by Peter Fox
‘Tell him no,’ Alrik hissed.
Rathulf shot a sideways glance at his friend, but it was obvious that Ivar already knew the answer. ‘This is the longship of Alrik, son of Bardi, jarl of Sognefjorden,’ Rathulf said as firmly as he could, ‘nephew of Sigvald, jarl of Lærdalsfjorden and grandson of Thorleif the Fair, Lawspeaker of the Althing.’ Rathulf was tempted to go on quoting the names of all the important people he could think of in the hope that it might just sway Ivar from snatching them into slavery, but Ivar waved his hand for silence.
‘Yes, yes, and with all those people around to bear witness to your abduction, who’s going to care? I take it that it was you two who woke me last night?’ The slaver grinned at the two boys, deriving great enjoyment from their horrified expressions.
‘No,’ Alrik lied, ‘definitely not us.’
Rathulf also shook his head.
‘I see,’ Ivar mused. He looked down at the slaves. ‘How much for them? I’ll give you six ounces of silver for the lot.’
‘They’re not for sale,’ Alrik blurted, not even noticing the outrageous price offered. ‘They belong to my father, and we need them to get home.’
Ivar raised an eyebrow. ‘Who said anything about going home?’
‘Leave us alone, Ivar,’ Rathulf said angrily, feeling suddenly indignant that this man would presume to bring them harm when they had done nothing to incite it. ‘We didn’t mean to come into your fjord. We got lost, that’s all.’
Ivar smiled. ‘Your misfortune is my gain. Didn’t your mother warn you about the dangers of sneaking about in the middle of the night, Thorvaldarsson? Oh, that’s right, you don’t have a mother. Tsk tsk. The fjords harbour the most terrible monsters, and you can never be sure what might lie around the next bend.’
‘Odin, giver of wisdom, peace and light, bear us your goodwill in our time of need…’ Alrik began muttering behind Rathulf.
‘We’re leaving,’ Rathulf said firmly, although his legs felt like they would give way at any moment, ‘and as soon as we arrive home, I will be naming witnesses to your threats of abduction.’
‘No, you won’t,’ Ivar said in a conversational tone, ‘because I have no intention of allowing you to leave.’ The slaver’s expression changed. ‘I don’t happen to like people lurking about my fjord in the middle of the night. And I rather want you Thorvaldarsson.’
‘What?’ Rathulf said, taking a step away from the shield rail.
‘You’re worth a lot of money, boy. The price I could get for you two will pay for the refitting of my knarrs.’ There was a ripple of consent from his men, who watched the two boys with various expressions of mirth, mockery and in a couple of cases, lust. ‘But I think I would prefer to keep you for myself for a while.’
Rathulf took another step backwards, his skin crawling.
‘Take the slaves,’ Alrik said unexpectedly. ‘They’re worth far more than Rathulf, and he’s still crippled, see?’ He jabbed Rathulf in the chest. Ra doubled up in genuine agony.
Ivar laughed. ‘So I see. But I’m not interested in your slaves, Alrik. You don’t tend them well enough. Look at them; they’re all worn out. Barely another season left in them at best. No, it’s you two I want. Especially since I just received word this morning that Horik wants you. I hear you’ve been stirring him up. What I don’t understand is why you’re headed back there.’
Both boys looked at one another, surprised and alarmed. What did he mean, back there?
Ivar laughed. ‘You’ve really no idea where you are, do you? Take the next fork, and you’ll be back where you started. You’ve been rowing in circles, boys.’
Rathulf’s heart skipped a beat. If Ivar already knew what was going on, how many others had been told?
‘I imagine I can get Horik up to quite a sum given his keenness to get hold of you,’ Ivar continued, ‘and then there are Sigvald, Thorvald and Bardi, who I imagine would like their nestlings back in one piece. Yes, I can see the price rising quite gratifyingly, but in the meantime, I shall have the very great pleasure of your company.’
‘No you won’t, pervert,’ Alrik said coldly.
‘Ah, such anger in those lovely eyes,’ Ivar chuckled, licking his lips. ‘I do love a boy with spirit.’
‘Keep away from me,’ Alrik snarled, dropping his hand to his sword.
Ivar’s grin broadened. ‘We are the little warrior, aren’t we? Know how to use that do you?’ He took a step towards Alrik.
‘Alrik!’ Rathulf warned. ‘He’s provoking you.’
