by Peter Fox
Rathulf woke again to a young and anguished cry. The voice did not belong among the memories of the past. It was someone he knew, someone dear to him. Rathulf heard his name called again, and he reached out towards the voice, seeking it urgently, for it held hope, a connection with the present. He fought against the confusing barrage of images wrought by the Jötunn’s enchantment, clawing his way to consciousness to gulp in lungfuls of clean, cold air. The voice called a third time, and he opened his eyes.
Two bright points of yellow light flickered and danced in the gloom beyond, reflected by the waters of Náströnd. Rathulf shrank back, repelled. The monster Nidhogg’s golden eyes locked onto his as the trickster uttered his name again.
‘Rathulf!’
The young Norseman heard the swish of its body as it made its way towards him, the hollow rumble of the sea monster’s breathing reverberating in the troll’s lair. Then something out of Rathulf’s line of sight caught Nidhogg’s attention, and the serpent let out a great hissing snarl, and the eyes swung away. The serpent passed him by, gliding swiftly across the water and disappearing out of view as it passed the mouth of the cave and closed in on the shore. The sound of many voices echoed across the water, familiar to him, but nevertheless unreal, unreachable. What are they doing there, those people? Rathulf thought. Don’t they understand the danger they face? Have they not seen the approach of the serpent? I must warn them.
He tried to stand, but his body felt heavy and unwieldy, as though it belonged to someone else altogether. He staggered forward a few steps then fell to his knees on the sandy floor of the cave. Voices drifted in and out of his consciousness as he knelt there, trying to focus his will on his person and wrest control from whatever fiendish hex bound him. He dragged his reluctant body to its feet again and put one foot out in front of the other. He was vaguely aware of the sensation of grating bone in his chest, and this seemed to be the cause of a searing pain in the same part of his body, but it was not quite registering in his consciousness. He teetered precariously, but he managed to convince his other leg to move, and then he was blundering onwards, splashing out into the water that lapped at the cave’s mouth.
He saw more points of yellow light burning brightly over the water nearby. He checked, his first instinct to flee, but something in his mind told him they were not the glowing eyes of a monster as he had first thought. He knew that light. He knew what made it, but his addled head could not make the connection between the image his eyes registered and the translation into thought and understanding.
A second cluster of lights danced in a tight formation further away. The world around him wavered and spun, but he forced himself onwards, fighting the quiet voice inside that urged him to lie down again and be still. He splashed up onto the beach and stumbled as his feet sank unexpectedly into snow.
He made his way towards the bright lights by the shore. They grew more distinct as he neared them, and suddenly he realised that each point of light was a blazing fire. Fire! It offers warmth, light, and safety, and people can be found near it. Perhaps I might even save myself. He raised his hand and shouted, but the sound that came out of his mouth was unintelligible to his ears. He tried a second time, but with the same result. He lurched towards the flames, eager to feel their welcoming touch. People were shouting now, but their cries sounded fearful. Rathulf could make out the forms of men, lined up between the pyres, waving long poles in the air. One of them struck him in the shoulder, and he reeled backwards. He called to them again, trying to tell them who he was and not to be afraid, but it only seemed to heighten their frenzy. The poles poked and battered him anew, and he backed out of their reach, growing angry now. ‘I’m only trying to help you,’ he cried.
Someone yelled in his ear and he jumped, startled by the proximity. He opened his mouth to respond, but there was a sharp crack on his head and a blinding flash in front of his eyes. His legs collapsed under him, and all fell dark and silent again.
✽ ✽ ✽
Rathulf woke for a second time to an unsteady world that rocked gently beneath him. A bevy of sounds and smells assaulted his senses: the rhythmic clunk of oars in their ports and the sharp tang of sea air; the crisp crackle of fire and the pungent smell of peat smoke; and the concerned voices of people he knew. A face loomed above him, familiar, warm, motherly. ‘Rathulf?’ The word resounded in his head in a deafening boom, and he clenched his eyes shut. The face called his name again, more softly this time. Rathulf felt the weight of heavy coverings on his body, smelling of damp wool and his home. Where am I? he wondered. What happened? He vaguely wondered if he had been taken from the shore by the souls of the dead warriors into their ghost ship. A hand rested briefly on his forehead. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in his chest sent him back down instantly. Someone had plunged a dagger into his ribs, and now they twisted the blade every time he took a breath. But that gentle voice was there again, calming, reassuring. The pain ebbed a little upon hearing it, but other hurts brought themselves to his attention as his consciousness slowly returned.
