Viking Boy

by Tony Bradman

  “Well now, this is an honour,” said Rurik. “A visit from Prince Starkad the Stupid and ugly old Ari One-Ear. What can we do for you?”

  The one-eared warrior grabbed his sword hilt, but Starkad put a hand on his arm. “Let’s not have any trouble, Ari,” he said, smiling. Starkad reminded Gunnar of somebody, but he couldn’t think who. “Rurik likes to tease,” Starkad went on. “Mind you, that will probably be the death of him some day.”

  “You think so?” said Rurik. He gripped his own sword hilt. “We’ll see which one of us comes to a sticky end first.” He turned to Thorkel and the other guards. “What do you reckon, lads? Will it be me or Starkad?”

  “Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Rurik,” muttered Thorkel.

  Rurik slowly took his hand off his hilt. “The only thing I regret is that I might have missed supper in the hall. So if you could get Hogni to do what Orm wants, Starkad, my new slave and I will be on our way. It’s strange, though, I’ve never understood why you and our idiot smith should be friends.”

  “It’s really no surprise, Rurik,” Starkad said smoothly, smiling again. “A common enemy can often bring men together. Hogni, do as Rurik says.”

  Hogni glared, his face dark with anger. But soon Gunnar was kneeling while the smith welded the thrall ring shut with the red-hot tip of a poker, the bitter reek of worked iron filling his nostrils. He half expected the smith to burn him with the poker, but Rurik made sure Hogni knew he was watching closely.

  Gunnar rose to his feet at last, the ring heavy round his neck. Rurik walked out, pushing past Thorkel and his men. Starkad, Ari and Hogni watched him go, and Gunnar hurried after him across the courtyard and into the hall.

  “Who is Starkad, Rurik?” he said. “Why did you call him Prince?”

  “What else would you have me call the King of Kaupang’s son and heir?” said Rurik. “Some day all this will be his, and he’s welcome to it.”

  Rurik took a seat at a table, and Gunnar stood behind him. He could see the resemblance between Orm and his son now. Starkad didn’t yet have his father’s bulk, but they had the same sinister smile. Was Starkad his enemy now too, along with Hogni? Gunnar told himself he didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was getting out of Kaupang and bringing Father back from Valhalla. He wasn’t going to be frightened by feuds or the sight of a few rotting corpses in the harbour. He’d just have to be clever, keep his eyes open, find a way.

  The days passed, the north wind brought snow, and Gunnar learned to be a slave. He lived in Rurik’s hut and slept by the hearth like a dog, although Rurik kept his word and was a kindly master. There was plenty for Gunnar to do – errands to run, weapons and armour to clean – but Gunnar soon came to believe Rurik was uncomfortable with the idea of owning a slave. The only time he seemed to like it was when he could flaunt Gunnar in front of Hogni.

  Before long Gunnar felt he knew Kaupang as well as the Great Fjord. The town was always full of people – Vikings from the northern lands, tall, fair-haired Saxons from England, Irishmen with intricately tattooed faces and bodies. There were loud, bearded Franks from further south, wild-eyed Huns from the lands of the Rus beyond the Baltic, even dark-skinned Moors.

  There were traders as well, quick-tongued men who came to buy and sell whatever would bring a profit. And there were the slaves – men, women and children from everywhere. Gunnar was one of them now, and got his fair share of kicks and curses. Although no one dared mistreat him when Rurik was around.

  Gunnar also came to know more about Orm and the people of his hall. Orm had twenty or so warriors – Orm’s Hounds, as they were known. He had a wife too, a scrawny, red-haired, bad-tempered woman called Vigdis who was always yelling at servants and slaves, when she wasn’t beating them, that is.

  But Rurik remained a mystery. Gunnar felt he should understand his master, so one day, on the way back from an errand, he decided to ask Thorkel about him. Thorkel had taken a liking to Gunnar and was always happy to talk.

  “Rurik? He’s a mystery to me too,” said Thorkel with a smile. Gunnar had found him alone in the courtyard, wrapped in an old sheepskin, standing close to the brazier and stamping his feet on the snow. “He walked into the hall one night two summers ago and asked Orm if he needed another warrior. Orm made him fight Ari as a test, and that’s how Ari lost his ear. He’s lucky Rurik didn’t cut him to pieces. Orm’s no fool, and he could see Rurik was the real thing.”

