by Peter Fox
Thorvald dropped another block of peat on the fire, sending a shower of embers into the air and snapping Rathulf from his dream. ‘You’ll tire of all that sun, mark my words,’ Thorvald said. ‘You’ll soon be longing for snow and endless darkness.’
Rathulf looked up, amazed. How had father known what I was thinking?
‘You had a smile as wide as Sognefjorden on your face,’ Thorvald explained. His expression changed to one of sympathy. ‘Mind you, given the weather of late I don’t blame you for maintaining that fantasy; such a journey would be worthy of a saga or two.’
‘It’s not a fantasy,’ Rathulf muttered but felt a little sheepish nonetheless.
Thorvald’s smile broadened. ‘Well if you do find it, remember to tell your friends and family, won’t you? Personally, I think you’ll sail off the edge of the world long before you get sight of it.’ Thorvald leant forward, his expression suddenly serious. ‘Rathulf,’ he said, ‘it is time we discussed your future.’
‘You know what I intend to do,’ Rathulf said quickly, knowing exactly where this was leading.
Thorvald shook his head. ‘No, Rathulf, that isn’t–’
‘Alrik, Leif and I will bring back so much gold and silver that we’ll never go hungry again,’ Rathulf interrupted.
Thorvald’s reaction was as immediate as it was predictable. ‘That’s precisely what all those men who perished at Aegir’s hands this autumn believed,’ he said angrily. ‘Remember: “Fields and flocks had Fitjung’s sons, who now carry begging bowls: wealth may vanish in the wink of an eye. Gold is the falsest of friends.” One hundred and thirty men died thinking as you do, Rathulf, and some of them were your friends. Does their loss mean nothing to you? And what of Sigvald? Have you forgotten your distress when he failed to return from his travels and we had all thought him taken too?’
They had been through this so many times before. Whenever Rathulf had raised the possibility of going a-Viking, Thorvald would always deflect his son’s attention to his need to take up a craft. Rathulf wasn’t interested in learning how to make boats, carts, leather bags, cloak pins or whatever other ridiculous thing Thorvald had suggested in the past. All he wanted to do was to seek out the world that lay beyond the confines of his fjord. He, Alrik and Leif had always planned to earn passage on a longship or trader and explore the world as soon as they were able. He was soon to be sixteen after all, which meant he was four years past being called a boy, but more importantly, it meant that his life was already half over. Therefore with so little time to live, why would anyone want to stay at home crouched in a dark corner whittling away at pieces of wood when the whole world awaited him? The idea was profoundly disturbing to Rathulf, and he recoiled at the thought of that fate.
‘I refuse to become a comb-maker,’ he said firmly. ‘And Sigvald is different. He had always intended to stay away last winter. I’ll bet he wishes he’d done the same this winter too.’
‘That’s not what I–’
‘Then what do you propose?’ Rathulf demanded, cutting off Thorvald again. ‘That we stay here and rot like the grain in our stores? It’s bad enough that you insist on us living like hermits. Look at us. We’re nothing better than slaves ourselves. Our house is cold and damp and stinks like a hog pen. Normal people, like Alrik, live in big houses with other folk where they can share mead and stories, and there’s always plenty to do, even in the middle of winter. Fair enough if you don’t want to go and live with Bardi or Sigvald, but at least let us do the same as them. Think what we could do here, father. We could bring this farm back to life. We could buy hundreds of sheep and a score of slaves to look after them. I could buy a longship, and we could build new byres and storehouses. And,’ he added, his eyes gleaming with excitement, ‘we could raise a fire-hall twice the size of Sigvald’s and hold feasts and contests that will be the envy of all Norvegr.’ Rathulf had already planned the layout of the new settlement in minute detail in his head, all the way down to the iron braziers that would light their great hall.
‘No,’ Thorvald said firmly. ‘I don’t want you following that course.’
‘I’m a Norseman!’ Rathulf cried, desperately wanting his father’s approval but knowing that in this, it would never be given.
‘No, you’re not!’ Thorvald snapped.
Rathulf let out an involuntary gasp. What did his father mean by that? He frowned at Thorvald, hurt by his father’s outburst.