A different face appeared above him; that of a person his own age, the green eyes familiar. Rathulf frowned at him, unable to find a name or connection with any person he knew. Suddenly the voices became disjointed; clear and recognisable speech transformed into a foreign language that made no sense to Rathulf at all. He felt himself slipping back into the murky waters as the bewildering torrent of memories returned.
When Rathulf finally woke again, he arrived into a world of excruciating pain. His body screamed at him, blazing with such heat that his immediate desire was to find an icy lake and throw himself into its cooling waters. He moved to sit up, but strong hands pushed him back down. He resisted, knowing that he would die if he could not quell this terrible fire within.
‘Rathulf, no. You must stay still. Your body is thawing out and I know it hurts, but you must not move.’
The young Norseman blinked up at the woman who looked like Helga. Images of the Jötunn returned. ‘No!’ he cried. He tried to throw up his hands to protect himself, but they were bound to his sides.
‘Rathulf.’ Helga’s calming voice was there again, her hand resting on his shoulder. ‘It’s over now. You’re safe in my brother’s hall. You, Thorvald and Leif all survived. Rest now. Don’t trouble yourself.’
Rathulf looked back at her, confused. How had Helga come to be here? Or do I still lie in Náströnd, awaiting my death and dreaming of those who had once been precious to me?
‘Hush,’ Helga soothed. ‘Try to rest. This will help you sleep.’ She offered Rathulf a cup of tonic, but he held his lips shut, fearing this might be a trick; that Helga was a spectre, somehow manifested by the Jötunn to trick him into drinking the poison.
‘Sigvald, he’s delirious. I’ll need your help.’
Rathulf struggled as they forced the warm, bittersweet liquid down his throat, but his sense of panic began to subside as the tonic took effect. Soon his body felt as though it was supported by a cushion of warm, sweet-scented air, and he imagined himself floating over the high mountain dales of his home, the becks far below sparkling bright under a warm summer sun. With dismay, he realised what was happening to him, and he tried to resist the soothing effects of the drug. His mind told him that his fear had been real and justified; that this sensation of drifting into a world of bliss might be his soul leaving his body. However, even that alarming thought was not enough to override the powerful drug and Rathulf felt himself submitting to its comforting embrace.
Time drifted by as Rathulf’s body thawed, but he felt no pain or discomfort. People he knew and loved moved about him, Sigvald, Helga, Alrik and Ingrith prominent among his attendants. Alrik and Ingrith stayed at his side throughout, talking away in a near-constant chatter and relating inane stories of little real consequence. Later Rathulf was to realise their tales had been more comforting than any attention he had received from Helga and the others who tended him.
In time, the potion wore off, but when Rathul
f came to his full senses, the fierce burning within his body had gone, leaving behind it a sharp pain in his chest and a dull throbbing ache behind his eyes. The Jötunn’s lair had gone, and in its place was a small but comfortable room, with a brightly burning fire in the central floor-hearth. The clean, whitewashed walls bore old war shields, various hangings and an assortment of prizes from distant lands. A wide house-bench ran the length of each of the two side walls. Rathulf lay on a comfortable bed made up on one of those benches, while on the opposite side was another equally well-wrapped figure, apparently asleep. He turned his head and saw Alrik leaning against the wall on the opposite bench, watching him.
‘The hero awakes at last,’ Alrik said with a smile. ‘We thought we’d lost you a few times on the way back. Nice to see you’ve decided to stay.’
‘Rathulf!’ came a second voice, and suddenly Ingrith was there, kneeling beside him, clasping his hands in her own and gazing into his handsome face. ‘I thought you were dead.’
