by V. Campbell
“No …” Redknee mouthed. “I am nothing like you.”
Ragnar laughed. “We shall see. Now, tell me, where is the girl with the book?”
Something moved in the maze of hide-clad legs and snow-soaked moccasins. It wasn’t much, a pair of amber eyes and a flash of white fur; a glimmer of copper, perhaps, amongst a sea of jet, but it was enough to catch Redknee’s eye.
Ragnar had seen it too.
Redknee raised his chin in defiance. “I will never lead you to the book.”
“Pah. You’re as dumb as a mule.” Ragnar turned to Mord and handed him the ivory-handled dagger. “This is one of yours, I think. Now search the crowd. I’ve a hunch troll boy has brought his little friends.”
Chapter 32
Eventually the curious onlookers began to disperse. The night was cold and nothing much had happened for a while. People drifted off in little groups, some returning inside the longhouses, others to talk on the sidelines. But it was clear; interest in the newcomers was waning. Soon, only the chief and a handful of his men stood round the fire. It was time. Koll let out an enormous cry and began rolling sideways, quickly gaining speed as he reached a shallow slope. The chief gave chase, but Koll was quick, and even with his hands and feet tied to a pole, he made it halfway across the village before anyone caught up with him.
It was all Redknee needed. He sucked at the cut on his wrist, easing the sharp sliver of bone between his teeth. Fresh blood oozed down the inside of his arm as he wrenched the sliver loose. Ignoring the pain, he began sawing the bindings at his wrist. The bone was sharp, a good tool, and with his hands soon free he quickly untied his feet.
Koll was standing now, free of his pole, his snow-daubed body surrounded by Bear People warriors jabbing at him with spears. But the big Northman wouldn’t stay still long enough for the Bear People to skewer him. It gave him the bizarre appearance of dancing. Deciding his friend could survive another moment or two without his help, Redknee hurried over to Hawk and loosened his bindings.
Hearing the commotion, three of Ragnar’s men ran, swords drawn, to help the Bear People fight Koll, but changed course when they realised Redknee and Hawk were free.
Redknee grabbed his discarded stake. “So thoughtful of the Bear People,” he said, spinning his new quarterstaff in the air.
“Still think we should have tried negotiating?” Hawk asked, clobbering the first of Ragnar’s men between the eyes. The force of the blow sent the attacker flying backwards onto the ground.
“Ever see a lamb talk its way out the pot?” Redknee said, swinging his staff low and taking out two sets of legs at once.
Hawk shook his head as, again and again, oak slammed against steel. “Deganawida is a good man. Most of the people believe in the peace he is trying to bring. Except my father-in-law. He thinks prolonging this war keeps him in power.”
“Fancy telling them that?” Redknee pointed to a new group of approaching Bear People warriors. He glanced over to where Koll was still fighting off the chief and his men, make-shift staff in one hand, a flaming torch in the other. “I must find Sinead,” he said, “before Ragnar does.”
As Hawk nodded, an axe thundered at Redknee’s head, he ducked and it whizzed past his ear. The warrior who threw it drew his knife and slashed wildly at Redknee’s chest. He dodged the flying blade before smashing the man’s hand with his staff. The knife skittered to the ground.
“Go!” Hawk said, stepping between him and four more warriors, each armed with stone axes. Hawk swung his staff in a wide circle in an attempt to keep them at bay, but he couldn’t fend them off forever. Suddenly he had a partner; Koll had broken through the circling warriors and was swinging his staff as if Ragnarok, the battle at the end of days, had come and Odin himself was calling for men to fight by his side. One by one, their attackers fell back.
“We’ll keep them busy,” Koll said, grinning.
Redknee took his cue, slipping into the darkness between the longhouses. After several paces, he looked to see if he’d been followed. But it appeared Hawk and Koll were keeping the Bear People warriors occupied. His heart slammed against his rib cage. He didn’t have long.
He crept along the back of the longhouse beside the waste pits. A groan came from the shadows. Judging by the stink, someone was having an argument with their bowels. Redknee tried to edge past unseen, but the man turned. It was one of Ragnar’s men, his face the colour of a ripe plum. Without thinking twice, Redknee jabbed his staff into the man’s jaw and he slumped to the ground, breeches still round his ankles.
