by Peter Fox
No one spoke, each waiting for the other to start.
Thorvald smiled. ‘Take your time.’
‘You can’t remember?’ Rathulf asked, breaking the deadlock.
‘No, I can’t.’ In response to his son’s sceptical expression, a wry smile crossed Thorvald’s face. ‘Really,’ he added earnestly. ‘The last thing I remember is you accusing Leif of masquerading as a troll.’
‘A what?’ Alrik burst out, laughing. ‘You’ve got trolls on the brain, Ra. How could you have mistaken Leif for a troll?’
Rathulf winced, knowing that Alrik wouldn’t rest until he had heard that story in detail. Then the memory of the Beast of Utgard returned, and he shuddered at the recollection of the explosive impact that had destroyed their farmhouse and with it, Rathulf’s former life as a humble shepherd.
‘What happened?’ Thorvald asked more gently this time, seeing his son’s troubled expression.
‘We were hit by an avalanche later that same night,’ Rathulf explained. ‘Our home has been destroyed.’
The news rocked Thorvald, who looked to the others for verification. Each of them nodded.
Thorvald turned again to Rathulf. ‘Yet you escaped unscathed. How?’
Rathulf shook his head and smiled. He loosened his belt then lifted his tunic and undershirt to reveal the bandage that bound his chest. ‘Seven broken ribs, a cracked skull and bruising to every part of my body. I can’t breathe properly, can’t bend or turn on my hip, in fact I can’t really do anything without hurting myself, but other than that I’m fine.’
Thorvald cocked his eyebrow. ‘I see.’ A shadow crossed his face, and he said, suddenly dismayed, ‘Leif? What became of him?’
‘He’s the one who escaped unharmed,’ Rathulf said, knowing how untrue those words really were. ‘Nothing more than a scratch. You’re the one we’ve all been worried about.’
‘In fact, we were ready to give up on you,’ Sigvald interjected. ‘You’ve been taking up valuable space in my house.’ Rathulf flashed him a frown, but Sigvald went on, smiling. ‘You broke your left leg in two places, as good as lost the other one, and damn near spilt all your blood on the ground in the meantime, but the Gods must have decided it was not your time to go because they lumbered you on me instead. Plus your son and all his hangers-on.’ He waved a hand at Alrik.
Thorvald frowned at the green-eyed youth, who in turn was smiling at him, although he held his arm in an odd fashion and it was obviously causing him considerable pain. ‘What happened to you?’ he asked, nodding at the arm.
‘Completely unrelated injury,’ Sigvald said quickly and firmly.
‘But I still don’t understand,’ Thorvald said. ‘How did I come to be here? You said the house had been destroyed.’
Rathulf began to respond, but Sigvald beat him to it. ‘You can thank Leif for that,’ Sigvald said. ‘In fact, the whole of Sognefjorden is talking of his extraordinary courage and determination. Who would have thought it, eh?’
Thorvald frowned. ‘Leif?’ he asked, clearly surprised. He turned to his son for confirmation.
Rathulf nodded. ‘We really do owe him our lives.’
Thorvald looked around. ‘Where is he?’
Rathulf paused, wondering how he could tell his father that Leif had returned home. ‘He’s…’ Rathulf began, trying to think of anything that might mitigate the fact that for all this time, Leif had been suffering at Horik’s farmstead.
‘He’s back at Horiksby,’ Sigvald said, ‘because Horik accused us all of kidnapping him and threatened to bring action against us at the Althing. Leif didn’t want to cause any trouble, so he went home. We tried to stop him, but he was insistent.’
Thorvald frowned at Sigvald, clearly troubled. ‘Was there nothing you could do? You must have seen his injuries?’
‘Well, it would’ve been helpful if you’d not been asleep at the time,’ the jarl offered. ‘Is it true you offered Leif your hearth? Rathulf here made a big thing of it.’
Thorvald nodded. ‘I promised him he’d never have to return there.’ He turned to his son, his expression fraught. ‘I’m sorry, Ra.’
‘He’ll be fine,’ Sigvald said boisterously, backing his statement up with a confident smile. He turned his attention to his foster-son, who, like his father, was not at all happy with the outcome. ‘Why the long look, boy?’ Sigvald beamed. ‘Everything has been set right, and come summer we’ll have the house rebuilt, you’ll take the leap, and everything will be back to normal again, just like it used to be.’
