by Peter Fox
Rathulf stood waiting for him, still naked and with arms crossed, a provocative grin lighting his face. Like Alrik, he now sported a silver band on his arm. Beside Rathulf stood Bardi and Sigvald, both beaming cheerfully. Alrik punched Rathulf hard in the shoulder, genuinely pleased that his friend had won.
‘And you put Gunnar in the boat,’ Alrik crowed, grinning broadly. ‘That’s awesome!’
‘An excellent contest!’ Sigvald boomed proudly, as the sexæring crunched onto the gravel beach. Five boys sat in it, dripping wet and shivering miserably. To Rathulf’s immense satisfaction, Gunnar was indeed one of them. Rathulf grinned with delight as the boys disembarked, their heads held low in shame; all except Gunnar, whose mouth was twisted into a rage-induced grimace.
‘You’re gonna die for that, skítr-licker,’ Gunnar snarled as he climbed out of the sexæring. He went to shove Rathulf aside but slipped on the wet stones, forcing him to grab the hull to stop himself falling.
‘It’s not my fault you weren’t up to it,’ Rathulf responded, buoyed by his conquest of his enemy.
Alrik laughed at that, as did many of the spectators.
Gunnar snatched his hand away from the boat and stepped up to his rival. Although he almost matched Rathulf in height, he seemed the smaller of the two when face to face. ‘What did you say, filthy migrant?’
‘I said that you haven’t got the balls for manhood,’ Rathulf said, then he looked down at Gunnar’s groin. ‘Looks like the water’s taken more than your breath away.’
That quip drew more laughter from the assembled crowd, and Gunnar’s rage burned hotter as a result. ‘You think you’re Thor’s gift, don’t you?’ the ugly boy snapped. ‘Well, you’re nothing, Thorvaldarsson, and I can best you in a hundred different ways.’
‘What, like you did just now?’ Rathulf snorted.
Gunnar’s eyes narrowed further. ‘No, I was thinking of something you reckon you’re good at, like horse-riding.’
‘I’ll take you on any time, kuktryne,’ Rathulf snarled back. ‘I’ll go and get Tariq ready, shall I?’
‘What, and go for a little run along the river? Where’s the challenge in that? We all know you’d win, but not because of any skill of yours.’ Gunnar paused for a moment, his sneer broadening. ‘Although I guess there’s no guarantee that your dumb donkey won’t mess up even a simple task like that. It must be so frustrating having such a powerful beast between your legs, only to have it let you down every time you go for a ride.’
‘That’ll do, Gunnar,’ Sigvald began, seeing the black scowl on Rathulf’s face and remembering what had happened last time someone pushed Rathulf too far. But his warning was drowned out by the delighted roar from the crowd. This was a contest they all wanted to see; Gunnar and Rathulf fighting it out to the bitter end, their bare hands and lashing wit their only weapons. It was perfect Norse entertainment, and who better to provide it on Rathulf’s birthday than the young man himself and his greatest adversary?
‘Actually, it’s not disappointing at all,’ Rathulf responded, his voice dangerously level, ‘but you wouldn’t know what it’s like to wield that kind of power. Stick to your little pony, Gunnar. That’s about all you can handle.’
Rathulf received a rousing a round of applause for that retort.
Gunnar’s eyes narrowed. ‘At least I’ll get to use mine. You’ll be able to ask Ingrith how good a master I am once we’re married and she’s mine, not yours.’
‘That’s enough!’ Sigvald boomed, drowning out the roars of approval from the onlookers. One thing he would not tolerate was these two degenerates smearing his daughter’s good name. ‘I've got a good mind to throw you both back into the water to cool down.’
‘I’ve got a better plan,’ Rathulf said, his hazel eyes still fixed on Gunnar. ‘You want to prove who the better rider is? Fine. Let’s go back up the mountain right now and see who wins this time. Only we’ll go like this.’ He nodded at Gunnar’s bare body.
‘What? Don’t be stupid,’ Alrik interjected.
‘No problem for me, skítr-licker,’ Gunnar snarled. He turned to Alrik. ‘If it’s too tough for you, maybe one of the others will go in your place.’ He turned and glared defiantly at the boys who had just been in the water with them. Each of the other young men, however, variously found a way to avoid Gunnar’s challenging gaze. Gunnar looked again to Alrik, challenging him to withdraw.
