Viking Gold

by V. Campbell

  Viking Gold

  by

  V. Campbell

  Fledgling Press 2011

  © V. Campbell 2011

  The author asserts the moral right to be identified

  as the author of the work in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of Fledgling Press Ltd,

  7 Lennox St., Edinburgh, EH4 1QB

  Published by Fledgling Press, 2011

  www.fledglingpress.co.uk

  Cover design by Joanna Lisowiec

  eBook format ISBN 9781905916412

  Paperback format ISBN 9781905916290

  I am the master of my fate:

  I am the captain of my soul.

  Invictus, William Ernest Henley

  Part I

  Home

  Chapter 1

  If Redknee had known sword fighting was going to be so important, he would have listened to his uncle’s instructions. As it was, the heat of the afternoon was getting to him. All he wanted was to escape the training yard and shelter in the cool of the forest.

  He tugged at his wool tunic. His shield, big as a wagon wheel, weighed heavy on his arm. He rested it on the ground, lowered his wooden sword and wiped the sweat from his brow. What did it matter if he could fight? He was going to be a woodsman, a tracker. The village didn’t need more warriors. His uncle had said it himself many times – the years of raiding were over. The world had changed. Monasteries were no longer the easy pickings they once were.

  “Come on,” Uncle Sven shouted across the yard. “You give up, you die.”

  The men watching from the shade of the village oak laughed. Redknee couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard one of them mutter, “Like father, like son.”

  He’d heard the slur often. Not right to his face, mind. No one would be so brave, with Jarl Sven as his uncle. But he heard the whispers all the same. Redknee did what he always did and turned away.

  The skinny youth opposite had sixteen summers – same as Redknee. Harold the Thin was going to be the best warrior in the village. Or so he never tired of telling everyone.

  Harold moved his wooden sword from hand to hand.

  Taunting him.

  Flies buzzed round Redknee’s face. Sighing, he picked up his shield, raised his wooden sword and awaited the blow. Might as well get the farce over with.

  “Stop there lad.”

  Redknee glanced up. Uncle Sven was marching across the yard. He pulled Redknee aside and spoke in a voice too low for the jeering onlookers to hear.

  “Think of your shield like a jug of mead,” he said gently. “Keep it high. Don’t let your arm drop. If it does …”

  Sven stared at the disc of leather-covered yew. Redknee thought he saw sadness in the big man’s eyes. But when Sven looked up, he was smiling, the sadness gone. “Come on,” he said, slapping Redknee on the back. “Let’s try again.”

  Dust sprayed the air as Harold lunged at Redknee’s chest. Redknee heeded his uncle’s words and Harold’s blow thudded uselessly off his shield. Harold’s eyes widened in surprise.

  Having the advantage was new to Redknee. Pride flashed through him. Maybe he could be a warrior. Thinking quickly he thrust his sword at Harold’s belly. But Harold was already out of reach, leaving Redknee’s arm floundering at empty air.

  Before Redknee could recover, Harold swung his sword low, beneath the protection of Redknee’s shield. Redknee fell to the ground, pain coursing through his ankles. Harold stood over him, the sun at his back casting him in silhouette, as if he were Hela, come to drag Redknee to the underworld.

  “You’re dead,” he said, pressing the tip of his sword into Redknee’s throat.

  “Stop it boys!” Redknee heard his mother call from the door of the longhouse. “That’s enough.”

  Harold sniggered.

  “Ach, he has to toughen up,” Uncle Sven shouted back. “You’d have him in a bloody dress.”

  Harold sneered down at Redknee. “It’s called the snake-bite. Oldest move there is. But a sap like you wouldn’t know that.” He twisted the wooden blade into Redknee’s throat until he gagged. “Leif Redknee,” he said with disgust. “I claim victory over you - shame of the Vikinger, just like your father.”

  The men’s laughter rang in Redknee’s ears as he stomped from the yard. He tossed his shield into the long grass. Worthless piece of rubbish – let the dogs sharpen their teeth on the rotten wood. He took the path that climbed the mountainside. He craved to be up in the forest, far above the village. Away from lectures on war-craft and the mind-numbing repetition of military moves. Better to spend a sticky summer day running through the pine-scented darkness. Better to spend it alone.