‘Normal?’ Alrik added. ‘You forget about Tariq.’ He turned to Rathulf, his face flushed with excitement. ‘Wait ‘til you see who you’re riding over the Leap!’
‘Alrik,’ Helga said, frowning at her nephew disapprovingly. ‘Tariq is meant to be a surprise.’
‘Ra already knows about him,’ Alrik protested.
‘Thanks to who?’ Sigvald asked.
‘I do?’ Rathulf asked, confused.
‘Yes, well don’t get your hopes up,’ Helga warned, ‘because Tariq is staying right where he is until spring.’ She raised her hands to quell Alrik’s protests. ‘Tariq can be Rathulf’s reward for getting better.’
‘Come now Helga,’ Sigvald argued. ‘What harm would it do for Rathulf to see his horse?’ The chieftain grinned at his foster-son. ‘You could do with some cheering up, couldn’t you? And he’s better here where I can keep an eye on him and that snivelling horse-thrall Myran.’
Rathulf looked from Sigvald to Alrik then back to the jarl. ‘Tariq is a horse?’ he asked, a faint glimmer of understanding forming in the back of his mind.
‘Mooncalf more like,’ Helga murmured.
Alrik grinned at Rathulf. ‘Aunty is right you know. He’s a Jötunn’s mount for sure. You’ll wet yourself when you see him.’
‘I’m coming too,’ Ingrith said, squeezing Rathulf’s hand again. ‘I want to see you ride him,’ she added admiringly. ‘You’ll look so grand on him!’
‘He’ll do nothing of the sort,’ Helga said firmly, ignoring the boys’ protests, ‘because no one is going anywhere. You’ve all had more than enough excitement for a lifetime these past few days. You’ll stay inside and rest until I say otherwise, and before you argue, husband, I want you over at my brother’s. Now.’
‘What for? I’ve already sent Gormond.’
‘I don’t want Bardi coming here poking his nose into things, especially whilst his son is in this condition. And don’t look at me like that. If you’d been here when all this had happened, we wouldn’t be in this position now. You can fetch the monstrosity on your way back if you must. In the meantime I want you to reassure Bardi that everything is fine here.’
Sigvald looked at her, appalled. ‘But you’re asking me to lie!’
‘I don’t know why you’re so upset. You do it all the time.’
‘All the time be damned,’ he muttered.
‘Pardon dear?’
‘Er, nothing petal.’ The jarl drew the boys aside, shrugging in apology. ‘Looks like you’ll have to wait after all, unless of course, you want to argue with Helga.’ When neither boy offered to speak up, the chieftain smiled wryly. ‘See, I told you everything would be back to normal in no time.’
14. The Mooncalf
Sigvaldsby, Lærdalsfjorden, Norvegr
‘So what do you think? Not bad, eh?’ Alrik beamed at Rathulf irreverently, as though it had been his idea to procure the magnificent beast for his friend’s birthday. The two boys and Ingrith stood in Tariq’s makeshift stable, having snuck out of the house at the first possible opportunity to inspect the fabled horse. Sigvald had only just returned from Grinir’s this morning – despite the heavy rain – and had ordered them to keep well away until the stallion had been settled back into his old quarters; an instruction which they had, of course, completely ignored.
‘Sigvald is crazy if he thinks I’m going to take the Leap on that!’ Rathulf protested.
Alrik laughed. ‘Tariq’s entirely waste
d on you. Uncle should have given him to me. At least I know a good horse when I see one.’
‘I’m not saying he’s no good,’ Rathulf said, trying to sound nonchalant when in truth all he wanted to do was shout with joy. ‘It’s just that he’s so big!’ He had never seen a more magnificent animal, and no matter how many times he reminded himself of the fact, still he could not believe Tariq belonged to him. An actual Byzantine warhorse, from the very end of the world! There won’t be a single man in Norvegr who’ll not envy me this summer.
Tariq’s sheer size was amazing, and his muscular frame forebode immense power. He was all Rathulf expected and more, and the young Norseman imagined himself sitting astride the mighty stallion, charging across the shielings with the wind buffeting his face and the thundering rhythm of his flight pounding in his ears. Looking upon Tariq in the cold light of day, however, was a rather more alarming prospect, for although he would never dare admit it to anyone, Rathulf wondered how he would ever master such a massive beast.
