The Wolves of Dumnonia Saga Box Set

by Peter Fox

  Rathulf lay flat on his back, staring up at the sky and gasping for breath as he wondered how in all of Midgard he could possibly be alive. His body screamed in pain from the numerous cuts and abrasions he had earned on his return to earth, and he tasted blood in his mouth. He heard a distant thud and clatter as his saddle hit the rocky mountainside somewhere far below them, and he imagined it spinning and bouncing its way down the near-vertical slope towards the fjord. He closed his eyes and thanked Thor, Odin, Baldur and every other God in Asgard for choosing to save him on this occasion.

  Gunnar’s going to love this, he thought ruefully.

  Without giving himself time to succumb to one of the many sound reasons not to, he dragged himself off the ground, and, groaning in agony, put his hand up to the saddle. It wasn’t there, of course. He looked up at Tariq’s impossibly high withers and wondered how he was going to get back on. Taking charge, Tariq moved further down the path to a spot where some boulders jutted out over the trail. Rathulf managed a laugh, and he hobbled over to the rocks and eased himself up onto his horse.

  The trip down the mountain was torture. Rathulf had no way to hold on except by pressing his knees and thighs into his mount’s flanks, and very soon his body was shaking under the strain, little helped by the battering it had twice received as a result of his falls. Tariq did his best to maintain a smooth gait, but it was a tall order on the awkward terrain. By the time they got to the bottom, Rathulf’s legs were burning with excruciating pain, both limbs having cramped agonisingly.

  As they passed by the house he looked longingly at the warm cooking fire burning in the yard, but this race was not over yet, and seeing the spectators’ various expressions of alarm, surprise, and regret gave him all the encouragement he needed. He eased his grip on the reins and let Tariq go. It was up to his stallion now. All Rathulf could do was try his best to stay on.

  They charged up the valley at speed, Rathulf lying as low as he could on Tariq’s back and holding on by gripping his mane. It was a good thing he had lost all feeling in most of his body by now, although the pain between his legs as he bounced against his stallion’s spine brought tears to his eyes. They sped past the first and second markers at a bone-shattering pace, taking the right-hand turn at the second mark and crossing the river in a single bound to turn again at the third and make for the fourth marker and then the final run home. To Rathulf’s astonishment, he saw the rump of the trailing pony a short distance ahead, and in the same instant, Tariq saw it too. The Nisean put on an extra turn of speed.

  How have you caught up so quickly? Rathulf wondered in awe. The grass flashed beneath them in a blur as they thundered along the riverbank, Tariq’s sharp, snorting breaths coming harsh to Rathulf’s ears. ‘Easy,’ he urged, fearful that the stallion might burst his heart.

  But Tariq hated losing as much as his master, and he threw himself into the task, his great chest heaving as he pounded down the valley, eating up the distance between himself and the other riders. They flew past the first of the trailing ponies, recklessly barging past just before the last turn. Rathulf heard a cry behind him as Arni overshot the marker and ended up in the river as a result.

  ‘Out of our way!’ Rathulf yelled triumphantly as his mount charged at the next three riders. Without his saddle, Rathulf had little control of his horse, but Tariq knew what to do. Geir and Steinar saw the Nisean coming and managed to get out of the way, but Hrodulf was not so lucky. The massive warhorse ploughed into the little dun pony at full flight, sending horse and rider tumbling head over hoof. The other riders drew their mounts away from Tariq’s line and wisely allowed the powerful warhorse to pass between them.

  Beyond them, near the gates to the outer yard of the farmstead, stood Sigvald, Helga and all the other guests, yelling encouragement. Rathulf heard Sigvald’s bellows of support above the shouts of the mob, and he saw to his amusement that the lofty chieftain was all but riding the horse himself, waving his arms about and leaping up and down with excitement. Even Thorvald had abandoned his usual frown and leaned far forward in his chair, shaking his fists together as he too held the imaginary reins.