Ivar looked from Alrik to Rathulf. ‘Not at all. He knows what I want, and he shall give it to me.’
‘You’ll die before you touch me!’ Alrik shouted, wrenching his sword from its scabbard. In his impetuosity, however, he had forgotten about his injury, and his precipitous action twisted the wound. He cried out in pain and dropped the weapon, then staggered sideways into Rathulf, clutching his burning arm and swearing profusely.
The amusing spectacle sent Ivar and his men into guffaws of laughter.
Enraged, Alrik scrambled to retrieve his sword, but Rathulf threw himself at Alrik, crashing into his friend and knocking him to the deck before he could launch himself at Ivar. Stupid Alrik didn’t realise that the angrier he got, the more Ivar would want him. Alrik’s sword went skittering out of reach. Ivar clapped his hands and was joined by raucous shouts of approval from his men.
‘Well done, Rathulf,’ Ivar crowed. ‘Hold him tightly now, won’t you? He’s a feisty little beast that one.’
Alrik shoved Rathulf off him and tried to scramble free, but Rathulf grabbed his ankle and tripped him up. Alrik landed in the laps of two of his slaves, smacking his chin on the handle of an oar. He let out a stream of profanities, but before Rathulf could get to him, Alrik freed himself and sprang up over the rail onto Ivar’s ship.
‘No, Alrik! Don’t!’
Driven by a rage born from fear and loathing, Alrik went for Ivar, but, like Rathulf before him, he held no weapon and was completely outnumbered. Well before he reached the slaver, Ivar’s men grabbed him and threw him down onto the deck, pinning him face-down to the timbers. As Rathulf watched helplessly, Ivar walked up to Alrik, then he nodded at his men to pick the seventeen-year-old up. His men hauled Alrik to his feet, then another of them tore off the boy’s tunic and undershirt. Alrik spat and struggled like a wildcat, but the men held him tight, holding his arms behind him. Ivar stepped up to his young captive so that his face was uncomfortably close to Alrik’s. Alrik glared back at the slaver, his face a mix of defiance, dread and pain. Beads of sweat glistened on his heaving chest, and he clenched his fists tightly as he strained against the grip of the men who held him. Blood stained the bandage on his forearm, and a single runnel of it ran down his skin.
‘Oh, the feilan is hurt,’ Ivar said, his voice comforting, sympathetic. He stroked Alrik’s arm, his touch light and thoughtful. ‘Who did this to you?’
‘Let me go, breiddjame,’ Alrik spat, trying to pull away.
Ivar ran his eyes over Alrik’s body, his inspection chilling Rathulf to the core. ‘You do not like me?’ Ivar asked quietly, reaching out his hand and touching a finger to Alrik’s bare chest. When Alrik said nothing, Ivar ran his finger slowly down Alrik’s young, muscular torso, past his belly button to pause at the hem of Alrik’s trousers. Alrik swore at Ivar and tried to wrench himself free, but the men pulled Alrik’s arms tighter behind his back so that he yelped in pain. The slaver lifted his hand away and licked Alrik’s sweat from his finger as though it were a delicious sweet.
A shudder of fear ran through Alrik’s body, and Ivar’s lips curled into a menacing smile. ‘The little monster is frightened now,’ he said softly. ‘He knows he cannot escape.’
‘Let him go,’ Rathulf demanded hoarsely. Ivar turned his gaze upon Rathulf, but the young Viking stood his ground. ‘Alrik has done nothing to deserve this.’
‘He attacked me,’ Ivar said simply. ‘He is a naughty boy who needs to be punished.’
>
‘Let him go,’ Rathulf said again, forcing each word out slowly and carefully. ‘If you touch him again, I’ll kill you.’
Ivar looked at Rathulf sceptically then laughed. ‘And how do you propose to do that? You can barely walk.’
Rathulf glared back at the slaver, all too aware of his own impotence. Nevertheless, these men fed on fear and suffering and Rathulf would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him cower. I am a Viking, he thought angrily, and whilst I may not keep my life, I shall at least keep my honour. ‘I would rather die in the trying than stand by watching you,’ he said firmly. He drew his sword and sprang onto Ivar’s ship.
Ivar’s men reacted swiftly, moving from their rowing positions and drawing their own weapons, but Ivar waved them away, nevertheless taking a step backwards from Alrik. Rathulf stood between the slaver and his friend, holding his sword to Ivar’s chest.