‘Fine. We’ll get our bloody horses,’ Alrik said, ‘but you’re gonna lose, drittsekk. Oh, and everyone will come, so anyone who tries to back out is a coward.’ He pointed at the others, who stared back at him horrified. Most of them had already dried themselves off and were in the process of getting dressed. None of them savoured the prospect of a race up the mountain naked, but they were faced with little choice if they wanted to maintain their pride in the presence of all the adults. If nothing else, this would certainly be an excellent test of the boys’ right to enter manhood.
‘Well?’ Alrik demanded of the others. ‘What are you waiting for?’
While the other boys stripped off again, Rathulf strode over to the stable, feeling mightily pleased with the outcome of his altercation with Gunnar. He arrived to find Myran standing in his path.
‘You must not do this, Master Rathulf. It is a mistake.’
‘Out of my way,’ Rathulf said, pushing the stable master aside.
‘Master Rathulf, you are not prepared for this, and the saddle is damaged. It is too dangerous.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Rathulf said. ‘Get Tariq ready. Now.’
‘Ah, Ra,’ came Sigvald’s plea from behind him. ‘I think you should listen to Myran.’
The young Norseman turned around to face his fostri. ‘Gunnar has insulted me on my birthday, and I’m going to make him pay.’
‘Of course Gunnar slighted you,’ Sigvald said harshly, ‘he hates everything about you, and you did crush his balls and leave him to drown.’
Rathulf couldn’t help but smile at that most satisfying memory. ‘Well, I messed it up didn’t I, because he’s still alive.’
‘All the more reason not to rise to him. You’ve just beaten him in a fair contest. Why hand him the opportunity to get even?’
‘Sigvald,’ Rathulf protested, ‘The other day you told me that I was about to become a man, which means that everyone will be out to bring me down, to prove I’m not ready to put aside my boy’s practice sword. I’m not some gelding that Gunnar can poke fun at whenever he likes. And anyway,’ he added pointedly, ‘this is about you too. Tariq’s your horse, remember. So is he a donkey or “the greatest breed of mounts that Norvegr will ever see”?’
Sigvald’s face suddenly burst into a grin, and ignoring the insult, said, ‘so you are set upon riding an unproven horse up the mountain and back on a broken saddle, stark naked.’
‘Yes,’ Rathulf said defiantly.
Sigvald clapped his foster-son on the back. ‘Then may the Gods be with you Rathulf,’ he boomed in an unexpected reversal of attitude, ‘and there I was thinking I’d managed to sway you with all that codswallop about not letting him annoy you.’
‘You were testing me too?’ Rathulf said, exasperated.
‘Don’t listen to Myran,’ Sigvald said, then turned to move away. ‘Oh, and do try to be more careful this time. It would be a pity to break your neck before you took the Leap.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Rathulf reassured his foster-father. ‘I intend to win this time.’
✽ ✽ ✽
The boys lined up by the house, each one trying his best to appear stolid and brave, despite the cold and their nudity. Gunnar was the exception; he glared at Rathulf with pure malice. One of the other boys, Lini, had backed out and was consequently engaged in a heated argument with his father over by the shore. For his part, Rathulf couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering, but he felt no disgrace as every one of the boys was shivering in one way or another from the cold, or fear, or both. Even Alrik looked unhappy, but he refused to acknowledge Rathul
f’s presence; instead, he stared out in front of him, his jaw set in a hard line. Rathulf shifted in the uncomfortable saddle, the thin leather offering little padding for the hard wood of the seat. He looked at the expectant faces of the crowd. They stood either side of the line, excitedly awaiting the start of this, the first real test of the calibre of these young Viking hopefuls.
Sigvald lifted his sword.
‘Time to show them what we’re made of,’ Rathulf whispered to Tariq, gently laying his hand on the stallion’s neck. Your future and mine both depend on this, he thought. Tariq knew what was required of him, and he pawed at the ground, keen to get going.
Sigvald’s sword flashed through the air.
The stallion burst from the line in a massive surge of power that jerked Rathulf backwards in the saddle. He swore as the hard wooden backrest ground into the base of his spine, then he regained his balance and leaned forward, trying to find his rhythm with Tariq. They thundered across the vale towards the mountain, the cold bite of the air taking Rathulf’s breath away. How by the Balls of Fenrir am I going to survive this? he wondered, regretting having proposed this outlandish venture. He huddled down as low as he could, but the wind still whistled around his bare neck, shoulders and back, chilling him to the core.
