had been a strange encounter. The old man had known his name without being told it, and hadn’t been surprised to hear Gunnar talking about Valhalla. And what did he mean about flying with the eagle to the Land of Ice and Fire? Falling asleep like that had been odd too. Perhaps the old man was a sorcerer and had cast a spell on him…
Now Gunnar tutted, angry with himself. It had been natural for him to fall asleep, and perhaps he had told the old man his name and then forgotten. And maybe meeting Brunhild was making him think everything was strange. The old man had come and gone, and Gunnar felt he should just be grateful for his help. But he thought he’d better keep the feather safe, and tucked it in his pocket.
It was fully dark outside the byre now, and Gunnar knew there was no point in setting off for Kaupang before morning. He kept the fire going as long as he could, then tried to rest. He slept uneasily, his dreams filled with blood and fire, and woke feeling unrefreshed, his back aching, the cold deep in his bones.
He finished the bread and cheese and left the byre, the old man’s bag on his shoulder. It was a crisp autumn day, the sun bright in a blue sky. The track that had brought Gunnar to the God House carried on, and he decided to follow it, hoping he would find someone who could tell him how to find Kaupang.
The track skirted the mountains and took him through low, rocky hills. Towards evening a shepherd told him he was already on the road for Kaupang. He passed the night in a cave, using the flint to make a fire, his stomach grumbling with hunger. On the second day the weather grew colder, the wind full of snow. Gunnar came to a village where he used one of the old man’s coins to buy oatcakes and goat’s cheese from an old woman, who offered him a bed for the night in her cow byre. And on the third day the track brought him to the crest of a ridge from which he looked down on Kaupang. He had arrived.
There were hundreds of huts, the smoke of cooking fires rising to hang in a blue-grey haze over their thatched roofs. Narrow alleys wriggled between the dwellings. Several bigger buildings stood among the huts, one in particular larger than the rest, perhaps the hall of some rich lord. Beyond it was the harbour, broad wharves with dozens of vessels tied up to them – lean longships with their proud dragon’s head prows, fat cargo ships, a host of smaller boats nestling cosily between the others like piglets suckling from their mothers.
Gunnar walked on and entered the town. The alleys were crowded, and everyone seemed to be yelling at the tops of their voices. Some spoke the Norse tongue, although many had strange accents, and there were plenty whose speech Gunnar couldn’t understand. Most of those looked wild and exotic – men with tattoos swirling over their faces, warriors in pointed helmets, women covered in jewels. There were ragged beggars everywhere, crying out for alms.
“Terrible, isn’t it?” said a voice behind him. “It’s the smell I can’t stand.”
Gunnar turned round. A boy a little older than him was standing near by, thumbs hooked in his belt, a grin on his face. He was wearing ordinary clothes and boots like Gunnar’s and had a shock of fair hair and blue eyes. The boy’s grin was open and friendly and Gunnar couldn’t help smiling back.
“Mind you, the whole town stinks, not just the beggars,” said the boy. “I hate to think what’s in the mud of these alleys. My name’s Gauk, by the way.”
“I’m Gunnar … Gunnar Bjornsson.”
“Well then, Gunnar, son of Bjorn, what brings you to crowded, stinking old Kaupang? Nobody comes here without a good reason.”
Gunnar paused. It would probably be a bad idea to tell the story of what had happened to him. If he started talking about Valkyries and Valhalla this boy might think he was mad, and a friend with local knowledge might prove useful.
“I’ve come to take passage on a ship,” said Gunnar at last, deciding to tell Gauk the truth, although not all of it. “I have to find my father.”
“Well, you won’t be the last to go on that particular quest.” Gauk put his arm round Gunnar’s shoulders. “This is your lucky day. I know plenty of men who own ships, so there’s nobody better to help you. But first things first. Let me treat you to breakfast. You look as if you could do with a good meal.”
“You don’t have to do that.” Gunnar felt his cheeks flush. He didn’t want Gauk to think he was poor like the beggars. “I can pay my own way.”
“Of course you can, no offence meant!” said Gauk. He took Gunnar by the elbow and led him towards the entrance of a narrow alley. “I was just trying to be friendly – I know the best places to eat. There’s a great tavern down here…”
Gunnar resisted, a small voice in the back
of his mind warning him to be careful. But he was hungry, so he let Gauk pull him into an alley.
It was fine at first – but then gradually the huts seemed to close in on them. Strange faces peered at them from the shadows. A mangy dog growled from a door, a rat scuttled over Gunnar’s foot, the mud grew thicker and smellier.
“Wait,” Gunnar said. “Are you sure this is all right?”
Gauk smiled. “Nearly there,” he said.
They soon came to a place where another, narrower alley cut across the one they had been following. Gauk stopped and turned to face him.
“Is this it?” said Gunnar. He looked round, puzzled. The alleys were empty, the huts shuttered and silent. “I don’t see any tavern here.”
Suddenly two boys stepped out of the shadows. They were dirty and mean-looking and bigger than Gauk – and Gunnar. One was holding a wooden club the length of a man’s forearm, and they were both smirking.
Gunnar took a step backward. The boy with the club stepped forward, and the other new arrival moved to cut off Gunnar’s retreat.
“What’s this all about?” said Gunnar. “I’m not looking for trouble.”
“It seems you’ve found it anyway,” said Gauk, still smiling. “My friends are called Ivar and Njal. Now hand me that bag of yours.”
“No, I won’t,” said Gunnar.
Gauk shrugged, and Njal smashed his club into Gunnar’s elbow. Gunnar cried out and dropped the bag, as pain shot from his shoulder to his fingertips. Ivar picked up the bag and turned it upside down, tipping a few coins into the mud.
“That’s not going to make us rich, is it?” said Gauk. “You’re turning out to be a real disappointment, Gunnar. But at least we’ve got another way of making a profit from you. Well, don’t just stand there, you two – tie him up!”
Njal and Ivar wrenched his arms behind his back. Gunnar cried out again, but Ivar silenced him with a punch to the gut, and he felt them tying his wrists together, the rough twine biting into his flesh. Then they hustled him away down one of the dark alleys, Gauk following behind.
