The Wolves of Dumnonia Saga Box Set

by Peter Fox

  The hole that had marked the house had opened so wide with the melt that much of the collapsed roof was now exposed. He climbed into the wreckage and began to toss pieces of splintered wood up onto the ground outside. To his considerable pleasure and amazement, he found the flint box and its store of dry moss, which meant he’d be able to get a fire started without too much trouble. Wood was certainly not in short supply, and once he had collected what he thought would be enough to keep a decent fire going overnight, he clambered back out. Working quickly, he gathered up the firewood and made his way back to the water’s edge, glancing anxiously into the gloom and hoping the trolls were off in some other valley where the pickings would be better.

  He was about ten paces from the house when the ground beneath him suddenly gave way. Crying out in alarm, Leif tried to spring sideways, but his armful of wood threw him off balance. In a flurry of slush and firewood, he fell down the hole that had opened underneath his feet. He landed on his back, coming to a stop with a thud, but the ground beneath him was soft, so he was only winded. He rolled onto his side, pulling his twisted cloak straight and rubbing his neck. After a moment’s confusion, he realised he had fallen into another building, and he soon worked out which one. His left hand was resting on something that yielded a little to his touch: wool. When he looked about him in the semi-darkness, he saw that he had crashed into the byre to land on its half-thawed occupants. What had happened to the hay loft in which he had hidden he could only guess, but it had most likely been stripped off by the avalanche. He shuddered to think what might have been his fate had he still been in there when the Beast of Utgard had struck. Fortune had offered an alternative fate, however, and here he was, back in Rathulf’s byre again.

  He laughed, but it was with elation, not bitterness. He had come to Aurlandsfjorden because he simply could not accept that Alrik had found, then lost, Rathulf’s trunk. Leif told himself that Alrik could not have found it, and that it would still be there where he had first come across it on the night of the avalanche; not that he had understood what it was back then. So he had made first one attempt, and then another to sneak away. On the second occasion, it had been so easy to get away that Leif still couldn’t quite believe it. Horik hadn’t even stirred when Leif had crept out, and although he expected at every step to hear his father’s voice behind him, nothing had happened. Not a peep. So he had made his way here unhindered, although a part of him still expected the barked command that heralded his father’s arrival. It had taken him nearly seven days to get here; a journey that by ship would have taken just one.

  But it had all been worth it! For if he had discovered the byre by falling into it, then surely Alrik had not. He sat up and looked about him. He was surrounded by still-frozen sheep, and suddenly the immensely appealing thought of roasting mutton entered his mind. He looked down at the carcass nearest him, then nodded to himself. I’ll just hack off a leg and put it on a spit. That’s got to be better than cold, leathery jerkin or smelly strips of old fish. His next problem was to find a way to cut off a chunk he could cook. He had his little hunting knife with him, but it barely made a mark on the carcass, and the straggly wool got in the way of the blade. Cursing, Leif tried to pull the sheep over onto its back so that he could attack its belly, but the animal was stuck fast, frozen into the wreckage.

  ‘Hel’s thighs,’ Leif muttered, taking a grip on the free hind leg. He yanked at it, but it barely moved. He tried again, not expecting any success, but it gave way with a loud snap and Leif tumbled backwards. He fell onto his back and cracked his skull on something hard. He lay there for a moment, holding the severed leg in his hands, his head still resting on whatever it had struck. After a long, breathless moment he slowly, carefully, laid down the mutton. Then, with his heart pounding wildly in his breast, he turned and looked behind him.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Saxon Kingdom of Wessex, same time

  The slave stood upright, surprised. As he had gone about his work he had allowed his mind to drift and suddenly he had seen him; a young warrior standing on what looked to be a sailing ship of some kind, dressed in russet trousers and an opulent blue, knee-length tunic. The strong, handsome stranger had looked straight at the slave, his hazel frown startlingly familiar, frighteningly real. A ship! He was standing at the prow of a ship, in spectacular but unfamiliar surroundings. It looked like the kind of vessel that had crashed into them all those years ago. Could Caelin at last be coming? The slave felt a surge of excitement. Unlike past times when he had seen his brother, this vision held something different, a quality that left his spine tingling. There had been determination and yearning in his kinsman’s eyes, but the vision had been too brief to gain any more than that fleeting impression. The Briton closed his eyes, desperately trying to rekindle the image, but it had vanished, leaving no lingering trace. He cursed God and tried to concentrate, knowing that he must get him back, but it was pointless. Caelin had gone.

  Realising that his heart was racing, the slave took a long breath, reminding himself that he could ill afford hope, for he had seen the perils of longing in the others who had been brought to this accursed place. It had tugged and tossed them in all directions, wrenching at their hearts until they had been torn apart under the strain of disappointment, leaving behind brittle and broken shells, bereft of spirit or life. He rubbed the back of his grimy hand over his forehead, nudged the heavy leather collar to a less painful position, then went back to work, ruthlessly crushing his excitement before it could gain a grip on his self-control.