  Now only two contestants remained in front of them, but Tariq cared little for Alrik. It was Gunnar’s blood that he wanted. The stallion put on a fresh surge of speed and thundered around the last turn barely five lengths behind Gunnar; Tariq’s harsh, snorting breaths exactly as Rathulf imagined an angry Jötunn might sound as it closed in on its prey. Eirik’s son looked over his shoulder to see the demon Nisean and its rider bearing down on him, and Gunnar clearly thought the same thing. His eyes widened with astonishment, and in desperation he flailed wildly at his mount with everything at his disposal: feet, hands and reins, trying to squeeze every ounce of speed out of its stumpy little legs.

  It was to no avail. Realising he would be run down, Gunnar swerved away from the path, hoping that he could escape retribution by abandoning the race. Tariq, somehow sensing what Gunnar was about to do, changed stride and direction at the same instant that Gunnar’s pony turned. Suddenly Gunnar found himself broadside-on and directly in the path of the charging Nisean.

  They collided at full speed with a sickening crunch of shattering bone; Tariq ramming the smaller animal with such force that Rathulf was thrown forward by the impact. Pony and rider screamed as they went down. Rathulf caught Gunnar’s terror-stricken eyes just before he disappeared under Tariq’s hooves. Tariq stumbled momentarily amid the tangling limbs then he was free. Rathulf glanced behind him in time to see Gunnar’s naked and bloodied body tumble along the ground, having been ejected by Tariq’s hooves.

  Gunnar flopped face-down in the grass beside his fallen pony, unmoving. Rathulf quickly turned back to the front, both horrified and thrilled by Tariq’s actions. No one would censure him for trampling his nemesis; he knew that. This had been a fair race, but the boy was Eirik Ravenhair’s son. Eirik, who thought nothing of ripping a man’s heart from his ribs for little more than a wrong ways glance.

  Rathulf tried to take control of his horse, but Tariq was having none of it. The stallion intended to fulfil his master’s wishes and win. With a sharp snort, the Nisean directed his attention to the finish line, and their last obstacle: Alrik.

  ‘Alrik!’ Rathulf yelled. ‘Get out of the way!’

  It was one thing to trample the much-loathed Gunnar, quite another to hurt his best friend. Having just seen Gunnar so brutally routed, however, Alrik needed no warning. He took one look behind him and leapt from his pony in full flight, hitting the ground and tumbling head over heels as Tariq thundered past.

  Nothing stood in their way now. Rathulf saw the finish mark ahead. Surrounding it were his friends and family, leaping about in a frenzy of shouting and yelling; not in anger, but unqualified approval. For this had been a true Norse contest; driven by pride, honour and courage. By accepting Gunnar’s challenge and then so convincingly and ruthlessly routing all his opponents, Rathulf had taken an unequivocal step towards manhood.

  I’ve done it, Rathulf suddenly realised, seeing the unbridled delight in Sigvald’s eyes.

  Immediately forgetting Gunnar, who had, after all, been fairly beaten, Rathulf instead revelled in his success, delighting in the raw power of his mount beneath him. In that intoxicating moment, horse and rider were one. No clothing or saddle separated them, and Rathulf knew that he would never feel quite so whole, so potent again. The finish line was barely forty lengths away, and everyone was screaming at him now, waving their arms in triumph and celebration. Tariq’s power flowed through Rathulf like a hot tonic, and his body drank thirstily. He wanted to ride on, past the house and back up the mountain and do it all over again. He no longer felt the cold air draining the life from him.

  Nothing can touch us now!

  Only then did he see Myran. It was as though the Persian had been waiting there all the time, choosing that crucial instant to step out and make himself known.

  Time seemed to slow so that the wild shouting of the crowd merged in
to a dull roar in Rathulf’s ears, and the spectators’ actions became calmer and more graceful, as though they moved in time to the same flowing dance that was Rathulf’s passage. Rathulf saw everything clearly. Every face bore a distinct expression; delight, shock, envy, lust, pride. Perhaps that was why he was drawn to Myran. The stablemaster was the only person in the entire gathering who did not share Rathulf’s desire to cross the finish line. Yet Myran, above all, wanted Rathulf to win.