Their mad dash quickly came to an end when they reached the mass of boulders and scree that lay at the base of the slope, and where Tariq all too predictably struggled on the uneven, icy ground.
‘See you!’ Alrik shouted as he clattered past, followed by the others.
Gunnar, however, paused a few lengths ahead, unconcerned that the others were getting away. He shook his head in mock sympathy. ‘You can’t shoot, can’t swim, and can’t ride. And we won’t even talk about that tiny thing you call your manhood. You consider yourself a Viking? Ha! Face it, Thorvaldarsson, you’ll never be as good as me, and you’ll never be one of us.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And don’t think I’ve forgotten what you did to me, thrall. You’ll pay for that.’ At that, he turned and carried on up the path.
Rathulf’s first instinct was to charge after him, but he remembered Sigvald’s words and told himself not to be goaded. He kicked his heels to get Tariq moving, not even realising they hadn’t actually stopped. Instead, the horse had been methodically picking his way around the slippery patches and continuing up the path. Rathulf let out a grunt of surprise and gave Tariq a congratulatory pat on the neck. As soon as they were past the worst of it, the stallion began to gain speed again, becoming more confident as he stepped successfully around the boulders and made it across the unstable scree. Before long, they were on firmer ground, and Tariq began to find his rhythm. Some distance ahead, Gunnar glanced over his shoulder, and his smirk vanished when he saw how well Rathulf was doing. He kicked his pony to hurry him along, disappearing around a corner marked by a massive block of stone that had fallen from above.
Rathulf was so focussed on guiding Tariq up the narrow section of path that he completely missed the ambush. There was a sudden cry from in front of them, then Gunnar burst from behind the screen of boulders and charged straight at Tariq. The two boys’ eyes met, and Rathulf saw murder in Gunnar’s snarling expression.
‘No!’ Rathulf shouted, dragging on the reins to try to avoid a collision. ‘You’ll kill us both!’
But Rathulf had not taken Tariq’s pedigree into account. The big warhorse ignored Rathulf’s command and stood his ground. Left with no time to swerve clear, Gunnar’s pony sideswiped them with a jarring impact that nearly sent Gunnar flying from his saddle. Tariq threw his weight onto his front legs and lashed out with his hind hooves as Gunnar’s pony stumbled past them, landing a hefty blow to the pony’s flank. It let out a shriek and sprang to safety as Tariq swung around to attack. Had Rathulf been prepared for his mount’s actions, Tariq may have succeeded, but instead, Rathulf inadvertently threw the Nisean off-balance. With an all-too-familiar lurch, the young Viking felt Tariq’s hooves slip, and then he was falling.
At least this time he didn’t have far to drop, but Rathulf hit the ground hard, cracking his elbow as he bounced on the rocks. He came to a sliding stop on the gravelly scree, and with no clothes to protect him, the sharp stones tore Rathulf’s skin from shoulder to toe. Tariq had slid down the scree beside his master, and in a flurry of legs, mane and tail, managed to keep himself upright, though not without much indignant snorting. He pawed at the ground, his nostrils flaring. Gunnar had somehow managed to stay on his horse, and he laughed down at Rathulf, holding up his fist in victory.
‘Not so easy to get past me this time, slave-boy,’ he snarled, ‘and don’t think I’ve finished with you. I’m gonna grind your face into the dirt tonight, hestkuk.’ At that, he turned his pony and continued up the hill. Rathulf hurled every known expletive after him, but the other boy didn’t even flinch.
Tariq was itching to get after them, furious that he had been brushed aside by such a paltry opponent. He nudged his master, keen to get moving.
‘I’m coming!’ Rathulf spat angrily, wincing at the bloody graze that ran the length of his torso. Cursing, he reached up and pulled himself onto the saddle, but as he did so, something snapped, and the whole thing came off, and Rathulf fell back hard onto his rump.
‘You stinking, rotten drittsekk!’ Rathulf shouted after Gunnar when he realised what had happened. The hind strap, which was one of two straps that ran underneath the horse’s belly to hold the saddle on, had broken. The other one had come undone in the process. Cursing roundly, Rathulf hurriedly refastened the fore-strap, then hauled himself back on board. The saddle slipped sideways a little under the strain, but it held, which was just as well because Tariq did not wait for the instruction to move. As soon as Rathulf was up, Tariq tore off after Gunnar at an alarming pace, intent on revenge. Rathulf leaned back and pulled on the reins to slow him down.