‘Now then,’ the slaver said, his tone scathing, completely unruffled. ‘It’s adorable that you have come to your friend’s aid, but would you throw away your life so readily? Sigvald will pay any sum for your release.’
‘And it is to them that you’ll answer when all is done.’
Alrik stared at Rathulf, his eyes wide with terror. Ivar was aware of Alrik’s reaction, but he kept his gaze fixed on Rathulf.
‘Really? You place a lot of faith in your friends, boy.’
‘Sigvald, my father, Bardi and half the men of Sognefjorden will come after you and stick your head on a stake,’ Rathulf said viciously, ‘but not before they burn your home, slaughter your stock and hang your wife and children up by their entrails before your eyes. Know this, Ivar Blood-trader, whatever pleasures you get from us will cost you your life.’ Rathulf shook from head to toe, furious that he was utterly at the mercy of this despicable man, and fearful of what was to come.
Ivar’s smug grin had vanished. ‘Are you threatening me, boy?’ he said quietly, his eyes glinting with malice.
Alrik looked like he was about to throw up.
‘No, it’s a promise,’ Rathulf said, remembering Helga’s altercation with Horik. ‘You will die.’
To Rathulf’s surprise, Ivar suddenly roared with laughter. ‘Is that so?’ he said dryly, then he shrugged. ‘You’re right of course, and it’s not just Sigvald or Bardi I’d be answering to. Today is your lucky day.’ He gave Rathulf a long, hard look. ‘But make no mistake, boy. I’m not finished with you two, most especially lovely Alrik here. Now that I have the taste of him…’ He licked his finger again for effect then shivered at some inner pleasure. Alrik let out a strangled cry; half curse, half croak.
‘You will say nothing of this to anyone,’ Ivar continued. ‘If you do – if I hear even a whisper of a rumour – I will come after you, and our next meeting will be considerably less pleasant.’ His smile curled into a leer. ‘Hold one another close, my handsome cubs, especially on those long, dark nights. You never know what monsters might be lurking out there, watching, waiting.’
Rathulf stared at him, furious and terrified all at once.
Ivar turned to his men. ‘Get rid of them. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.’
Without warning, a fist slammed into Rathulf’s temple, and the boy toppled sideways, stumbling over the shield rail and falling heavily back onto the Wave Skimmer’s deck, sword and all. He blinked up at the sky, winded. Meanwhile, the men holding Alrik hauled him off his feet and threw him into the water.
Ivar looked down at Rathulf, then pointed at the slaves. ‘You wouldn’t consider twelve ounces I suppose?’ he said. ‘There are one or two promising-looking lads amongst them.’
Rathulf shook his head, finding it very hard not to scream.
‘Very well,’ Ivar said. ‘I shall take my leave of you. As for directions, just keep sailing towards the west; you do know which way that is, yes? Then at the seaward junction turn to port. That will take you into Sognefjorden, from where, I presume, you can find your way home?’
With that, he turned away and instructed his men to take up their oars. Rathulf closed his eyes and ears to the deluge of snide remarks and chuckles that stemmed from Ivar’s longship as it slipped away. Only when it was well out of earshot did he remember Alrik. Enlisting the aid of the slaves, Rathulf struggled to his feet and helped drag his sodden, furious friend from the water. Alrik stood in front of Rathulf, dripping onto the deck, shaking with rage.
‘That’s it!’ he shouted, his face red and blotched with fury. ‘I have never been so, so frigging shamed in my life! First, we get sent packing by Eirik and now this! Did you see the way that jævela breiddjame looked at me? Did you see what he did? I, I…’ Alrik’s face suddenly turned grey as a surge of nausea rushed from his stomach to his throat. He made it to the railing just in time, his body convulsing with every painful retch as he threw up over the side. When he had finished, he slammed his fist into the wooden rail again and again as he cursed the Gods and Rathulf for bringing this upon him. When he had finally finished his ranting, he wiped his mouth on his bare arm and turned to Rathulf, his eyes flashing with hatred.
‘Never, ever ask me to do anything for you again,’ he spat. ‘Do you know what he does to people like you and me?’
Rathulf’s legs suddenly felt weak, and he sank to the deck, feeling utterly drained by their encounter with the slaver. A wave of nausea overcame him too as all-too-graphic images of their potential fate flashed into his mind. Unlike Alrik, he managed to keep it down, but he still felt a deep sense of revulsion at what might have been. He looked up at Alrik, who hadn’t moved. There was nothing he could say that would make it better. ‘It’s over now Alrik. Let’s just go.’