  In that moment of clarity, Rathulf knew what he must do. In a heart-wrenching action that was more painful than any breaking of ribs, Rathulf relaxed his legs, fell out of rhythm with his horse, and with just twenty lengths to go, sat up, grabbed the reins and hauled on them with all his might.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Tariq fought Rathulf all the way to the line. The stallion bucked, snorted and threw himself about, but Rathulf maintained his grip on the reins, pulling them harder than he thought any horse could bear. The bit dug into Tariq’s mouth, but the stallion refused to give in. Rathulf grimly held on. Tariq bucked again, trying to toss Rathulf from his back, but the young Norseman dug in his knees and used the reins to steady himself, aware of the terrible pain it must be inflicting upon his mount. Tariq sprang sideways, but again Rathulf was ready. People were running to his aid from all quarters, but Rathulf shouted at them to stand clear. The last thing he needed was for Tariq to crack open someone else’s head.

  Then came the rumble of hoofbeats as the other horses charged by, keeping a wide berth of the deranged Nisean. Tariq tried to bite Alrik’s riderless horse as it passed but hampered by his rider’s firm hold, the Nisean couldn’t get his head around quickly enough. Only when the last of the surviving riders had crossed the line did Rathulf let go. Too late, he realised his mistake. Tariq sprang forward, then came to a sudden stop and kicked his hind legs high in the air, sending Rathulf flying. Rathulf sailed over the heads of the gathered spectators and crashed into Alrik’s pony and bounced off its side, falling heavily to the ground.

  He was still blinking away the stars that twinkled around the edges of his vision when Sigvald’s concerned face appeared. Rathulf smiled back at him and muttered what he believed were the words, ‘I’m okay.’ In the background, he heard raised voices and the alarmed whinnying of horses. It took him a few moments more to get to his feet, and he swayed unsteadily when he did finally get up. Sigvald steadied him, just in time for Alrik to launch a furious tirade at his friend.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ he yelled, pulling grass from his mouth and hair. ‘You’ve garrotted Tariq! Look at him!’

  Rathulf glanced over at his horse, who stood pawing the ground. Blood frothed from the corners of his mouth. Rathulf winced.

  ‘And what’ve you done to Gunnar?’

  Rathulf looked beyond his friend up the valley, his heart in his throat. Gunnar’s mother and several of Eirik’s men were running toward the prone bodies of horse and rider. Both lay alarmingly still. Odin protect me, he thought. What have I done?

  ‘Eirik’s going to go crazy! You have to stop riding that animal, Ra. He’s feral.’

  ‘I meant to do it,’ Rathulf said, looking back at Tariq.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I meant to lose,’ Rathulf said.

  ‘You what?’ Sigvald demanded, entering the conversation. ‘You’ll be lucky if he ever lets you ride him again!’

  ‘Tariq will let him back on,’ Bardi offered, a wry smile on his face, ‘but it might take him a while to forgive Rathulf.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Sigvald said testily. ‘Or are you an expert on Byzantine horses now?’

  ‘I don’t proclaim to be an authority, no, but from what I’ve just seen, I’d say Rathulf has just shown his horse who’s boss. In fact, he’s just shown all of us who’s boss.’

  ‘Eh?’ Sigvald said, then turned to Rathulf. Alrik, too, looked at his friend, confused.

  ‘You did that on purpose?’ Alrik demanded.

  Rathulf nodded.

  ‘Rasshull!’ Alrik spat, letting go of Rathulf.

  ‘Myran said it was the only way I could get Tariq to understand who was master. If I let him win, then I would lose.’

  ‘That slave has gone too far this time,’ Sigvald growled, turning to reproach the stable-master.

  ‘Never mind him,’ Thorvald said, no less angrily. ‘That horse is a death-trap. Look at yourself Ra: you’re covered in blood, head to toe. What happened this time? It looks like he’s dragged you halfway down the mountain by your feet. And where’s your saddle?’

  ‘It came off,’ Rathulf said.

  Thorvald looked at him, askance.

  ‘What’s got into you?’ Rathulf snapped back at him. ‘A moment ago, you were shouting at me to win. This isn’t the first time I’ve fallen off. Tariq’s thrown me plenty of times, including all the other races today. I just haven’t told you.’

  Alrik stared at him, appalled. ‘And you think you’re riding him over Odin’s Breach?’

  Rathulf shrugged defensively. ‘Why not? Oh, and I’m fine by the way everyone. Thanks for asking.’

