by Peter Fox
‘Put that down and come here,’ Horik snapped.
Leif did as he was told, and was dealt two more blows for his troubles. He stumbled on the uneven scree and fell to the ground at his father’s feet. Tears of shame and rage ran down his cheeks, but Horik gave little notice to them, pointing instead at the trunk.
‘Whose is this?’
Leif’s choked response was barely audible. ‘It’s mine,’ he said helplessly, knowing that whatever he said would be futile.
‘I’m not stupid, boy. It obviously doesn’t belong to you. Where did you get it from? Stolen is it?’
Horik hefted it up and shook it violently. Its contents clunked about inside.
‘Stop it!’ Leif cried in alarm. ‘You’ll break it!’
‘Contains something precious, does it?’ Horik shook it again, delighting in his son’s anguish.
‘Put it down!’ Leif pleaded. ‘Please.’
‘Okay,’ Horik said with a shrug, and to Leif’s horror, he heaved it over his shoulder. It landed with a sickening crunch on the rocks below then bounced end over end with a loud clattering down the hill. Were it not for its oilskin covering and belt, it would have been dashed to pieces. Leif watched it come to a stop, and the fact that it still seemed intact gave him little comfort. He turned back to his father, anger beginning to overpower his sense of helplessness. ‘You’ll pay for that,’ Leif said. ‘And even if I can’t do anything to stop you, Rathulf will.’
‘Rathulf? What’s he got to do with…’ Horik’s expression changed as the realisation dawned. ‘It’s not?’ he said, astonished.
‘Leave it alone,’ Leif said coldly. ‘It doesn’t belong to you.’
‘So it is his?’ Horik said finally, looking from his son to the chest then back to Leif. He read the answer in Leif’s distressed expression and laughed in sheer amazement at this exceptional stroke of good fortune. ‘You stole it? Well, by Heimdall’s whores, who’d have thought?’
Leif didn’t know what to say. He closed his eyes and begged the Gods to send down a bolt of lightning to burn him to a crisp and thus relieve him of any further torment. I am truly the most useless person in all Midgard, he thought in anguish. I should have left the thing where I found it. I should never have gone there in the first place. I should never have been born.
A nasty smile curled the corners of Horik’s lips. ‘A lot of people have been looking for this box. What were you going to do with it?’
What could Leif say? Everything lay in ruins. His spiteful father had spoiled every dream, every hope, every desire he had ever had in his life. Nothing was safe from Horik. No place, no thought, no action. So why had he thought his secret haven would be safe? It had been defiled like everything else that had ever mattered to Leif.
‘You weren’t keeping it for yourself, were you?’ Horik demanded, incredulous.
Leif said nothing.
‘You little cheat,’ Horik went on, shaking his head in wonder. ‘What was your plan: to take his place? No, that’s too bold for you. Were you going to take his treasure and melt it down perhaps?’
‘It’s not what you think,’ Leif said, finally finding a voice. ‘I came up here to get it so I could return it to Rathulf.’
‘Of course you did,’ Horik laughed. His voice hardened. ‘You needn’t fret. I intend to return it to him. In fact, I will present it to him at the Leap–my gift to celebrate his coming of age. Horik the Good, protector of Rathulf’s precious chest and through it his destiny.’ He smiled as he reflected on this appealing concept. Then his expression changed. ‘But what would I get for all my troubles? A nod and a pat on the back? Kind thanks from the orphan slave and his crippled father?’ He shook his head. ‘No. I think my generosity is more deserving than that. Sigvald has far more money than sense. I wonder how much he’d be willing to pay to get it back? I imagine I shall do quite well out of this. After I take my pickings from whatever’s inside, of course.’ He threw his son a smile. ‘I suppose I owe you some thanks for this change of fortune. You’ve finally done something useful in your life, boy. I fancy I shall buy myself a new drakkar and a host of slaves to row it for me. And a decent horse.’ He paused, another idea coming to him. ‘Why buy a mount? I’ll make them trade that stallion of his for one or two of the items in here.’ He patted the trunk. ‘What do you think?’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Leif said.
‘Oh yes I would, and before you have any ideas on saving the day, I shall explain to your beloved friend how I came upon you sneaking away with this like the base thief you are. I shall tell him of your plans to sell the contents for your personal gain.’
