by Tony Bradman
“They seem to have made their minds up, Gunnar,” said Rurik.
Gunnar saw that Grim was surprised by the mention of his name, and that now the Wolf Men’s chief was studying him with a puzzled expression. Gunnar smiled, then nodded at Rurik – and the bloodletting began again.
TWENTY-ONE
FIGHT TO THE DEATH
THE FIGHTING ROUND the longhouse door was hard and bitter. Thorkel and Rurik soon cut down Grim and the archers, although not before a couple more of Viglaf’s crew had been killed, one with an arrow in his throat, the other with Grim’s sword in his chest. Skuli’s men exacted a tough price for their lives too, killing three more of Viglaf’s crew. But at last they lay dead as well. Gunnar stepped over the bodies, and entered the hall with Rurik beside him, their boots sticky with blood.
A fire burned in the hearth. Long tables bore jugs of ale and mead and great platters of food. Thick swags of holly had been hung on the walls and pine branches nailed to the rafters as decoration. The people of the farm were sitting on the benches, all quite terrified. They must have heard the sounds of battle outside, and now Gunnar had burst in, a warrior in chainmail and helmet with his sword drawn, a band of armed Vikings rushing in behind him.
Skuli and Mother were on the other side of the hearth. Skuli held her by the arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. But her face glowed with joy.
“Welcome home, Gunnar,” she said, trying to pull away from Skuli. “Your father told me everything in a dream. You look more like him than ever.”
“Be quiet, woman,” snarled Skuli. “Gunnar was a snot-nosed brat who ran off a year ago and probably got eaten by wolves in the forest. This is some young adventurer you’ve cooked up a plot with. It’s all lies.”
“I ran off because at the time I had no choice,” Gunnar said quietly. “But I swore a blood oath that night, Skuli – and I’ve returned to fulfil it.”
“Is that so?” said Skuli, sneering. “Even if it’s true, you obviously realized you’re not up to it. Otherwise why would you need a band of hired killers?”
“They came to even up the odds and make it a fair battle,” Gunnar said. “Now it’s just between you and me. Draw your sword and we’ll finish it.”
“You want a fight to the death?” said Skuli. Gunnar nodded. “Don’t make me laugh,” Skuli went on. “If I win, your men will cut me down anyway.”
“And I will if they don’t,” said Mother, shooting him a look of hatred.
Skuli whipped out his dagger and held it against her throat, pulling her to him. She struggled, but he was too strong. “I’m beginning to think I don’t want to marry you after all,” he hissed. “I’d be forever looking over my shoulder.”
“Let her go,” said Gunnar. Rurik and Thorkel stepped forward, their blades raised. Viglaf and his men muttered and pushed up behind them.
“One step closer and I’ll slit her throat from ear to ear,” growled Skuli, pressing the edge of the dagger harder into Mother’s pale skin.
“Stop!” yelled Gunnar, and nobody moved. “What do you want?”
“I know if I kill her I’m a dead man, but I’ll trade you her life for a promise. Make your men swear they won’t harm me whatever happens, and I’ll let her live – and I’ll fight you as well. I can’t be fairer than that, can I?”
“Don’t do it, Gunnar,” said Mother, her voice pleading. “Kill him even if it means I have to die too! You’re all that matters – I want you to live…”
Thorkel moved so Skuli couldn’t see his face and whispered to Gunnar. “Tell him what he wants to hear and we’ll kill him as soon as he lets her go.”
“Forget your oath,” said Rurik. “You were a boy when you swore it…”
Gunnar listened, their voices filling his head, but then he pushed them both out of his way and looked straight into Skuli’s eyes. “I agree,” he said. “Let her go. No one will harm you if you kill me.”
“Are you sure, Gunnar?” said Rurik. Thorkel frowned.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything, Rurik,” said Gunnar. “Now swear, everyone!” he yelled. “No one is to harm Skuli, whatever happens!”
There was more muttering, but they all swore. Skuli released Mother and she ran to Gunnar. He dropped his shield and they held each other. Mother’s tears were wet on his cheek. “You’re thinner, Mother,” he said.
“And you’re bigger,” she said, stepping back to look at him.
“So, how are we going to do this?” said Skuli. “Viking rules, I trust?”
Rurik and Thorkel exchanged a look. “What does he mean?” Gunnar asked.
“No helmet or byrnie, stripped to the waist, swords only,” murmured Rurik, his face grim. “No quarter, and you fight to the last drop of blood.”
“Fine by me,” said Gunnar. “Help me get my byrnie off, Rurik.”
Thorkel ordered a space to be cleared while Gunnar and Skuli got ready. Viglaf and his men turned over the tables and pushed them back against the walls, dashing platters and jugs to the floor in the process. Before long the hall was quiet, torches burning brightly, a silent ring of faces waiting for the fight to begin, the people of the farm mixed in with Viglaf’s crew.
“Can we get on with it now?” said Skuli at last, impatience in his voice.
Gunnar turned to look at him. Skuli stood on the other side of the hearth, the pale white skin of his broad shoulders gleaming in the torchlight. His deep chest was covered in a mat of black hair, the same texture as his beard, and unlike some men he seemed bigger without his tunic on, almost as if the power in him had been unleashed. Gunnar felt naked and vulnerable and afraid.