Thorvald’s expression softened, and he regarded his son for a long while before speaking. ‘It is that important to you, being a Viking?’ he asked.
Something about Thorvald’s tone made Rathulf’s heart skip a beat. ‘Yes,’ he said hesitantly. ‘You know it is. Why?’ Then a horrible thought struck him. Could this be about next summer, about my taking the Leap? What if my greatest fear is about to be realised? What if, because I am a foreign-born slave, I will not be allowed to join the ranks of the Norse menfolk? Is that what everyone has been avoiding telling me? He had seen the way some of the men had looked at him when he had proclaimed his intentions at the last assembly. It was as if they knew something; a secret that Rathulf was not a party to. Worse still, Gunnar, Rathulf’s hated foster-cousin, had been making snide remarks of late about his parentage.
‘Do you know what today is?’
Thorvald’s question was unexpected, and Rathulf frowned. It was Thor’s Day, and for a moment he worried that he had forgotten an important rite. He shook his head. No, I definitely made the offering to Ull two nights ago.
‘It is your birthday.’
Rathulf blinked. No, it isn’t, he thought, confused. He was about to protest when his father lifted his hand. Only then did Rathulf notice that it had been resting on a long, squat package that sat on the table. Of similar size to a Viking sea chest, the oilskin-wrapped box must have been there all that time. How had I missed that?
‘Today is the day you were born in your homeland,’ Thorvald went on. ‘The other day you have been celebrating is the anniversary of your adoption by me.’
Rathulf actually knew this; his mother had made a big fuss of his real birthday when she had been alive, but like so many other things that had passed with her death, it had long been forgotten. But why was Thorvald bringing it up again now? Rathulf’s gaze fell back onto the box and the hairs prickled on his neck.
‘Do you ever wonder where you came from?’ Thorvald asked quietly.
‘I’m a Briton. My mother and father were in the boat you ran into. You brought my mother and me back here as slaves. You’ve told me the story a thousand times.’
‘Yes, but what of the land of your birth; Dumnonia? Do you not wonder about it? Have you any interest in returning there?’
Rathulf swallowed. Of course he did; more than he would care to admit. And there were the dreams and nightmares, which lately had been growing more frequent and intense; not that he would ever let on to his father about that either. In truth, he had hoped to sail there when he was wealthy enough to hire or even buy his own ship. As for his birth parents, he had eventually come to accept that he would know only what little Thorvald himself knew of them, which was next to nothing. Thorvald had been just and kind to his adopted son, and although Rathulf’s life was simple, he had forged a place for himself here in the western fjordlands and was looking forward to sealing that position this coming summer. ‘I am a Viking,’ he repeated, as much for himself as his father.
Thorvald nodded slowly, then he seemed to come to a decision. ‘Indeed you are,’ he said. He stood and moved to pick up the package from the table, but Rathulf reached out and put his hand on Thorvald’s.
‘What is it?’ he asked, pointing at the box.
‘Nothing,’ Thorvald said, and he quickly picked up the trunk and moved towards the door.
Something inside it clinked – it was a sound familiar to Rathulf although he couldn’t quite place it – and again the hairs again prickled on his neck. He looked into his father’s grey eyes, but Thorvald’s troubled expressi
on did little to reassure the young man. ‘Father?’
‘You are a Viking,’ Thorvald said quietly, and with that, he stepped out into the snow.
Rathulf sat at the table, confused. What was that all about, he wondered, and what was in that box? He rose from the bench, pulled on his cloak and followed Thorvald outside.
So intent was he on his thoughts that he did not see the hulking troll until it loomed out of the darkness before him.
✽ ✽ ✽
Rathulf sprang backwards and let out a yelp of fright. ‘Who’s there?’ he called.
It was the perfect time for an attack, and in the fading light, Rathulf had failed to see it until too late. He knew it was not his father; it was too squat for that. Rathulf backed away and quickly glanced about to get his bearings. The stables stood just behind him, and he remembered that a spade leant by its entrance. He scrambled down to the door and snatched up the wooden tool to defend himself.