  “What do you mean? Aren’t they all warriors?”

  “Appearances can deceive, Gunnar.” Thorkel’s smile faded. “Plenty of men think they can be warriors. But there’s a world of difference between pushing women and children and slaves around and being a man your shield brothers can depend on when the sky darkens with arrows and blades rise and fall. I’ve seen all that. I haven’t always spent my days guarding Orm’s slave pens. I can tell you, Rurik is as good a warrior as you’ll find.”

  “Is that why Starkad hates him? He makes no secret of it.”

  “Starkad is full of envy,” said Thorkel. “He wishes he could be a warrior like Rurik. So he plots against Rurik, and tries to make the other men hate him too.”

  “But what about Orm? He likes Rurik, doesn’t he?”

  “Orm does what’s best for Orm. It suits him to have Rurik around, so he lets him get away with a lot. You would have lost an eye or a hand for what you did to Hogni if Rurik hadn’t bought you. But Rurik is his own worst enemy, especially when he’s bored or has one of his dark moods.”

  Gunnar knew what Thorkel meant. Every so often a black cloud of gloom seemed to settle on Rurik. He would fall silent for a day, as if speaking were too painful, and he would lie on his bed, or go to a tavern and get drunk.

  “Why does he have them? Did something happen to him, Thorkel?”

  “Ah, that I don’t know.” A blast of wind made the flames flap in the brazier, and Thorkel shivered and pulled his sheepskin more tightly round him. “But I can guess. He was once a warrior in the Greek Emperor’s guard, and now he serves a fat slave-trader in filthy Kaupang. It’s not Miklagard, is it?”

  Just then Gunnar heard a harsh chattering noise behind him and looked round. Two magpies were standing on the roof of Hogni’s smithy, flapping their wings up and down and staring at him. “Did you say … the Greek Emperor’s guard?” he murmured, slowly turning back to Thorkel. “In Miklagard?”

  “I did,” Thorkel answered, his eyes narrowed. “Is it important?”

  “No,” said Gunnar. But it was very important indeed.

  TEN

  SHADOW OF THE PAST

  GUNNAR HEADED BACK to Rurik’s hut deep in thought. Father had been a warrior in the Greek Emperor’s guard too, so he and Rurik might have known each other, perhaps even fought in the same battles. If they had, then perhaps Rurik could be persuaded to think of him not as a slave, but as the son of a shield brother, someone he should help. Gunnar had begun to wonder if he would ever be able to escape from Kaupang unaided. Talking to Rurik about Miklagard was worth a try, anyway, although he would have to choose the right moment.

  After a while he turned a corner – and stopped in his tracks. Two boys were standing by the entrance to another alley a little further ahead. One of them was Gauk, and he was talking intently to the other, a red-haired boy who seemed nervous and bewildered. Suddenly Gunnar realized what Gauk was doing, and he felt a hot rush of anger. Gauk had found another victim.

  “What do you want, slave?” said Gauk, frowning as Gunnar approached.

  “Let me guess what he’s said to you,” Gunnar said to the red-haired boy. “He’s offered to take you to a great tavern.”

  “That’s right,” said the boy. “How did you know?”

  “Don’t listen to him, my friend,” Gauk said, easing between Gunnar and the boy. “He’s nothing but a slave who talks too much. On your way, Gunnar.”

  “I know because that’s how he trapped me,” said Gunnar. “I’m a slave because I believed his lies.” Gunnar pulled down the
neck of his tunic to show the boy his thrall ring, the skin rubbed raw beneath it. “So you’d better get as far away as you can unless you want to end up wearing one of these.”

  “Now you really are being a nuisance,” Gauk hissed. “Ivar! Njal!”

  Gauk stepped aside and Ivar and Njal emerged from the shadows behind him. The red-haired boy took one look at them and turned to run. Ivar made a grab for his arm, but Gunnar shoved Gauk, sending him crashing into his henchmen. The three of them fell in a tangle of arms and legs and the boy got away.

  “You’ll pay for that, slave…” Gauk snarled, pushing Ivar and Njal off and struggling to his feet. “Well, go on, you idiots. Kill him!”

