Viking Gold

by V. Campbell

  “What’s happening?” Thorvald asked, his face pale with fear.

  Redknee grabbed Thorvald’s wrist. “We’re being attacked,” he said, dashing for the cover of the table in the centre of the room, pulling Thorvald with him.

  “Is it Ragnar?” Thorvald asked as they huddled under the table.

  Redknee nodded. “I should have killed him when I had the chance.”

  Timbers crashed all around them, smashing furniture, bringing down whole sections of ceiling, deluging the hall in waves of horrible, choking mud.

  “Come on,” Redknee said, “if we don’t go now, we’ll be buried alive.”

  They ran for the exit, dodging falling beams, splintered furniture and mounting piles of earth. Bjorn was just ahead of them when the lintel above the door gave way, knocking him flat. Redknee and Thorvald scrambled through the small opening, and began to pull Bjorn free.

  “Leave me, Sire,” Bjorn said. “Save yourself.”

  Thorvald shook his head just as Bjorn’s leg came unstuck.

  “Can you manage?” Redknee asked.

  Bjorn tested his ankle and nodded.

  Redknee started up the tunnel. Many of the beams had already fallen in, but it was still passable on hands and knees. He’d barely gone ten feet when he heard Bjorn shout after him. He spun round to see Thorvald lying unconscious on the ground, blood gushing from his temple.

  “He’s been hit by a beam,” Bjorn said. “You go ahead. I can manage him.”

  Redknee shook his head.

  “Don’t be daft. Look at the tunnel. There’s not space for the two of us to move him.”

  Redknee glanced ahead. Bjorn was right. He would have to pull Thorvald through gaps in the fallen earth. It would be tough going, but Bjorn was a big man; a second person would only be a hindrance.

  “Alright. But if you’re not out behind me, I’m coming back for you.”

  Redknee burst out of the tunnel into a silvery evening. Fearful villagers huddled, waiting for their leader to emerge; Koll, Olvir and Magnus were among them.

  Astrid ran forward. “I’m so glad you made it,” she said, wrapping her arms round Redknee’s neck. “The villagers say Ragnar attacked from the caves. The tunnels were vulnerable to assault. Ragnar had only to remove a few supporting beams for the whole place to cave in.” She pressed a kiss onto his cheek. “I’m so sorry about what happened at the waterfall, I had no idea Gisela meant to give the Codex to Ragnar.”

  Redknee pushed her away as Brother Alfred came forward, sleeves rolled up, forearms splattered with blood. He held a strip of linen in his stained hands. He’d been assisting the injured. “This brutality will only stop when every man, woman and child is baptised.”

  “Is there no fighting in Christian lands?” Astrid asked.

  Brother Alfred shifted uneasily. “Of course, there is some. But not like this … the Promised Land, we will make it Christian … and it will be peaceful.”

  Astrid smiled and nodded. “My husband will help us – he is a great leader and will crush any opposition to peace,” she said, shooting Redknee a challenging look.

  Redknee pushed past Astrid and watched as Bjorn crawled from the tunnel. Mud and sweat smeared his face. “It’s hopeless,” he said, collapsing to his knees. “I brought Thorvald as far as I could, but he refused to leave.”

  “But he’s only a boy – you could have dragged him out.”

  “It … it is Gisela’s curse …” Bjorn said quietly. “He cannot survive the daylight.”

  Redknee shrugged off his knife belt, his leather body armour, the straps that held his battleaxe, even Flame Weaver – anything that might add extra weight or cause him to become trapped. Then, carrying only Harold’s ivory-handled dagger and a spade, he headed back inside the tunnel.

  Koll caught up with him. “You can’t go back in there,” he said. “We must get to Wavedancer before Ragnar.”

  Ignoring him, Redknee continued towards the tunnel entrance.

  “If we don’t go now, it will all have been for nothing.”

  Redknee stopped and turned to Koll. “No, if I leave Thorvald to die in that hole, then it will have been for nothing.” He lowered his head and spoke quietly. “I would do the same for you.”

  Koll nodded once and stood aside. As Redknee passed him, he heard his friend whisper something. It was only in the darkness of the half-collapsed tunnels that his mind strung the words together until they repeated themselves over and over, echoing the rhythm of his spade as he ploughed through the fallen earth.

