by Tony Bradman
Then one morning he heard something that made his heart race. Rurik was in a black mood, and Gunnar was hanging around the quayside. He passed a longship where two men were mending sails, talking while they worked their needles.
“I’d never seen anything like it,” said one of them, a gingery man with a scrappy beard. “Mountains of ice that slide across the land and crush rocks to powder. Rivers of fire that burst out of giant cracks beneath your feet.”
“Sounds like a hard place to live,” said the other, a dark, wiry man with several of his front teeth missing. “What did you say it was called?”
“It’s got a couple of names,” said the first man. “The Land of Ice and Fire, or just Iceland. It’s not that bad, though. There’s good land to farm too.”
So the Land of Ice and Fire did exist! Gunnar asked Thorkel about what he had heard, wishing he had done so before. Soon he knew it took a month by sea to get there, as the old man had said. From then on Gunnar spent every spare moment on the quayside, wondering if he could stow away on a longship.
A few days later, Rurik set off to the hall for supper with Gunnar as usual. The setting sun was a red ball and night was starting to fill the town with darkness, but the air was still warm and seagulls swooped and squawked above the roofs. After a while Rurik and Gunnar came to a crossroads and stopped. Three men blocked the way ahead, the sun outlining them with a fiery glow.
It was Starkad, flanked on one side by Ari and on the other by Hogni, their faces grim. Starkad and Ari were wearing chainmail and helmets. They carried shields and had drawn their swords. Hogni was also wearing chainmail, a rusty old byrnie with big, ragged holes in it that was far too short for him. He carried an old short-handled battle-axe, its blade a thick slab of black iron.
“So, the moment has come,” Rurik said, hand on his sword hilt. “Is it to be just you and me, Starkad, or do I have to kill your two puppies as well?”
“You’ll have to kill the whole pack, Rurik,” said Starkad, a smile on his lips. “You don’t seem to have many friends among the men of Orm’s hall.”
Gunnar looked round and drew in his breath. Starkad’s supporters blocked each alley, half a dozen of Orm’s Hounds armed and ready for battle.
But Rurik just laughed. “You call that lot men?” he snorted. “And where did you get that byrnie, Hogni? You should have stolen one that was a better fit.”
“You think you’re so funny, Rurik, don’t you?” said Hogni, his face dark with anger. “Well, you won’t be laughing much after I’ve finished with you. And then I’m going to kill that slave boy of yours as slowly as I can.”
“You won’t be killing anyone today,” Rurik said quietly, slowly drawing his sword from the scabbard. “Give me some room, Gunnar.”
Suddenly Ari rushed forward with a yell, wildly swinging his sword. Rurik simply stepped to one side and Ari stumbled past, flailing. Two more men moved forward, their swords raised, and Rurik parried huge blows from both, blade ringing on blade. Rurik soon killed one man, almost hacking his neck through, and wounded the other in the shoulder, forcing him to back off.
“Come on then, Hogni!” said Rurik, laughing. “What are you waiting for?”
Hogni roared and came at him, his axe held high. Rurik’s sword flashed, and Gunnar glimpsed a look of terror on the smith’s face. Then Hogni was dead too, his body sprawled at Rurik’s feet, his head split wide open.
“What about you, Starkad?” said Rurik. You haven’t struck a blow yet. But then maybe you’re a coward who watches while others do the fighting.”
Now Starkad stepped forward and rained blows on Rurik, who parried every strike. Starkad was soon gasping for breath, his face red with effort.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” said Rurik, enjoying himself.
Gunnar realized Ari was sneaking up behind Rurik. “Watch out, Rurik!” he yelled, and Rurik looked round. Starkad saw that Rurik was distracted and came in for the kill. But Rurik quickly turned back to deal with him, ramming his sword deep into his chest. Rurik pulled his blade free and Starkad sank to his knees, looking surprised, then fell face down in the mud.
Ari roared at the others and they charged, shields overlapping, a wooden wave that crashed into Rurik and knocked him down. They held him on the ground as Ari stood over him, his sword point at Rurik’s throat.