  Any fear Gunnar might have felt was overcome by his hatred of the alley rats who had sold him for a few gold coins, trapping him in Kaupang when he should have been on his quest. Njal was on all fours groping for his club in the mud. Gunnar stamped on his hand, grinding into it with his heel and feeling the knuckle-bones crack. Njal howled, and Gunnar picked up the club to deal with Ivar, smashing it into his knee. Ivar went down like a tree felled by an axe.

  Then Gauk came at him with a knife, and Gunnar whipped round, barely noticing the slim blade slicing into his sleeve. He smashed the club into Gauk’s elbow and his enemy sank to his knees, the colour draining from his face.

  Gunnar stood over him, ready to strike again. Gauk flinched, his eyes wide with fear. But Gunnar lowered the club. “Just get out of my sight,” he said.

  Gauk scuttled away. The other two stumbled after him, Njal clutching his fingers, Ivar limping. Gunnar threw the club aside then turned to go, only to stop in his tracks once more. Rurik was leaning against a nearby hut.

  “You look pleased with yourself,” said Rurik. “That must have felt good. Although I see Gauk has left his mark.” Rurik nodded at Gunnar’s arm, where blood was staining the cloth.

  “It’s nothing,” said Gunnar, not wanting to make any fuss.

  Rurik frowned. “It will still need cleaning.”

  Back at the hut, Rurik quickly built up the fire and heated some water in a silver bowl. He added a sprinkle of aromatic dried herbs from a little bag he took out of the chest, then dampened a fine cloth in the fragrant water and gently cleaned Gunnar’s wound, a shallow cut the length of a little finger. He carefully patted Gunnar’s arm dry and tied another cloth round it.

  “You’ll live,” said Rurik, ruffling the boy’s hair. He went over to the door and emptied the bowl, chucking the water out into the alley. “At least till the next time you get into a fight. Although you weren’t at all bad.”

  “You’re good at this,” said Gunnar, nodding at the neat bandage round his arm. He pulled on his tunic, making sure not to spoil Rurik’s handiwork.

  “You get to see a lot of wounds in my trade,” said Rurik. “And you learn to take care of your comrades, as they take care of you.”

  Gunnar studied the big man, and thought of the way Rurik had just salved his wound and ruffled his hair and practically called him a comrade. He hadn’t seen any other slaves in Kaupang being treated like that by their masters. It seemed more the kind of thing a brother might do for a brother. Or a father for a son.

  “Did you learn that when you were in Miklagard?” he said quietly.

  Rurik glanced at him, surprised. “Who told you I’ve been to Miklagard?”

  “Thorkel. I was talking to him earlier and it … just sort of came up.”

  “Huh, I’ll bet,” snorted Rurik. “Thorkel gossips like an old woman.”

  “But is it true? Were you in the Greek Emperor’s guard?”

  “Why do you want to know?” Rurik threw a log on the fire. Sparks flew, the flames leaped higher. Shadows danced around them like ghosts.

  “Because if it is, we have something in common. My father went to Miklagard, and he served in the Greek Emperor’s guard too.”

  “Is that so? And when might that have been?”

  “I’m not sure. I know he was back before I was born.”

  “Well, we could not have known each other, then,” said Rurik, shaking his head. “I saw Miklagard for the first time five summers ago.”

  They fell silent for a moment. Gunnar was bitterly disappointed that this new piece of knowledge hadn’t changed things. Rurik stared into the fire, his face closed, the way he looked when a black mood was about to settle on him. Now what? thought Gunnar. How could he build on his revelation, get Rurik to listen to him?

  “What’s Miklagard like?” he asked eventually. “Father never talked of it much, except to say the God Houses of the Christians are full of gold.”

  “The Greeks call them churches,” muttered Rurik. “And I don’t talk about those days much either. Not even to Thorkel when I’m drunk.”

  “Why is that? What happened to you in Miklagard?” Gunnar waited, but Rurik didn’t answer. “What was it you said to me?” Gunnar went on. “Oh yes, there’s always a story to tell, so maybe I can guess some of yours. You came here to forget something bad and you punish yourself for ending up as one of Orm’s Hounds. That’s why you have your black moods and get drunk.”

  Rurik scowled at him. “Take care, boy. Some men would kill you for speaking to them like that. My moods are not your business, or anyone else’s. And why all this talk of your father? What do you want from me?”

  “My freedom. And your help.”

  Rurik snorted. “To do what?”

  “Avenge my father. He was murdered by raiders.”