  “You are your mother’s son ...”

  The air grew thin as Redknee pushed deeper into the man-made warren. It was close, heavy work. Some of the beams still held true; there were pockets where he could crawl freely but where the supporting structure had collapsed he had to wedge the fallen beams into makeshift supports and use his spade to burrow under. Sweat oozed down his spine, soaked his tunic. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. The whole place could cave in at any time; his heart thumped in his chest; he had to find Thorvald: fast.

  He redoubled his efforts. Eventually, his spade broke into a cavern. It was almost in total darkness, but he realised he must be in, or near, the great hall. Wheezing, he called for Thorvald. There was no reply. He called again, his throat hoarse from the thin air. If he did not return to the surface soon, he never would.

  He was about to go back, when he heard a soft moan. “Thorvald,” he said. “Is that you?”

  “Over here,” a small voice replied.

  Redknee squinted through the darkness. He saw a hand stir in the gloom and crawled towards it. A six-foot beam lay across Thorvald’s legs. Redknee began to move it, but stopped when Thorvald screamed.

  “Let me die,” Thorvald said. “I can’t leave the tunnel anyway.”

  “That’s not true,” Redknee grunted, having another go at the beam. “You only have Gisela’s word you’ll burn above ground.”

  Thorvald flinched in pain as Redknee heaved the beam from his legs and pushed it aside with a roar.

  “Here,” Redknee said, extending his arm. “Lean on me.”

  Thorvald wrapped his arm round Redknee’s shoulders. He was small and light, but with his leg broken he was a dead weight. More than once, Redknee had to stop, but each time he did so he heard the groan of the few remaining beams, and forced himself to push on.

  Eventually, Redknee stumbled, exhausted, through the tunnel entrance, dropped Thorvald onto the wet grass, took another two steps and collapsed. They’d made it. If he’d had the strength, he would have punched the air. From somewhere far off he registered screaming, but he paid it little heed, so glad was he to be out, to be alive. Instead, he revelled in the judder of his ribs as his lungs clamoured for air.

  “You did it.”

  He looked up. Astrid stood over him; bright spots floated in front of her face. He thought he would black out – then he remembered Thorvald. He tried to turn, to see if Thorvald was all right, but found he was too stiff, too tired. Then it hit him. The screams. Those terrible screams. Had they belonged to his friend? Had his rescue been futile? He looked up at Astrid and mouthed one word – “Thorvald?”

  Astrid glanced at a spot on the grass behind him. For a moment Redknee thought she was going to shake her head, then her face broke into a smile. “He’s fine. It seems Gisela’s curse was a lie.”

  “But the screams?”

  “Not him.”

  Koll came over and stood above Redknee, arms folded. “Someone fetch our hero a drink,” he shouted. One of the villagers scurried over with a pitcher.

  Redknee reached for a sip, gladly anticipating the liquid on his parched throat. But Koll had other ideas. Instead of a refreshing swig, Redknee was drenched in cold water. He sprang to his feet, arms outstretched, seeking the blacksmith’s neck. “Why you …”

  Silver bounded over; began hopping on his hind legs with excitement. He liked the joke too, did he?

  “Well,” Koll laughed, “you seem to hav
e found your feet again.”

  Redknee glowered. “You might have let me drink some of it.”

  “No time for that. We must get to Wavedancer.”

  Redknee glanced to where a group of village women were clucking over Thorvald. “I have to go,” he called.

  Thorvald nodded feebly. His skin, pale as it was, had not shrivelled instantly in the sun. Perhaps the boy king would not lead a normal life, perhaps his exposure to the sun would have to be limited. But who could claim freedom from all bonds? Who was not bound by their abilities, by their fears, their hopes?

  Redknee turned to follow Koll and, as he did so, from the corner of his eye, he saw Bjorn approach Thorvald, a look of supplication on his broad face. Some things, it seemed, would never change.

  Olaf stood on Wavedancer, Harold beside him, his body folded in on itself like a wind-ravaged tree. Harold’s face twisted into a smile when he saw Redknee. Sinead sat nearby, her hands tied behind her back, mouth gagged, eyes bulging with terror.