“I could kill you here,” Ari hissed. “But I think that pleasure should belong to someone else. Take him to Orm – and bring the boy!”
TWELVE
A SLAVE’S DEATH
ONCE MORE GUNNAR was dragged through the alleys and made to kneel before the King of Kaupang in his dark hall. Rurik kneeled beside him, stripped of his sword and chainmail, blood running down his face from a gash where an iron shield rim had struck his forehead. Both had their wrists tied behind their backs.
Ari stood over them with his sword drawn, and a crowd had gathered in the hall. Starkad’s corpse was laid out on a table near by. Vigdis had wailed when he had been brought in and flung herself on the body, but now she stood in front of Rurik and Gunnar.
“Somebody give me a knife!” she screeched. She spat in Rurik’s face, then did the same to Gunnar. “I’ll butcher the pair of them like pigs at the autumn slaughtering,” she hissed. “They killed my son, my Starkad!”
“Enough, woman,” Orm growled. He was sitting on his throne. “You never had a good word to say about Starkad while he was alive.”
“What are you talking about?” Vigdis screamed, rounding on her husband. “You were the one who ran him down, saying he was too rash!”
“And he proved it by getting himself killed,” rumbled Orm. “He was a fool to think he could fight Rurik. I told him, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Is that it, then?” screeched Vigdis. “It was Starkad’s fault, so you’re going to let your precious Rurik get away with murdering him? He was our son!”
“I know that as well as you do, Vigdis,” said Orm. “I’m not going to let Rurik get away with anything. He must pay for what he’s done.”
“What does that mean?” said Vigdis. “I want to see him die slowly.”
“Oh, he’s going to die,” said Orm. “But he owes me compensation. Pay me the blood price for my son, Rurik, and I will make sure your death is swift and painless. How much Greek silver do you have hidden away?”
Gunnar glanced at the big man kneeling beside him. Rurik smiled but didn’t reply to Orm, and Ari prodded his shoulder with the end of his sword.
“Your master is waiting for an answer,” he snapped. “Speak up.”
Rurik looked coolly at Ari, then turned to Orm. “I don’t have any more silver arm rings, if that’s what you mean,” he said. “Not that Starkad was worth one.”
“So my son was worth less than a slave boy,” growled Orm.
Rurik shrugged. Vigdis spat in his face once more, and Rurik laughed at her. Gunnar glimpsed Thorkel looking on from the crowd. Thorkel gave a slight shake of the head, and Gunnar knew he was saying he couldn’t help.
“We should just cut their throats and be done with it,” said Ari.
“Not the boy,” said Orm. “I might get something for him.”
“Maybe so…” said Ari. “But your son would still be alive if the boy hadn’t distracted him. Starkad was more than holding his own till then.”
“Liar!” Gunnar yelled. “He would never have beaten Rurik and you know it. You were sneaking up behind Rurik to stab him in the back!”
Ari hit him hard with his free hand, knocking him sideways. Pain shot through Gunnar’s head and his cheek throbbed as he lay on the floor.
“Very well,” said Orm. “The boy dies too. Take them down to the harbour. One of them is a slave, and the other can die a slave’s death.”
“That’s more like it,” said Vigdis, cackling. “I’m going to enjoy this.”
Gunnar was pulled to his feet and dragged out of the hall with Rurik, as the crowd swarmed round them. Ari led the procession through the dark
alleys with a flaming torch held high, Vigdis beside him. At one point an old man emerged from an alley and nearly bumped into them.
“Forgive me,” said the old man. “I didn’t mean to get in your way.”
“Move aside, you old fool!” Ari yelled, roughly pushing past him.
The old man did as he was told, but not before Gunnar felt something being pressed into his hand. It was a small knife – and suddenly he remembered the bone-handled blade the old man had used at the God House.
Gunnar tried to look over his shoulder, straining against the men holding him. Had it been the same old man? And what was he supposed to do with such a small knife? It wouldn’t be any good as a weapon. He might be able to cut the binding on his wrists with it, but he was surrounded and wouldn’t have a hope of escaping. He would have to bide his time, wait for a better opportunity.
