by Peter Fox
Why hadn’t Thorvald done the right thing? Why had he brought them here? Why had he gone to Dumnonia in the first place? It was a trail of thought that led in ever-decreasing circles to an inevitable conclusion: what was happening was entirely out of Rathulf’s control. The Gods were directing his life and all that happened in it for their perverse amusement, and it was to Loki he should have been sending his prayers, not Thor. For what benevolent God would give him and his horse the daring and ability to make the reverse Leap successfully – a feat no one had ever before attempted, let alone achieved – only to have his friend die anyway? A contrary part of Rathulf had wished the archer’s first arrow had struck Alrik as had been intended so that he would have been spared the Gods’ delight in their fiendish cruelty.
Sigvald and Thorvald had both refused to allow Rathulf to give away his birthright, and they were backed up by Eirik, their host, who gave orders that anyone who tried to fetch the chest would join Alrik on the pyre. So, in the end, Rathulf gave his blood-brother nothing, for the only thing that Alrik had truly wanted was to share in his best friend’s adventures.
Even now, as Rathulf prepared to light the funeral pyre, he could not accept that Alrik was gone. The two of them had been the very definition of inseparable, having spent more days together than apart from the time they’d been first introduced as bairns. Indeed one of Sigvald’s favourite stories was about the day the two boys had first met. It had been cold and stormy, and Sigvald had been grumpy when he’d collected little Rathulf and his father under orders from Helga. The rain and wind had battered their small skiff all the way to Sigvaldsby, and Rathulf had been sick all over his best tunic and trousers. Thorvald had apparently been very annoyed, but the thing that Sigvald most remembered was Alrik’s reaction when thrust before the sodden little boy with spew smeared all over himself. Alrik had scowled in disgust and held his nose, then had run off to his mother loudly proclaiming that he refused to have anything to do with that ‘revolting little slave boy.’ They’d been friends ever since.
Rathulf held out the bow to Thorleif and shook his head. ‘I can’t do it,’ he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. He knew it was cowardly, that he needed to stand tall and do the right thing by his friend, but his shoulder was in no condition to draw the bow. And lighting the pyre would seal a truth he was not yet ready to concede.
‘Who will fire the arrow to send Alrik on his way?’ Thorleif demanded of the assembled gathering on the shore.
To the astonishment of many, Gunnar stepped forward.
‘Forget it, Eiriksson,’ Bardi said harshly.
Eirik likewise berated his son for his insensitivity, but Rathulf lifted his hand. He could see genuine regret in the teenager’s face. Rathulf knew that Gunnar was trying to put things right, even if it was for his own benefit to assuage his guilt. Rathulf had even begun to feel sorry for Gunnar; such was the animosity that Eirik, Bardi, and so many others levelled at him for goading Alrik into attempting the Leap.
‘Bardi is wrong to blame you,’ Rathulf said quietly, handing Gunnar the heavy bow, ‘and anyway, we both know I’ll set myself on fire if I try to shoot this bloody thing, and that’s without my stupid shoulder.’ He nodded at the sling.
‘It’s good to know your limitations,’ Gunnar said, but it was without malice.
Bardi began to protest again, but Thorleif understood the importance of this moment and shut his son up with a shake of his head.
‘He’d have made it across easily,’ Gunnar said, taking the bow. ‘Definitely would’ve gone further than you, and he wouldn’t’ve cocked up the landing and fallen on his face,’ he added pointedly. He dipped the cloth-wrapped arrow shaft into the tar pot, then Rathulf lit it from the smouldering firebrand that Thorleif handed him for that purpose.
At that moment Rathulf remembered Gunnar himself bore an injury to his shoulder. Eirik’s son read Rathulf’s questioning glance, and he shrugged. ‘Yeah, it hurts.’ Gunnar held Rathulf’s gaze for a moment longer as the tar-slathered arrow sputtered into life. ‘Are you sure about this?’
Rathulf nodded. Gunnar drew back the bowstring, and on seeing the burly youth’s muscles straining against the tension of the cord, Rathulf both felt relieved that Gunnar had taken his place, and somewhat astounded that the boy could manage it at all, given his own injury. It was then that he realised that even now, Gunnar was taking the opportunity to show Rathulf – and everyone else – who was the better of the two of them. ‘He’ll be spewing that it’s me doing this,’ Gunnar said between gritted teeth.