  “Let her go!” Redknee called, breaking into a run across the sand.

  “Ah, the wanderers return. I bring you the slave girl, in exchange for passage for my son and me,” Olaf said.

  Redknee stopped at a safe distance and drew Flame Weaver. Every muscle in his body tensed. The father was strong and fast, the boy unpredictable. That made Harold the more dangerous of the two. “I’m not sure it’s a fair trade,” Redknee said, eyes darting between father and son. “You nearly got me killed.”

  Olaf shuffled forward.

  “Stay where you are!”

  “You’re mistaken. I saved your life.”

  “You were supposed to help attack the ledge,” Redknee said as Koll and Magnus arrived, breathless, at his side.

  Olaf shook his head. “I was distracting Ragnar so you could escape. I see it worked.”

  “So why is Sinead still bound?” Redknee asked.

  Olaf cast Sinead a wary glance. She glared at him over her gag. “Had to look authentic, didn’t it? I was going to let her go when she calmed down …”

  “I wouldn’t trust him,” Magnus said, drawing his sword and moving closer to Redknee.

  “His trick did save us,” Redknee replied.

  Magnus shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “And he was my uncle’s right hand man.”

  Olaf’s face broke into a gap-toothed grin. “Fought with Sven for fifteen years. Not much your uncle didn’t know about me.”

  “See,” Redknee said, as Brother Alfred, Olvir and Astrid arrived beside him. “If my uncle trusted him, we can too.”

  “Where’s Toki?” Olvir asked.

  “Working hard,” said a deep voice from somewhere in the bowels of the ship. A moment later, Toki appeared above Wavedancer’s prow; hammer and chisel in his hands. “I’ve been here since the storm finished. Fixed up the ol’ dragon good and proper – she’s just like new. Although that buffoon,” he said, nodding in Olaf’s direction, “has been keeping me off my work all morning, asking how many rivets I’ve used and if I’ve left enough hemp to mend tears in the sail.”

  A flicker of pleasure lit Harold’s dark eyes. At first, Redknee thought it was because Toki had repaired Wavedancer. Then he realised Harold was staring further down the beach. Slowly, Harold raised his hand and pointed over Redknee’s shoulder.

  Everyone turned in unison. Twenty or so men ran along the sand towards them, their helmets glinting gold in the low evening sun. They were still some distance, but Redknee saw their armament bristling; it was a full war party.

  “Alright,” Redknee said, turning back to Olaf. “You can come. But you must give your weapons to Koll.”

  Magnus shook his head as Koll relieved Olaf of his knife and sword, but Ragnar’s men were already splashing through the surf and Redknee had no time to deliberate further. As they pushed Wavedancer into the water and leapt aboard, Redknee found he was already regretting his decision.

  PART III

  ABROAD

  Chapter 26

  They rowed. Rowed with strength born of desperation. Rowed until Ragnar’s men were reduced to tiny, shadowy figures splashing angrily in the surf. Then, at Redknee’s order, they unfurled the big square sail; the wind rushed to greet the bright yellow stripes like an old friend and Wavedancer charged through the sea with the energy of a warhorse at full gallop.

  Redknee turned to face the wind and breathed deeply. He felt twice as alive at sea as he did on land. Maybe the vast emptiness of the ocean gave him room to dream. Maybe it was the work – demanding and monotonous – that freed his mind to wander. Maybe it was the motion – the water speeding by, its ever-changing surface – that made him feel that at least he was doing something. Being someone.

  Until today he had thought it false progress. He had wondered if they were all making some terrible mistake. Perhaps they would fall off the end of the earth. Be eaten by the giant wolf Fenrir. More likely, he was leading them to an ignoble death on some distant shore where their courage would be forgotten, never to reach the ears of home.

  Home. Was that really what they sought? And could it be found on some strange land far across the wild sea?

  “I don’t trust Olaf.”

  He turned to find Sinead standing beside him. She cast a worried glance over her shoulder. Redknee followed her gaze to where Olaf stood with Harold near the prow; one arm slung over his son’s crooked shoulder, the other pointing to a spot on the horizon. He whispered in Harold’s ear. The boy laughed.

