Viking Gold

by V. Campbell

  Chapter 23

  The next day Sinead paced the main hall, her fingers moving over the edge of her cap, endlessly re-arranging it. “Where are Magnus and Egil?” she asked for the umpteenth time. “The sun is high, and still they haven’t returned. They should have found Olaf and Harold hours ago.”

  “We should wait here a little longer,” Redknee said, flipping a piece of meat from the table and onto the floor. Silver pounced on it greedily. “A search party could easily miss them.”

  “You’re frightened,” Sinead said.

  Koll laughed. “The girl is right.”

  Thorvald had left his guests to eat their mid-day meal alone at the trestle table in the main hall. Everyone, save Astrid, was happy to enjoy their fill of the roast pork, mutton and bread on offer. Instead, Astrid had begged off, claiming a headache. When Redknee had told her they were still on the right course for the Promised Land; indeed, that according to Sinead’s reading of the Codex, they were nearly there, she’d gone pale and shaky. He supposed the prospect of soon finding her husband had come as a shock.

  Redknee shoved a chunk of bread into his mouth and stared at Koll. Did Koll really think he was afraid? He wasn’t. But he couldn’t see the point in giving up the safety of the tunnels to go looking for two people who could be anywhere. Not with Ragnar outside. Besides, he wasn’t sure he trusted Magnus any more, after Sinead said he’d given Thora the fish for the poisoned stew. If Magnus did have some betrayal planned, if he was the traitor Sven had so worried about, they were better to stay here and face what came head on.

  Koll lowered his drinking horn. “Ach, lad, it’s hard making decisions. This boy king,” he said, leaning in so Thorvald’s men in the next chamber couldn’t hear, “is ruled by the sorceress. It’s a bad state. A leader must keep his own counsel. If you ask me, she’s put a spell on him.”

  “Nonsense,” Brother Alfred said, reaching for the jug of mead. “There’s no such thing as magic.”

  Koll grinned. “When the witch started chanting you looked scared as a pig in a blood-month.”

  “She thinks words are magic,” said Sinead, finally tugging off her cap and flopping down beside Redknee. “She means to increase her powers by learning to read Latin for herself.” Sinead stared at her feet for a long moment, when she looked up her face was etched with concern. “Was it wrong of me to read to her? I mean, if she learns to read, could she really use it to increase her powers?”

  Brother Alfred looked thoughtful. “It depends what you mean. All knowledge brings power. That is magic of a sort.”

  Sinead furrowed her brow. “I think she meant more than that.”

  “Well?” Koll said, rising from the table and rubbing his stomach. “I don’t know about magic. All I trust is the strength in my right arm. But Thorvald shouldn’t listen to the sorceress. Handsome though she is, something about her sends a chill through my bones. By Thor’s hammer, this whole dark, damp turd of a place chills my bones. So what of it, Little Jarl?” he said, looking at Redknee. “Are we going to go find Magnus and Egil, and save their good for nothing, stinking hides?”

  Redknee swallowed the bread in his mouth whole. Koll had called him a Jarl!

  “Watch it there, lad,” Koll said, thumping Redknee on the back. “There’s no place in Valhalla for a man mastered by a loaf of bread.”

  Sparks flew into the air as Thorvald ground his axe along the whetstone.

  “What are you doing?” Redknee asked, picking a battleaxe from the armoury walls; sliding it between the leather straps on his back. He’d decided Koll was right. They couldn’t hide here forever, relying on Thorvald’s favour. If Magnus had betrayed them, better to know sooner. Besides, if their friends were in trouble … well, they couldn’t lounge around feasting evermore; growing fat and soft.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Thorvald replied. “I’m coming with you.” He wore a padded leather tunic beneath an old mail coat that hung below his knees, almost reaching his ankles. He could barely lift his arms.

  “But it’s still daylight.”

  “I’ve been cooped up too long. I need to get out. Show my people I’m still in charge.”

  “This isn’t your battle. It was my village Ragnar burned, my mother he killed,” Redknee said, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He felt Thorvald’s muscles tense beneath the goosedown wadding. “You’ve done enough by sheltering us.”

  Thorvald’s black and white eyes stared back at him.

  Redknee sighed. “You will go outside again, but not—”

  “Seize him!”