Redknee took the man’s sword, slid deeper into the shadows and waited; making sure no one had heard the man fall. He felt a tug on his tunic. Thinking it was Ragnar’s man recovered, he raised his staff, ready to …
He stopped. It was the young boy who’d prodded his stomach earlier. Wide eyes gazed up, his thumb stuffed into his mouth. Redknee didn’t want to hurt a child. Thankfully, the boy remained silent. He tugged on Redknee’s sleeve then vanished into the darkness.
Redknee hesitated. Did the boy want him to follow? What if it was a trap? He decided to take the risk. What choice did he have? He could hardly go round asking if anyone had seen an annoying redhead. He chased the boy to the end of the longhouse and down a narrow alley under the village wall, when suddenly the boy disappeared into the ground. Redknee thought the boy had fallen. Then his head popped up and Redknee realised he’d climbed down a hole.
The boy beckoned Redknee to follow. Redknee shook his head. He would never fit into a child’s den. But the boy persisted, and Redknee downed his staff and burrowed, head first, into the frozen earth.
The den was surprisingly roomy. Redknee was able to sit up and look round. The boy pointed to a sheet of bark over one of the walls. Redknee went to remove it, but the boy’s hand shot out, stopping him. The boy slid the bark aside with care.
Redknee gawped. They were right beneath the longhouse. He could see Ragnar and Mord: they were standing in the middle of the floor having a conversation. A girl’s voice joined them. She spoke Norse. Redknee strained to see who it was, but she was just out of sight. He had to get closer.
He eased his head through the hole, trying to keep hidden behind a stack of baskets. Mord’s foot was only inches away. The girl started talking. It sounded like she was reading. Redknee looked round, searching for the source of the voice. Then he saw her. Happily ensconced on a thick bear fur, the book open in her lap and a cup of something hot at her feet, Sinead looked like queen of all she surveyed.
Silver sat a short way off on a multi-coloured rug. He growled every time Ragnar or Mord came close.
“Beyond the great sea, go west to where the mountains bow to the trees…” Sinead said, her voice calm and clear. “where the jaws of two great serpents lock, and between their teeth, an apple of the greenest hue. Beneath the Great White Pine you will find treasures enough to bring peace to all the earth …”
Redknee sat back, stunned. She was telling Ragnar the location of Saint Brendan’s treasure, and without him so much as laying a finger on her. Astrid was right, slaves weren’t to be trusted.
Mord spun round, nearly kicking Redknee in the head. Just then, Silver rose and trotted over. Redknee raised a finger to his lips, but the pup kept coming, tongue lolling, pleased to see his master. The boy tugged on Redknee’s tunic and he slid back into the safety of the burrow. He’d heard all he needed to hear. He had to get the Codex from Sinead.
Footsteps echoed across the packed earth floor. He looked up. Ragnar and Mord were leaving. This was his chance. He nodded to the boy in thanks for his help, scrambled out of the den and collected his sword. The night shook with war cries and the sound of steel on stone, but Redknee kept hidden in the shadow of the longhouse as he crept round to the entrance. He threw the curtain back and ducked inside before being spotted.
Surprise registered on Sinead’s face. “Redknee,” she said. “I didn’t expect you.” She clutched Silver as he trotted torwards Redknee and he
ld him close to her, like a shield.
“I’ll bet,” he said, edging forward. “Now, give me the Codex.”
Sinead frowned. “Why …?”
“I heard you talking to Ragnar. Telling him everything.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly. Astrid was right. A slave can never be trusted.”
She picked up the Codex and held it to her chest. “It’s not what you—”
Cold air blasted his back. Redknee spun round. Ragnar stood in the doorway. When he saw Redknee, his eyes widened. Taking the advantage, Redknee sprung at the bigger man, and, using his own weight against him, flung him inside. Ragnar fell heavily to the floor and Redknee pressed his stolen sword into Ragnar’s throat.
