Viking Boy

by Tony Bradman

  “I’ll deal with that if I have to,” said Gunnar.

  “Very well,” said Odin. “Close your eyes, Gunnar…”

  * * *

  Gunnar did as he was told, and when he opened them he was standing before a vast, endless tangle of knotted fibres that pulsed – and he knew that he was looking at the web woven by the Norns. A light flared near by, and Gunnar saw three hunched figures in ragged black cloaks, their skin pale and wrinkled, their mouths toothless and drooling, their hair like nests of snakes. One sat at a huge spindle, new threads spooling off it into the hands of the second, who swiftly wove them into the web, and the third wielded a giant pair of shears.

  “Spin and weave, spin and weave,” said the first.

  “Into a line of silver thread,” said the second.

  “Then with a little snip … you’re dead, dead, dead!” said the third, cutting through several threads at once. The three of them cackled, and Gunnar heard ghostly voices, the spirits of the newly dead wailing softly in the darkness. He wondered who they had been and how they had died. Then all three Norns turned to stare at him, their hands still spinning and weaving and cutting ceaselessly.

  “Well, well, well,” said the first. “Who have we here?”

  “It’s the boy,” said the second. “Our chosen one!”

  “Watching him suffer was so much … FUN!” said the third.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he said, returning their gaze. “I came here to ask you a question, but now I have more than one. Why did you choose to make me suffer? And what will my fate be, and that of Skuli?”

  “If not you, who else?” said the first, shrugging.

  “Too happy, far too blessed!” said the second.

  “Definitely in need of a test,” said the third, and the cackling began again.

  Gunnar sighed. Was that it? He had been too happy, too blessed in his life and parents, so they had decided to take it all away from him? Perhaps it was best never to be happy, then. You couldn’t miss what you didn’t have. But even as the thought came to him he realized that was no way to live his life.

  “You didn’t answer my other questions,” he said.

  “Should we tell him of his fate?” said the first.

  “Of course we should!” said the second. “And we won’t lie.”

  “One of you will live,” said the third, “and one of you will die!”

  Their cackling reached a peak this time, the three of them screaming with laughter. A shimmering pool appeared and cast an eerie, sickly glow. The Norns danced round it, their ragged cloaks and hair flying out around them.

  One of you will live, and one of you will die. It was hardly a revelation, and there was no comfort in it either. It seemed the only way to find out what lay in the future was to wait until it happened. Odin had been right: he didn’t much like their answer. “Thanks for nothing,” he said. “How do I get back to Odin?”

  The Norns stopped dancing and looked up. Gunnar turned to look in the same direction – and gasped with amazement. The light from the pool showed him the dim outline of an incredible, colossal tree rising into the distant heavens, and he knew it was Yggdrasil, the tree that bore the nine worlds of all creation.

  “The boy doesn’t like us!” said the first Norn. “What a surprise!”

  “He wants to get going,” said the second. “And we must get on.”

  “If he closes his eyes again …” said the third, “then he’ll be gone!”

  The instant Gunnar closed his eyes he felt himself flying upwards. He opened his eyes briefly and saw the wonders in Yggdrasil’s mighty branches – mountains and seas, forests and cities towering over plains, and the sun and the moon and stars whirling around the great tree like the Norns dancing.

  But all he could think of was the coming battle with Skuli.

  NINETEEN

  FATHER AND SON

  FROM THE OUTSIDE Valhalla appeared to be a large building of turf and logs, no different to any great lord’s hall in the world of mortals. But as Gunnar discovered, it was enormous inside, the walls covered in shields and weapons. Crowds of warriors were seated at tables that seemed to go on for ever.

  “These are the men who will help us in our work, Gunnar,” said Father. “Fine warriors, all of them. They know everything about fighting and war.”

  Gunnar looked down the lines of men drinking and feasting and talking. His eyes finally snagged on one in particular, a big, broad-shouldered, fair-haired Viking who looked like someone he knew.

