by V. Campbell
Redknee drew Flame Weaver, energy and fear coursing through him. This is it, he thought, as one of Ragnar’s men charged at him with an axe. He ducked to the left and the blow screamed past his ear. He spun round, ready for the second blow.
It never came.
Koll was on top of the brute with his axe. The man’s legs buckled, he stumbled forward, skidded on the wet pebbles and fell to the ground, dead.
As Redknee stared at his attacker’s blank and bloodied face, everything slowed. The fury of metal on metal screeched all around him, but he was frozen in the eye of the storm. Nearby, Koll dispatched another foe, and another. Redknee shook himself from his stupor. Amazingly the villagers were winning. They pushed Ragnar’s men back till the sea suckled their ankles and there was nowhere for them to go but Valhalla.
Everything was about to change.
The black longship cut through the shallows and rose onto the sand. It was then Redknee realised it wasn’t painted black at all, but clad in iron. Mord stood at the prow, his sword aloft as his men leapt ashore.
“Take what you want!” he yelled, “but bring the book to me.”
A horde numbering more than twenty swarmed up the beach, hacking at everything that moved. Knowing they were outnumbered, the villagers ran, sweeping Redknee along with them. But Mord’s men were quick to the chase, cutting down stragglers as they flooded into the heart of the village.
Women and children were running in all directions. Redknee’s heart slammed against his chest. It was going to be a bloodbath. He had to get to his uncle. Something was keeping him and he had to find out what. As he sped towards his uncle’s longhouse, he saw Brynhild the Old felled by a blow to her stomach. The woman clawed the ground as her body breathed its last, her runestones scattered across the mud. He hoped his mother had stayed hidden.
Redknee stuck to the sides of the buildings. He passed Thora in the door of the feast hall, a stone in her hand. She was frantically trying to choose a target.
“Forget it,” he said. “Just stay out of the way.”
She nodded and slunk inside the building, apparently grateful to be told what to do. Redknee thought he saw a pair of hard, blue eyes stare at him from the darkness of the hall. Was Harold, the great warrior in training, hiding with the old women?
Sven’s longhouse was across the yard from the feast hall. Redknee spotted a cart piled high with barrels sitting in front of it and made a dash for its cover.
As he rounded the cart, a giant with tattooed arms and black teeth blocked his way. “Where do you think you’re going?” he grinned, pointing his sword at Redknee’s chest.
“Nowhere,” Redknee said. Trying for distraction, he asked, “What’s this book Mord’s looking for?”
The giant swung his sword. It just missed Redknee’s face and he fell, dropping Flame Weaver. The giant kept coming. Redknee scrambled backwards, saw an empty barrel and pulled it into the giant’s path.
Smiling, the giant brought his sword down with dizzying speed, crushing the barrel as if it were made of straw. “Damned if I know,” he said amiably. “Can’t read.”
“Don’t kill him, Toki.”
Redknee turned to see Mord striding towards them.
“Why not?” The hulking brute seemed to deflate.
“He might know about the book.” Mord’s chainmail glistened with fresh blood. “Tell me,” he said, grinding his foot into Redknee’s chest, “where Sven keeps the book he stole from the Irish monastery.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It would be better for you if you did,” Mord said.
Redknee tried to think of something clever to say, but he had nothing. Maybe Sinead had been right. Maybe they should have looked for the book.
Mord studied him with unblinking eyes. “Very well,” he said. He drew his knife and pressed it against Redknee’s cheek. “Have it your way.”
Redknee felt his skin dampen with blood. “I already told you. I don’t know where it is,” he said, and spat into Mord’s face.
Mord wiped away the phlegm. “You little bastard. You’ll pay for—”
“Stop – I know where it is.” Sinead stood nearby, her face strangely calm.
“It’s that girl again,” Toki waved his sword in Sinead’s direction.
“Don’t!” Redknee yelled to her. “They’ll kill you.”
“Shut up!” Mord said, kicking him in the guts. Then he turned to Sinead. “This better not be a trick.”
She shook her head and started towards the weaving hut. Mord and Toki followed her.