“You men, fetch more torches!” yelled Ari at last.
They had reached the harbour. The tide was out and mud stretched beyond the ships to the drowning posts. Gunnar glanced at Rurik again. The big man was smiling with his eyes closed. “Rurik!” Gunnar hissed at him. “Rurik!”
“He isn’t listening, boy,” said Ari. “He’s halfway to the afterlife already. Hurry up, lads, let’s get them lashed to the posts. The tide will turn soon.”
A couple of men shoved Gunnar and Rurik off the quayside. They landed in the mud and Gunnar’s breath was driven from his body. He held on to the knife though, keeping it hidden in his clenched fist while a couple of men lashed him and Rurik to the posts. “Well, Rurik, are you ready to die?” Ari shouted from the quayside. “Any last words for us? Or has your wit finally failed you?”
Gunnar looked up at Ari and Vigdis and the crowd. He thought about the knife again and turned it over in his hand. He would have to wait until he was under the water to cut himself free. What then? There was a crowd watching, so he’d have to swim off underwater to escape. But where could he go? If he headed out to sea he’d drown just the same. And what about Rurik?
“Well, there’s one good thing about dying, Ari,” said Rurik. “At least after tonight I won’t ever have to look at your ugly face again.”
There was a great roar of laughter from the crowd, and Ari scowled. “I should have killed you when I had the chance!” he yelled.
“You mean when four men were holding me down?” said Rurik. “They’re lucky you didn’t try. You’d probably have killed one of them instead!”
The laughter was louder this time, and Ari scowled so fiercely it looked as if his face was folding in on itself. But then Gunnar saw the old man from the God House standing just behind Ari, smiling beneath his wide-brimmed hat. Gunnar felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. So it had been him!
“I’ve a good mind to come back down there and kill you now,” Ari yelled.
“Don’t you dare, Ari!” screamed Vigdis. “Orm said he was to drown!”
“Don’t argue with her, Ari,” said Rurik. “She’ll take your other ear off.”
The crowd roared again, but Gunnar was watching the old man. He moved forward, peered over the quayside, then sought Gunnar’s eyes. Of course – the quayside was supported by thick pilings, and behind them was a space which the sea never filled, however high the tide. If they could swim there underwater no one would see them from above, and they could wait till the crowd had gone.
“The tide’s coming in!” someone yelled, and the crowd cheered.
Gunnar looked down. Sea water was rolling over the mud, making pools that swiftly overflowed. Soon it was up to his ankles, and rising steadily.
THIRTEEN
FOOD FOR THE FISHES
GUNNAR BEGAN SAWING at the bonds on his wrists, and soon his hands were free. Dealing with the rope round his chest would be harder. He would have to wait till the sea covered it. And he still had to work out what to do about Rurik.
“I’m sorry, Gunnar,” Rurik said suddenly. “You don’t deserve to die like this.”
“I don’t intend to,” muttered Gunnar. The ships in the harbour stirred and creaked. Small waves slapped against their hulls, and the sea chuckled under their keels. Up on the quayside the crowd grew even noisier, and the old man from the God House had disappeared.
“You must try to accept it, Gunnar.” Rurik’s voice was soft and sad. “This is our fate. It seems neither of us will be going to Valhalla.”
“But I can save us, Rurik. I’ve got a knife.”
“I should have died a warrior’s death…” Rurik said wistfully. “Do you really want to know what happened to me in Miklagard?”
Gunnar groaned in frustration. He wanted to yell and scream at Rurik and shock him out of his despair. They didn’t have time to worry about such things – the tide was coming in quickly and the water was already up to Gunnar’s waist. But Rurik’s story might be important. “I’m listening,” Gunnar said.
“I betrayed my brother,” said Rurik. “We had always been close – only two summers separated us. So we took the road to Miklagard together, and as I was the older I swore an oath that I would look after him. We fought the Greek Emperor’s enemies many times side by side. But on the day he was cut down by barbarian raiders I was sleeping off the ale I had drunk the night before.”