“Go on,” Ragnar sneered. “Kill me, send me to Valhalla. But then you’ll never know the truth.”
“Don’t give me lies,” Redknee said. One sharp jab would end it all. “I want my face to be the last thing you see before you die, hate the last thing you know. This is for my village, for my mother, and for my—”
“Stop it,” Sinead said, rising from her seat. “You’re choking him.”
“Stay back – that’s the idea.”
Ragnar’s eyes’ bulged, his blank eye especially throbbed, spittle appeared at his lips, but he still managed to croak out a few words. “Do it for your village … and your mother. But your father … I never touched a hair on his damned head.”
“Liar! I heard you admit it. In the forest, before you attacked my village.”
Ragnar laughed without mirth, a dry raking sound. “You’ve got me. It was worth a try. I did fight Erik Kodranson. But he was still alive after the fight. Though rather the worse for it. Sven spirited him away.” Ragnar paused, looked up at Redknee’s face, his good eye narrowed. “You know, you’re more like me than you realise.”
Redknee hesitated. Perhaps this was his one chance to discover the truth about his father. Perhaps Ragnar knew more … was more … than he’d thought. Toki’s strange story had spoken of two brothers and their friend, and the love each had for a beautiful woman. Had it been more than a story…?
“You,” Redknee said, hands trembling, mouth dry. “You are my real father?”
Ragnar’s laugh turned into a desperate rasping for breath.
Sinead grabbed Redknee’s arm. He shrugged her off, but relaxed the pressure on Ragnar’s throat a touch. He had to hear this. Had to face this new nightmare.
Ragnar gulped for air before focusing his watery eye on Redknee. “Not sure if that question is a compliment, young warrior. But, no, I am not your father.”
Tension seeped from Redknee’s body. He knew what he had to do.
“Well then,” he said, knuckles whitening on the sword-hilt, “it’s time to pay your dues.”
“Stop!” Sinead called out, her face white with fear. “He is my father.”
Chapter 33
Redknee’s mind reeled. How could Ragnar be Sinead’s father?
How?
“The monastery,” Sinead said, reading his expression. “Ragnar visited the monastery just after your father and Sven. They were meant to go together, share the pickings. But Erik and Sven betrayed Ragnar, went on their own. That was when Ragnar met my mother. Toki’s story was for me.”
“But—”
“It’s true,” Ragnar spluttered. His face had turned grey. “Your father and uncle double-crossed me.”
The curtain flew open. Mord entered, followed by Skoggcat. As soon as Mord saw Redknee he drew his sword.
“Don’t …,” Ragnar said, eying his sons, “…do anything stupid.”
Mord hovered nervously in the doorway. His face glistened with sweat. Skoggcat stood perfectly still.
Redknee kicked Ragnar firmly in the shoulder. “Stand,” he said, adding, “Slowly.”
Ragnar hauled himself to his elbows, watchful of the blade at his throat. Sinead eased backward, gripping the Codex to her chest, her eyes flicking between the men.
“What should I do father?” Mord asked, fear shaking his voice.
“Watch your good for nothing brother.”
Skoggcat made a hissing sound. It was the first time he’d drawn attention to himself. Mord scowled at him in disgust.
Redknee prodded Ragnar in the back with his sword. “On your feet, old man.” Ragnar glowered at Redknee as he struggled upright.
“Where are you taking my father?” Mord asked. “Are you going to kill him?”
Was he going to kill Ragnar? He hadn’t thought that far in advance.
“Not if you get out my way,” he offered.
Mord glanced at his father. Ragnar nodded, and, reluctantly, Mord stood aside.
“You know,” Redknee said to Mord, pushing Ragnar forward. “Don’t believe a word your father says. You think he’s going to share Saint Brendan’s treasure with you? I’m betting he didn’t tell you this slave girl is his daughter.” He motioned to Sinead with his elbow.
Mord sneered. “Of course I know that. But what does it matter to me? Her mother was an Irish peasant. I am his legitimate firstborn. I will inherit everything.”
“Think about it,” Redknee said. “Why was he so keen to find her again? A daughter can be worth a hundred sons when it comes to marrying time.”