  “So it seems both our lives are darkened by the shadow of the past. But if you want a man’s help you must tell him the whole story.”

  “Then you must tell me yours. That’s only fair.”

  “I’ll be the one who decides what’s fair, boy,” said Rurik. “And this is not the moment for me to talk. I will tell you my story only when I am ready.”

  Gunnar knew he was beaten, so he plunged into his tale. Rurik sat listening in silence. “I’ll take your word for some of it,” he said when Gunnar had finished. “I’ve seen halls burned, and that part of your story has the feel of truth. But the part about the Valkyries … can you prove you actually saw them?”

  Gunnar looked at him, then lowered his gaze. “No, I can’t.”

  “At least you’re honest,” said Rurik. “I’ve seen some strange things, but I’ve never seen a Valkyrie, and I’ve fought in my share of battles…”

  “So you don’t believe me,” said Gunnar. “I swear it’s all true!”

  “That’s not nearly enough, boy.” Rurik stood up, his face closed off once more. “Now, I have a raging thirst I need to quench.”

  Gunnar watched his master go, and felt his heart fill with blackness.

  ELEVEN

  BLADE ON BLADE

  WINTER DRAGGED ON, the sea freezing in the harbour, great dirty chunks of ice clunking against the thick pilings that held up the quayside. The days grew shorter, the nights longer and darker, and Gunnar sank to his lowest ebb.

  It was Thorkel who kept him going, Thorkel who sought him out and made him eat and gave him his old sheepskin to wear when the cold bit even more deeply. Gunnar sometimes had the feeling he reminded Thorkel of somebody, and one day when they were in the crowded hall for supper he asked who it might be. Rurik was talking to Orm, Gunnar standing behind Thorkel as he ate.

  “I had a son once,” said Thorkel. “A fine boy who would have been about your age by now, had he lived. But he didn’t, and neither did his mother. You’ve lost someone too – I can tell. Who was it? Mother, father? Both?”

  “My father.” Gunnar shrugged, unwilling to go into more detail.

  “Death casts a shadow over us all,” said Thorkel, spooning up broth from a wooden bowl. “There isn’t a man or woman in here who hasn’t been touched by it, or been its servant. The secret is not to give in to it until you have to.”

  “And when is that?” asked Gunnar.

  “When you stop breathing, and not before.”

  “What about the Norns?
Don’t they decide our fate?”

  “What if they do? You don’t know when they’re going to cut your thread, so you should carry on as if it’s not going to happen. Otherwise you might just as well not have bothered to be born in the first place.”

  Rurik came over and sat down beside Thorkel. “A lot of people wish that about you, Thorkel. And why are you talking to the boy about fate and death? I’d rather you didn’t make him any more miserable.”

  “You’re lucky I like you, Rurik,” said Thorkel, shaking his head. “Starkad is right – that tongue of yours is sure to get you killed some day.”

  “Well, one thing I’m sure of is that it won’t be Starkad who’ll do the killing,” said Rurik. “Fetch me some more ale, Gunnar, there’s a good lad.”

  Gunnar filled Rurik’s goblet with ale from the big barrel in one corner of the hall. Starkad was at another table, watching Rurik, his eyes glittering with hate. Ari was there beside him, as were half a dozen other men, Starkad’s band of supporters. Rurik took the goblet from Gunnar and raised it in a mock toast to Starkad, who did the same back. Thorkel tutted, and Rurik turned to him.

  “You’re such an old woman, Thorkel,” he said. “What’s wrong with a bit of healthy rivalry between men? Or should I say between a man and a fat boy?”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t get unhealthy then,” said Thorkel. “You know as well as I do where this kind of thing ends, Rurik. If I were you I’d stay away from dark alleys. You might be the better warrior, but hatred leads to cunning.”

  Rurik shrugged, and Gunnar suddenly realized the big man didn’t care whether he lived or died. Gunnar understood that feeling now, and he guessed that it made a warrior like Rurik a very dangerous man to be around.

  The days passed slowly. Spring arrived at last with a warm wind from the south, and the iron ruts in Kaupang’s alleys soon became the same old stinking mud. The sea ice melted and the harbour grew busier. Trading ships appeared first, then the longships came, many of them bringing slaves for Orm, and his pens were soon full again. Gunnar was afraid to look into them sometimes, half expecting to see faces he recognized, people from his own steading.