Viking Boy (14 page)

“What do you think, Gunnar?” said Rurik. “Is Skuli expecting you?”

“I doubt it,” said Gunnar, remembering the way Skuli had spoken to him. “I’d be surprised if he’s given me a moment’s thought since the night I left.”

“That’s good enough for me,” said Rurik. “Let’s go!”

He ran down the slope, the rest following, a wave of warriors heading for the gate in a silent rush. Gunnar kept up but couldn’t help wondering why Viglaf and Thorkel stayed just in front of him and Erlend so close behind. They were behaving like bodyguards, and Gunnar realized they still thought of him as a boy, someone they needed to protect. And why should they think anything else? They had never seen him fight, after all.

Not that he had ever fought properly. He knew how to hold his sword and shield, felt comfortable in his chainmail, had learned the lessons of those practice sessions with Father in Valhalla. But that’s all they had ever been – practice, not the real thing. He had never stood toe to toe with a warrior who knew how to kill him. Suddenly his new confidence began to drain away.

They reached the gate and Rurik led them in. A couple of Wolf Men were standing just inside, warming themselves at a brazier. They took one look at the armed men approaching and ran for their lives. “To arms! We’re under attack!” they yelled, and Rurik grinned. “That should wake everyone up,” he said.

By the time they got to the longhouse men were pouring out of it, pulling on chainmail, fumbling with their weapons, helmets askew. Gunnar wasn’t sure what he had expected to happen next, but it was shocking in its swiftness. Rurik sprinted forward, screaming a war cry. His blade flashed in the torchlight and he cut down two Wolf Men before they could raise their shields.

Thorkel and Viglaf made short work of several more, then Gunnar was in the thick of it, a Wolf Man raining blows on his shield. Around him blades rose and fell, spears jabbed and snapped, men grunted and yelled and screamed and died. Gunnar gasped for breath, his shield heavy on his arm. A Wolf Man swung an axe at him and he ducked, the blade swishing just over his head. He raised Death-Bringer, but Erlend stepped forward and cut the Wolf Man down.

“Don’t worry, Gunnar, we’ll take care of you!” said Erlend, grinning at him. The Wolf Man’s blood was spattered over Erlend’s cheek and chest.

“But I don’t
want
you to take care of me!” Gunnar yelled.

Erlend, however, was fighting, not listening. Before long most of the Wolf Men were dead, and those who were still alive turned and fled, keen to save their skins. But half a dozen warriors stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the longhouse door, their shields overlapping and swords raised.

Gunnar recognized them as the men who had been with Skuli when he had first come to the steading. They had killed several of Viglaf’s crew in the fighting, including Einar Squint-Eye. Now they stared at Rurik and Thorkel and Viglaf and the others, who stared back at them from behind their own shields.

“All right, lads,” said Thorkel. “If you yield now, I’ll ask the true lord of this steading if he’ll spare your lives. Or you can die. It’s up to you.”

True lord of the steading? Gunnar realized that was him. Skuli’s warriors said nothing, and the only sound beneath the dark sky was that of torch flames flapping and hissing. Then the shield wall parted and Gunnar saw Grim’s archers, arrows notched in their bows, and Grim himself drawing his sword.

“They seem to have made their minds up, Gunnar,” said Rurik.

Gunnar saw that Grim was surprised by the mention of his name, and that now the Wolf Men’s chief was studying him with a puzzled expression. Gunnar smiled, then nodded at Rurik – and the bloodletting began again.

T
HE FIGHTING ROUND
the longhouse door was hard and bitter. Thorkel and Rurik soon cut down Grim and the archers, although not before a couple more of Viglaf’s crew had been killed, one with an arrow in his throat, the other with Grim’s sword in his chest. Skuli’s men exacted a tough price for their lives too, killing three more of Viglaf’s crew. But at last they lay dead as well. Gunnar stepped over the bodies, and entered the hall with Rurik beside him, their boots sticky with blood.

A fire burned in the hearth. Long tables bore jugs of ale and mead and great platters of food. Thick swags of holly had been hung on the walls and pine branches nailed to the rafters as decoration. The people of the farm were sitting on the benches, all quite terrified. They must have heard the sounds of battle outside, and now Gunnar had burst in, a warrior in chainmail and helmet with his sword drawn, a band of armed Vikings rushing in behind him.

Skuli and Mother were on the other side of the hearth. Skuli held her by the arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. But her face glowed with joy.

“Welcome home, Gunnar,” she said, trying to pull away from Skuli. “Your father told me everything in a dream. You look more like him than ever.”

“Be quiet, woman,” snarled Skuli. “Gunnar was a snot-nosed brat who ran off a year ago and probably got eaten by wolves in the forest. This is some young adventurer you’ve cooked up a plot with. It’s all lies.”

“I ran off because at the time I had no choice,” Gunnar said quietly. “But I swore a blood oath that night, Skuli – and I’ve returned to fulfil it.”

“Is that so?” said Skuli, sneering. “Even if it’s true, you obviously realized you’re not up to it. Otherwise why would you need a band of hired killers?”

“They came to even up the odds and make it a fair battle,” Gunnar said. “Now it’s just between you and me. Draw your sword and we’ll finish it.”

“You want a fight to the death?” said Skuli. Gunnar nodded. “Don’t make me laugh,” Skuli went on. “If I win, your men will cut me down anyway.”

“And I will if they don’t,” said Mother, shooting him a look of hatred.

Skuli whipped out his dagger and held it against her throat, pulling her to him. She struggled, but he was too strong. “I’m beginning to think I don’t want to marry you after all,” he hissed. “I’d be forever looking over my shoulder.”

“Let her go,” said Gunnar. Rurik and Thorkel stepped forward, their blades raised. Viglaf and his men muttered and pushed up behind them.

