by Peter Fox
Eirik raised an eyebrow, whilst beside him, Horik’s face twisted into an unpleasant sneer, perfectly mirroring his nephew beside him.
‘We definitely should’ve turned around,’ Alrik muttered.
‘I’m afraid it has been a wasted journey, Rathulf,’ Eirik said. ‘Leif is not here.’
It was not the answer Rathulf expected, and it took him a moment to recover from his surprise. What did he mean, not here? ‘What?’ he blurted, then wished he hadn’t been so rude. Eirik was such a stickler for protocol.
Eirik was about to answer, but Horik interrupted him again, his voice cold. ‘He doesn’t want to see you, Thorvaldarsson. Seems he didn’t like being kidnapped.’
‘He wasn’t kidnapped,’ Rathulf replied tersely, struggling to contain his temper in the face of Horik’s inflammatory words. ‘He came to Thorvaldsby of his own accord.’
‘I was led to believe he was keen to leave,’ Eirik said.
‘Leif knows he is always welcome at jarl Bardi’s or Sigvaldsby, which is where I am staying now,’ Rathulf answered.
Horik laughed. ‘Really? The only thing he’s heard are the rumours, and well-founded they are from the look of it. You and your pretty companion spend more time together than is healthy, leaving no place in your fickle heart for my son.’
‘Mind your words, qlfuss,’ Alrik snapped, but Rathulf thrust out his hand to hold him back.
‘Where is Leif?’ Rathulf asked, forcing himself to remain focused. Anger flushed his cheeks, and he felt his back and shoulders tightening.
‘My son gave up on you ages ago,’ Horik said. ‘You’re nothing but empty promises, Thorvaldarsson.’
Rathulf fought back indignation. This was Horik at his best, but Rathulf would not be baited. He turned his mind to that cold space where he had lain trapped beneath the crushing weight of the roof, certain to die. His honour and Leif’s well-being depended upon him maintaining a level head. ‘Then I beg your leave to see him,’ Rathulf said, dropping his head in supplication and keeping his voice unemotional, ‘I wish to apologise to him for my ill-doing.’ It hurt to offer such humility to one he so hated, but he knew that with Eirik present, Horik would find it difficult to refuse such a request.
Horik’s eyes narrowed. ‘Denied, whelp. I told you he wasn’t here. Now get off my land before I throw you off.’
Rathulf could have sworn Eirik winced, but if he did, it must have been in Rathulf’s imagination, for the jarl’s expression did not change. Eirik kept his eyes firmly locked on Rathulf.
‘It is I who should be apologising, Rathulf,’ Eirik said, his tone level. ‘For my brother has perhaps forgotten what custom dictates. I am sure Horik would be pleased to extend his hand to you in welcome. As for Leif, I have already said he isn’t here.’
‘No need, thank you,’ Alrik piped up. ‘We’ll find our way home. It’s not dark yet.’ He gave Rathulf a look that said, ‘let’s get out of here,’ and indicated to the slaves to take up their oars.
‘I don’t believe you,’ Rathulf said firmly, looking Eirik squarely in the eyes.
‘What?’ The voice was Alrik’s. ‘Ra,’ he said between clenched teeth. ‘What are you doing?’ He looked at Eirik and let out an apologetic laugh. ‘We’re leaving,’ he said.
‘Leave the tiller alone!’ Rathulf snapped.
But Alrik would not be swayed. He ordered the men to row, and the ship lurched suddenly as it slipped backwards off the shingles.
Rathulf sprang over the prow and landed neatly on the beach with a crunch of pebbles. He stood face to face with the jarl, who, Rathulf remembered with a gulp, was a good deal taller and more broad-shouldered than he. He heard Alrik swear, then there was a swish of oars behind him as the rowers reversed their strokes to bring the karve back to shore. Moments later Rathulf heard someone clambering over the side, then Alrik was standing beside him, his lips pursed in a tight line and his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. ‘If Horik doesn’t kill you, I will,’ Alrik hissed, but Rathulf’s confidence surged, knowing that Alrik would stand with him, nonetheless.
‘Not very polite to go about accusing people of lying,’ Eirik said smoothly, his blue gaze unwavering. In that very uncomfortable moment, Rathulf suddenly realised that the jarl had spoken the truth: Leif really wasn’t at home. He immediately began to wish he had listened to Alrik. Eirik’s eyes bore into him like red-hot fire irons, burning two neat holes into the back of his skull.