  ‘You’re crazy, do you know that?’ Alrik said, shaking his head at his friend’s battered body. Then suddenly, his face broke into a grin, and he punched his friend hard on the shoulder.

  ‘Ow!’ Rathulf blinked at him, surprised by the change in his friend’s attitude. ‘What was that for?’

  ‘For beating me. I can’t believe you fell off, rode all that way without a saddle, and you still managed to wipe us out to take the race.’

  ‘I didn’t win,’ Rathulf reminded him.

  ‘Oh yes you did,’ Alrik said emphatically, beaming with pride at his friend. ‘What you did was awesome!’

  ‘But a moment ago you said…’

  ‘He’s right,’ came Ingrith’s voice, ‘you are amazing.’ She shoved Alrik out of the way and wrapped her arms around her naked paramour. She kissed him on the lips, not at all deterred by her father’s presence, and reminding the other girls of her ownership of their hero Rathulf. The other boys were crowding in to congratulate him, and soon he was swamped by well-wishers of all ages.

  I did it! Rathulf thought, elated.

  ‘But your dad is right in one thing at least,’ Alrik said, elbowing his way back his friend’s side. ‘Tariq is a suicide ride.’

  Rathulf smiled back at him. ‘You haven’t had your go yet.’

  He derived great pleasure from Alrik’s change in expression from mirth to alarm. Rathulf looked beyond Alrik to where Myran and two other helpers were struggling to calm the big horse. ‘In fact, you can ride him now. Leif can wait.’

  Alrik followed Rathulf’s gaze to the bucking, snorting stallion. ‘Er, no. It’s okay. I’d hate to make you go back on your word.’

  Rathulf raised his eyebrows. ‘Everyone heard that, didn’t they? You had your chance, Alrik.’

  ‘Right,’ Alrik conceded. ‘I’m thirsty. Who’s for a drink?’ He looked down at himself and suddenly remembered he was stark naked. ‘Hey, and where are my pants?’

  Rathulf would have been quite happy to leave Tariq to Myran, but something told him he shouldn’t walk away now. ‘I’ll catch up with you,’ he said to Alrik and the others. He hobbled over to Myran, who shook his head at his master.

  ‘You are reckless, Master Rathulf.’

  ‘I did what you told me!’ Rathulf protested.

  ‘But look at the damage to his mouth,’ Myran scolded.

  ‘Is it bad?’ Rathulf asked, not really wanting to hear the answer. He looked up at his horse, concerned. Tariq let out a snort and turned his head away.

  ‘Actually, no,’ Myran admitted. ‘He’ll recover. The pain caused by the bit will be an advantage to you in the coming days. You should make the most of it.’

  Rathulf winced at the thought of it, but he saw sense in what the stablemaster was saying.

  ‘Do you wish to be his master or not?’ Myran pressed on. ‘An Abbasidian cavalryman does not flinch every time he
or his mount receives a hurt. He rides unwavering through the enemy’s ranks until he breaks out the other side or dies in the trying. Tariq’s suffering will be brief. My concern lies with you.’

  Rathulf shrugged. ‘Me? I’m fine,’ he said defensively, despite becoming increasingly aware of the painful graze caused by his slide down the rocky scree. He also didn’t feel comfortable confiding his personal feelings with Myran, not least because he was still naked. But if he were to speak truthfully, then he would have to admit he was beginning to seriously regret owning such a demanding horse. His pony hadn’t been a tenth as difficult as Tariq to manage. And now he had to contend with whatever he’d done to Gunnar.

  ‘Master Rathulf,’ Myran said carefully. ‘Lord Sigvald may have bought you this horse on a whim, but there are few things in life worth having that are not well-earned.’

  ‘I know that, but look what he’s done!’ Rathulf protested. ‘Jarl Eirik is going to…’ he stopped, images of the punishment that Eirik was likely to inflict – despite what Viking law might say – sending a shiver of fear through him.

  ‘Master Gunnar received his beating in a fair contest, and before many witnesses,’ Myran observed, ‘and you needn’t fear his father. Jarl Eirik is a man of honour. And it is a moot argument in any case, as Master Gunnar will live, although I’m not sure that will be to your advantage.’