Rathulf blinked up at her, then he looked again to Alrik, who was grinning back at him with a relieved expression. Hero? I thought I was dead too, Rathulf thought. How did I get to be here? He frowned up at the matted thatching above him, his mind still struggling to come to terms with this change in circumstances. His last memory was of sitting at home with his father and Leif. Then the house had exploded around him. He drew in a sharp breath as his chest suddenly constricted. Leif! Father! What has become of them? ‘Where are they?’ he asked in a panic, starting to rise.
‘They’re safe.’ Ingrith said quickly, holding him down. ‘Leif’s not two paces from you and your father is up in the house. You must lie still!’
Rathulf tried lifting his head to find Leif, but the action brought a burst of pain from his chest. He groaned.
‘Oh Ra, you must believe us,’ Ingrith said. ‘Leif’s asleep at the moment, and it’s no wonder given everything he did for you. Mother will be down to check on you both soon.’
‘Leif didn’t do anything, Ingrith,’ Alrik countered. ‘Rathulf saved them.’ He looked back down at his friend. ‘Your father took a beating though, but auntie says he’ll be alright. He’ll take a bit of time to recover that’s all. Let’s face it; it’s amazing any of you survived.’
Ingrith rolled her eyes at her cousin. ‘The only reason Rathulf is alive right now is thanks to Leif’s actions and mother’s healing skills.’
Rathulf closed his eyes and thanked his patron god Odin for looking so kindly upon him, although why He had destroyed his home was at the moment perplexing. And what had Ingrith meant by everything Leif had done?
Alrik got up from the bench and handed Rathulf a mug of watered-down mead. ‘Get this into you. You look like you could do with a drink.’
‘I don’t think that’s a–’ Ingrith began, but she was too late.
Rathulf tried sitting up but the movement set his chest on fire and he flopped back down onto the bed, gasping. In the process, he knocked the mug from Alrik’s hand and its contents spilt onto the floor.
‘I always knew you couldn’t hold your liquor,’ Alrik said with a wry smile. ‘Don’t sit up. You’ve smashed your ribs to bits. Aunt Helga says every one of them is broken.’
Rathulf tried shifting to a more comfortable position, but as soon as he stirred, his ribs flared again. He cried out then swore. Ingrith put a hand on his arm. ‘You mustn’t move. You really are very badly hurt.’
Rathulf dropped his head back down onto the feather pillow. Despite the softness of the cushion, it felt like someone was hammering him on the back of his skull. He groaned. ‘I take it that somewhere along the way I hit my head too?’
‘No, that was father,’ Ingrith said.
‘Sigvald?’
‘He’s really upset about it,’ Alrik explained. ‘He smacked you pretty hard with that oar. In fact, he was trying to kill you, so he swung as hard as he could. You should have seen him when he realised who he’d hit. You won’t thank him for it; your face is a right mess. Helga says you’re lucky he didn’t crack your skull open.’
‘I’m not sure he didn’t,’ Rathulf replied, not daring to touch his head lest part of it was missing. He looked up at his friends, still utterly confused. ‘Why did Sigvald try to kill me?’
‘You scared the life out the slaves,’ Alrik explained, ‘blundering out of the darkness like you did, covered in blankets and skins and bellowing at them like a hungry troll.’
‘What slaves? I didn’t bellow at anyone.’
‘You bellowed,’ Alrik assured him. The young Norseman twisted his face into a frightening scowl, raised his hands like claws, and growled at his friend. ‘Just like that. You had me convinced.’
Alrik laughed at Rathulf’s bemused expression, then he reached over and refilled Rathulf’s mug. He gave it to Ingrith who held the cup to Rathulf’s lips. Rathulf drank the mead down in thirsty gulps, wincing as the action moved his chest.
‘Whoa, slow down,’ Alrik warned. ‘There’s plenty more, you know.’
Rathulf polished it off quickly all the same, and when he had finished, he looked up at Alrik expectantly. ‘More,’ he instructed, moving his elbows to try sitting up again.
‘Don’t,’ Alrik said firmly. ‘You’re going to get to know every strand of straw in that ceiling by the time you get better.’