Redknee lay in the mud, cradling his belly. He felt a cool hand caress his forehead. It was his mother. He tried to heave himself upright.
“Shh, don’t move,” she said, concern in her eyes.
He felt the ground for his sword.
“Is this what you’re looking for?” she pushed Flame Weaver into his hand.
“I thought I’d lost it,” he said, lurching to his feet. “I have to stop Mord. He’s got Sinead.” The pain in his stomach was more bearable when he had a purpose.
His mother shook her head. She had lost her linen cap and her blonde hair fell untidily round her face. “You’re in no condition— ” she began, then froze.
Mord had returned. He was dragging Sinead behind him, a goatskin parcel under his arm.
At that moment, Sven burst from the longhouse and stumbled into the fray. He had a gash on his left shoulder but he still looked strong. Redknee felt like punching the air. His uncle had won through. Olaf and the others followed, their tunics splattered with blood. There was no sign of Ragnar. Redknee’s spirits soared – his uncle had killed him. The day would be theirs.
Just then, Ragnar’s blood-soaked face appeared in the doorway. He leaned against the frame, gathering his strength while his men joined him. Redknee’s heart sank. Uncle Sven had failed.
Seeing his father, Mord held up the goatskin parcel and shouted, “I have served you well, father – I have the book!”
Ragnar’s eyes flashed. “Do it,” he called to Mord. “Do it now.”
Mord nodded and turned to his men. “Burn the village!” he shouted. “Spare no-one.”
A cheer rose from the attackers. Someone hurled a blazing torch at the feast hall. The straw roof caught fire immediately. Soon the whole village was alight. Those who had been hiding staggered out of the burning houses gasping for breath. Redknee gagged as the smell of cooking flesh, like roasted pig, filled his nostrils. He tore off his cloak and wrapped it round a girl with flames crawling over her skin. Pushing her to the ground, he rolled her in the mud. Her skin sizzled like crackling as the flames died.
Everything was in chaos. Through the smoke, he heard Mord shout, “To the longship! The day has been won!” and, almost as suddenly as they had arrived, the attackers disappeared. Some villagers chased them – as if vengeance could be exacted by a few lucky flesh wounds. Others looked to their own, scrabbling about for buckets, pans, anything to kill the flames.
Bewildered, blackened faces stared back at Redknee as he searched the smoke. For what, he didn’t know. His mother? His uncle?
Suddenly he found himself beside Ragnar. The surprise on Ragnar’s face quickly changed to scorn as Redknee levelled Flame Weaver at his breastplate.
“Out of my way boy,” he said. “If you want to live to grow a beard.”
Redknee adjusted his grip and rooted his feet to the ground. He wasn’t going to let Ragnar pass.
“Stand back, lad.” Sven said, appearing through the smoke.
Ragnar’s face twitched with fear.
“Been left behind?” Sven asked, swinging his battleaxe in a figure of eight.
Before Ragnar could reply, Redknee’s mother ran forward and grabbed Sven’s arm. “Just let him go, Sven,” she pleaded. “There’s been enough killing.”
“Away with yourself, woman,” he said, shaking her off. “This isn’t your concern.”
Seeing Sven distracted, Ragnar
lunged at his belly, but Redknee’s mother had moved between them and the blade pierced her chest. She slumped forward, surprise and confusion in her eyes. Ragnar withdrew his sword and she staggered to the ground.
Redknee rushed forward, “Mother!” he cried, gathering her in his arms.
Blood soaked her dress and her lips had turned white. “So cold,” she mouthed as her eyes flickered closed.
“Don’t go!” he said, clasping her hand to his cheek.
Sven knelt beside them, his face lined with shame. Redknee looked round. Ragnar had gone.
Her eyes opened. “My son,” she said, her voice cracked. “There is something I must …”
“Yes?” he leaned in, pressing his brow to hers. Her face took on a calm, serene expression. After a moment, she whispered:
“Find your father.”
PART II
VOYAGE
Chapter 4
Redknee stood, ankle-deep in mud, his tunic charred with smoke and stained with his mother’s blood. He turned to his uncle. “Where did he go?”
“Who?” Sven’s face was grey with shock.