  “Yes, my name is Olaf,” said the young man when Gunnar asked him. “And I have a brother called Rurik…”

  They spoke for a while, but Father was keen to start his training. Before long Gunnar was dripping with sweat, his muscles aching from practising with sword and shield and spear. That night he slept next to Father on the floor in Valhalla, and in the morning they went straight out to the training ground again.

  The next day was the same, but after that Father began bringing in other warriors to give him fresh challenges and show him that each man’s fighting style is his alone. So it went on, Father relentless, pushing Gunnar to the limit and beyond, until one day Gunnar snapped and threw down his sword.

  “That’s it!” he said, panting. “I can’t do this any more. I’m worn out!”

  “Pick up your sword, Gunnar,” said Father. “You won’t be able to ask for a rest when you’re fighting Skuli. Not unless you want him to kill you.”

  Gunnar stared at him for a moment. Then he wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand, picked up the sword, hefted his shield. Soon he and Father were trading blows as before, the sun setting, their long shadows stretching out behind them. “Shield forward, Gunnar,” Father said. “Watch my eyes, not my blade. Try a backhand stroke, now parry, that’s good…”

  The days slipped past, and Gunnar felt himself growing stronger, more at ease with his weapons. But thoughts of Mother and what lay in store for her nagged at him constantly. “Time is running out, Father,” he said one day when they were resting. “I’ll have to leave soon if I’m to get there in time.”

  “I know, Gunnar,” said Father. “But you’re not ready for Skuli yet.”

  “I might never be ready,” Gunnar murmured. “And what happens if Viglaf decides he won’t wait for me any more? How will I get home then?”

  “I will take you,” said a voice. Gunnar turned round and saw Brunhild approaching. Since his arrival in Asgard he had often watched her and the Valkyries bringing dead warriors to Valhalla. She always nodded to him as if they were old friends. But they hadn’t spoken. “My wolf can do the journey as swiftly as a thought. That way you can have more time with your father.”

  “What about Viglaf and the rest?” said Gunnar. “You can’t take them all.”

  “Odin will tell them they should set off now,” she said, shrugging.

  Gunnar didn’t know what to say and stared at her. Father poked him in the shoulder. “Well, that’s settled then,” said Father. “Now, back to work…”

  One morning at the training ground Father produced a bundle, something long and thin wrapped in a wolfskin, and handed it to Gunnar. “Here, you’ll need this,” he said with a smile. Gunnar quickly unwrapped the bundle, his heart racing, his eyes growing wide when he saw it was Death-Bringer.

  He pulled it from the scabbard. Lines of colour writhed in it, cobalt blue and the cold green of sea-soaked wood when it burns and the red of fresh blood. The spiky runes on the blade glowed with new fire.

  Gunnar held the sword up to the light, moving it this way and that, swinging it slowly through the air to hear it sing. He thought of the last time he had seen it, tossed on the ground beside Father’s corpse, the steel he had loved to polish stained with the blood of four dead Wolf Men. Now that stain was gone, and the steel shone. “Is it truly mine?” he murmured.

  “Yes, Gunnar, it’s yours. You’ve more than earned it.”

  Gunnar lowered the blade. “I won’t feel I’v
e earned anything until I fulfil my oath and Skuli lies dead at my feet.”

  “You know, Gunnar, sometimes I feel like telling you to forget about Skuli.” Valhalla loomed over them. “I wish you could go back to the world and just live – find a girl, have a son of your own, grow old. We men are stupid with our greed for gold and glory. It’s all bloodletting and children left without fathers.”

  “So why don’t you tell me to forget it?” Gunnar said quietly.

  “Because you wouldn’t listen.”

  “You’re right,” said Gunnar. “If I do as you say, Skuli wins. So even if I did have a son I would have to tell him Skuli had his grandfather murdered and took his grandmother for his wife and stole our land – and I did nothing about it. What would he think of me then, Father? What would I think of myself?”

  Silence fell between them and they stared at each other. Anyone watching might have said they were more like brothers than father and son. “My answer would have been the same if I had ever been in your position,” said Father. “Now, let’s see if we can get a bit more work in before this light goes. I might be old, I might even be dead, but I can still teach you a thing or two.”