“That wasn’t a betrayal. You might not have been able to save him.”
“Maybe so,” Rurik said quietly, his head down. “But I should have been there. I would have died to protect him, I swear.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment, both lost in their own thoughts.
“We do have a lot in common, you and I,” Gunnar said after a while. “You punish yourself because you believe you let your brother down. I do the same because I did nothing while raiders killed my father.”
Rurik turned to look at him. “But there was nothing you could have done. They were warriors and you were a boy.”
“What does that matter? Like you, I can never forgive myself.”
A rock splashed into the sea between them. “Hey, stop all that whispering!” Ari yelled. “You should be doing less talking – and more drowning!” Ari grinned, pleased with his joke, and the crowd laughed with him. Rurik looked up at them, but said nothing.
“What was your brother’s name, Rurik?” said Gunnar, his teeth chattering. “Do you think he would have wanted you to die a slave’s death? Somehow I doubt it. You swore an oath to him that you didn’t fulfil. You can make up for that by helping me fulfil mine. But only if you live.”
Rurik frowned, then closed his eyes. After a moment he opened them and turned to gaze at Gunnar again. “Did I hear you say you have a knife?” he said. “Where did you get it?”
“That’s not important,” Gunnar said. “I’ll cut myself free as soon as the water covers me. I’ll stay under and free you, then hide beneath the quayside. You can follow as soon as the water covers you too. Once the crowd has gone we’ll make good our escape, get out of this stinking town for ever.”
Rurik shook his head and laughed gently. “Ah, Gunnar, how full of courage and cleverness you are! Most grown men would have given up long since, but you keep fighting. Who am I to argue? We’ll probably drown, but I’ll try your plan. For your sake, and my brother’s…”
But Gunnar had stopped listening and was already hacking at the rope round his chest. They were running out of time. The water had reached the level of his shoulders and was lapping at his chin. Soon it reached his nose, and he just managed to cut himself loose as the waves swept over his head.
The crowd cheered, but the sea roared in his ears and their noise vanished. It was dark under the water and he felt afraid that he might not even be able to find Rurik. The current tugged at him, but Gunnar reached out in what felt like the right direction and found the big man’s arm. He held on to Rurik’s post with one hand, sawing at his bonds with the other.
He cut through them at last, then turned to swim towards the quayside. He kicked out, his chest bursting, and had almost started to panic when his hand touc
hed something hard covered in slimy seaweed – one of the pilings.
He pulled himself round it and shot up, bursting through the surface and gulping in a huge breath, the knife slipping from his hand. More pilings stood to his right and left, and an arm’s length above his head was the quayside. Stray gleams of light from the crowd’s torches stabbed down through the narrow gaps between the planks. They were still cheering and jeering, and suddenly Gunnar heard the unmistakable voice of Vigdis. “There he goes!” she screeched.
Gunnar whipped round. Rurik was struggling to keep his head above the water. As Gunnar watched, the big man took one last, desperate gulp of air – and then the sea claimed him, leaving only bubbles and foam.
The crowd gave the biggest cheer so far. Gunnar stared out over the waves, praying that Rurik was swimming towards him below the surface. But he didn’t appear and Gunnar began to worry. How long had it taken to cover the distance from the posts to the quayside? Surely Rurik should have made it by now. Perhaps he hadn’t cut all the ropes. Perhaps Rurik was already dead…
“Well, that’s the end of them,” Gunnar heard Ari say. “They’re both food for the fishes now, and good riddance.”
Come on, Rurik, thought Gunnar, where are you? Suddenly a dark shape rose from the water beside him. It was Rurik, and the big man took a deep breath and squeezed Gunnar’s shoulder. Above them people laughed and called out to one another, but it was clear the crowd was leaving. When it seemed that everyone had gone, Gunnar made as if to head for the quayside steps. Rurik held him back.
“Wait,” Rurik hissed. There was a sudden flare of light and Gunnar saw that somebody was directly above them. He looked up through the planking – and drew in his breath sharply. Ari was holding a torch out over the water.