‘Better not miss then,’ Rathulf said.
Gunnar’s aim was true, and the arrow slammed into the pyre about halfway up with an audible thunk.
‘That’ll do it,’ Rathulf said, both impressed and dismayed.
The whale-grease-smeared wood burst into flame with a whump, and even from this distance, Rathulf felt the blast of heat on his face. Around them, people wept openly, including all of Alrik’s family, Helga and many others, Sigvald among them. A sob suddenly came up from nowhere in Rathulf’s throat, but he fought it off.
‘It wasn’t your fault either,’ Gunnar muttered.
Rathulf turned from the hypnotic fire to Gunnar, whose swarthy face was lit orange by the flames. If Rathulf had been talking to anyone other than Eirik’s son, he would have sworn he had just said something kind to him. Gunnar wasn’t looking at him; instead, he watched the burning pyre.
‘It is my fault because I should have held onto him,’ Rathulf responded. ‘I wasn’t strong enough to pull him back up.’
‘Yeah, that’s true, but he let go of you,’ Gunnar reminded him. ‘If he hadn’t, you’d have gone over the edge too.’
‘Maybe that wouldn’t have been such a bad thing,’ Rathulf said darkly.
Gunnar rolled his eyes and shook his head, but at least had the grace not to say anything. The boys stood in silence while the men, led by Bardi, broke into song. Soon the deep-throated lament for a life cut short echoed to and fro across the steep walls of the valley.
‘If you do decide to go back to where you come from,’ Gunnar said gruffly, nodding at Rathulf’s wolven standard, ‘I’ll lend you my sword arm, but I expect a tenth share of the spoils. Let’s face it; you’re gonna need some real men on your crew.’
Rathulf looked at Gunnar, surprised. He searched Gunnar’s face to find some nasty angle to the boy’s offer, but he really did mean it. How long will you stay like this? Rathulf wondered. It surely couldn’t last, and no doubt he’d punish everyone he’d opened up to once he returned to his usual horrible self. It’s all moot anyway.
‘I’m not going,’ Rathulf said, having days earlier decided to throw the cursed chest of Dumnonia and all its contents into the fjord; preferably as near to the spot that Alrik had lost Thorvald’s toolbox as he could. He should have done it long ago of course, and now it was too late, but at least it would mark the end of this horrible episode of his life and perhaps, just perhaps, he might be able to start some sort of life anew as a Viking warrior. Who could guess what the future held in store? He would likely go raiding, possibly even to Dumnonia. The only thing Rathulf knew with certainty was that he would never have anything to do with his birthplace again, other than to raze it to the ground and kill as many of them as he could before he was cut down himself. He’d had a furious row with his father and Sigvald this morning about it; but he had finally acquiesced and put on the accursed tunic, ring and sword for one last time out of respect for Alrik.
He turned back to the blazing ship, and a droll thought came to him at that moment. The whole burning ship idea was pretty stupid, Rathulf reflected. For a start, ships float on water, and water puts out fire. So they’d slathered all manner of combustible materials on the pyre, and they’d put heavy stuff like rocks – which you didn’t need in Valhalla – in the bottom of the Wave Skimmer to make sure it sank. But at the last funeral Rathulf had attended, the boat had gone down too early, and the pyre broke up and fizzled out, leav
ing the logs floating about on the surface with the half-burned body drifting amongst the flotsam. Rathulf ardently hoped that Alrik’s mortal flesh would be fully consumed so that his friend would make the passage to the next world smoothly. Fortunately, Alrik’s pyre had been set well, and when the boat finally did disappear beneath the water, the fire was wholly burnt out, and all that remained of Alrik was his memory.
When Rathulf at last tore his eyes from the fjord, he realised that he stood alone on the shore. The sun had set, and the others had retired to the hall for a night of feasting and drinking in honour of a bright flame doused prematurely. Rathulf became aware that someone else stood on the shoreline, but he could not see who it was in the darkness. He first thought it must be Snorri, his ever-present bodyguard, but then he remembered the warrior had been sent away by Eirik to seek those responsible for Alrik’s death. How ironic if it were one of Ivar’s assassins, waiting for the opportune moment to fulfil the slaver’s promise. A secret part of Rathulf hoped that he might feel the sharp sting of an arrow in his back so that he could be released from this terrible pain that had no physical manifestation and for which no healing salve could be applied.
