Viking Gold

by V. Campbell

  Sinead blanched. But she hung on to the book, wordlessly gripping it tight as she fell into step beside him.

  The break in the wall of ice led nowhere. The beach was longer than Redknee had realised, snaking for miles around small inlets and sweeping bays. But two things remained constant; the high ramparts of ice blocking access to the interior and the gathering cloudbanks. So it came as a relief when, as they entered a broad bay with soft, black sand not long before sundown, Olvir stood on tiptoe and shouted, “Look!”

  All eyes followed the direction of Olvir’s outstretched hand. On the other side of the bay, a small wooden fort faced the darkening sky. If they ran, they would reach it before the storm hit.

  “Do you think my husband is there?” Astrid asked, eyes lighting up.

  Even from this distance, the place looked ramshackle.

  “I don’t see any smoke,” Redknee said. “I think it’s uninhabited.”

  Redknee pounded on the gate and waited. Silence. He glanced up. Ravens kept watch from the parapet, mocking him with their glassy eyes. One began to caw. His brothers joined in. Their screeching filled the sky. Still no movement from inside.

  “There’s no one here,” he said, pressing his shoulder to the gate. To his surprise, it gave way.

  The gate opened onto a dirt courtyard. Old, broken barrels were piled high in one corner. Behind them, a rickety ladder led to crumbling ramparts. Redknee made a mental note – someone would have to keep watch. He called to Silver. When the pup failed to appear, he turned to see him waiting by the gate. Redknee whistled. Silver tilted his head, placed his right paw across the threshold then snapped it back as if burned. Sighing, Redknee gripped Silver by his scruff and dragged him forward. The pup’s joints locked, his paws digging parallel furrows in the mud.

  “Come on,” Redknee said, bundling him into his arms and nuzzling his ears. “There’s no one here.”

  “The pup’s right,” Olvir said, sliding an arrow from his quiver and placing it on his bow. “This place rattles my bones.”

  The group fanned out slowly, weapons drawn, eyes alert. At the back of the yard stood a small wattle and daub hut, roofed with shingles. Old rope held a misshapen door in place. Redknee motioned to the others to stand back. He put Silver down and gave the door a kick; it flew open in a cloud of dust.

  By the pummelling of his heart, Redknee fully expected a dozen berserkers to charge forth, blood dripping from their bearskins, biting their shields and swinging cudgels the size of small skiffs. In fact, the only movement came from a startled rat scuttling towards the door, its pink tail brushing Redknee’s toes as it escaped.

  The room was dark inside, and empty apart from a bench. A black circle in the dirt floor, evidence of a fire, was the only sign of recent human habitation. Redknee relaxed and lowered his sword.

  Astrid peered over his shoulder. “I’m not spending the night in there,” she said, wrinkling her nose and pulling her rabbit fur hood over her head.

  “Where else do you suggest with the storm closing in?” Redknee asked.

  On cue, a fat raindrop landed on his forehead, and a moment later, pounding rain filled the yard. They all piled inside the hut and Sinead set about laying a fire with driftwood she’d collected.

  Astrid stood at the edge of the room with her men-at-arms. “This can’t be one of my husband’s forts,” she sniffed.

  “Plonk your royal arse on that,” Koll said, dragging the bench in front of her. “And stop moaning or I’ll throw you on the fire.”

  “I should have one of my men whip you for insolence,” she said, wiping the bench with her sleeve.

  “Watch your step,” Koll said. “My wife is dead. Poisoned. You had the wolfsbane. You’re the main suspect. It was only because Magnus vouched for you that you’re not already dead. So I wouldn’t get too cocky, because I’m watching you, and if you do anything to make me think you did it … well, by Odin’s eye, I won’t think twice about wringing that pretty white neck of yours.”

  At this, her men-at-arms stepped between them. Koll straightened to his full height. Astrid’s men only came up to his chin. “Well,” Koll said, smiling, “who wants to go first?”

  “Stop it!” Redknee said, worried for his friend’s weakened state. “We have to get along.”

  Koll nodded and backed away. “I’m going to find something for dinner,” he said, stalking out into the rain.