“Ragnar.”
“The horses,” Sven mumbled and shook his head. “He took the horses.”
Redknee looked at the devastation. Timber skeletons blackened the sky where once longhouses had stood. Ragnar and his men were gone. A piebald mare rooted in the dirt. It must have belonged to one of the attackers. Redknee staggered across to the mare, pulled the reins over her head and leapt onto the saddle.
“Stop!” Sven said. He reached for the mare’s reins, but Redknee drew the horse away.
“This is your fault,” Redknee said. “She was trying to protect you.”
Sven reeled back, horror plain on his face. “It wasn’t meant to happen like this.”
“You knew Ragnar was coming?”
“No. Of course not. But I should’ve known he’d never let it rest.”
“Let what rest? A fight over some stupid book? Is that it, is all this because of a book?”
Sven lowered his gaze. It was all the answer Redknee needed. He spun the mare towards the path and dug his heels into her ribs.
“Where are you going?” Sven called after him.
“I’m finishing what you began,” he said, urging the mare into a gallop. “Ragnar lives and so, apparently, does my father.”
Redknee took the narrow trail that followed the fjord to the sea. Low branches raked his face and chest as the piebald thundered along the treacherous path. The ground fell away steeply to his right. Below him, the water glittered between the trees.
The outline of the black ship flickered in the corner of his eye. His heart raced as the snake figurehead drew level with him, jet eyes glinting in the sun. He heard Mord shout to his men to row faster and the wooden beast edged ahead.
He had to get to Ragnar before Mord was able to come ashore and rescue him. They likely had a meeting point. A big, sandy bay, where their ugly ship wouldn’t be forced to navigate treacherous rocks. He dug his heels into the mare and hunkered down. The sound of the oars cutting the water fused with the thud of the mare’s hooves. Hull to nose, nose to hull, they went, each tree trunk a marker.
The mare was lazy, trying to slow, but he pushed her back into a gallop. Her rough gait jarred his bones, but soon the trees sped past in a blur and it seemed to him like the swish of the oars began to recede.
Redknee knew this coast almost as well as he knew the mountain. It wasn’t far until the jumble of cliffs opened to the chalk-lined safety of Cave Bay. He pressed his heels deeper into the mare’s sides. He’d played in Cave Bay as a child and an idea was forming in his head.
Only, he had to get there before Mord and his rescue party.
The path swung away from the water, rising steeply until Redknee could look down on the heads of Mord and his men. Steel helmets glittered like silver coins. They were nearing the mouth of the fjord. As soon as they reached the open sea, Mord would order up the sail and the black ship would slide through the water faster than Redknee’s reluctant mount could run. His only chance was to cut across country. Aim for Cave Bay, and pray he’d guessed their plan right.
Redknee turned the mare from the path and into the woods. She hesitated at first, slowing to a trot as she picked her way through the bracken. He shouted at her, dug his heels into her sides. This was no time to be prissy. Cutting across the headland would only save time if they kept pace.
◊
They came out of the woods high above a sandy bay sheltered on three sides by white-faced cliffs. He’d reached Cave Bay. Redknee peered at the horizon; wind and rain tore at his hair. The black ship was rounding the headland. It would reach the bay soon. He’d been right, but he didn’t have long. The mare puffed heavily.
“Well done,” he said, patting her mane.
He dismounted and stayed low, using the yellow jewelled gorse that crowned the bluff for cover. He saw the horses first. Three brown mares and a grey stallion tied to a piece of driftwood bedded in the sand. The stallion harried one of the mares – biting her neck and kicking her legs. Ragnar’s horse was vicious as its master.
He couldn’t see Ragnar and his men, but the presence of the horses told him they must be nearby. As a child, Redknee had hidden in the maze of caves that pocked the soft rocks. Ragnar must be sheltering in one of those now.
Redknee crept back from the cliff edge. He would have to use his plan. He rummaged in the undergrowth. He needed to be careful; these cliffs were deadly if you didn’t know what you were doing. If only he could remember—
A hole emerged from between the leaves. He pulled the grass aside and listened. Nothing but the rumble of waves.