‘We don’t want to make that mistake again,’ he warned, although in truth all he wanted to do was ride right up to Gunnar and drag him off his pathetic little mount and shove him over the cliff. He also found it difficult to ignore the fact that Alrik and the others were drawing further ahead. But instead, he concentrated on the ground in front of him, trying to calm himself down. He shivered uncontrollably, and his grazed body was beginning to hurt. With frustration, he knew that his mount was aware of his master’s suffering. The stallion kept checking over his shoulder to make sure Rathulf was still there. ‘Stop worrying about me,’ Rathulf said between chattering teeth. ‘Keep your eyes on the path.’
Tariq allowed Rathulf to guide him up the slope, and they made it to the top in a reasonable time, and more importantly, free of any mishap. As soon as his hooves touched the firm grass of the upland meadow, Tariq let fly. They charged over the plateau towards the first turning point, Rathulf doing his best to hold on as the loose saddle bucked underneath him. Away off to his right, he saw Alrik and the other riders already returning for the downward leg, and he had to fight Tariq’s desire to abandon the race and charge after Gunnar. ‘Patience,’ he ordered. We’ve got to go around the markers.’
He closed his eyes to Alrik’s laughter and Gunnar’s mocking taunts, again trying to focus on the end goal. He reminded himself that all he needed to do was get back down in one piece, and he would beat them all.
They took the turn at the river a little too fast, and the saddle slipped a fraction more so that Rathulf now had to lean in the opposite direction to compensate. He toyed briefly with the idea of stopping to fix it, but at that moment he saw Gunnar raise his finger in a rude gesture just before he disappeared over the lip of the mountain, so Rathulf carried on.
They plunged down the slope in slightly better time than the previous run, but the path down was no less slippery. If anything, it was in a worse state for all the hooves that had pounded up and down it already. On the very first bend, Tariq lost his footing, forcing him to slow down. Rathulf was unable to hide his frustration, and in his desire to please his master, Tariq took off straight away. They approache
d the second bend a little more slowly, and this time the stallion managed a controlled skid around the corner to Rathulf’s cry of delight. The next turn proved equally successful, and buoyed by their success, Rathulf slapped his horse in encouragement.
They came upon the fourth switchback fast, but Tariq was, at last, finding his mountain feet, and he shifted his weight as he slewed around in the gravelly soil so that they barely slowed their pace. Rathulf shouted a war-cry and waved his fist in jubilation, causing the others to look behind them. The astonished looks on their faces gave Rathulf great satisfaction, and Tariq felt his master’s pleasure. He broke into a gallop. I’ll catch them on the mountain, Rathulf thought suddenly, barely believing it could be possible. What a coup that would be! At that realisation he urged Tariq ever faster, ignoring the loosening strap on the saddle.
They flashed past the spot where they had come to grief earlier in the day, and Rathulf laughed with glee. Look out, Alrik! he thought, watching as his rival urged his pony into a gallop. He didn’t take any notice of the next bend. Tariq was already altering his gait to make it, and Rathulf leaned into the turn as the stallion threw himself around it in a well-controlled skid.
Rathulf’s mouth was half open to a cry of triumph when the fore-strap came undone.
So it was that when Tariq straightened up, Rathulf and the saddle kept going, straight out over the cliff and into space; only this time there was nothing to save him.
3. To win, you must lose
Thorvaldsby, Aurlandsfjorden, Norvegr
Just what instinct came into play at that terrifying moment Rathulf would never know, but as soon as he felt the strap go underneath him and the saddle come away, he grabbed hold of the reins and held on tight. Tariq, too, sensed the strap break and Rathulf’s weight suddenly leave his back. He felt the jerk on the reins and instinctively threw himself at the mountainside, and, working with Rathulf’s momentum, threw up his head in a massive heave to bring his master soaring in a wide arc back over land. Unfortunately, Tariq could do little to halt Rathulf’s flight, and the young Northman smashed heavily into the mountainside. He bounced off the wall and flopped to the ground. Tariq, who had ended up behind his master as a result of his actions, then had to avoid trampling him as he came to a halt himself. He managed to hop over his master, stopping a little further down the slope. Shaking his neck so that his mane flicked noisily to and fro, he quickly trotted back up to Rathulf to check that he was alright.