  Redknee sighed. Though he tried not to show it, Koll missed Thora badly.

  “This place feels wrong,” Olvir said, shuffling closer to Sinead’s fire. “All those ravens watching us.”

  Olvir was right, Redknee thought. There was something strange about the fort. Suddenly he realised Silver was missing. He ran outside; rain blurred his vision; mud sucked at his feet. He searched the yard; found the pup cowering behind the pile of old barrels, shivering in the cold.

  “There you are,” he said, folding the slip of sodden fur into his arms. But Silver seemed more interested in staring over his shoulder at a shadowy crevice among the rain-lashed barrels. Redknee heard a scratching noise as something; a rat perhaps, disappeared into the dark. Silver squirmed as Redknee carried him inside, but the fire seemed to persuade him of the sense in staying. He made straight for the hearthside, stood in front of Astrid and, ignoring her shrieks, vigorously shook himself dry.

  It was only as Redknee settled that his mind began to order what he’d seen Silver staring at – a small white face, with black, peering eyes. A boy’s face. Redknee hurried back outside, searched the yard, but the boy was gone. When he returned to the hut, he asked Toki, who was sitting nearest to the door, to keep watch.

  Toki nodded. No one wanted uninvited visitors in the night.

  The storm rattled the shingles until the hut felt like the inside of a drum. It had been dark for some time when Koll returned with a seal draped over his shoulder. He looked better than when he’d left, stronger, his vigour restored, as if he’d drawn strength from the power of the elements. Too bright, perhaps.

  “Right,” he said, dropping the carcass in front of the fire and shaking his hair dry. “Let’s get this feast started.”

  “Do you think Olaf is alright?” Sinead asked.

  “Impossible to see past your nose. I was lucky to stumble upon this old lump of lard,” he said, slapping the seal’s hindquarters. He dug into his cloak, producing a pigskin flask. He held it out to Redknee. “Take it. The gods have been hard on you, lad.”

  “No more than you,” Redknee said.

  “Ach, take it.”

  Redknee took the flask and tipped his head back. The liquid burned his throat as it went down. He wiped his lips and offered Koll a slug.

  “No. Have more. You deserve it. Besides, I’ve my own supply.” Koll’s eyes glittered in the firelight as he produced two more flasks from inside his cloak.

  Soon everyone was enjoying the mead and telling stories. Koll told a tale of how Sven, when only nine, had killed a wolf that was terrorising the village, with his bare hands.

  “Ah,” Koll said, finishing off his flask and patting Redknee on the back. “He was a brave one, your uncle.”

  When his turn came, Redknee told a story about how, just last year, Thora had caught him stealing wheat cakes straight off her griddle. She’d chased him round the village and half way up the mountain with her broom. He hadn’t managed more than one bite before she’d wrestled them back.

  “Ah, she’d been making those for me – for our anniversary,” Koll nodded sadly, remembering. “Six years since she accosted me in Kaupangen market. I’d just bought new tongs from her father – she grabbed my ear and accused me of paying with bad coin …” Koll sighed. “I fell in love on the spot.”

  Redknee stared into his flask. It was nearly empty.

  “Come on,” Koll said, “Let’s cheer the lad up. Brother Alfred, you must know some happier stories.”

  “Not as colourful as yours,” Brother Alfred replied.

  Redknee stumbled to h
is feet. The room spun beneath him. Faces jumped out of focus. “She has a story,” he said, pointing at Sinead. “Tell us what the Codex really says.”

  Sinead shrank against the wall. “I thought you wanted nothing more to do with the book.”

  Redknee hiccupped. “I want to know the secret of a treasure so powerful it stole the life of my uncle. So powerful, Ragnar is chasing us to get his hands on it. So powerful, you won’t let the book out your sight.”

  Sinead tightened her grip on the Codex. “I haven’t had the chance to read it yet.”

  “Read it now,” Redknee said. “With my uncle dead, we need to know if there’s any point continuing his quest.”

  “Well,” Sinead began, carefully laying the Codex on the floor and opening it at the picture of the unicorn. “It tells of Saint Brendan the Navigator, an Irish monk who lived more than four hundred years ago.”

  “We know this,” Koll said, rolling his eyes.