‘I meant,’ Rathulf began, ordering his voice to remain calm, ‘that I do not believe you fully appreciated my request, jarl Eirik.’
Eirik’s eyebrow cocked a little higher, and the hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. ‘Indeed?’
‘Yes, jarl Eirik,’ Rathulf replied, hastily formulating an explanation in his mind. ‘My father had intended to offer Leif a place at our hearth for the winter so that Leif might learn the art of woodworking, but as our home was destroyed, he never had the opportunity to seek Steader Horik’s permission for the apprenticeship. I come bearing that request now, for my father has recovered and would be very pleased to honour his promise to Leif.’
‘A pack of lies!’ Horik snarled, ‘I heard the charcoal-eater was dead.’
Again, Rathulf felt Eirik wince. It was a matter of custom, and in many cases, a great honour to be offered a place at an artisan’s hearth as an apprentice, and Thorvald’s reputation as an accomplished carpenter was well known. Although Eirik could not know it, Rathulf had spoken the truth, admittedly with one or two facts omitted. There was also the small fact that Horik has just slurred Thorvald as a coward; a dangerous accusation to make in front of his son. Eirik and Thorvald had been friends long ago, and as far as Rathulf knew, Eirik still held Thorvald in good esteem, even if they had little to do with each other now.
‘A noble gesture,’ Eirik conceded, ignoring his brother’s insulting outburst, ‘and I am pleased to learn that your father’s health is improving. Please pass on my regards to him and my best wishes for a speedy recovery. I see that you appear to have overcome the worst of your injuries.’
‘Mostly, jarl Eirik,’ Rathulf began, but the moment was rudely shattered by Horik, who suddenly exploded with indignant rage.
‘When you two have finished swapping niceties,’ he roared, ‘I have a house full of guests awaiting my company, and he is not one of them!’ He pointed at Rathulf, his face red and nostrils flared.
‘Then see to them!’ Eirik snapped, turning on his brother. ‘I’ll have words with you about this later.’
Horik opened his mouth to retort, but Eirik thrust a pointed finger towards the hall. ‘Go!’ he ordered.
Burning with chagrin, Horik’s face turned redder still, and Rathulf watched with unhidden pleasure as Horik writhed under his brother’s fury. Rathulf should have known better than to smirk at Horik, for when Horik saw the look of jubilation on Rathulf’s face, he whirled around to face the young Norseman. His eyes narrowed. ‘You may think you’re smart with all that sweet talk Thorvaldarsson, but all that cleverness still can’t save your friend. Do you want to know where Leif is? I sent him out a week ago to track down a pack of wolves which were worrying my herd. He hasn’t returned.’
‘You did what?’ Rathulf spat before he could control his mouth. Even Eirik was unable to hide his shock over Horik’s shameful admission.
Horik nodded, and this time it was he who was triumphant. ‘You’re too late, bacraut, and I say good riddance to that useless waste of space and food. Although,’ he added with a sneer, ‘I haven’t had any trouble from the wolves since he obliged them with his company.’
Horik’s sick pleasure at that thought was too much for Rathulf. He lunged at Horik, grabbed him with both hands and pushed him as hard as he could. Horik stumbled backwards, falling unceremoniously onto his rump. Rathulf left it there, Horik’s startled expression coupled with the cheers of Eirik’s crewmembers bringing more than enough satisfaction for him. He turned to Eirik, determined that the jarl answer to his
brother’s cruelty. The words had barely formed in Rathulf’s mind when Horik came back at him, intent on revenge. Instinctively, Rathulf reached for his sword.
It was not there. Rathulf grabbed again, then he heard the roars of laughter from the spectators when they saw the look of dismay on his face as he realised he had been caught unarmed. He had taken his sword with him on the ship, but he had been so distracted by the unexpected sight of Eirik that he had forgotten to strap it on. Dread gripped his heart, and he swung around to Alrik, hoping that his friend might find some way to come to his aid. To his dismay, he saw that two of Eirik’s men had grabbed Alrik and held him to his knees. Alrik looked back at Rathulf, his eyes wide with fear.
Horik made a sign to one of Eirik’s men, who drew his sword and handed it to Horik. Horik took it and stood in front of Rathulf, his eyes narrowed. ‘Challenge accepted,’ he said. ‘Let’s settle this here and now.’ He threw the weapon down at Rathulf’s feet, stepped back a few paces, and then drew his own blade.