“One step closer and I’ll slit her throat from ear to ear,” growled Skuli, pressing the edge of the dagger harder into Mother’s pale skin.

“Stop!” yelled Gunnar, and nobody moved. “What do you want?”

“I know if I kill her I’m a dead man, but I’ll trade you her life for a promise. Make your men swear they won’t harm me whatever happens, and I’ll let her live – and I’ll fight you as well. I can’t be fairer than that, can I?”

“Don’t do it, Gunnar,” said Mother, her voice pleading. “Kill him even if it means I have to die too! You’re all that matters – I want you to live…”

Thorkel moved so Skuli couldn’t see his face and whispered to Gunnar. “Tell him what he wants to hear and we’ll kill him as soon as he lets her go.”

“Forget your oath,” said Rurik. “You were a boy when you swore it…”

Gunnar listened, their voices filling his head, but then he pushed them both out of his way and looked straight into Skuli’s eyes. “I agree,” he said. “Let her go. No one will harm you if you kill me.”

“Are you sure, Gunnar?” said Rurik. Thorkel frowned.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything, Rurik,” said Gunnar. “Now swear, everyone!” he yelled. “No one is to harm Skuli, whatever happens!”

There was more muttering, but they all swore. Skuli released Mother and she ran to Gunnar. He dropped his shield and they held each other. Mother’s tears were wet on his cheek. “You’re thinner, Mother,” he said.

“And you’re bigger,” she said, stepping back to look at him.

“So, how are we going to do this?” said Skuli. “Viking rules, I trust?”

Rurik and Thorkel exchanged a look. “What does he mean?” Gunnar asked.

“No helmet or byrnie, stripped to the waist, swords only,” murmured Rurik, his face grim. “No quarter, and you fight to the last drop of blood.”

“Fine by me,” said Gunnar. “Help me get my byrnie off, Rurik.”

Thorkel ordered a space to be cleared while Gunnar and Skuli got ready. Viglaf and his men turned over the tables and pushed them back against the walls, dashing platters and jugs to the floor in the process. Before long the hall was quiet, torches burning brightly, a silent ring of faces waiting for the fight to begin, the people of the farm mixed in with Viglaf’s crew.

“Can we get on with it now?” said Skuli at last, impatience in his voice.

Gunnar turned to look at him. Skuli stood on the other side of the hearth, the pale white skin of his broad shoulders gleaming in the torchlight. His deep chest was covered in a mat of black hair, the same texture as his beard, and unlike some men he seemed bigger without his tunic on, almost as if the power in him had been unleashed. Gunnar felt naked and vulnerable and afraid.

Skuli was holding his sword, and now he raised it for some practice swings. Torchlight flared off the blade as it sliced through the air, humming and whistling. Gunnar watched the play of muscles in Skuli’s arm and chest, Skuli swinging his sword faster and faster until it was almost a blur.

“Very pretty,” Rurik called out. “But it doesn’t mean you can fight.”

Other voices jeered, Thorkel and Viglaf and the people of the farm beginning to yell. “We’ll soon see about that, won’t we?” said Skuli, grinning.

Gunnar felt the eyes of everyone turn to look at him, and he swallowed, his throat suddenly dry and painful. Mother kissed his cheek and moved aside, her face pale, tears flowing once more. Rurik squeezed his shoulder and said something about keeping his guard up. Thorkel’s mouth was moving but Gunnar couldn’t hear him. The crowd was baying now, Erlend’s voice rising above the others, yelling, “Good luck, Gunnar, give him all you’ve got!” and then Gunnar found himself moving towards Skuli, Death-Bringer raised.

Skuli laughed and sprang forward, aiming a blow at his head. Gunnar brought Death-Bringer up and their blades clanged together, the shock travelling up Gunnar’s arm. Then Skuli went low, slicing at Gunnar’s legs, trying to chop him down. Gunnar blocked that stroke, and another, retreating as Skuli came on, still laughing, enjoying himself. Gunnar stumbled and almost fell and Rurik yelled at him, “Stay on your feet! Don’t let him corner you!”

Gunnar was panting, sweat streaming off him. Skuli was backing him towards a corner of the hall, but there seemed to be nothing he could do about it. Skuli was hammering at him, stroke after stroke, Gunnar desperately holding him off, the sound of metal clanging on metal ringing in his head, Father’s training forgotten. Then Skuli began to talk, making fun of him.

“So this is Gunnar, the hero who went to Valhalla a boy and came back a man… Well, as far as I can see you’re still a boy … a little boy trying to be a man, holding his father’s sword when he should be playing with toys…”

The old doubts filled Gunnar, and he wondered how he could ever have hoped to beat a grown man, a warrior like Skuli. But then he parried one of Skuli’s blows – and struck one of his own, almost knocking Skuli’s sword from his hand. Skuli frowned. Suddenly Gunnar knew that he
was
a man, whatever Skuli might say, and the doubts vanished like mist burned by the sun.

Rurik and Thorkel yelled encouragement as Gunnar pushed forward, striking again, getting into a rhythm. Soon Death-Bringer was singing and Skuli no longer laughed. He chopped and hacked at Gunnar, attacking him from every angle. But now it was Gunnar who was relentless, parrying every stroke, wielding his blade as Father had taught him, forcing his enemy back. Skuli looked at him through their whirling blades, his eyes haunted.

They stamped through the hearth, kicking up a shower of sparks. They swept towards a wall, people scattering out of their way like chickens frightened by two dogs fighting in a farmyard. At last Skuli broke off and yelled, “Stop!”

“No quarter,” Gunnar said. “Viking rules, remember?”

“Forget the rules,” said Skuli, his chest heaving. “I’ll make you an offer. I can give you power and wealth. Don’t turn me down like your fool of a father.”