  Gisela stood in the doorway, her arm outstretched, index finger pointing directly at Redknee. He reached to draw his axe as six men-at-arms filed past her and grabbed him by the arms and legs.

  “What’s happening?” he shouted as they bundled him through the door and down the corridor. He hadn’t time to draw the battleaxe or even grab one of the swords that stood against the armoury wall.

  “I heard you,” Gisela said. “We all heard you,” she said, nodding to the men-at-arms as they pushed him into a dark cell. “You were inciting Thorvald to go forth during the day, an offence punishable by death.” With this, Gisela turned and walked away.

  “But …” Redknee shouted as the door slammed in his face and one of the guards slid an iron bar across its wake. “I’ve done nothing wrong!” He banged his fist against the wood. His friends would find him, they would get him out. He called until his throat became hoarse but still no one came. Gisela had taken him deep into the labyrinth.

  Sometime later he heard footsteps approach along the tunnel. He peered through the small window in the door, no bigger than a child’s hand. Thorvald had come and was speaking to one of the guards. Was Thorvald here to rescue him? Or to authorise his execution? He pressed his ear against the window and listened.

  “Come, my man,” Thorvald said in as deep a voice as a thirteen year old could muster. “This Redknee is my friend. I command you to release him.”

  Redknee’s heart soared. Thorvald had come to free him. Everything would be all right.

  “Sorry sire, but Mistress Gisela’s instructions are to keep him locked up, no matter what. She said he’d tried to influence you, sire. I’m sorry. She says it’s for your own good.”

  Thorvald nodded and shuffled back down the corridor.

  Redknee slumped to the floor. Suddenly he knew what it was like to be Thorvald. To be alone in the darkness, jarl of nothing but mud and shadow.

  Chapter 24

  A long time passed. Redknee listened to the sounds of the dark. Became alert to their patterns: a blacksmith hammering out his trade; snatches of disembodied voices; the drip, drip of water.

  He closed his eyes and waited. Someone would notice him missing and come looking. Wouldn’t they?

  Heavy footsteps woke him. He’d no idea how much time had passed. The footsteps came from above, sending puffs of dirt from the ceiling. Voices joined them, grew louder, fought with the screech of iron on iron. He scrambled to his feet and pressed himself against the door, terrified the mud roof would collapse.

  He peered through the window. His guard had gone. Damn. Had he been left to rot? Well, he wasn’t waiting. He forced his arm through the window and tried to lift the iron bar. He couldn’t reach.

  “Help!” he screamed, withdrawing his arm and shouting as loud as he could. “Help me!” But the shadows at the far end of the tunnel made no reply.

  The footsteps above stopped. The sound of metal scraping against rocks echoed through his cell. Digging. Maybe they were sinking a new tunnel. He listened to the urgent clawing. They were in a hurry.

  A cloud of dirt blackened the air in the tunnel. He covered his eyes. Men, five of them, tumbled through a hole in the ceiling, scrambled to their feet and quickly formed a defensive line. He squinted through his cell door. Their fine helmets glittered in the faint torchlight of the tunnel. Their leader took charge.

  “Spread out,” he said, drawing his sword. “And remember w
hat we’re looking for.”

  Redknee pressed his body flat against the wall. He doubted these men were his friends. He heard them leave along the corridor. No one had thought to look in his cell. He turned to peer through the window at their retreat and came face to face with a bushy red beard and pair of watery blue eyes. Damn. He shot back into the darkness.

  “Sir,” he heard Red-beard call, “there’s someone in this cell.”

  Redknee pushed himself backwards, into the shadows, as far from the clank of armoured men running his way as he could.

  “Open the door, then,” their leader said.

  Red-beard removed the iron bar and pushed the door.

  Their leader squinted in the darkness. “You sure you didn’t overdo it on the mead last night?” he asked Red-beard. “I don’t see anyone.”

  Redknee’s eyes, accustomed to the gloom, saw where they could not. Their leader had long black hair and a hard jaw. He’d seen him before. Only three times, granted, but he knew him well. He cursed for not recognising the ostentatious mail coat sooner, but he’d thought its owner dead.