  * * *

  Then one day it was time at last for Gunnar to leave. Brunhild was waiting for him on her wolf. Odin was there with his ravens, the birds cawing. Gunnar’s head was suddenly full of all the things he had meant to say, but now he couldn’t speak, and his eyes feasted on Father for the last time.

  “Take care of yourself, Gunnar,” said Father. “And of your mother.”

  “I will,” said Gunnar. He hugged him quickly, and ran to Brunhild, his eyes filling with warm tears that spilled over and ran down his cheeks. She lifted him up to sit in front of her as if he weighed nothing, even though he wore a full chainmail byrnie and an iron helmet, and carried a shield and Death-Bringer in its scabbard on his hip. He gripped the beast’s rough pelt with both hands.

  “Ready?” said Brunhild. Gunnar nodded and the wolf leaped into the air. As Asgard fell away below them, Gunnar looked back at Father with a hand raised in farewell. They dropped through the sky, diving into Bifrost and out again, then flew over the Land of Ice and Fire with its mountains, one of them belching flames and smoke. They swooped over the sea and left a trail of white foam in their wake, the glittering wave tops crushed by their passing.

  The wind in Gunnar’s face was like a living creature, an invisible monster scouring his eyeballs, trying to rip him from the wolf. But he hung on, and before long he saw the land rushing to meet them. His heart leapt as he realized they were flying into the Great Fjord, its steep, stony sides wrapping round him like an embrace. And there, drawn up on the small, rocky beach at the head of the fjord was the Sea Eagle, Rurik and Thorkel waiting beside it, both in helmet and byrnie and armed with sword and shield.

  TWENTY

  STORM OF BLADES

  GUNNAR JUMPED DOWN from the flying wolf. Thorkel stared at Brunhild and her mount, his mouth open, ready to take to his heels. But Rurik laughed. He ran up to Gunnar and flung an arm round his shoulders.

  “You see, Thorkel!” said Rurik. “I told you he’d come!”

  “You did tell me, Rurik,” said Thorkel. “Over and over again.”

  “Where’s Viglaf?” said Gunnar. “I thought he’d be with you.”

  “I am,” whispered a voice from inside the Sea Eagle. “But I’m not coming out until that creature has gone.” Viglaf was nervously peering at Brunhild and her great beast from between two shields on the ship’s side.

  “The rest of his lads are hiding in the woods,” said Rurik, grinning.

  “I can’t blame them,” muttered Thorkel. “I might join them soon.”

  “You won’t have to,” said Rurik. “I think she’s about to leave.”

  Gunnar looked round and saw that he was right. “It is time to say farewell, Gunnar Bjornsson,” said Brunhild. Her wolf snorted as if it were saying farewell too. “I wish you strength in your sword arm and luck in the coming storm of blades. And I hope it will be many years before you ride with me again.”

  Brunhild and her wolf rose into the pale sky and swiftly flew away down the fjord. She looked round at Gunnar once, and then she was gone.

  Gunnar sat by a driftwood fire and caught up with what had happened to his friends. It seemed that Odin himself had appeared in their camp and told them to set off. They had reached the fjord that very morning, and Rurik had already taken a scouting party up to the woods above the steading.

  “Skuli has had your hall rebuilt,” he said. “There are a few scorch marks on the walls, but it’s got a new roof that probably keeps the rain out.”

  “Did you see him?” said Gunnar.

  “Big man with a black beard? Struts around like he thinks he’s important?” said Thorkel. Gunnar nodded. “We saw him.”

  “We also saw plenty of fighting men,” said Rurik. “Some who didn’t look as if they’d be much of a problem. Some who did.”

  So Skuli had brought in more of his warriors, as well as Grim and his Wolf Men. “How many men do you think he has altogether?” Gunnar asked.

  “Thirty, maybe a few more,” said Rurik. “So with Viglaf and his lads I think we’re evenly matched. There was a lot going on, though.”

  “Rurik’s right,” said Thorkel. “The kind of hustle and bustle you see on a steading when it’s being prepared for some kind of special occasion.”

