by Peter Fox
Leif remained silent throughout. What could he possibly say to defend himself? He had admitted the whole sorry tale to Rathulf in front of Snorri, and as for the killing of Horik, everyone knew that Leif had done it, despite Rathulf’s attempt to claim that dubious honour.
‘Let him go,’ Rathulf said. When Bardi continued his rantings, Rathulf spoke again, this time more loudly and firmly. ‘I said, let him go.’
Bardi stopped and stared at Rathulf, his eyes bulging with indignation at the interruption. ‘You would have him walk free after all that he has done? He killed my son!’
‘He didn’t kill Alrik,’ Rathulf countered. ‘I was the last to hold Alrik, and I let him fall. So if you want a life in return for Alrik’s, take mine.’
Bardi blinked at him, stunned. Thorvald, likewise, stared at his son, realising that Rathulf meant it.
‘You cannot offer such an exchange, Rathulf Thorvaldarsson,’ Thorleif said. ‘There were many hands in the death of Alrik, none of which were yours. There is but one person here who blames you for Alrik’s death or questions your courage and honour, Rathulf.’
‘Then I ask that the charges laid on my behalf against Leif be dropped,’ Rathulf said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, he can have the chest and everything in it. I want him to go back as me. I want him to wear Sköll and Hati and present himself to his ‘people.’ I want him to discover that the ring is cursed and that his fate will be to be hacked to pieces by the people he thought would save him. Let that be his punishment.’
‘What?’ Bardi spat. ‘So my boy died for nothing? You ungrateful drittsekk!’
Thorleif raised a stern hand to his son. ‘Take care with your words, Bardi Thorleifsson,’ he warned. He turned to Rathulf. ‘Regardless of your wishes, Leif stands accused of the murder of his father, an entirely different crime, although I agree that the two crimes are inextricably linked, as much through your own actions as any others.’
‘But you just said I wasn’t to blame for Alrik’s death!’
‘And nor were you. What we are discussing is the indictment of Leif Horiksson for the crime of patricidal murder. You will have your time before the assembly should you wish to speak for Leif, but in the meantime I expect you to be silent until called upon.’
Rathulf glared at the lawmaker, seething at having been put in his place by the old man. He stalked over to where Ingrith stood with her mother.
Rathulf’s interjection seemed to have winded Bardi because Alrik’s father suddenly found he had nothing more to say so stepped back from the accuser’s stone. Snorri was called next. Rathulf watched with more than a little trepidation as the big Viking removed his sword and handed it to the Lawmaker before turning to face the assembly. Could he be relied upon now that he had been forced to kill some of his own kin by his jarl? Rathulf felt a keen pang of guilt when Snorri acted honourably and answered all questions honestly; so much so that Rathulf couldn’t fault the warrior’s statements. The same could not be said for the next witnesses, however, all of whom were friends of Horik’s, including Cnut. They weren’t so careful with the truth, and a couple straight out lied.
‘That’s not how it happened at all!’ Rathulf burst out. ‘You weren’t even there!’
‘But you were?’ Cnut said dangerously. The trader was among a small group of Horik’s friends – those who had always seen the pathetic, snivelling version of Leif – who still believed that Rathulf was indeed the murderer and were thus eager for justice to be brought.
‘He arrived after the fact,’ Sigvald said, stepping to Rathulf’s defence.
‘Enough!’ Thorleif ordered. He fixed his penetrating green-eyed gaze on Rathulf. ‘I won’t warn you again, Thorvaldarsson.’
‘Or what?’ Rathulf snapped rudely. ‘You know as well as everyone else that what Cnut is saying is a pack of lies. Horik didn’t love his son. He beat him senseless day after day! Do you want to know who’s really responsible for this mess? It’s Horik! Yes, Eirik, your brother, who made his son’s life so abysmal that in the end, Leif decided his only hope was to steal my chest and try for a new life in a new land. He did it because no one here cared a damn about him!’
‘He could have done that by joining a raiding party,’ Sigvald pointed out.
Rathulf gave his foster-father a scathing glare. ‘The reason Leif killed his father is that Horik took my chest off him and was going to take it all for himself. He was a disgusting, charcoal-eating drunkard who deserved what he got.’