  “Yes. But what you don’t know is Saint Brendan found a vast land, larger than all the Northlands. Larger even, than all the kingdoms of Christendom. Saint Brendan found a new world.”

  The little group listened to the rain as it continued to pound the timber roof. No one had expected the Promised Land to be so big. True wealth did indeed await them.

  Astrid spoke first. “This must be the land my husband’s man, Ulfsson, told of.”

  “Perhaps,” Sinead said. “But that’s not all. The book says the Promised Land has fields of emeralds, rivers of sapphire and streets of burnished gold.”

  “Ah,” Koll said. “Now we get to the important bit.”

  “There’s always gold,” Toki said dismissively. It was the first time he’d spoken since they arrived at the fort.

  “You don’t believe the book?” Sinead asked.

  Toki tilted his head and fixed her with a cynical look.

  “Well …” Sinead sounded less certain now. “It says here: ‘after enduring months at sea, and much hardship, Saint Brendan came to a land where everything was made from gold and precious jewels’ – the houses, the furniture, the plates, the barrels – every last thing.”

  “This reminds me of Moses’ hardship in the desert before finding the land of milk and honey,” Brother Alfred said.

  “The one who freed the slaves?” Sinead asked.

  Brother Alfred nodded.

  “I like that.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” Astrid said. “My husband took more than twenty slaves with him to this promised land.”

  “I hope they’ve risen up and killed him,” Sinead said, lunging at Astrid and knocking her to the floor.

  “Girls!” Koll shouted, pulling Sinead off Astrid. “Save your fighting for Ragnar.”

  Astrid glared venomously up at Sinead. She called to the leader of her men-at-arms, who, having had rather a lot of mead from his own secret stash, stumbled noisily to his feet. “Egil,” Astrid said imperiously, “have this slave whipped.”

  “I’ll not be whipped,” Sinead said, kicking at Koll’s shins. “I’m the only one who can read the Codex.”

  Egil approached Sinead cautiously, as one might a rabid dog.

  “I’ll not read if you whip me,” she said.

  “Ha,” Astrid snorted. “Brother Alfred can read your stupid book. If it holds anything worth knowing.”

  “Brother Alfred can’t read like me.”

  “What do you mean?” Redknee asked.

  “Ask him yourself.”

  Everyone turned to stare at the little monk.

  “Is this true?” Redknee asked. “Can’t you read?”

  Brother Alfred blushed. “… A little,” he said, lowering his eyes, before adding, “not really. The truth is … in the monastery … I was only a gardener. I tended the vegetables. The turnips were my pride and joy. I grew the biggest, juiciest ones in five burghs.”

  “But the stories you told?” Olvir asked, his voice flat with disappointment.

  “My stories are all true, though I didn’t learn them from books. I used to sneak inside after my duties were finished and listen to the educated monks discuss the bible.”

  “Why are you here, then?” Redknee asked, standing over Brother Alfred. “Do they often send gardeners to be missionaries?”

  “No. I wanted to spread the love of God. I don’t need to be able to read of God’s love to know of its truth. Besides, no one else was brave enough to come to the Northlands. So they sent me. I would point out that Jesus was only a carpenter.”

  “What?” Koll asked. “Not a warrior?”

  Brother Alfred shook his head.

  “You’ll never baptise me now,” Koll snorted, folding his arms across his chest.

  “What about the things you read from the Codex?” Redknee asked, leaning forwards, mead trickling from his flask onto Brother Alfred’s head. “Were they all made up? Have we been following the wrong clues?”

  Brother Alfred nodded slowly. “I was ashamed to admit I couldn’t read – and I thought … I thought your uncle would kill me if he knew I was of no use.”

  Chapter 21

  The next morning Redknee felt like a troll had used his head for kicking practice. He searched the floor for his water flask, cursing when he found it empty. He needed air. Picking his way over out-flung arms and legs, he made it to the yard. He darted behind the stack of old barrels, dropped his breeches and relaxed as a series of plops kissed the wet mud.

  His first thought was that Sven would give him an earful for drinking. Then he remembered.