Mord stared at his father. “You mean to form an alliance?”
“No,” Sinead cried. “He lies!”
Mord’s eyes darted between Redknee and his father, as if trying to find the truth in their faces.
“Stand back, son. You’re making this worse.”
“Who is it?” Mord asked, his face suddenly red with anger. “Who is to take my place at your right hand?”
“You know King Hakon’s eldest?” Redknee asked cautiously.
“Princess Asa?” Mord said.
Redknee bit his lip. This was quite the gamble. Did King Hakon even have a son? “I meant his heir.”
“Prince Halfdan?”
Redknee nodded.
Mord slumped. “Then it is true.”
“Ragnar needs your share of the treasure for her dowry,” Redknee said, praying there was a shred of truth in this guess. Redknee thought he had Mord with this last comment; he was nearly out the door with his hostage and Mord looked as if he was ready to kill his father himself. Skoggcat had been slinking in the shadows, watching his brother, watching Redknee, but still keeping his distance. Redknee was going to do it. He was going to get away.
Then the curtain opened and Olvir burst in, his bow drawn and ready. But it took him vital moments to assess the situation. Mord, however, reacted with animal efficiency, grabbing Olvir by the neck and slicing his windpipe from left to right in one sharp, fluid motion. Blood sprayed Mord’s face. Olvir raised a hand to stem the flow. His attempt was useless. Blood drenched his hand, bubbled from his mouth, streamed down his chin and arm. He gurgled wordlessly before sliding towards the floor.
Redknee pushed Ragnar aside and flung out his arms to catch his friend. He was too late. Olvir’s lifeless body lay in a blood-soaked heap, fingers still curled round his prized bow.
His father out of danger, Mord lunged for Redknee. Numb with shock, Redknee could only watch as Mord aimed for his belly. There was a flash of orange, Mord stumbled, his speed his enemy as he tumbled headlong towards Redknee’s boots.
Recovering his senses, Redknee grabbed the Codex from a stunned Sinead, leapt the spread-eagled Mord and made for the unguarded door. As he sped into the night, he heard a hissing sound from the shadows. Skoggcat had repaid his debt.
PART IV
HOME
Chapter 34
Redknee burst into the night, Silver darting behind him. Together they turned from the orange glow of the bonfire and hurried back along the shadowy alley. He heard the jangle of a mailcoat, the thud of heavy boots behind them. Then silence. Whoever it was hadn’t followed them down the alley. They’d gotten away.
His mind reeled with questions. Big questions. If Ragnar h
adn’t killed Erik, what had become of him? Both Toki and Ragnar had said the same thing – Erik Kodranson, the man he knew as his father, was still alive after his fight with Ragnar. But their stories raised yet more questions. If true, then Sven was the last person seen with Erik. And that raised one terrible possibility … a possibility Redknee was fighting to push from his mind. He needed to speak to Olaf. No one else knew his uncle as well as the old warrior. He would make Olaf tell him the truth. He’d come this far, now he needed answers.
Redknee skirted the longhouses, climbed over an abandoned stretch of wall and landed softly in the darkness of the forest. He needed to forget about the Flint People and their war. Olvir, he couldn’t forget. He felt responsible. Was responsible, for the boy’s death. If only he hadn’t hesitated when Sinead claimed Ragnar as her father …
Four days later Redknee heard the sea, long before he saw it. For a sailor, a Viking, that deep rumble gave the strength to push on. It seemed to have the same effect on Silver, and he bounded onto the sand, ears pricked, ready to chase whatever seabirds might be foolish enough to venture landside.
The longhouse still stood on the high side of the bay, guarding the lagoon. Why Redknee was surprised to see this, he didn’t know. He’d only been gone eight days. Yet it seemed like a lifetime. He ran beneath the Svensbyan sign, threw open the door and strained his eyes in the dark, searching out Olaf’s familiar features.
“Olaf,” he called, “it’s Redknee. I must speak to you.” Silence. The hall was empty. Magnus and Brother Alfred must be outside too, he thought. He turned, ready to run back out to the yard, and slammed into a solid wall of muscle.