‘He won’t believe you!’ Leif spat.
‘Really? So why did you take it then? Tell me it isn’t true and I’ll give it back to him tomorrow.’
‘It’s not true,’ Leif said, his eyes narrowing.
‘Which? The bit about melting it down, or trying your hand as an imposter?’ He waved his hand. ‘Don’t bother answering. We’ll find out soon enough. I’ll invite your friend around for dinner. In the meantime, I’m going home to break this open and see what’s inside.’
He moved to collect the chest, but Leif stepped in his way, his fists clenched. ‘No, father,’ he said. ‘You won’t.’
Horik’s response was to knee his son in the groin, then follow it with a punch to the stomach, and finish off with a powerful sideways punch to the boy’s head, which dropped Leif like a stone.
‘Yes I will,’ Horik growled, retrieving the chest and lashing it to his pony. He took one last look at the boy, not knowing or caring if he lived, then he gave his pony a kick in the ribs and was off. He rode quickly across the grassy vale between the two hills that enclosed his son’s despoiled sanctuary, taking with him Leif’s only hope of salvation.
✽ ✽ ✽
‘Come on Ra,’ Alrik said, thrusting a bow into his friend’s hand. ‘You can’t get out of it that easily.’
Rathulf stood with nine other youths in the field beside the farmstead. His birthday celebration had become a full-blown Lithasblot festival, which meant that in addition to the pony races there was archery, wrestling, swimming, rowing, and horse-fighting. Rathulf had dearly wanted to enter Tariq in the horse fighting, for he was confident the feisty stallion could out-match even the nastiest of the little fjordland ponies, but Sigvald had put paid to that dream, stating that he had not sailed to the end of the known world and spent his entire family fortune to acquire a warhorse of the calibre of Tariq only to have him nobbled for the sake of a petty wager.
It was now early afternoon, Rathulf and his guests having just completed a light midday meal of barley bread and spiced mutton stew washed down with beer. Rathulf still felt hungry and a little light-headed after the ale, but Helga and the other women were insistent that he and the other boys could not go about on full stomachs with so many activities yet to complete. The first of the afternoon’s competitions was archery.
‘You know I’m hopeless with these,’ Rathulf said to Alrik. ‘It’s my birthday, so I should be able to choose the contests.’
Alrik laughed. ‘Yeah, and I know which that would be: horse racing. Forget it Ra. You can’t ride Tariq all day, and anyway, I thought you’d have grabbed the first opportunity to do something you might be able to win. You can shoot first.’ He stepped aside, smiling, his expression revealing his delight at the prospect of beating his friend again. Most annoying of all was the dazzling silver arm ring he wore so prominently on his right forearm.
Rathulf threw him a caustic look, then he took a deep breath and stepped up to the bowman’s mark. The target – a small bag of straw hanging from an alder-branch tripod – swung to and fro in the light breeze. How am I going to hit that? Rathulf wondered. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the next challenge was to hit a moving target. All eyes were upon him, none keener than the other boys. Ah well, he thought, best get it over with. He set the first of his three arrows in the bow, drew back the pig’s gut cord, and aimed along
the shaft. He let the string go, and with a loud twang, the arrow shot off. The resulting peals of laughter told him all he needed to know. Oddly, though, he couldn’t see the arrow anywhere. It had obviously gone off-line, but it should be lying on the grass ahead of him somewhere.
There was a movement beside him, and Alrik’s face appeared, smirking. He bent down and retrieved the arrow from Rathulf’s feet. Rathulf instantly flushed, snatched it from his friend, and quickly nocked it back into the string, not even bothering to smooth out the feathers. ‘Stupid bloody coward’s sport anyway,’ he muttered. ‘Where’s the courage in shooting someone from this distance? Swords and axes are the true warrior’s way.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Alrik said from beside him. ‘Just hurry up so we can have a go.’
Alrik, predictably, fired three near-perfect arrows. Two of them hit their mark, and the third whistled between the bag and one of the tripod legs. Everyone cheered, and Hakon and Kitrik clapped him on the shoulder as he came back to where Rathulf stood. ‘See, it’s easy when you know how,’ he beamed. Rathulf turned his mouth up in a mock smile.