Rathulf gaped at the man, realising in that instant what he had done. Without thinking, by going for his sword, he had challenged Horik to a duel. A duel! He’d fought mock duels before, but this was not Alrik, Leif, or any of his other friends with whom he had sparred in the past. This was a real foe with real intent. Nor were these wooden practice swords to be wielded in good-humoured spirit, but sharp, battle-hardened blades whose sole function was to maim and kill.
I am about to die, Rathulf realised, unable to move. It was a completely different feeling to that when he had been trapped in the house. Back then it had been an impersonal thing, an act of the Gods. But here, now, it could not be more different. His whole life lay waiting to be discovered, only it was about to be snuffed out; not by a stroke of misfortune, but by a foolish act of Rathulf’s own making. He stared at the sword on the ground as though it was a demon with a life of its own, afraid to touch its leather-bound hilt for fear of the wrath it would unleash upon him.
He lifted his eyes and looked into the face of the man who intended to shove that long cold blade into his stomach and slop his entrails all over the ground. This will be a horrible, grisly death in front of those I most hate, and who now watch expectantly for the spilling of my blood. Odin forgive me, he thought, for I have failed you. At the notion of witnessing his own intestines splashing out onto the dirt, Rathulf suddenly felt sick. Before he could prevent it, he doubled over and threw up.
The men roared with approval, then someone grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him to his feet. Gunnar snatched up the sword and thrust it into Rathulf’s hand, then gave him a shove in the back.
‘Die, jævela kukskalle,’ the youth snarled.
Rathulf stumbled forwards and barely had time to lift his blade before Horik struck. Horik swung his sword high and hard, aiming at Rathulf’s head. Rathulf ducked and flicked up his own blade in an attempt to knock Horik’s blow aside. The blades clashed noisily, and although inelegant, Rathulf’s play succeeded. Horik sprang backwards out of the way, then he held back, giving Rathulf room to make the next move. The young Norseman blinked at Horik, having no desire to hasten his death by lunging at his opponent. Horik waited, aware that Rathulf’s cowardice lay bare for all to see. Ra’s knees shook with a life of their own. Eirik watched him from the other side of the rough circle of men who had formed an arena around the combatants.
I have to stop this, Rathulf thought desperately, knowing he stood no chance against Horik. What do I do? How do I make good with him? If Sigvald was here, he’d know what to say.
‘Oh, for the love of Odin, get on with it!’
Rathulf lifted his sword just in time to parry Horik’s blow. He stumbled backwards out of the way of Horik’s slashing blade.
‘Stop running away and face your fate like a man, snivelling little dritt!’ Horik snarled. He began to push Rathulf backwards along the shore, restricting his own moves to quick jabs and prods, then following with sudden lunges and heavy blows. Rathulf did his best to defend himself against Horik’s swordplay, but he was no match for the experienced fighter.
He wasn’t aware of the pile of lumber behind him until his left foot struck it, at the same time that Horik launched a concerted offensive. Rathulf leapt backwards and hit the stacked timber so forcefully that he tumbled right over it in a somersault, his arms flailing wildly as he tried to keep to his feet. Somewhere amid the impact with the ground on the other side, his sword was knocked from his hand, and he barely had time to scramble away before Horik came over the top after him, roaring at him to prepare for death.
In his keenness for blood, however, Horik failed to take care himself, and as he leapt over the heap, he caught his toe on a projecting log and tripped. He came crashing down face first, instinctively abandoning his sword to prevent himself from planting his nose into the dirt. The gathering cheered and roared with laughter, finding the contest vastly entertaining despite Horik’s obvious and considerable humiliation.
Rathulf got to his feet, panting, naively thinking the encounter finished or at least suspended. He turned, looking about for his sword.
Horik, infuriated by the crewmen’s taunts, was far from satisfied. Scooping up a block of wood from the now scattered pile, he flew at Rathulf, intending to have his revenge. Rathulf heard the crowd’s shouted warning too late to avoid the blow, but he did manage to twist around and fend off the worst of it. The wood caught him on the arm and he staggered out of Horik’s way, swearing in pain, and frantically looking about for his lost sword or anything with which to defend himself. Horik swung the beam again, striking Rathulf low in the waist. Rathulf stumbled sideways, gasping as his ribs strained under the effort of twisting out of the way. Alrik shouted at Rathulf to lift his guard, while the men chanted Horik’s name in a guttural war cry.