Then there was the matter of the horse’s legs, for, despite his obvious strength, they were all out of proportion, so long and thin and fragile-looking. It had concerned Rathulf from the first moment he had set eyes on Tariq. Could they really hold all that bulk upright? Rathulf looked across at the stocky mountain pony, which had been brought in to keep Tariq company. Now that is how a horse’s legs should look: short, strong and well-muscled. Not like these spindly things. It would be like trying to build a feasting table with birch saplings for support.
‘They look like they’d snap at the first sign of trouble,’ Rathulf said aloud, gesturing at Tariq’s fetlocks and turning to Alrik.
Alrik smiled back at him, his expression less dubious. ‘I’ll bet he flies like the Valkyries. I can’t wait to see him in an open field. You’ll leave us all for dead.’
‘That’s if he doesn’t fall to bits on the first turn; assuming I can even get him to turn. He’s so huge!’ He shook his head again in wonder, marvelling at the stallion’s broad, muscled chest.
‘Sixteen-and-a-half hands huge,’ Alrik said proudly. Rathulf gaped at his friend, shocked. Horses don’t grow that big, do they? he thought, but they must, for here stands one right before me.
‘He’s such a nice colour, too,’ Alrik was saying. ‘It looks like brushed bronze, and doesn’t that flash on his forehead and his white stockings make him look noble. I’d heard horses came in different colours, but Tariq is so, well, beautiful! See how his coat shines like metal? You’re so lucky. All I’ve got is my boring old dun-coloured pony, which is exactly like my brother’s dun pony, which is the same as Sigvald’s dun pony, and all the other bloody ponies in Norvegr. Oh sure, they occasionally come in different tints: yellow dun, grey dun, and cream-dun, but still dun. You’d think they could make at least one pony in a different colour.’ He realised Rathulf wasn’t listening and stopped.
The stallion stood in his stall, eyeing his admirers warily. Rathulf reached out a tentative hand, and Tariq responded by sniffing it. He wrinkled his nose with what appeared to be disdain.
Ingrith giggled. ‘Pooh! Someone didn’t wash this morning.’
Rathulf ignored her and reached up to stroke Tariq’s muzzle. The stallion turned his head away, eyeing him suspiciously.
Alrik burst out laughing. ‘Looks like you’ll have to clean up your act if you’re going to ride him. But how will you cope? You’ll have to bathe more than once a year.’
Rathulf scowled at his friend, but he withdrew his hand all the same, feeling self-conscious. I wash at least once a month, he thought, annoyed, and that’s more than most people around here. Nevertheless, he rubbed his hand on his tunic before reaching out for a second time.
Tariq took another sniff and, evidently satisfied this time, allowed Rathulf to stroke his nose and forelock. ‘There,’ Rathulf said softly, ‘I’m not all that bad after all, am I?’
Alrik let out a snort, but Rathulf kept his eyes fixed on his stallion, determined to win him over. It’s no wonder you’re so unhappy, he thought, having been dragged all the way from your warm home to this frigid place. He smiled inwardly. We’re quite alike, you and I. Both born of a distant land and forced to start a new life among strangers. What do you think of us, I wonder? Poor, simple barbarians, no doubt. None of your gold-paved streets here and damn near no sun at all in winter. He paused in his stroking, but the horse nudged his muzzle into Rathulf’s palm, keen for more. Poor Tariq. Rathulf sighed. We’ve new lives to begin, you and I, and whether we like it or not, this is our home. Shall we be friends?
‘You’re going to have to get new tack made for him,’ Alrik said, interrupting Rathulf’s thoughts. The young Norseman was measuring Tariq up with his hands. He shook his head. ‘There’s no way a normal saddle will sit on his back. His shape is all wrong, and the halters will have to be lengthened. And you’re right about his height. Thor knows how you’re going to get up there. You’ll have to carry a ladder with you.’
‘How will I ever afford a new saddle?’ Rathulf said, shaking his head at his dilemma. It was one thing to own an expensive horse, but quite another to fit out and maintain him.
‘I suppose I could lend you the money,’ Alrik offered.
Rathulf looked at him sceptically. ‘Sure,’ he said.
Alrik frowned, hurt, and Rathulf immediately felt a flush of shame. Alrik’s offer had been genuine. ‘I could never afford to pay you back,’ Rathulf said, trying to make amends.