Skuli was holding his sword, and now he raised it for some practice swings. Torchlight flared off the blade as it sliced through the air, humming and whistling. Gunnar watched the play of muscles in Skuli’s arm and chest, Skuli swinging his sword faster and faster until it was almost a blur.
“Very pretty,” Rurik called out. “But it doesn’t mean you can fight.”
Other voices jeered, Thorkel and Viglaf and the people of the farm beginning to yell. “We’ll soon see about that, won’t we?” said Skuli, grinning.
Gunnar felt the eyes of everyone turn to look at him, and he swallowed, his throat suddenly dry and painful. Mother kissed his cheek and moved aside, her face pale, tears flowing once more. Rurik squeezed his shoulder and said something about keeping his guard up. Thorkel’s mouth was moving but Gunnar couldn’t hear him. The crowd was baying now, Erlend’s voice rising above the others, yelling, “Good luck, Gunnar, give him all you’ve got!” and then Gunnar found himself moving towards Skuli, Death-Bringer raised.
Skuli laughed and sprang forward, aiming a blow at his head. Gunnar brought Death-Bringer up and their blades clanged together, the shock travelling up Gunnar’s arm. Then Skuli went low, slicing at Gunnar’s legs, trying to chop him down. Gunnar blocked that stroke, and another, retreating as Skuli came on, still laughing, enjoying himself. Gunnar stumbled and almost fell and Rurik yelled at him, “Stay on your feet! Don’t let him corner you!”
Gunnar was panting, sweat streaming off him. Skuli was backing him towards a corner of the hall, but there seemed to be nothing he could do about it. Skuli was hammering at him, stroke after stroke, Gunnar desperately holding him off, the sound of metal clanging on metal ringing in his head, Father’s training forgotten. Then Skuli began to talk, making fun of him.
“So this is Gunnar, the hero who went to Valhalla a boy and came back a man… Well, as far as I can see you’re still a boy … a little boy trying to be a man, holding his father’s sword when he should be playing with toys…”
The old doubts filled Gunnar, and he wondered how he could ever have hoped to beat a grown man, a warrior like Skuli. But then he parried one of Skuli’s blows – and struck one of his own, almost knocking Skuli’s sword from his hand. Skuli frowned. Suddenly Gunnar knew that he was a man, whatever Skuli might say, and the doubts vanished like mist burned by the sun.
Rurik and Thorkel yelle
d encouragement as Gunnar pushed forward, striking again, getting into a rhythm. Soon Death-Bringer was singing and Skuli no longer laughed. He chopped and hacked at Gunnar, attacking him from every angle. But now it was Gunnar who was relentless, parrying every stroke, wielding his blade as Father had taught him, forcing his enemy back. Skuli looked at him through their whirling blades, his eyes haunted.
They stamped through the hearth, kicking up a shower of sparks. They swept towards a wall, people scattering out of their way like chickens frightened by two dogs fighting in a farmyard. At last Skuli broke off and yelled, “Stop!”
“No quarter,” Gunnar said. “Viking rules, remember?”
“Forget the rules,” said Skuli, his chest heaving. “I’ll make you an offer. I can give you power and wealth. Don’t turn me down like your fool of a father.”
“My father was no fool,” said Gunnar. “And neither am I.”
Gunnar closed his eyes and saw the third Norn holding her shears over a thick thread. He heard all three sisters cackling. One will live and one will die… Then he opened his eyes and swung Death-Bringer for the last time in this fight. The blade swept clean through Skuli’s neck and his head rolled across the floor.
Gunnar raised Death-Bringer in triumph, and torchlight leaped from it like bolts of lightning. “GUNNAR! GUNNAR!” roared the people of his hall.
This was his home, and no man would ever take it from him again.
VIKING BOY
TONY BRADMAN has been involved with children’s books for over thirty years as a writer, a reviewer and an editor of anthologies. His books include the highly successful Dilly the Dinosaur series, the Happy Ever After sequels to famous fairy tales, and picture books such as The Perfect Baby and Through My Window. Tony has been a judge for the Smarties Book Prize, the Booktrust Teen Awards, the Guardian Children’s Fiction Prize and is chair of the Siobhan Dowd Trust. Viking Boy is his first standalone novel.
About Viking Boy, he says: “I’ve loved everything about the Vikings since I was a boy. I first encountered them in history lessons at school, and soon found my way to great stories by writers such as Rosemary Sutcliff and Henry Treece before going on to read some of the original Viking sagas. Viking Boy grew out of my desire to write an adventure story that I would have loved to read when I was young.”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. All statements, activities, stunts, descriptions, information and material of any other kind contained herein are included for entertainment purposes only and should not be relied on for accuracy or replicated as they may result in injury.
First published in Great Britain 2012 by Walker Books Ltd
87 Vauxhall Walk, London SE11 5HJ
Text © 2012 Tony Bradman
Illustrations © 2012 Pierre-Denis Goux
The right of Tony Bradman and Pierre-Denis Goux to be identified as author and illustrator respectively of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data: a catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-4063-4273-4 (ePub)
www.walker.co.uk