Alrik’s smugness was soon dashed when Kettir’s son, Eiyolf, fired three arrows dead into the centre of the bag. Everyone stared in amazement, not least Alrik, but the loudest cheers came from Rathulf. ‘So that’s how it’s done,’ Rathulf said, laughing at his friend’s chagrin.
‘At least I managed to hit something,’ Alrik said pointedly.
The moving target was the next challenge, in which one of the men dragged an old sledge bearing a brightly coloured cloth sack behind his pony. Rathulf didn’t even come close to hitting it, but to his pleasure, Alrik fared little better. Eiyolf, Gunnar and a couple of the other lads gave credible performances, but the menfolk decided collectively that the boys had much practice yet ahead of them.
‘Stupid game,’ Alrik said, tossing his bow aside, disgusted with himself.
Suddenly there came a blast from a hunting horn down by the water.
‘Now we get to something I can beat you at,’ Rathulf proclaimed. ‘Let’s see how well you do in a real man’s sport.’
Swimming was an activity in which Rathulf was proficient because what he lacked in the finer skills of bowmanship he made up in raw strength; precisely what was required to win this kind of race. The rules were simple. The boys had to swim out to a six-oared rowing boat – a distance of about twenty longship lengths – touch its hull, then swim back to shore. The first person who returned to dry land was the winner. Although only a modest reach, Rathulf knew that few boys would make it to the sexæring, let alone back to shore. This had little to do with the enervating qualities of the freezing water, but that was more because in the course of this race it was perfectly reasonable to take any action necessary to remove the other competitors, including holding them underwater; although drowning someone was frowned upon, unless it was genuinely accidental — the more violent the race, the better.
Sigvald called the young contenders to the shore, and the spectators let up a cheer as the boys stripped off their clothes. Alrik, uninhibited as usual, tore everything off without a second thought and plunged into the freezing water to the approving whistles of the women and girls. Gunnar did likewise, although to noticeably fewer cat-cries. Rathulf followed, and being the birthday-boy, received the loudest cheer. He splashed into the shallows amid the other boys’ shouts to cover their shock at entering the frigid water. Following tradition, Rathulf turned and stood shivering in the thigh-deep water, facing the shore with his hands by his side, literally baring all to the adults. He boldly met the spectators’ gazes, knowing that he had nothing of which to be ashamed, and that to show any sign of modesty would be considered a weakness. Nevertheless, it was hard not to feel self-conscious under the appraising gazes of the crowd.
Alrik, loving every moment of it, grinned at Rathulf, his green eyes twinkling with mischief. ‘Ingrith is squinting pretty hard at you, Ra. I don’t reckon she can find what she’s looking for.’
‘Well, no one will have any trouble finding yours, the way you fling it around,’ Rathulf responded.
‘The only thing that’s going to get any bigger today is your envy,’ Alrik laughed, then he was cut off by Sigvald’s shout setting them on their way. ‘I hope you can hold your breath!’ Alrik added, shoving Rathulf sideways then leaping into the water.
Rathulf managed to regain his balance and charged after his friend, but he was blocked by Gunnar who head-butted him in the stomach then upended him in the shallows. The onlookers yelled in rowdy support as Rathulf staggered to his feet, gasping for breath and wondering what had hit him. His head spun from the shock of the blow, and it took him a moment or two to come to his senses. He vaguely heard Sigvald roaring at him to swim, so he stumbled into the water, still struggling to find his breath. It was hard going, little helped by the crippling cold, which made breathing even more difficult. He made for the pounding legs of who he presumed to be Gunnar ahead.
As soon as Rathulf came close enough, he grabbed the boy by the ankle and yanked as hard as he could. It pulled them both off-balance, and when Rathulf dropped his foot to steady himself on the bottom, he slipped underwater because the seabed was further down than he expected. He burst to the surface to gulp down air just in time to receive a sharp punch to his chest. Rathulf cried out in pain, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from swallowing a lungful of water. He kicked wildly at his attacker to ward him off, furious that anyone would stoop so low. His opponent had already abandoned him, but it was Alrik’s laughter he heard, not Gunnar’s. Alrik? Rathulf looked ahead, but he couldn’t make out anyone in the frothing melee. His anger growing, he surged forward, determined to make his friend pay for that shameful act.