‘Foul-mouthed whelp!’ Cnut cried and whipped out his dagger. He only managed one step towards Rathulf before a large fist slammed into the side of the trader’s head, and the man flopped sideways onto the ground like a sack of potatoes.
Rathulf blinked in astonishment at Snorri, who stood over the crumpled body of Cnut, giving Rathulf a cold stare.
‘Ah, Rathulf, I think that perhaps you’re a little overwrought,’ Sigvald said, raising his eyebrows at Helga in a plea for her to take their foster-son away.
‘Who are you to talk?’ Rathulf snapped. ‘If any of you had dared to act then none of this would have happened. Leif would be living as my adopted brother at Thorvaldsby, we’d never have run into Ivar, and Alrik would still be alive. So stop blaming Snorri and me, and instead look to yourselves and your own cowardice!’
He didn’t need Helga to lead him away. He stormed off, leaving them all to their stupid arguments of law. In truth he didn’t care what happened to Leif any more – he was no longer a friend – what riled him most was the way the adults refused to accept their part in this: how they had all contributed to what had happened through their inaction, through their fear of Horik, and, if they were to be even a little bit honest with themselves, their real foe: Eirik. Rathulf climbed up out of the natural basin that formed the Althing ground, unable to bear it any longer. It was all so pointless and meaningless. None of it would reverse events and bring Alrik back, and that’s all that mattered to Rathulf.
Once at the top, he took the path that led to the cliff edge, from where he had an uninterrupted view of Odin’s Breach on the other side of the valley. Beyond him, the mountains and valleys fanned out like giant limbs on all sides. He made his way over to a large boulder perched on the edge of the precipice and sat down beside it, gazing across at the deep gash that rent the wall opposite. From this vantage point, he could see just how remarkable his ride back up over the ravine had been. Looking upon it now in the cold light of day, he’d no idea how they’d made it over. All the more heartbreaking, then, that his incredible feat had been to no avail. I was so close, he thought, a matter of a few short breaths and Sigvald would have been there, helping both of us back to our feet to the delight and relief of all who had assembled there. Instead… Rathulf closed his eyes and leant his face on the hard stone, fighting back tears. Instead, the cursed wolves of Ragnarök laughed in my face and snatched my friend away from me.
✽ ✽ ✽
He had no idea how long he’d been there, his cheek resting against the rock in the warm afternoon sun. Perhaps he’d even drifted into sleep, but to his astonishment it was Leif who woke him, calling his name softly, tentatively.
Rathulf blinked up at him, at first confused, then he realised who it was and sprang to his feet. Without thinking, he lunged forward and grabbed Leif by the collar of his tunic and hauled him towards the edge, intent on one thing only. Leif cried out in terror, which woke Rathulf from his rage. The young Viking managed to stop himself in time, but he found it very hard to resist the screaming voice inside that demanded he shove the traitor over the cliff to punish him for all that he had done wrong. He held Leif at the edge, his face twisted in anger, unable to speak.
Leif just stood there, too frightened to move in case he literally tipped the balance, but Rathulf’s anger was so intense that it burned itself out in a flash, leaving a deep emptiness in its place. He released Leif and took a step backwards, leaving the boy standing at the edge of the cliff.
‘What do you want?’ Rath
ulf said coldly.
‘I… I came to say thanks for speaking for up for me.’
‘I didn’t,’ Rathulf growled. ‘I was speaking for…’ he stopped. For whom had he been speaking? ‘I wanted them to admit their part in it,’ he said bitterly, ‘but I guess that’ll never happen.’
‘You’re right that they’re afraid of Eirik.’
‘What difference will it make?’
‘Well, what you said made them take notice. Enough to prevent them from allowing Bardi to cut off my head.’ Leif took the opportunity to move away from the edge, and he kept a safe and respectful distance from Rathulf. ‘I’m outlawed. I’m being dumped on an island somewhere up in the north, and it’ll be up to the Gods to pass sentence on me. If I survive, then the Gods will have absolved me.’
Rathulf looked at Leif, knowing that nothing would ever convince him to forgive his former friend, no matter how many Gods were involved.
‘Well good luck, because you’ll need it,’ he said.
Leif shrugged. ‘Actually, I’m pretty good at surviving against poor odds.’
‘Don’t come back here if you do live,’ Rathulf said. ‘Bardi will chop you to bits, no matter what the Althing or the Gods have said, and I’ll be standing right beside him waiting my turn.’