  Things would have been different if his father were still alive. No one would be calling him a coward for a start. He would be the son of the Jarl, a position demanding respect. Oh, Uncle Sven tried his best. But most of the time he was just too busy.

  No, Uncle Sven wouldn’t come after him. And Harold the Thin, despite his claims to martial greatness, was too afraid of wolves to venture up the mountain. The only person in the whole village who might care was his mother, but she only left the longhouse to work in the weaving hut or wash clothes in the stream.

  No, Redknee was on his own, just the way he liked it.

  Redknee stood on the edge of a bluff half way up the mountainside. He’d made good progress. Far below, the straw roofs of the longhouses glinted in the sun, as if on fire. Bounded on one side by the silvery-blue of Oster Fjord and on the other by a patchwork of brown fields, the village looked peaceful. Happy, even.

  But the summer had been dry. The barley thirsted in the fields, and the mood in the village stank like dung cooking in the midday heat. Redknee turned his back on the view and scrambled on. There was nothing for him there.

  After a short while, he heard a soft crunching noise behind him. He ignored it at first, quickening his pace until his deerskin boots skidded on the floury earth.

  “You’re going too fast!”

  He turned to see a hood of copper curls bobbing between the trees. He sighed. “Why are you following me, Sinead? You will be wanted back at the village.”

  The girl shrugged. “You looked upset.”

  “Slaves are not allowed to leave the village without permission. My uncle will have you whipped.”

  Bristling, Sinead folded her arms across her chest. “Well I thought you might really be running away this time. Are you?”

  “Don’t know.” He kicked a loose stone. It skimmed off a tree trunk.

  “Can I come with you anyway?”

  Redknee sighed. Sinead had asked him about the mountain before. About where the paths led, how far they were from the next village, the nearest big port. She seemed to think him as keen to escape the village as she was. “Look,” he said eventually, “even if I am running away, and I’m not saying I am, you couldn’t come with me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’ll slow me down. And you don’t know the ways of the forest. You’d end up troll food in no time.”

  “Do trolls really live up here?” she asked, her green eyes scanning the tangle of leaves above their heads.

  Redknee reached out to a low hanging branch and swung himself up until he was sitting atop it, his legs dangling over the side. He needed to get rid of her to have any chance of tracking the wild deer that roamed the mountain. Her chattering would scare off even the dopiest fawn.

  “These woods …,” he said, weaving between the lacework of branches “… are swarming with trolls
.”

  “No!” Her eyes widened.

  He stood, balancing on a stout branch, stretching his arms towards the canopy. “They are as tall as an oak and as fierce as a bear, with sharp red teeth and fiery eyes.”

  Sinead snorted.

  “It’s true,” Redknee continued, pulling himself higher. “In fact, they live in tree-trunks, just like this one.” He rapped the coarse bark with his knuckles.

  “Don’t!” Sinead gasped.

  Redknee smiled. “Why ever not?”

  “You’ll wake it—”

  A sudden crackle of leaves startled Redknee and he lost his footing. He heard Sinead scream as he crashed to the ground like a sack of turnips. His head pounded and his left arm ached along its length.

  “Don’t move.” Sinead’s firestorm hair drifted in and out of focus as she kneeled over him.

  “Was it a troll?” he asked.

  “Shh, don’t try to speak.”

  Ignoring her, Redknee dragged himself up with his uninjured arm. The movement made him feel sick. He turned from her quickly, spewing vomit on his breeches.

  She handed him her apron. As he took it, he saw her nose wrinkle at the stench and his cheeks burned with shame.

  Suddenly her attention was distracted. Redknee stopped dabbing. His ears attuned to the distant whoosh – whoosh of someone, or something, charging through the undergrowth. He listened carefully. Too heavy to be a deer. A bear? No – too fast. Whatever it was, it was coming their way. He turned to Sinead as a spear flashed past her head. Her face went blank and she fell to the ground.