Horik swung the heavy beam back and forth in front of him like a cat waiting to pounce, then suddenly he leapt forward. Rathulf sprang backwards, his feet scrabbling to find purchase on the slippery shingles. His right foot splashed in water and Rathulf realised with a flash of panic that he had nowhere to go. Behind him was the fjord, while in front stood Eirik’s men. To his right lay Eirik’s longship, while Horik advanced towards him on his left. The men were laughing now, having seen the look of dismay on Rathulf’s face, and right in the middle of them stood Gunnar, his mouth twisted into a derisive smile.
Horik circled closer. ‘What’s the matter, Thorvaldarsson?’ he crowed with unbridled delight. ‘Those ribs still giving you trouble? Let’s see if I can make them better.’
He charged at Rathulf, swinging the beam around in a hefty stroke. Rathulf ducked under it, sending Horik off balance as his blow met with thin air. As Horik swivelled sideways to regain his footing, Rathulf grabbed the beam and wrenched it as hard as he could. His injured ribs screamed in protest, sending a dizzying shower of stars before Rathulf’s eyes. He let go, unable to find the strength to pull the block out of Horik’s hands.
The wood tore at his palms as Horik ripped it out of Rathulf’s weakened grasp, and before Rathulf could get out of the way, Horik rammed the beam back at him, aiming for his chest. Rathulf barely managed to get his hands up in time, and the force of the impact sent the young man crashing backwards into the hull of Eirik’s ship. He bounced off the oaken boards with a thud, crying out in agony as the impact jarred his ribs. He fell to his knees, winded and helpless. He looked up through tears of pain to meet Horik’s hate-filled eyes.
There was nothing he could do to save himself. This all too brief encounter had drained every ounce of strength from his body, and no matter how urgently he ordered his legs to lift him to his feet, he could not muster the energy to stand. He heard Alrik shouting abuse at Horik and urging Rathulf to get back up, but Rathulf was spent. Horik let the wood drop onto the shingles, then he snatched his dagger from his belt and stepped towards his enemy. The Viking held the point of the blade in the centre of Rathulf’s throat, and Rathulf felt the sting as the point cut into his
skin. Rathulf’s breaths came in short, harsh bursts, as, terrified, he closed his eyes.
Suddenly there was a whoosh and a sharp crack as an arrow slammed into the longship’s hull close by Rathulf’s head; its fletching quivering briefly beside Rathulf’s cheek.
‘Jævela Hel!’ shouted Horik, springing aside. The missile had just shaved Horik’s ear, and the Viking swung around, angrily seeking the meddler who had fired it. Rathulf, too, looked up, startled. To his astonishment he saw Eirik standing atop a barrel, bow in hand with a second arrow nocked at the ready.
‘You’ve made your point brother,’ Eirik said coldly, ignoring the disappointed clamour from his men and his son. ‘Now step away from the boy.’
Horik hesitated, looking first at Rathulf then back at his kinsman. Behind him, Gunnar was shaking his head in disbelief at his father, hands raised as if to ask: “what are you doing?”
‘Step away, I tell you,’ Eirik roared, his voice booming from one side of the fjord to the other, ‘or by Thor I’ll have your head atop my mast for decoration, blood kin or no.’
Rathulf had no doubt whatsoever that Eirik meant it, and Horik knew it too. Leif’s father slammed his dagger into the hull beside his opponent’s face, then he stalked off up the path towards the house without another word. Rathulf shut his eyes against the pain in his chest and slumped back against the hull of Eirik’s ship. The chieftain ordered his men up to the hall, and Rathulf heard Alrik swear when the warriors who had been holding him shoved him to the ground as a parting gift. He struggled back to his feet, clutching his bandaged arm which had been distressed by the rough handling. Only when the last of the men had removed themselves from the beach did Eirik release his grip on the bow and step down from his vantage point. He walked over to Rathulf.
It occurred to the young Norseman that he should prepare to defend himself, but he couldn’t even get back up to his feet. His heart pounded wildly in his chest, and despite the chill of the evening, sweat soaked his body. His eyes stung with it and his hair clung clammily to his forehead and neck. He tried to slow his breathing, but he simply couldn’t get enough air. His chest throbbed in searing time with his heart, and he silently cursed all the Gods in creation for afflicting him with this injury and not giving him the sense to have turned away, no, set sail in the first place. He stubbornly blinked away the tears and tried to meet Eirik’s gaze. Instead, he looked into the sneering face of his rival, who knelt down before him, shaking his head with derision. Eirik barked a command and Gunnar moved out of the way, but he hovered nearby, delighting in Rathulf’s humiliation. ‘Loser,’ he mouthed silently.