Leif let out a sigh and looked out at the view.
‘They cleared you of the murder of Ivar by the way, but there are still some, Cnut especially, who want compensation.’
‘For what?’ spat Rathulf, amazed that anyone would have the gall to claim payment after all that Ivar had done.
‘Keeping your head on your shoulders,’ Leif said matter-of-factly. ‘Cnut and a few others are threatening to defy the will of the assembly and take your life for Ivar’s.’
‘Cnut and his pack of rasshulls can jump into the fires of Niflheim,’ Rathulf snapped.
Leif turned back to Rathulf. ‘Listen, I know you’re upset, and I don’t expect your forgiveness for what’s happened, and we’ll probably never be friends again…’
‘You’re damn right there,’ Rathulf said.
‘But I do appreciate everything you’ve done for me,’ Leif pressed on. ‘I just wanted you to know that. Maybe one day I’ll be able to pay you back somehow.’
‘For what? You told me you hated me, that you’ve always hated me. That everything I’ve ever done for you was a waste of time. That by coming to rescue you I’d ruined your plans to escape and start a new life as me. You’ve got what you deserved, Horiksson.’
‘I thought you didn’t want to be king of Dumnonia! I had meant to bring your trunk back, but you said you didn’t want it!’
‘So that gave you permission to steal it? How can you stand there as though all you’ve done is broken a pot, or snapped the tooth off a comb? Do you even know what you’ve done? My best friend is dead because of you. My life is over because of you. I killed a man today because of you. I’ve tasted his blood, for skítr’s sake! I don’t want your thanks. I want you to suffer. I want you to experience the hurt I feel.’
‘Why do you all blame me for Alrik’s death?’ Leif shouted back. ‘I’ve got nothing to do with it! He’s the one who decided to take the Leap.’
‘It was Ivar’s assassin who shot Alrik’s horse. Ivar, who we ran into on our way back from yours, after trying to rescue you, but we couldn’t because you weren’t there. Why? Because you were off at my place, stealing my stuff. So it is your fault Leif, and I hold you responsible, and I hope a Jötunn finds you and eats you slowly so that you die a painful, terrifying death.’
Although a myriad more things came to mind, Rathulf had no idea what else to say, because no words could adequately express how he felt in that moment. So he turned and walked away from Leif, praying that he would never set eyes upon him again.
13. Fruit and seeds
Sigvaldsby, Lærdalsfjorden, Norvegr
It was shortly afterwards that Myran deemed Tariq well enough for Rathulf and his horse to be transported to Sigvaldsby. Rathulf led Tariq to Ottar’s knarr and carefully helped his stallion hobble up the gangway. Tariq would trust no one else, and the big horse settled down on the deck as instructed by Rathulf, carefully folding his forelegs out of harm’s way.
‘I swear that animal understands Norse,’ Sigvald said to Myran.
‘There is strong empathy between horse and master,’ the Persian agreed.
‘Fine, so I was wrong to suggest we put him down, okay?’
Rathulf threw his foster-father an admonishing glare as he arranged the blankets over his stallion, still hurt that they had so quickly given up on Tariq despite the horse’s heroic actions, to say nothing of their lack of regard for Rathulf’s wishes on the matter.
The journey south to Sigvaldsby was uneventful, in part due to the escort provided by Eirik; ever more necessary since Ivar’s kin had declared a blood feud on the day of the assembly, vowing to kill Rathulf and all those who showed allegiance to him. Eirik, in turn, swore that any attempt on Rathulf’s life or that of his father, his foster kin, or any of his friends would result in such wrathful vengeance that not one person associated with Ivar would be left alive at the end of it, not one building left standing, and not one ship left afloat. For his part, Rathulf could not shake off the horrible sensation of his knife plunging into Ivar’s chest, nor could he rid himself of the taste of Ivar’s blood in his mouth, no matter what he ate or drank. It was just as Ivar had said: you will never forget the taste of me.