‘It’s the least I can do,’ Alrik said, ‘but if it would make you feel better, you could promise me the first ride in return. After you have mounted him, naturally.’ Alrik burst out laughing at Rathulf’s indignant expression.
‘That’s assuming Tariq will let either of you ruffians ride him. As you observed, he comes from good stock.’
The three turned to find Sigvald lounging in the doorway, a roguish grin lighting his face. Myran stood beside him, looking as miserable as ever. The jarl nodded at the horse. ‘I take it you approve?’
‘He’ll do,’ Rathulf said cheekily, turning back to Tariq. We’re going to be the champions, you and I, he thought fondly, meeting Tariq’s brown-eyed gaze.
‘Of course, I may just keep him for myself,’ Sigvald said, walking up to the two boys and his daughter. ‘He is rather magnificent after all.’ He reached out his hand to the stallion, who sniffed his enormous paw then allowed him to stroke his nose.
‘Will he, you know, stay all together?’ Rathulf asked, feeling a trifle silly. ‘It’s just that his legs seem a bit spindly.’
‘Spindly?! Myran, come and teach this boy something about real horses.’
The stable master shuffled forward a few paces, but he remained in his usual obsequious posture. ‘Ah yes, master Rathulf, they do seem rather thin, don’t they? But I assure you Tariq’s legs are quite normal for this breed. Indeed his length of stride allows great speed and agility; a trait especially bred by the Parthian horse lords–’
‘Parthian?’ Alrik interrupted. ‘What are they?’
Myran momentarily showed disdain, then he remembered himself and continued. ‘The Parthians were a great race of people from lands far to the east, whose cavalry knew no equal–’
‘What’s caverly?’ Alrik interrupted again.
Myran sighed and looked up at his master.
‘It’s a type of saddle,’ Sigvald explained to his nephew, then waved his hand at the stable master to continue.
‘Ah, I do not wish to contradict you of course, master,’ Myran said, and Rathulf detected the slightest hint of smugness in the slave’s voice, ‘and perhaps here in your lands it means a different thing, but in my language, the term cavalry refers to a type of horse-borne warrior.’
Sigvald scowled at him. ‘Is that so?’ he muttered irritably.
‘Do you come from the same place as Tariq?’ Alrik asked, clearly unable to just listen.
Myran let out a long, resigned sigh. ‘Yes, master Alrik, I am indeed originally from the Eas
t. Our horses are greatly revered for many reasons.’ He gave an affected sniff, then continued. ‘As I was saying, the cavalry are horsemen who fight in battle, usually with spears or bows. However, a heavy cavalryman, for whom Tariq was bred, is a special type of warrior, bold and fearless, whose part is to charge into the midst of the enemy ranks, scything off their enemies’ heads with their scimitars and trampling and scattering them asunder.’
‘You make it sound as if there are lots of them,’ Rathulf said, somewhat disbelieving.
Myran laughed softly, his tone verging on sympathy. ‘In my country, there are thousands of such warriors.’
‘Thousands?’ Alrik and Rathulf gasped in unison.
Myran’s eyes betrayed his pleasure at their ignorance and awe. ‘In the civilised world,’ he said, with great emphasis on the word civilised, ‘there are vast armies of many, many thousands of men, organised by generals possessed of great skill in the tactics of battle. The cavalry is but one small part of a military force. In the days of the Parthians, tens of thousands of men gathered together to fight in such armies.’
‘Nonsense,’ Sigvald scoffed.
Rathulf, Alrik and Ingrith listened open-mouthed. Such numbers of people were completely inconceivable here in the remote northern fjordlands. Even at the summer Althing when the entire population gathered, one would not count more than a thousand men. ‘And Tariq is one of their horses?’ Rathulf whispered.
‘Indeed he is, although the Parthians have long since passed, and it is the Persians who now master the breed.’
‘But why so big?’ Rathulf asked, looking again at his horse.
‘The heavy cavalry are so-called because they carry armour.’
‘Armour? Made for horses?’ Rathulf asked, astonished. Such an idea was preposterous.
Myran nodded. ‘Plate and chain armour, although you do not have such a thing here. That is why the horses are so strong. They must not only carry the weight of a man, but also a full coat of armour of their own, covering head to tail.’