He looked down at the golden wolves that emblazoned his chest, barely visible in the gloom of twilight. Sigvald had always claimed they represented all that was good, but now Rathulf knew for sure that his foster-father had been wrong and Bardi had been right. These were Sköll and Hati, the foul wolven sons of Fenrir, brothers of Ragnarök, determined to bring destruction upon everyone with whom Ra formed a bond.
He let out a long, slow breath, then he unbuckled his belt and allowed the sword of Dumnonia to fall to the ground. He then pulled off his tunic and dropped it on top of the sword. Finally, he wrenched the ring from his finger, and in a flash of anger, flung it hard against the mooring stone by the water’s edge. It hit the rock with a loud clink and bounced somewhere off into the darkness, ringing in distress as it flew away. Let someone else find it and assume the curse of Fenrir, he thought.
And with that, he turned his back on Dumnonia and the wolves for good.
12. The taste of you
Althing assembly ground, Sognefjorden, Norvegr
The month following Alrik’s funeral passed interminably slowly, Rathulf tending to his injured horse at Eirik’s garth. He desperately craved the solitude of Thorvaldsby, but Eirik wasn’t having any of it until the matter of Alrik’s murder had been resolved to Eirik’s satisfaction. So far, Snorri had rounded up eleven of Ivar’s followers and, true to his word, Eirik had ordered Snorri to carry out each execution. Worse, Eirik had made Rathulf watch, although mercifully he didn’t insist on Rathulf striking the killing blow. For his part, Rathulf became more distressed as the killing went on, and although he didn’t care for any of the convicted, he came to dread the days when one of the fugitives was brought to the hall.
Most shocking was the change that had come over Bardi. He relished the killings, taking up Snorri’s axe himself on occasion, sending the men to Helheim with a bloody, revenge-fuelled hunger. His bitterness grew, and the worst of it was that he was oblivious to the suffering of Alrik’s younger brother, Arni, who, like Rathulf, watched it all with growing horror and resentment. Eirik called a halt at eighteen slayings, sending word out that any other conspirators had best leave the fjordlands for good or be forever hunted like the dogs they were.
On that same day, Eirik called an assembly to deal with the matters of Ivar Blood-trader and Leif Horiksson. It seemed cruel to Rathulf that Leif would have to stand accused on the same platform as the disgusting slaver. Bardi disagreed, quite content to view Leif as an accomplice to Ivar, the latter being, after all, a close friend of Horik’s.
The red-bearded slaver was dragged out of his cage and hauled roughly through the browning bracken up the mountainside path to the Althing ground. The place of the assembly lay in the centre of a hanging valley that broke through the mountain in the shape of a pair of cupped hands. It was in this dramatic setting that the Althing was held every summer. The men and women of Eirik’s township all followed the accused, Rathulf with his ever-present escort, and Thorvald being carried on a litter by four of Eirik’s slaves. The gathering was one of the largest Rathulf had seen in years, and many waited in eager anticipation for Thorleif the Lawmaker to commence proceedings.
When everyone had assembled and the witnesses identified, one of Eirik’s men came forward with the shackled prisoner. He shoved Ivar down onto his knees on the smooth, flat stone on which the accused stood. He was joined by another of Eirik’s men, who held a massive double-handed battle-axe, the heavy blade resting on the ground at his feet. Thorleif called the assembly to order and called the witnesses to the murder of Alrik to come forward. Bardi, unsurprisingly, spoke first and was followed by Eirik, Sigvald, and a host of others who had all been present at the Leap and the subsequent questioning of the archer, who, unfortunately, had been killed on the spot by an enraged Bardi once he had told them who had ordered the attack. Suddenly it was Rathulf’s turn. He’d not expected to be called, but it was Ivar himself who demanded Rathulf come forward.
Rathulf stepped cautiously from the crowd and stood in front of the filth-covered slaver. His once elegant clothes were brown and grey with muck, torn in places and hanging loose on his body where the flab had once held it tight. Rathulf could only imagine the squalor in which Eirik must have kept his prisoner, but it was no worse than he deserved.
‘Come closer, boy,’ Ivar rasped.
Rathulf didn’t move, deciding he was more than near enough to the repugnant man.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ he mocked. ‘I’m bound, see?’ He held up his hands, which were tied at the wrist. His ankles, too, were locked in crude iron shackles, and the skin was bloodied and raw where the rough iron had rubbed against it. A smile formed on Ivar’s cracked lips. ‘I hear your clumsy friend fell off his horse. Such a pity.’