But Alrik hadn’t finished. ‘That’s just the point: it isn’t over! We haven’t even begun to face whatever punishment is in store from your father or mine. And Ivar said he would be back. He always gets what he wants, Rathulf, and he said he wanted me! This is the worst day of my life, and trust you to be the one causing it, jævela kukskalle. They were right when they said you were born under an ill star.’
He turned on his heel and stomped to the back of the ship, smacking one of the slaves in the head as he passed. He snatched up the tiller and turned to the thralls, many of whom were barely hiding their contemptuous smiles. ‘Row!’ he roared, fixing his furious gaze on Rathulf, who remained at the prow, keeping as far away from his friend as possible.
✽ ✽ ✽
The trip back down the fjord was tense at best, particularly as Ivar shadowed them all the way. Even after they parted ways at the junction with Sognefjorden and the Wave Skimmer turned back into familiar territory, Alrik’s mood did not lighten. Now, as they prepared to meet Helga’s longship, Rathulf wondered what else could go wrong.
Alrik commanded the slaves to ship oars and make ready to dock with the approaching warship. Rathulf watched with growing consternation as the Vixen bore down on them at a pace, despite the less than perfect oar-work of the rowers. Helga sat in her armchair on the steering deck beside her husband, but, ominously, her hands were crossed in her lap, devoid of her usual knitting. Rathulf hailed them with a cheery wave, but Helga’s expression did not change. Rathulf swallowed, hoping that whatever Alrik had done to Helga’s ship had not been too damaging. It can’t have been all that bad, for here she was in the Vixen, after all? He called out again, but still Helga did not acknowledge them. Her longship bore down on them, and for a heart-stopping moment, Rathulf thought that Helga intended to ram them. But at the last instant, she nodded to her husband, who in turn shouted an order and the crew dug their oars into the water, bringing the ship to an ungraceful halt. Sigvald nudged the tiller, and the magnificent drakkar swung around and bumped alongside the Wave Skimmer, coming to a stop so that Helga and Rathulf were stern-to-prow, eye-to-eye.
‘Hello Rathulf,’ Helga said icily.
‘Hello Helga,’ Rathulf responded, his cheeriness sounding far too forced. The young Viking tried to pull himself straighter, but it caused him too much pain, and despite himse
lf, he winced.
‘I see you have been taking care not to exacerbate your injury,’ she said unsympathetically. She turned to her nephew, who stood at the tiller at the opposite end of the Wave Skimmer.
Rathulf, upon seeing that Alrik was about to speak, began to recite his rehearsed story about what had happened and why they had taken so long to return, but Helga cut him off with an up-thrust hand.
‘We have already spoken with Horik,’ she said sharply, then, upon seeing the anxious expressions on the boys’ faces, added, ‘where do you think we have been? We knew you were going to Leif’s and we wanted to get there before you two caused any damage. But of course we were too late, and then you disappeared! We’ve been up and down the fjords all day and night. You’ve worried us sick.’
‘It was too dark to go home last night,’ Rathulf began to explain, ‘so we–’
‘Save it for the hall, Rathulf. Get on board my ship. Now.’
Rathulf tried to do as he was told, but he simply couldn’t pull himself up over the higher railing of Helga’s drakkar. Helga gave a curt nod to Gormond, who enlisted the help of two thralls to lift Rathulf onto Helga’s ship. Rathulf swore at the rough handling, and he glanced at Sigvald for support. The jarl stared resolutely past him, his hand clenched firmly on the tiller. His knuckles showed white against the wood, and Rathulf realised with alarm that Sigvald was very, very angry. Indeed, he had never seen Helga or Sigvald this angry before. He didn’t dare guess what had passed between Horik and Sigvald, but he had little doubt that Horik would have capitalised on Rathulf’s indiscretion, leading to the humiliation of Sigvald in front of whoever was present at Horik’s. Rathulf winced. Had Eirik still been there? And then there was whatever Alrik had done to the Vixen. Suddenly Rathulf knew what he must do.
‘I thought of it,’ Rathulf blurted. ‘The whole thing was my idea. I know I shouldn’t have sabotaged the drakkar, but I… I wanted us to have a head start.’
‘Don’t lie to me!’ Helga snapped. ‘You’re in enough trouble as it is without adding to it by telling falsehoods!’