  “Like for a wedding?” said Gunnar, his blood running cold. Rurik and Thorkel glanced at each other. “Did you see my mother?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Rurik said, his voice gentle. “If Skuli does intend to marry her, I’d guess he wouldn’t let her out of the hall.”

  “So it’s today, a year and a day since the hall was burned down…” said Gunnar.

  “Well then,” said Thorkel, breaking into his thoughts. “What’s the plan?”

  “We take back my steading,” Gunnar said grimly. “And I kill Skuli.”

  “Spoken like a man,” said Rurik, clapping him on the shoulder.

  But Gunnar still didn’t feel like a man, however hard he tried.

  They climbed the path into the woods an hour after sunset, thirty men in chainmail, starlight glinting off their helmets, their weapons quietly chinking, the dead leaves of autumn rustling under their iron-shod boots. After a while they reached the edge of the forest and looked down at the steading.

  “I don’t like it,” whispered Viglaf. “We might be walking into a trap.”

  “What do you think, Gunnar?” said Rurik. “Is Skuli expecting you?”

  “I doubt it,” said Gunnar, remembering the way Skuli had spoken to him. “I’d be surprised if he’s given me a moment’s thought since the night I left.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” said Rurik. “Let’s go!”

  He ran down the slope, the rest following, a wave of warriors heading for the gate in a silent rush. Gunnar kept up but couldn’t help wondering why Viglaf and Thorkel stayed just in front of him and Erlend so close behind. They were behaving like bodyguards, and Gunnar realized they still thought of him as a boy, someone they needed to protect. And why should they think anything else? They had never seen him fight, after all.

  Not that he had ever fought properly. He knew how to hold his sword and shield, felt comfortable in his chainmail, had learned the lessons of those practice sessions with Father in Valhalla. But that’s all they had ever been – practice, not the real thing. He had never stood toe to toe with a warrior who knew how to kill him. Suddenly his new confidence began to drain away.

  They reached the gate and Rurik led them in. A couple of Wolf Men were standing just inside, warming themselves at a brazier. They took one look at the armed men approaching and ran for their lives. “To arms! We’re under attack!” they yelled, and Rurik grinned. “That should wake everyone up,” he said.

  By the time they got to the longhouse men were pouring out of it, pulling on chainmail, fumbling with their weapons, hel
mets askew. Gunnar wasn’t sure what he had expected to happen next, but it was shocking in its swiftness. Rurik sprinted forward, screaming a war cry. His blade flashed in the torchlight and he cut down two Wolf Men before they could raise their shields.

  Thorkel and Viglaf made short work of several more, then Gunnar was in the thick of it, a Wolf Man raining blows on his shield. Around him blades rose and fell, spears jabbed and snapped, men grunted and yelled and screamed and died. Gunnar gasped for breath, his shield heavy on his arm. A Wolf Man swung an axe at him and he ducked, the blade swishing just over his head. He raised Death-Bringer, but Erlend stepped forward and cut the Wolf Man down.

  “Don’t worry, Gunnar, we’ll take care of you!” said Erlend, grinning at him. The Wolf Man’s blood was spattered over Erlend’s cheek and chest.

  “But I don’t want you to take care of me!” Gunnar yelled.

  Erlend, however, was fighting, not listening. Before long most of the Wolf Men were dead, and those who were still alive turned and fled, keen to save their skins. But half a dozen warriors stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the longhouse door, their shields overlapping and swords raised.

  Gunnar recognized them as the men who had been with Skuli when he had first come to the steading. They had killed several of Viglaf’s crew in the fighting, including Einar Squint-Eye. Now they stared at Rurik and Thorkel and Viglaf and the others, who stared back at them from behind their own shields.

  “All right, lads,” said Thorkel. “If you yield now, I’ll ask the true lord of this steading if he’ll spare your lives. Or you can die. It’s up to you.”

  True lord of the steading? Gunnar realized that was him. Skuli’s warriors said nothing, and the only sound beneath the dark sky was that of torch flames flapping and hissing. Then the shield wall parted and Gunnar saw Grim’s archers, arrows notched in their bows, and Grim himself drawing his sword.