‘What?’ Rathulf spat, stunned. ‘He didn’t fall. You murdered him.’ Rathulf had forgotten the effect that Ivar had on him, and now, in his presence once again, he felt the same indignant rage.
Ivar held Rathulf’s gaze, and his smile broadened. ‘Ah, how attractive you are when you’re angry,’ he said. ‘What can I say to work you into a delectable frenzy, I wonder?’
‘Enough!’ Thorleif snapped at Ivar. ‘You called this witness. What questions do you have of him? Ask now, or Rathulf shall be dismissed.’
Ivar’s eyes narrowed. ‘I have just the one,’ he said quietly. He beckoned to Rathulf. ‘Come closer, boy,’ he murmured.
Despite his inner voice warning him against it, Rathulf took a step toward the slaver.
Ivar’s smile turned to a sneer. ‘What did he say when you let him go?’
‘Fuck you!’ Rathulf said, seething with anger.
‘Yes, I’d rather like that,’ Ivar responded, still smiling, ‘A last request before I join your pretty friend in Niflheim. That’s where people like us go, you know.’
‘I’m not like you!’ Rathulf shouted.
Ivar’s grin broadened. ‘Really? What joyous news,’ he breathed. ‘That means the lovely Alrik will be all mine for eternity.’
With a cry of distress and disgust, Rathulf wrenched his dagger from its sheath and plunged the blade into the slaver’s chest, right where his heart would have been had he had one. Rathulf stabbed again and again, Ivar’s blood splattering onto Rathulf’s hands, arms and chest, then the blade jammed, stuck between two ribs up to its hilt. Ivar coughed blood into Rathulf’s face, then he lifted his bound wrists, threw them over Rathulf’s head and pulled the young Viking onto him. He kissed Rathulf hard on the lips. Rathulf burst from Ivar’s grip, cursing and spitting the blood from his mouth.
‘Now you shall never forget the taste of me,’ Ivar croaked, ‘and I shall die knowing the taste of you.’ He let out a last gurgling, bloody cough, then his head slumped sideways, and he fell to the ground, dead.
‘You sick, perverted Sansorthinn!�
� Rathulf yelled and threw himself at the Viking again, but Eirik dragged Rathulf away, taking a firm hold as the young man struggled to break free.
‘You’ve killed him,’ Eirik growled into his ear. ‘Don’t denigrate yourself or honour him by making a scene.’
Rathulf blinked at Eirik, the jarl’s words sinking in. He looked back at the bloodied body of Ivar and the face which still bore a smirk of satisfaction. Suddenly Rathulf’s legs threatened to buckle underneath him. Eirik handed him to Helga, telling her to clean the blood of the vile traitor from her foster-son.
‘Jarl Eirik…’ she began, alarmed.
‘Rathulf has rightly dealt justice to a piece of scum, not worthy of a second look. You’ll have no quarrel with me.’ He paused, looking into the young Viking’s distressed face. ‘And he’s taken another necessary step on the path to manhood,’ he said.
Helga led Rathulf back down the mountain to Eirik’s guest house, where she helped him change out of his sullied clothes. She called for warm water to be brought, then she tenderly cleaned her foster-son, washing him like a baby. All the while, Rathulf kneeled in docile silence, struggling to come to terms with the enormity of what he had just done. He prayed to all the Gods who would listen that Ivar was wrong; that Alrik was not in Niflheim, and that Rathulf hadn’t just sent Ivar there to join him.
It was in this daze that Rathulf returned to the Althing to hear the telling of Leif’s lawbreaking. Leif stood alone on the rock of the accused, his expression desolate, eyes to the ground, hands hanging loosely at his sides. Bardi was screaming at him, demanding to know what Leif thought he might have achieved by pretending to be Rathulf. And in what delusional moment did he ever think he might pass as a king, a leader, a man of honour or courage? Rathulf’s Dumnonian chest sat on the ground between Leif and Bardi; the evidence of the treachery laid before the gathered menfolk. Rathulf glowered at the oaken trunk, hating it and everything it represented; furious that Sigvald had dutifully gathered up the abandoned items of Rathulf’s kingship while Rathulf had slept that night and carefully returned them to the safety of the chest.