He looked out to sea. The black ship turned into the bay; he had four minutes, maybe five. He scavenged around, tearing at roots; sticking his face into the dirt like a hungry pig. But the ground was bound tight. There were no more openings.
Yet he remembered the place so clearly – a deep chamber in the rock that led to the caves below. Why couldn’t he find it now? Nettles stung his hands as he wrestled with the undergrowth. Then, beside an old rowan tree, he found a hole the size of a big porridge pot. He pressed his ear to the dark.
Laughter echoed off the walls. He’d found Ragnar. He should have remembered the rowan marker – the tree that protected against witches. Forgetting had cost vital moments.
He eased into the void. The shaft was narrower than he remembered. Or maybe he was just bigger. He pressed his feet against the wall, bracing with his back, and began shuffling down. Soon the daylight was no more than a pinprick above his head. The dark below endless. He thought about going back. Returning to his uncle to let him sort things out. But anger drove him on; his mother’s final words spinning through his mind:
Find your father.
The father he’d never known. Been deprived of these sixteen years past. Murdered by Ragnar – she’d said so herself.
And now …
Now nothing made sense. His past was a lie. The only thing he knew for sure was Ragnar had killed his mother. He’d seen that with his own eyes. And he was going to exact revenge.
Everything he’d worried about before – Harold’s bullying, his uncle’s expectations, suddenly it all seemed foolish. Petty. The worries of a boy.
He must have shuffled down twenty feet, maybe more. His thighs ached, his back felt raw. It had been easier when he was a boy hunting gull eggs. The chalk down here was damp and pulpy, and as he moved lower, it started to crumble beneath his toes. He scrambled against the tunnel sides with his hands, tried to dig his elbows, his knees, anything into the soft walls. But still he slipped into the darkness, his cloak twisting round his shoulders, over his head. He kicked out, fought with the wool, clawed at the walls. Flame Weaver got caught between his legs, he kicked it away, wedging it in the wall and gradually his fall slowed.
When he came to a stop, he had no idea how far he’d fallen. The tunnel opened above a cavern and it had been his plan t
o jump the last ten feet to the floor. But he needed to judge it right. Too soon, and he’d break his legs. He unclipped his cloak pin and tossed it into the void, counting one, two, three, in his head before he heard the telltale rattle. He gulped. Three. He reckoned ten feet for every number. Jumping thirty feet onto hard rock was madness. Suicide in the pitch black.
He looked at the pinprick of light above. Maybe he could climb back up. But by the time he got to the top Ragnar would have escaped. Above him, something moved across the tunnel entrance. He froze. Had one of Ragnar’s men spotted him? There was no going back now. He peered into the darkness.
That meant only one thing …
Light from above pierced the tunnel, bleaching the rocks white. The flash stunned Redknee, sending him flailing blindly downwards. He reached out with his hands, grabbed at Flame Weaver, and was left dangling in mid-air. He heard a deep rumble. Thor was charging across the sky, wielding his hammer in anger.
Moments later, the next flash lit the tunnel. Redknee heard whinnying and looked up to see the old mare peering down. He laughed. It hadn’t been Ragnar’s man at all. Fear played tricks on you. Had to be conquered. Stay calm. That’s what he had to do. He stuck out his left foot, there was no more rock, just air. He’d reached the end of the tunnel. Time to jump.
When the next flash of lightning came, he loosened his muscles and slid, blind, into the gloom. It was hard to land safely when you couldn’t see. But he kept his knees bent and hit the floor on all fours, like a frog, tumbling into a forward roll, then the floor disappeared and he was spinning out of control through the blackness, towards the bowels of the earth, head first into hell. He braced for the impact that never came …
The water welcomed him, streaming into his nose, his mouth, his eyes. Still he fell, but slower now and he fought it. He kicked, stretched out and now he was going upwards, slowly at first, then he broke the surface, gasping for breath. Air had never tasted so good.
He bobbed in the waves, struggling to get a sense of things. He’d forgotten at high tide the sea filled the cavern almost to the brim. But it wasn’t quite high tide yet – there should still be a dry ledge – leading to a way out, and, hopefully, to Ragnar.