He passed two boys thrashing about as each tried to drown the other, and only just managed to avoid being drawn into the fray. He made instead for the sexæring, already feeling his legs cramping in the bitter cold. He kicked them more violently, conscious that it would also help deter would-be attackers.
He had just begun to wonder how much further it was to the boat when someone appeared in front of him and grabbed his arm, pulling him down into the water. Rathulf recognised Alrik and was better prepared this time. He let himself be dunked, managing to keep his eyes open long enough to find his assailant’s exposed stomach. Without hesitation, he punched it as hard as he could under the water, feeling a satisfying thud as his fist connected with Alrik’s skin. He flipped himself backwards and immediately followed up with a kick, which connected somewhere – Rathulf couldn’t be sure which part of Alrik’s body – then he powered away while his opponent was weakened.
He reached the sexæring behind two other boys, who were already on their way back when they passed him, both too busy trying to get to shore to worry about harrying Rathulf. Oddly, there was no sign of Gunnar. Rathulf banged his fist against the hull and looked up for the acknowledgement of the umpire. Gunnar’s foster-father grinned back at him, no doubt because he knew his foster-son would soon get his revenge. Rathulf began the swim back, using the hull to launch himself towards the shore. The cold was starting to bite now, and already he couldn’t feel his fingers, toes, nose, and most alarmingly, anything between his legs. His chest ached too, and with a flash of irritation, he hoped that he had properly hindered Alrik. He also hoped Gunnar’s absence meant that he’d been taken out by one of the other contestants somewhere behind him.
The boy hadn’t of course, which Rathulf discovered to his detriment when Gunnar suddenly burst up from underneath him, slamming both fists into his enemy’s stomach. Rathulf doubled over in the water, winded by the blow, and before he could draw in air, Gunnar dragged him down under the surface. Completely helpless, Rathulf swallowed mouthful after mouthful of water, and within moments Gunnar had him in a headlock, sitting piggyback on Rathulf’s shoulders with his legs wrapped around his opponent’s neck. Rathulf struggled briefly; punching, kicking, pinching and even scratching at his opponent’s bare skin, bu
t Gunnar held on. Rathulf’s lungs felt like they would burst. He had to get up for air, but Gunnar held him down, his weight holding Rathulf under the water.
There was nothing for it. In desperation, Rathulf resorted to the only possible action available to him. Aiming for the vulnerable spot in Gunnar’s lap right there in front of him, Rathulf grabbed the boy’s balls and crushed his fist as hard as he could.
Gunnar arched backwards and involuntarily released his grip, letting out a yelp that came to a choking end as he swallowed a mouthful of water. Rathulf followed up with a hard kick to Gunnar’s stomach, and then he swam off as quickly as his aching lungs would allow, his harsh breathing matching Gunnar’s tear-filled croaks.
I’ll regret that come evening, Rathulf thought, knowing that the wrestling was yet to come and with it, the vengeance Gunnar was likely to wreak upon his smaller, albeit able opponent. Rathulf quickened his stroke to be sure he got safely away. He powered towards the shore, his lungs burning, his chest ablaze with pain. He was aware that someone was ahead of him and he put on an extra turn of speed, safe in the knowledge that his two main opponents lay behind him.
He reached the shallows and stumbled towards the beach, looking to either side of him. Steinar, a stocky lad from further up Aurlandsfjorden, was staggering out of the water to his right. Letting out a roar, Rathulf threw himself at his opponent, tackling the larger boy around the legs. The two of them splashed down into the shallows, and without hesitation, Rathulf punched Steinar in the kidneys before springing sideways and half running, half crawling up to dry ground.
The roar of the crowd told him he had won, and he stood and thrust his clenched fists above his head, yelling out a triumphant war-cry, which was more a hoarse whisper than a shout, thanks to his overstrained lungs. The younger lads who’d not been allowed to take part in the contest swarmed around Rathulf, shouting and punching him in congratulation, delighted that their hero had won. One by one, the other sodden and battered contestants arrived, including a panting Alrik, who staggered out of the water and threw his friend a wry smile in acknowledgement of his victory.