‘Father!’ he shouted, but the swirling snow swallowed his words.
The ponies, Rathulf thought. A troll will go for the heat of the stalls, and if I can get the door open to distract it, I might have a chance. With one hand Rathulf fumbled behind him for the latch, while in the other he held his near-useless weapon out towards danger. He found the handle and hauled the door open as far as it would go against the piled snow, then with a yell to Odin to protect him, he sprang forward and made a dash for the house, the fire and safety. The beast lumbered out of the gloom in front of him. Rathulf shoved the spade at it and kept running. He reached the house and burst inside, shouting, ‘troll!’ He snatched his father’s axe from the wall and whirled around ready to face the angry monster.
There was a crunching of snow from the ramp leading to the door, and Rathulf ran towards the sound, yelling at the top of his voice. Thorvald sprang out of his son’s way as Rathulf surged out into the snow.
‘It’s me!’ Thorvald shouted before Rathulf could turn and swing the heavy blade at him.
Rathulf grabbed his father by the arm and dragged him into the house. ‘There’s a Jötunn out there,’ he panted.
Without a word, Thorvald sprang over the table, grabbed his sword then was back at his son’s side, blade drawn and held at the ready. They waited breathlessly on either side of the entrance, but no sound or movement came from the doorway. Both were keenly aware that in their haste to get inside, they had not bolted the door. It stood ajar, and a cold draught streamed in through the gap and played around their ankles.
‘What are we to do?’ Rathulf asked. ‘We can’t stand here waiting for it all night. We’ll be snowed in if we don’t keep the door clear.’
Thorvald looked across at his son. ‘You saw it. How big is it? Do you think we could overpower and kill it?’
Rathulf grimaced at the thought. He had no desire to find out. He had never faced a troll before, but he knew that the beast that had taken the shepherds of Jostedalen had possessed the strength of ten men, and was armed with razor-sharp teeth and long, curving claws. At least that was what they had judged from the state of the shredded bodies of the boys and sheep they had found high on the mountain pass. ‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,’ Rathulf said. ‘What if there’s more than one?’
‘If we both carry torches and go back-to-back, we should be all right. We can always return here if need be.’
So long as they don’t block our retreat, Rathulf thought grimly, convinced now that a pack of them roamed the farmstead in search of food. ‘I guess it’s better than waiting in here until the snow covers us and we suffocate,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll get the door.’
Rathulf threw the door open then sprang back to safety. Nothing came barging in, nor was there any sound from outside, except for the ever-present whisper of falling snow.
The two of them waited a while longer, then slowly and carefully they made their way outside, Thorvald taking the lead.
‘Not too quickly now,’ Thorvald murmured.
Rathulf was so tense that he nearly jumped out of his skin when Thorvald spoke. No attack came, however, and no matter how hard they strained their senses, they heard, smelt and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Large, soft flakes fell quietly all around them, glowing yellow and orange in the soft-edged pools of light cast by the torches. Every so often one hissed as it landed in the flames.
They reached the stable door, but Rathulf saw to his alarm that no tracks marred the virgin snow. The beast had not gone into the stalls as he had hoped. He looked around anxiously, wondering where it waited. He imagined it crouched in the shadows somewhere, watching them through its round, luminous eyes, saliva dripping from its yellow fangs onto its moist tongue and lips.
‘It’s not here,’ Rathulf said. ‘Let’s go back to the house.’
Without waiting for a reply, Rathulf turned towards the welcoming firelight that spilt from the open door of their home. He had barely taken two steps when something grabbed his foot and tripped him up. He lost his hold on his torch and stumbled into the outstretched arms of a black shape waiting in the snow beneath him. He yelled and rolled sideways, snatching up his axe and whirling around to bring it down on the monster.
‘NO!’ Thorvald shouted, lunging forward.
The axe struck Thorvald’s out-thrust torch, ripping the staff from his hand. Rathulf grunted in surprise as the axe skittered off the shaft and deflected into the snow, burying its head deep and pulling Rathulf off balance. He tumbled head over heels and landed on his back between Thorvald’s legs. He looked up to see what had made his father parry the blow, and when he saw what, or more correctly who lay in the snow at his feet, he let out a startled exclamation.