  Mord stepped further into the cell. “It smells rank,” he said, swinging his sword in a wide arc. The blade whizzed past Redknee’s nose, drawing a sliver of blood, but he dared not move.

  “Nothing,” Mord said conclusively, turning from the cell.

  Redknee remained still as Mord stalked into the corridor. Please, he thought to himself, please don’t secure the door.

  Mord turned to Red-beard. “Draw the bar over the door,” he said. “We don’t want anyone surprising—”

  Red-beard had begun to shut the door, but Mord had frozen. “Wait!” Mord cried, holding the tip of his sword up to examine it.

  Redknee’s stomach lurched. He pressed the back of his hand against his nose to stem the bleeding. In that instant, he saw Mord turn and charge towards him, realisation on his face. He’d seen Redknee’s blood on his blade.

  Mord sped into the cell. “Come out my little dungeon rat,” he said, brandishing his sword, “or I’ll run you through.”

  Redknee held his breath as Mord lunged at the darkness.

  “Wait, Sir,” Red-beard said, handing Mord a torch.

  Mord grabbed it and swept the cell with the flickering light.

  Redknee blanched as the flame passed in front of his face. Caught.

  Mord shoved Redknee to the ground and pressed his foot into his back. “What were you doing in there?” he demanded.

  “Nothing,” Redknee spluttered, truthfully. Blood ran down his face from where Mord had struck his cut nose. A hot, metallic taste filled his mouth; he tried to spit it out.

  “What’s that you say, boy? You were going to attack us! Do you know what the punishment is for that?”

  Redknee shook his head. “I was imprisoned.”

  Mord laughed. “Ah, the great Sven Kodranson’s whelp, locked up by the boy king. Tell me, mud rat, what did you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It must have been something. Steal the boy king’s sweetmeats, did you?”

  “No. It wasn’t Thorvald. It was Gisela.”

  “Ah, bested by a girl.”

  “She’s a sorceress—” Redknee stopped. He was giving too much away. He didn’t know why Mord was here, and he didn’t want to give him information he could use against Thorvald. “What are you looking for?” he asked, changing the subject.

  Mord removed his foot from Redknee’s back. “Why should I tell you?”

  Redknee shrugged. He guessed it was the Codex. “I might know where it is, that’s all.”

  Mord looked thoughtful. “You’re friends with the Irish girl?”

  Redknee nodded cautiously.

  “Well,” Mord continued. “We’re looking for her. My father is anxious to find her … and, well, anything she may have in her possession.”

  “I can take you to her.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “She’ll run away as soon as she sees you. She trusts me.”

  “True. But—”

  “Don’t you want to get to her before your brother? You would please your father.”

  Mord’s eyes lit up. “Yes. I’ll show that Skoggcat,” he said, grabbing Redknee and dragging him to his feet. He called after his men. “Forget the tunnel. I’ve a new plan.”

  And that was the last thing Redknee heard before the roof collapsed.

  Dirt filled his mouth, choking him as he tried to breathe. He coughed; attempted to clear his throat. If he didn’t, he would drown here, in this dry black sea, far from sunlight, far from Valhalla. Where no Valkyrie would find him.

  He heard scraping noises coming from above. Rescuers? He kicked and clawed at the soil in a wretched parody of swimming; tried to call out, but the mud muffled his screams.

  The noises stopped. The rescuers were going. He scrabbled frantically. They would not leave him. He reached something soft yet solid; clambered along it, using it as a ladder. The ladder squirmed, started to kick. Something, a knee perhaps, rammed his belly. He doubled over. A foot pressed against his head, pushing him deeper into the abyss.

  Whomever he’d stumbled across was going to live … at his expense.

  If you give up – you die. Sven’s words reached him through the dark. He pushed off with renewed vigour. All of a sudden, a rod jabbed his back. He turned; grabbed what he took to be a quarterstaff. Someone began hauling him to the surface; he scrambled upwards, using the staff for purchase, pushing off unseen debris, helping his rescuer. He might die today, but it wouldn’t be in a black pit beyond the Valkyries’ reach.

  Air rushed his lungs.

  Magnus smiled down at him. “Thought we’d lost you there.”

  “You got back safely?” Redknee asked, surprised to see Magnus and not Mord and his warriors.