  The bitterness of the morning whistled against his skin. Fastening his breeches, he climbed the ladder to the ramparts. The storm had cleared and he could see across the bay. He inhaled deeply; cold air was a welcome antidote to the staleness of the hut.

  Memories from last night came flooding back. Sinead’s insistence the Promised Land was real; Brother Alfred’s admission he couldn’t read. Koll had wanted to throw the lying rogue out into the storm, Redknee had persuaded him not to.

  He sighed. Beyond the soft, black sands, a carpet of gleaming turquoise stretched to the horizon. It was as if yesterday’s storm had never been. He pulled the remnant of his mother’s embroidery from his tunic. The green of the ivy leaves shone bright as emeralds in the morning light. He thought of his mother and his uncle. He closed his eyes and recalled their faces; imagining they were still alive. But the images faded quickly; no matter how he focussed, he couldn’t hold them. His breathing came fast and shallow as he struggled to fix the colour of his mother’s eyes. Were they sky blue, or sea? He gripped the railing till his knuckles turned white. Perhaps they hadn’t been blue at all. Just a murky grey-green.

  Panicked, he turned to go inside, to lose himself in the chatter of the living. As he did so, he saw a ship enter the bay and head towards the fort. He did a double-take, but there was no need. Only one ship boasted a great yellow sail emblazoned with a scarlet and gold serpent.

  Redknee slid down the ladder, ran across the yard and threw open the door to the hut. Sinead stood. She looked hung-over and bleary eyed.

  “Ragnar’s ship is in the bay,” he said.

  Her hand shot to her mouth. “But I thought—”

  “You thought wrong,” Redknee said, before shouting at the others to get up. He saw Toki wasn’t there. He turned back to Sinead. “Where’s Toki gone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Astrid stretched her arms above her head like a cat. “Well, we can’t wait for him.”

  Redknee glanced at the door. Astrid was right. He turned back to the others. “We have to leave here now.”

  “We should warn Olaf,” Koll said, fastening his sword belt.

  Redknee ran back out to the yard. “No time,” he called over his shoulder. “We can’t go out the gate anyway. Ragnar will see us and follow.”

  As Redknee spoke, the big gate creaked open. He drew his dagger.

  “Hey!” Magnus said, his face full of surprise. “What kind of greeting is this? I’v
e brought breakfast.” He held up a brace of herring.

  Redknee nearly collapsed with relief. “Come, Magnus. I didn’t realise you’d gone. Did you see Ragnar’s ship in the bay?”

  Magnus nodded. “That’s why I hurried back.”

  Redknee peered round the gate. The snake ship was only a few moments from landing. There was no escape over the ice cliffs; if they left the fort, they would have to run the length of the beach in full view of Ragnar. They were trapped.

  The others joined Redknee in the yard, each looking as tired and dishevelled as Redknee felt. A scuffling noise came from behind the stack of barrels in the corner.

  “I hate rats,” Brother Alfred said, crossing himself.

  Koll went to investigate. “By mighty Thor, it stinks round here.”

  Redknee blushed. Koll reappeared with a smile on his face.

  “Come see what I’ve found.”

  “A cesspit?” Magnus offered, holding his nose and peering round the barrels.

  “Come see,” Koll said again.

  As Redknee followed Magnus, he remembered the little white face with big black eyes he’d seen last night. A trap door lay open in the ground, near where he’d relieved himself earlier. Rough-hewn steps led down to a tunnel, the end of which disappeared in darkness.

  “Do you think it’s trolls?” Sinead asked, joining them.

  “Or a trick,” said Brother Alfred. “Maybe Ragnar already got here in the night.”

  As they debated the merits of entering the tunnel, a young woman with hair the colour of roast chestnuts climbed out and blinked in the sunlight. “I’m Gisela,” she said, smoothing down her scarlet over-dress. “Won’t you follow me?”

  Koll’s sword wavered a hair’s breadth from the woman’s throat. Silver flattened his ears and growled. Gisela merely smiled and turned back down the tunnel.

  Sinead placed her hand on Redknee’s arm. “Let’s not go. I fear it’s a trap.”

  “Or trolls?” Astrid sneered. “I say we take the risk. Maybe she knows something about my husband.”