A more banal thought struck Rathulf, and he turned to Alrik. ‘What if I need to take a piss or, you know…?’
‘You can’t,’ Alrik said with a grin. ‘You’ll just have to hold it all in until you’re better.’
Rathulf couldn’t even begin to wonder how he would manage that. What am I going to do when I need to relieve myself? In fact, now that I’m thinking about it…
‘Oh no,’ he said urgently. ‘Help me up. Quick.’
Without thinking, Rathulf threw his legs over the bed to sit up, but he was struck by a searing blaze of pain from his broken ribs and he doubled over, slipping off the bench and rolling onto the floor. Somewhere amid the shock of the pain, he felt warm liquid flowing down his thigh to puddle beneath him. The acrid scent of urine filled the room.
Rathulf swore as tears of agony and humiliation ran down his cheeks.
‘Hel’s thighs, Ra,’ Alrik said. ‘You could have given us a bit more warning. There’s a pot around here somewhere for that.’
‘Sorry,’ was all Rathulf could manage. He glanced up at Ingrith who was looking down at him strangely. Suddenly he realised he was naked and dropped his hands between his legs.
‘Ingrith!’ Alrik blurted, seeing the look on his cousin’s face.
The young woman came to her senses and averted her eyes, blushing. Murmuring something that Rathulf didn’t quite hear, she quickly found a cloth and thrust it at her cousin. ‘Shouldn’t we just get Helga?’ Alrik asked.
‘No!’ Rathulf pleaded. He couldn’t bear the thought of Helga or worse, Sigvald, seeing him like this. On the other hand, these two were no less embarrassing. ‘Just leave me alone. I’ll do it myself.’
‘How?’ Alrik demanded. ‘Look what happened when you tried to get out of bed just now!’
‘It’s not my fault. Maybe it was the potion Helga gave me,’ Rathulf suggested.
‘Well remind me never to take any,’ Alrik said. He sighed, then dropped down to his knees and proceeded to clean up his friend.
Rathulf caught Alrik’s eye and winced in apology.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ his green-eyed friend said. ‘No one need ever know.’
‘Well, well, there’s a sight. Can anyone join in?’
Rathulf’s heart sank at the sound of that scornful voice, and he didn’t need to turn his head to know that Gunnar, of all people, stood in the doorway.
‘On second thoughts,’ the visitor continued, ‘maybe not.’ He screwed up his thickset face with disgust.
‘Get lost Gunnar,’ Alrik said.
‘I’m just paying my respects to the slave-boy,’ he said caustically. ‘I’d heard he was dead, but unf
ortunately that seems to have been a mistake.’
‘You wish,’ Ingrith said hotly.
Gunnar ignored her and instead looked down at Rathulf, who was desperately wishing he knew a spell for making Gunnar, or better still himself, disappear.
‘Toilet pit’s outside,’ Gunnar said, jabbing towards the door with his thumb, ‘but I suppose you’re used to pissing all over yourself. That’s what you thralls do, isn’t it? Wet yourselves at the first sign of trouble?’
‘Hestkuk,’ Alrik growled, squaring up to Gunnar.
Eirik’s son was quicker, and before anyone knew what was happening, the black-haired youth had Alrik up against the wall with a small but sharp dagger held at Alrik’s throat. ‘Who are you calling a horse-cock, Alrik? Shall I tell Bardi what you said to his important guest? Maybe my father would like to know too?’
‘Touch him and I’ll… I’ll…’ Rathulf began, glaring up at the obnoxious show-off, hating him for all his advantageous breeding, wealth and power. Like his father, Gunnar commanded fear, if not respect, from among his peers. But of all the things he had inherited from Eirik, style and good looks were not among them. His dark brown trousers were too tight, his eyebrows too close together, and he sported a clump of pathetic wispy fluff on his chin which he claimed was a beard. It all served, in Rathulf’s opinion, to make him look ridiculous. What galled Rathulf, though, was that the dim-witted oaf managed to get away with it. And what right have I to make fun of him? he wondered, seething with humiliation. For here I am, lying naked – just as he says – in my own puddle of piss, unable even to cover myself up, let alone help my friend.