  Redknee turned back to Sinead. “Neither does Magnus,” he said.

  “I don’t trust Magnus either.”

  Redknee sighed. Magnus was at the tiller, doing his duty as always, yet as far away from Olaf as possible. Redknee couldn’t have the last stretch of their voyage descend into accusations and suspicion. Eventually he said, “You would have me trust no one. Besides, you heard what Olaf said. The trick he played with you, on Ragnar, saved us all.”

  “So why take his weapons?”

  He remembered Magnus’s allegation – that Olaf had led Ragnar to the tunnels. It was one man’s word against another.

  “To smooth things over,” he ventured. “For the time being. I’ll return Olaf’s sword and dagger soon. Once we’ve put a good stretch of sea between ourselves and Ragnar.”

  Sinead looked unconvinced, though she managed a small nod.

  “He didn’t hurt you?” he asked, suddenly concerned there was more to her complaint.

  “No. Frightened me yes, but nothing more.”

  Satisfied, Redknee half turned from her, braced his hands against the rail and stared out to sea. “I fear we’re nearly there.”

  “You fear that?”

  “I think I’ve feared reaching the Promised Land for a long time. What if it’s all lies?”

  “What if it’s all true?”

  Redknee nodded. A gust of wind whipped his hair across his face. “There’s something about the winds today.” He waved his hands as if to catch the very breath of the earth, and began spinning round and round, arms outstretched. “There’s something favourable about them, don’t you think?”

  Sinead giggled as Silver joined him, barking and hopping on his hind legs. “And what about you?” he asked. “Excited? Nervous?”

  She nodded. “I won’t be a slave any longer. I’ll be as free as the winds.” She shook her hair until it tumbled from its bindings and flew about her head like fireflies.

  “Truly, I don’t think you’ve ever really been a slave.”

  “No?” She stopped spinning; a frown marred her face.

  “Isn’t it a state of mind?”

  “Oh, Redknee, you’ve been spending too much time with Brother Alfred. That sounds like something he would say. But when you work sixteen hour days, and you’re so tired you can’t even make it back to your bed before you fall asleep. Then you know that slavery is more than a state of mind. It’s real.”

  “I’m not sure I got off much lighter. My mother always set me more
tasks than I could do in a day … and my uncle expected me to train long after it was dark.”

  “It’s not the same. But listen,” she said, grabbing Redknee’s outstretched arms, tumbling into him, “I think I’ve found the map Ragnar wanted Mord to find.”

  Redknee stared at the picture of the unicorn with the ivy border draped around its head, straining to understand. “It just looks like a pretty picture to me.”

  Sinead sighed. “You’re looking but not seeing.” She pointed to the ivy border. “Look at the leaves; does their pattern remind you of anything?”

  “Not really.”

  “Think of where we’ve been: First the Sheep Islands, to the west of the Northlands, then Iceland, a little to the north.” As she spoke, Sinead traced the pattern of the ivy with her finger, pointing to each new leaf in turn, working from right to left across the top of the page. “And, lastly, Greenland,” she said, resting her finger on a big, pointed leaf near the top left-hand corner of the page. Redknee squinted more closely at the drawing. It was a crazy idea, so crazy, she might just be right.

  “If you look closely at the leaves, you can see they’re edged in different colours. Brown for the sheep of the Sheep Islands, red for the fires of Iceland—”

  “Greenland in white for the ice …”

  “Yes. And, if you look to the left-hand side of the page,” she said, pointing to the biggest leaf of all, “to the south-west of Greenland, you’ll see that leaf, the one the unicorn’s horn points to, is edged in gold.”

  “You think that means the Promised Land?”

  Sinead shrugged. “What else can it signify?”

  Redknee scratched his head. If Sinead was right, they were only days from the Promised Land, the lion’s share of their journey behind them. “What are those markings beside what we’re assuming are the Sheep Islands?” he asked, having given the map more study.

  Sinead peered at the faint, grey crosses. “I think someone has added them later, in charcoal. Maybe they’re the hermit rocks we saw before reaching the Sheep Islands.”