  “Sinead!” He scrambled to where she lay. “Sinead, were you hit?”

  No reply.

  He turned her over. Blood trailed from her hairline and spread, like spindly fingers, over her closed lids.

  Closer now, he recognised the rhythmic thud of hooves. Horses! Needing no further warning, he lifted Sinead using his good arm and dragged her beneath a big hawthorn bush. He stayed there, hunkered down in the mud for what seemed like ages, listening to the steady approach of the horses.

  A hulking warrior with straggly, piss-coloured hair and a cross-shaped scar over his left eye urged a grey stallion into the clearing. The powerful horse rose onto its hind legs as three other riders joined him. The first warrior motioned the other men forward; Redknee took him to be the leader.

  One of the men pulled the spear that had struck Sinead from a tree. Redknee glanced down at her; she was still breathing. It was just a graze.

  “Come out, little mice,” the leader shouted in accented Norse. “Skoggcat wants to play …” Redknee watched as a youth, painted head to toe in orange and black stripes, stepped forward brandishing a ball and chain.

  Sinead stirred. Redknee held his hand lightly over her mouth. One false move and their hiding place would be revealed.

  Skoggcat and the other four warriors circled the clearing, getting ever closer to the hawthorn bush.

  Sinead was awake now, her eyes alert to the danger. Redknee cradled his bruised left arm against his body. There was no way the two of them would be a match for this lot. Redknee’s heart thrummed so loud, he was sure they must be able to hear it.

  Skoggcat stopped beside the hawthorn bush, about a man’s length from Redknee, and sniffed the air. A smile spread across his face.

  Redknee looked down at his breeches. Curdled lumps of sick still clung to the damp leather. Damn. He tried to scramble to his feet. But Skoggcat was already under the branches, his claw-like hands grabbing at Redknee’s ankles, dragging him out. Redknee wriggled and kicked as hard as he could, aiming for Skoggcat’s hard-set eyes and mouth. But it was no good, Skoggcat was too strong.

  As soon as they were in the open Skoggcat swung his iron ball at Redknee’s head. Redknee ducked, raised his arm and the chain twisted round his wrist. Ignoring the vice-like pain of the links biting into his flesh, he tugged hard, pulling an already over extended Skoggcat off his feet. Locked in battle, the pair tumbled down a fern covered slope.

  They came to a stop with Redknee on his back. Skoggcat fought like the wildcat he mimicked, scratching at Redknee’s face and baring sharpened teeth. Struggling to hold him off, Redknee tried to use the iron ball still attached to his wrist to smash Skoggcat’s nose. But Skoggcat was as agile as he was strong, dodging every blow with a gleeful sneer.

  Redknee changed tack. Rather than trying to fight him off, he seized Skoggcat’s clawed hands and held them. Confusion showed in Skoggcat’s eyes as he tried to twist free. But Redknee held tight, got his foot under Skoggcat’s belly and pushed – sending the screaming youth flying over his head. Seizing the advantage, Redknee leapt to his feet and drew his eating knife.

  “Redknee!”

  He turned to see the first warrior hoisting Sinead onto his grey stallion.

  Turning from Skoggcat, Redknee scrambled up the embankment and ran headlong at the big warrior. But the warrior just laughed as he turned his stallion and galloped into the forest. Skoggcat jumped up behind one of the other riders and stole a lift. The men were gone just as quickly as they had arrived.

  Redknee kept up his pursuit until he could no longer make out the shadows of the trees. Exhausted, he slumped to the ground. Sinead was gone and he was lost.

  Redknee forced himself on, crashing into outstretched branches, tripping on exposed roots. He strained to see in the shadowy, moonlit darkness of the night. There had been no sign of Sinead’s abductors since they galloped off that afternoon. Face it, he thought, he was never going to catch them. And even if he did, what, exactly, was he going to do? Attack five warriors with his eating knife?