The days merged into a bleak sameness, with little to do but tend his horse and wallow in self-loathing gloom. He was not permitted outside the confines of the garth for fear of the slaver’s kin, and even toileting required an escort. Rathulf had wanted to return to his own home but had been overruled. He and his father would be much safer in the company of Sigvald and the townspeople of Sigvaldsby than the isolation of Thorvaldsby. It seemed they would never be destined to live there again. On more than one occasion Rathulf looked up expecting to see Snorri standing sentry nearby, but the great warrior had left immediately following the assembly, having served his duty as a witness. Rathulf missed his presence and felt considerably less safe knowing that he was no longer on duty, all of which was ironic, given that Snorri was now his sworn enemy. Eirik had reminded Rathulf of that fact when they had been making ready to depart.
‘I’m not apologising, if that’s what you want,’ Rathulf had said when Eirik had broached the subject. ‘You know I’m right, and you know that Horik is the one ultimately responsible for all this. You blame Snorri for Alrik’s death because that’s easier for you than admitting your brother was a complete rasshull and is the real cause of all this. Snorri’s innocent and you’re mad to throw away your friendship on Horik’s or worse, Ivar’s account. At least your sword arm is still alive.’
‘What a shame he doesn’t share your penchant for forgiveness,’ Eirik had replied, not bothering to challenge Rathulf’s offensive language around his brother. ‘He is duty-bound to kill you, which is one reason I’m escorting you back to Lærdalsfjorden. He is Ivar’s brother-in-law, remember, and you didn’t leave him with many options when you stabbed Ivar to death.’
‘Well I forgive him, even if you don’t, and I don’t care if that means I’m spineless or stupid,’ Rathulf said, remembering Snorri’s own words.
Snorri’s absence was, of course, nothing compared to the gaping hole left by Alrik’s passing. Many a time Rathulf would catch himself glancing behind him, hoping that his friend would appear to calm his nerves, to tell him everything would be alright. But Alrik was gone. It was all gone: his hopes, his dreams, his ambitions as a Viking dashed on the cold grey rocks at the bottom of Odin’s Breach. That he missed Alrik so keenly continued to confuse and distress Rathulf, for how could he feel such hurt for someone, moreover another boy? Ivar was dead now, so surely whatever spell he’d cast had died with him? This hurt he felt was completely different from the pain in his shoulder. This was a profound emptiness, a longing that grew in i
ntensity as each day went by and Alrik didn’t appear to assuage it. His laugh, his mischievous grin, his supreme self-confidence; all swept away by a callous swipe of Fenrir’s paw.
Sleep provided no escape from the suffering. By night he was tormented by terrifying dreams in which Aneurin would appear with the sword of Dumnonia to slice off Alrik’s head in a prodigious spray of blood. Ivar would then hand Rathulf a drinking horn that he had filled from the gushing wound in his own chest, coaxing Rathulf to drink down the fresh blood, its taste salty and metallic as it spilt from the cup and ran down Rathulf’s chin. In the background Leif would stand impassively, clutching Rathulf’s trunk. Further behind prowled Sköll and Hati, their eyes narrowed and fangs dripping blood. On other occasions, it would be Leif lopping off Aneurin’s head, with a laughing Alrik rushing in to lick the blood from the dying Briton’s torso. On other nights Rathulf would revisit his attack on Ivar, stabbing him over and over again, only to find that it was, in fact, Alrik who lay beneath him, coughing up fountains of blood as Rathulf plunged his dagger repeatedly into his friend’s heart.
So it was that after yet another macabre dream Rathulf found himself in the stable alone with Tariq. It was the darkest hour of the night, when all was quiet, even the geese and pigs. At Sigvald’s insistence Rathulf always wore a dagger; in this case, a new blade that Sigvald had given him to replace the one that Rathulf had left in Ivar’s chest. Rathulf stood opposite his horse, who hobbled over to his master and nuzzled Rathulf’s hand. Tariq’s limp seemed to have grown worse over time, and it was clear to Rathulf that the Nisean would never carry a rider again.
Rathulf drew out his dagger. He stared at the shiny new blade for a long while, losing himself in the flickering orange reflection of the oil lamp in the burnished metal. Without quite knowing why, he wrapped his right hand around the blade and closed his fingers, feeling the sting as the sharp iron cut into his palm. He shut his eyes to the pain, clenching his fist tighter still, the blood running from his sliced skin over the blade and onto the ground. He probably would have continued until he cut right through his hand, but Tariq shied at the sight and smell of the blood and let out a frightened snort. It woke Rathulf from his trance, and the young Viking blinked at his bleeding hand, for a moment confused.