  The byre stank of sickness and death, but the rank stench, like so much else in this Godforsaken place, barely touched him. Long ago he had decided to survive, no matter the cost, and gradually he had become immune to the daily brutality and humiliation meted out by his Saxon masters. At first – after suffering sadistic punishments for wrongs he had not committed – he had wanted to die; to crawl away into a dark corner and simply stop breathing so that he might escape this living Hell. Far worse things had happened too, things he had tried to expunge from his mind for no person could remain sane harbouring the memories of what they had done to him, especially in those early years. Yet it was that which had saved him; his willingness to submit to the unholy desires of the master’s spawn, depraved brother and sister alike. And so the slave had grown to be a man in this place, if that was what he could call himself. At least he was strong, for he had quickly learned that maintaining his physique was essential to his survival here. As for his soul, that had been lost to the Devil long ago.

  He looked down at himself and the body that he hated for its complicity in his defiling. Clothed in tattered rags and a layer of grime and filth, he better resembled a ghoul risen from the grave. His last wash had been towards the end of last summer when he had managed to ‘fall’ into the river with the cows he had been washing for the autumn markets. Here, cleanliness was a privilege reserved for the masters, but at home, he had washed at least once a week; more often when his nursemaid had managed to catch him.

  He closed his eyes and smiled at the memory of Tegen running up the stairs after him, skirts hitched up around her knees, puffing and panting as she tried valiantly to keep up with the naughty boy. On that particular day, she had cheated, calling upon the guards on the palisade to assist her. They had grabbed him near the entrance to the north tower, and no amount of kicking and thumping with little fists would entice them to let him go. He had hated the inconvenience of having to bathe as a child, but how he wished for a hot bath now.

  He sighed, feeling only a dull sense of sadness for what he had lost. He had long ago shed all his tears for his childhood, his home, his family and friends, and all that remained was a grim determination to survive in the knowledge that one day he might escape to wreak his vengeance upon those who had caused him this suffering. My slavery will end, he told himself, by an act of my making arising from an opportunity that will come; be it today, or the next rising of the moon, or even further beyond in the cycle of the ch
anging seasons. I must therefore remain alert, ready to move when that moment arrives. At that thought, he yanked at the chain that bound his collar to the byre’s centre-post, but, unsurprisingly, it held fast.

  A cow lowed plaintively at him from the far end of the building, echoing the cries of the dying that came from all quarters of the estate. No one knew what ailed the animals, but the blight affected both herd and flock. Before long the master would have no stock to speak of. The slave recoiled at the prospect of his master’s violent fury. The shepherds and herdsmen had been slaughtered two days ago; all eleven of them hacked to bits by the master and his sons, and now the milkmaids were to be strung up by their necks.

  Until recently he had managed to stay well away from the animals – having no desire to meet that fate – but with no one left to tend them, every surviving slave had been ordered to assist. His job was to tend the beasts in the byres, but they had already been dying by the time he replaced the slave who had been executed for that transgression. The poor lad’s decapitated body still lay near the entrance of the barn, the master demanding that it remain there as a reminder to the others. Would he too face the axe now that he had been associated with the demise of the master’s fortunes? With no animals to sell in the markets, the master could little afford to replace the slaves he had already slaughtered, let alone any more he butchered; but logic played slightly in the master’s mind. It would be just like him to kill every living thing in the place to sate his anger.

  The slave moved further into the darkness, his ankle-irons and chain clanking softly as he made his way across the slimy floor. I’ve survived worse than this, he thought defiantly, and I will escape the blade this time. He shut his eyes and again tried to rouse the image of Caelin.

  I know you are there, brother, he thought. I can feel you as you do me, and I know that you are coming. Together we shall seek our revenge.

  The Wolves of Dumnonia will return.

  END OF BOOK 1

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  READ ON IN BOOK 2 OF THE WOLVES OF DUMNONIA SAGA:

  A THRALL’S CROWN

  BOOK 2: A THRALL’S CROWN

  Peter Fox

  For Jo

  My rock and my love,

  without whom the Wolves would

  never have been born

  PART I

  NORVEGR

  Late winter, 823AD

  1. Humiliation

  Sigvaldsby, Lærdalsfjorden, Norvegr

  ‘Quick. Turn around!’ Alrik made a grab for the tiller, but Rathulf shouldered his friend out of the way.

  ‘Too late,’ Rathulf said. ‘They’ve seen us.’

  The young Viking had turned the Wave Skimmer towards Horik’s steading at dusk, his intention to row into shore at speed, grab Leif, then make away into the night under oar; safe in the knowledge that Leif’s father had no ship with which to pursue them, nor any desire to send for help overland with night falling.

  The scene that greeted the two young men, however, was anything but the quiet, abandoned beach they had been expecting. Instead, a large, sleek drakkar was drawn up on the beach, evidently having just made landfall judging by the amount of activity centred around it.

  ‘Turn about,’ Alrik demanded again, wrestling with his friend for control of the steering oar.

  ‘No,’ Rathulf said, seeing a number of men turn to look down the fjord. Whoever it was had brought an entire ship’s company with him. That it wasn’t Gunnar’s ship was small comfort, for this was a large warship, far bigger than Rathulf and Alrik’s coaster.