‘What’s he doing here?’ he asked, astonished.
‘That I cannot tell you,’ Thorvald replied, equally surprised. ‘But we should thank the Gods you missed him, for it would have been a terrible thing to have killed your friend.’
4. The beast of Utgard
Sigvaldsby, Lærdalsfjorden, Norvegr
‘What’s his problem now?’ Sigvald demanded, abandoning his new set of pocket scales. The tall Viking rose from his place at the table, his blonde moustache twitching in annoyance. ‘I’m tired of his constant moaning.’
‘Myran has good cause, dear,’ his wife soothed from her loom. ‘You shouldn’t be so hard on him, you know. I like that headband, by the way. It makes you look younger.’ She smiled at him encouragingly through twinkling green eyes.
Sigvald blushed. ‘Do you think so?’ he asked, adjusting the woven cloth band on his head. ‘Would it look better with my hair in one braid or two?’ He paused, tugging at his braided beard. ‘One, I think, to match my beard.’
‘Neither,’ came a voice from behind him. ‘You look silly.’
Sigvald turned and scowled at his daughter, who sat with her three sisters on the other side of the room. ‘I wasn’t asking you,’ he grumbled.
Sixteen-year-old Ingrith glanced at her mother, her expression mirroring her mother’s mirth. ‘He’ll be trying your eye-shadow next.’
The other girls giggled.
‘And why not?’ Sigvald said testily. ‘Jarl Eirik was wearing it at the Winternight’s feast. No one laughed at him.’
‘That’s because he’s Eirik,’ his second-oldest daughter offered. ‘And you’re definitely not Eirik.’
‘Meaning what?’ Sigvald demanded, glaring at Sigrid.
The twelve-year-old giggled back at him, which set off the other girls again. Soon the house was filled with the bright laughter of his four daughters.
Sigvald looked to his wife for support. He was wasting his time of course.
Helga smiled. ‘Go and see what Myran wants, dear.’
Sigvald sighed and drew his heavy winter cloak around his broad shoulders, then he stepped outside and trudged through the snow toward the stables. What had he done to deserve four daughters? They were all turning out like Helga of course; a clutch of fair-haired Skogsnymfen with a knack for finding new and cunning way
s to amuse themselves at his expense. The men were already making jokes about pecking hens and apron strings. Why couldn’t I have had just one son? he wondered irritably. He smiled to himself. And why am I walking to the stables now if it is not for Rathulf? He shook his head, for a moment feeling intensely jealous of Thorvald. By Odin, he thought, if Rathulf had been my son and if I’d been allowed to… He stopped mid-thought and sighed again. No point going down that well-trodden path. He isn’t, and that’s that. Still, the day is fast approaching when everything will change, and not before time!
The air inside the stables was hot and stuffy and stank of silage, hay and horse dung. Two large braziers burned at either end of the row of wattle-woven stalls, each one monitored by a couple of slaves. The thralls stood with pails of water beside them, ready to douse any stray embers that fell into the hay. At least the roof was safe; dirt and turf didn’t burn too well, especially when covered in three feet of snow. Yet, despite the precautions, there had been two fires already this winter, and the blackened timbers near the building’s entrance were a testimony to the speed at which the flames could take hold.
The stable-master appeared from one of the stalls and bowed to the jarl. Myran’s brown tunic and trousers had been white once, but many years of slavery had taken their toll. Various stains mottled the fabric, and the odd patch and tear gave the little man the air of a beggar. Why he insisted on wearing them was beyond Sigvald. As far as the chieftain knew, Myran had worn the same rags every day since Sigvald had bought him, and that was six years ago. No wonder he smelt like the rear end of a sow. It annoyed Sigvald greatly; one’s treatment of one’s slaves was an indication of one’s means, and Myran always contrived to crawl from his smelly little hole when visitors were about. He did it on purpose, of course, just to make a point. He’d have been dead long ago if it weren’t for the fact that he was so remarkable with horses.