  He rubbed his elbow. He was going to have a bruise the size of an apple. The villagers might as well call him Red-arm as Redknee, for all the difference it made. He was too clumsy to be a warrior. Too clumsy for anything but—

  A cry pierced the night.

  Redknee’s hand shot to his knife. Wolves. He stopped and listened. The animal’s mate would reply, betraying their location. He waited, but there was no response. Not wolves, he thought. One wolf. A lone hunter. He drew his knife. Wolves, even a lone one, demanded respect. Each step he took seemed to echo through the forest, so he moved forward on tiptoe, every muscle in his body taut as he eased, quiet as he could, through the maze of branches. The wolf was near, but how near?

  He knew he should avoid the wolf – his eye was on bigger game tonight. But then, to be able to wear a wolf pelt – that would show Harold the bloody Thin. Harold the Bleeding Scared, more like.

  Thorns tore at his arms; his legs ached from keeping on tiptoe. One wrong move would expose him. Eventually he slumped, exhausted, onto a fallen log. And that was when he heard it.

  A soft mewling.

  He peered through the undergrowth, but all he saw was a dark knot of leaves and twigs. He heard the mewling again; this time he crept towards its source. The earth became soft, like butter, and he trod carefully. There must be water nearby.

  A fresh hoof print then another, glistened in the sludge. His first piece of luck! Heart racing, and forgetting his fear of the wolf, he followed the horse trail past a tightly packed copse of ash and elder. Suddenly, the ground slid away and he toppled backwards, arms flailing. He tumbled down a mossy slope, ripping his tunic and dropping his knife as he clutched uselessly at the slick earth.

  Something large and hard stopped his fall. Unable to get up, he lay on the ground, blood trickling across his face. He grimaced as the metallic taste reached his mouth. He would probably die here, his broken body picked clean by scavengers. Was this how it had felt for his father? Death. Cold, lonely, slow…

  They said his father had surrendered. A coward’s death. Well, Redknee was not a coward. At least he had the satisfaction of knowing he had died trying to save his friend. Of running into battle, not away from it. Would that be enough to get him to Valhalla, he wondered, the final resting place of the great warriors?

  A fine mist began to settle over him. He smiled. The village had
been waiting for rain now for weeks. He inhaled the vapour and closed his eyes …

  The mewling was much closer now. Right beside him, in fact. Redknee opened his eyes. How long had he been asleep? He looked about. It was still dark. Pain shuddered through him. A welcome pain. He was alive.

  As he groped for the rock that had broken his fall, his fingers curled round a sharp object. His eating knife. He slid the knife into his belt, and, summoning all his energy, pulled himself to his feet. He leaned on the stone for a long while, absorbing its strength.

  Then Redknee saw him. Cowering in the hollow trunk of an old pine tree was a tiny wolf cub. Its white fur stuck out at odd angles and its nose bore a round grey mark the size of the Arab coins his uncle kept locked in a chest. Redknee daren’t move closer. The cub’s mother would be nearby. A she-wolf never left her young for long.

  Then he heard it. A ragged howl. Like the rush of wind through a cave.

  He spun round, bracing himself for the attack. Long white teeth glimmered against black gums. Redknee spread his arms wide. He’d heard wolves could be scared off if you made yourself look bigger. But the she-wolf kept coming. She was almost on him now, growling and pawing the ground, a demon of spit and fangs and blood. A gash the length of a man’s forearm cleaved her right haunch. Redknee winced. This was not her first fight of the day either. He edged backwards. She tried to leap at him, but her legs quivered and it was more of a shuffle. A moment later she collapsed to the ground.

  The pup crawled from its lair and nudged its mother’s nose with its head. A triangle of pink tongue darted over the pup’s ears, but the she-wolf was beaten. Her eyes lolled with exhaustion and her head slumped onto her paws.

  As the she-wolf took her last, rasping breath, she looked up at Redknee, with, he imagined, relief in her eyes. And he knew what he should do. He edged over to the pup, who was now trying to wake its mother by patting her face with its paw, and gently scooped it up. Pale amber eyes ringed with black stared warily at Redknee.