  ‘Hel’s thighs, Ra. Let go!’

  ‘No,’ Rathulf repeated. When his friend gave him a pained look, Rathulf continued, ‘we can hardly turn back now, can we? They’ll have recognised the Wave Skimmer, and anyway, I thought you weren’t afraid of Horik.’

  ‘It’s not him I’m worried about,’ Alrik said, ignoring Rathulf’s discourteous accusation. ‘That’s a bloody big warship on the beach. Do you know whose it is, because I don’t, and knowing the kind of company Horik keeps, I don’t want to meet whoever does own it.’

  Rathulf peered toward the shore, suddenly wishing he and Alrik hadn’t set out on this venture. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you Thor? he wondered, but was answered by a memory of the avalanche. He swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling dry. Surely that can’t be Eirik’s ship? It didn’t look like the Sea Dragon. Rathulf turned back to Alrik, one of Helga’s favourite sayings ringing in his head: “it is better to turn back from the middle of the ford than to be drowned in the flood.” Then a second image came to him: that of Leif trudging through knee-deep snow, his head bowed and cloak tightly drawn about his shoulders as he struggled onwards in the face of the buffeting blizzard. Rathulf felt a flush of shame, well able to imagine the suffering Leif must have endured to force him into such desperate acts to travel overland in winter. That he’d survived was nothing short of miraculous, and I would turn around at the first sign of trouble and run away?

  Rathulf took a deep breath. ‘Take us into shore,’ he instructed the slave-master.

  ‘No way. Geir, get the sail back up.’

  ‘Alrik, we can’t leave him there!’ Rathulf countered. ‘We’ve come this far, so let’s finish the job.’

  ‘How? Horik was meant to be home alone and drunk. He wasn’t meant to have visitors.’

  Rathulf frowned at his friend, annoyed at the boy’s hypocrisy. ‘How does the nickname Alrik Yellow-legs sound to you?’ he said angrily. ‘I can see it now; Horik and Eirik laughing over the tale of brave Alrik, who, at first sight of Eirik’s longship, turned on his heels and ran away as fast as his little legs could carry him.’

  ‘Yellow-legs is better than no-legs, and we don’t know that it is Eirik’s ship. What if it’s Ivar?’

  Mention of the notorious slaver, who was a close friend of Horik’s, sent a shiver up Rathulf’s spine. Pray to the Gods that it isn’t him, he thought, well aware of the likely outcome of an encounter with Ivar. Even so, we can’t turn back now.

  ‘No legs is what you’ll have if we return to Sigvald’s without Leif,’ Rathulf said. ‘He’s already going to kill us, so we should at least make it worthwhile. Or have you forgotten whatever it is you’ve done to the Vixen?’

  Alrik instinctively put his hand in his pocket, and Rathulf watched as his friend’s expression changed from irritation to alarm, then finally resignation. ‘I can’t believe I’m letting you talk me into this,’ Alrik muttered, letting go of the steering oar. ‘But you do know we’re going to come out of this looking like idiots and leave empty-handed, don’t you?’

  Rathulf shook his head. I’ll think of something.

  They drew towards the shore, leaving a respectful distance between themselves and the dark warship to their right. Rathulf winced as he took in its low lines and black paintwork, and he counted no less than fourteen oar-ports as they passed alongside. The drakkar’s sweeping prow rose to a magnificently-carved snarling beast head with bulging eyes and long fangs, completely dwarfing the Wave Skimmer.

  Their arrival had caused a considerable degree of interest ashore, much to Rathulf’s dismay, and by the time they had pulled up on the gravel beach, Horik had been alerted, and he now waited with crossed arms by the water. He stood with a steadiness that told Rathulf he was stone cold sober. To his left stood none other than Gunnar, his pose mirroring that of his uncle. The young man’s expression held a mix of disbelief and contempt, and he shook his head at his rival, his mouth curled into a sneer.

  Leif was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Oh no,’ Rathulf heard Alrik mutter from behind him. ‘We’re dead.’

  A tall, broad-shouldered Viking with raven black hair and cold, blue eyes the colour of glacial ice stepped out of the throng and stood beside his son.

  ‘Hel’s thighs,’ Rathulf murmured as the Wave Skimmer ground to a stop in the shallows. Well, now they knew whose ship it was. The jarl of Lustrafjorden must have had it built this past winter.

 
Eirik the Black’s deep blue, silver-hemmed tunic was drawn in at the waist by a magnificent amber-studded sword belt, and his muscular forearms boasted golden arm rings wrought in the fashion of intertwining serpents. Behind him stood at least thirty armed men. Rathulf’s stomach tightened. Eirik opened his mouth to speak, but Horik cut him off.

  ‘A bit late for you whelps to be out on your own, isn’t it? Tsk tsk. Daddy won’t be pleased.’ His mocking smile vanished. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We’ve come to visit Leif, Steader Horik,’ Rathulf said, remembering his manners but sounding much less authoritative than he had intended. He did, however, manage to meet Eirik’s gaze.