  “Yes. We found Olaf and Harold, but I’m afraid we ran into Ragnar.” Magnus looked uncomfortable. “Egil didn’t make it.”

  Redknee thought of the captain with a soft spot for his mistress. He gave Magnus a sidelong glance. “How did that happen?” he asked.

  “Just as we were returning to the tunnels, they ambushed us from behind some rocks. Egil didn’t even get the chance to draw his sword.”

  “And you?”

  “I managed to get away.”

  “That was lucky,” Redknee said with some sarcasm, but Magnus’s expression didn’t falter. Perhaps Sinead had been mistaken about Magnus poisoning the fish. In any event, Magnus had just saved his life. He owed him his trust just for that. Redknee turned back to the rubble. “There are more men in there. Ragnar’s men.”

  Magnus shook his head. “I’ve already checked. You were the only survivor.”

  “But … I felt someone else move …”

  “They must have got out before I arrived. Come on. Ragnar is attacking the tunnels, we should get moving. I was careful, but I fear he may have followed me.”

  They hurried to the upper tunnels, to the main living quarters. There was no sign of life.

  “Where is everyone?” Redknee asked.

  “Fled.” Magnus said. “When Ragnar came.”

  Redknee peered into Gisela’s chamber. It was empty.

  Olaf stood a short way down the tunnel, beneath one of the few remaining rushlights. The yellow flame cast a sickly glow over his pale features. Behind him, Harold cowered in the shadows.

  “Looking for the slave girl?” Olaf asked.

  “Have you seen her?” Redknee said, his hopes rising.

  Olaf trudged forward. He held his sword in his right hand and a shield in his left. Blood smeared his arms and face. “Yes,” he said, wiping the flat of his sword across his breeches. It left a dark stain.

  Magnus edged backwards. “Don’t trust him,” he whispered. “I saw him signal to Ragnar as we entered the tunnels.”

  Redknee froze. Then remembered he’d hidden Harold’s dagger in his boot. Keeping his eyes trained on Olaf, he reached down and felt for the engraved handle.

&nb
sp; “Don’t listen to him,” Olaf said. “I was your uncle’s most trusted man. We worked together for years. And now that you’ve succeeded him as jarl, I want to sail under your command.”

  “I thought you wanted to go home,” Redknee said, holding up the dagger.

  Olaf stood a sword’s length in front of Redknee. Harold had followed his father down the tunnel, twisted and hunch-backed, like a malformed shadow. His face looked monstrous in the torchlight, eyes glittering with madness. Olaf saw the shock in Redknee’s face.

  “My son is not what he used to be,” he said sadly.

  “I’m sorry,” Redknee said.

  “I must have vengeance for him.”

  “From me?” Redknee asked, fear fracturing his voice.

  Olaf shook his head. “I blame Ragnar, not you. I’ll help you find the slave girl, and together we’ll keep the Codex from Ragnar. Then, when the time is right, we’ll seize our chance and—”

  “He lies,” Magnus blurted out from behind Redknee. “He means to kill you!”

  Redknee’s eyes darted from Olaf to Magnus and back again. Neither moved. Redknee saw Harold stare at his old dagger in bewilderment. His mind truly gone. Suddenly Redknee felt a rush of sympathy for Olaf. He put a hand on Magnus’s arm. “You’re mistaken, my friend. Olaf comes in peace. He means to help us find Sinead.”

  Olaf lowered his sword, the tension in his shoulders gone. “You’ve made the right decision. I’ve no idea why Magnus thinks I led Ragnar here.”

  “Magnus?” Redknee asked, turning to his friend.

  “Yes,” Magnus said hesitantly, “I must have been mistaken.”

  “Good,” Olaf said, smiling. “I heard the others say they were heading for a cave. Some hidden exit?”

  Thorvald’s cave.

  “Follow me,” Redknee said. “I know where they’ve gone.”

  They crept silently through the tunnels, their backs pressed against the walls, torches low. But they encountered no one until they reached the cave. Voices echoed off the arched ceiling, magnified a thousand times. Redknee pressed his finger to his lips. Around twenty people stood near the cave mouth. They were arguing. Redknee searched the crowd for a familiar face, saw Sinead’s auburn curls and realised they were safe. He called to her.