Viking Boy (2 page)

“There’s word a band of raiders is sniffing around,” he said. “So I thought I ought to show myself – and warn the local farmers, of course. You have a fine holding. I would hate to see it looted and burned by a bunch of outlaws.”

“That’s good of you,” said Father. Gunnar remembered they’d heard plenty of talk about Skuli recently. Their guest was a man with ambitions. He owned several farms, and some said he had fifty warriors at his beck and call. Some also said he had his mind set on becoming a jarl, perhaps even a king.

“Well, you know how it is, my friend,” Skuli said. “I’d like people to think I’m a man who will help them. Just in case I need help myself some day.”

“Help to do what?” said Father, his eyes fixed on Skuli’s, a slight frown on his face. “You’re the richest and most powerful man in the district.”

“And you’re the most respected. Who knows what I couldn’t do with a man like you by my side? Don’t you want power and wealth too?”

Father smiled at him and shook his head. “I’m happy enough with what I have, and I want no more. I like a quiet life these days.”

“Are you sure?” said Skuli, leaning forward. “I’d hate to think you might oppose me in what I aim to do, Bjorn Sigurdsson.”

“You have nothing to fear from me,” said Father, his voice steady. “So then,” he went on, “what else can you tell me about these raiders?”

Skuli paused, studying Father’s face, or so it seemed to Gunnar. At last Skuli smiled. “Not much more, in truth,” he said.

“Well, thanks for the warning,” said Father. “We’ll post guards from now on. You can never be too careful.”

The conversation moved on, Skuli boasting about great warriors he had known and battles he had fought in. Father said little. Later, as Gunnar lay down to sleep, he went over Skuli’s stories in his mind, wondering if he would ever stand shoulder to shoulder with a band of warriors when he was a man.

In the forest, wolves howled and shadows gathered in the darkness.

S
KULI AND HIS
men left the next morning. In the days that followed, Father arranged for guards to be posted, the men of the farm taking it in turns to keep watch. But nothing happened, and after a while Gunnar forgot Skuli’s warning – until one night when he woke with the smell of smoke in his nostrils.

It always smelled of smoke inside the longhouse, but they usually let the hearth fire burn down at night, and the smell shouldn’t have been so strong. There was a little light coming from the fire’s embers, and Gunnar could make out the shapes of sleeping servants round the hearth. He slid out from beneath his furs, raised his eyes – and his heart jumped. A tongue of flame was licking at the underside of the thatch, tendrils of smoke curling from it like snakes.

“Father, Mother, wake up!” Gunnar yelled, yanking back the curtains to their chamber. “The roof is on fire!” His parents were soon out of bed and looking up at the flames, the servants waking too and crowding round them.

“What do you want us to do?” said Arnor, appearing from the shadows.

“Get everybody outside,” said Father. “Then start filling pots with water. We can probably save most of the roof if we get it damped down.”

Arnor started pushing everyone towards the porch. He unbarred the door and opened it, but he didn’t get far. Gunnar heard a humming sound and Arnor grunted, falling back into the arms of the people behind him. Arnor was dead, three arrows in his chest, a dark bloodstain spreading across his tunic.

Gunnar felt sick, hardly able to believe what he was seeing. Father stepped over Arnor’s body, slammed the door shut and banged the bar down into place again. He quickly moved to one of the small windows in the wall, pulled open the shutters a crack and peered out. More arrows thunked into the wood of the longhouse.

“Who brings fire in the night and murder to my hall?” he roared.

There was no answer for a moment. Gunnar glanced up and saw the flames spreading. His mother grabbed him and moved him towards another window, then turned to him with a finger across her lips and carefully pulled the shutters open.

“We are the Wolf Men, bringers of fire and slaughter,” a voice outside growled at last. “And we will give you a choice of endings.”

Gunnar peered through the window and felt his blood go cold. A line of fierce-looking warriors stood facing the longhouse beneath the star-filled sky. There were perhaps thirty of them, most wearing leather jerkins, only a few in chainmail. But they all wore wolf’s head helmets, and carried spears decorated with wolf tails and shields painted with pictures of snarling wolves.

Several held torches, the flames casting shadows that danced, and three had war bows, arrows notched and ready to be fired. There were dogs too, five massive beasts straining at their leashes, their jaws parted to reveal white fangs, their wild eyes reflecting the red light of the torches.

Another man stood in front of the line, and Gunnar realized he was the one who had spoken, their chief. He wore a mail shirt, but his head was bare, his grey-streaked black hair hanging to his shoulders. He wore a long wolfskin cloak, and the blade of his unsheathed sword glinted in the starlight. A couple of Wolf Men with torches moved up beside him.

“A choice?” said Father. “That’s generous of you, but I’m sure I can guess what it is. Stay in here and burn, or come out with my gold and silver and anything else worth stealing. Then you’ll cut my throat anyway, and probably kill everybody else too. Or sell them as slaves, which is worse.”

“I can see you know how this works,” said the chief. “But we’re not as bad as that. I’ll let the women and children and servants live, and maybe only sell a few. And maybe we’ll even let you fight for your life. We could do with some fun, eh, lads?” His men laughed and yelled their wild war-whoops and howled like wolves. “Your night guard wasn’t much of a challenge.”

The chief nodded, and another of his men threw something round onto the ground. It rolled slowly towards the longhouse, and Gunnar realized it was Ranulf’s head, the eyes wide open, the hair darkened with blood.

“Glad to hear you’ll give me a chance,” said Father. “I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think too long,” said the chief. “I can be very impatient.”

Gunnar saw him nod, and the two men beside him ran forward and threw their torches high into the air. The flames flapped and hissed as the torches spun end over end and thumped onto the roof, and the Wolf Men cheered.

Mother hurried over to Father with Gunnar. “What are we going to do?” she said. “We don’t have much time… The roof isn’t going to last long.”

As if to underscore her words, one of the roof beams groaned and crashed down in a shower of sparks. Everyone ducked, and the longhouse filled with acrid smoke and small, floating pieces of burning thatch. Father pulled his wife and son closer to him. “I can’t save everybody,” he whispered, his face anguished. “You two have to come first.”

Then he turned to the others and spoke loudly so they could hear him above the sound of the flames. “It looks like we have no choice. Out you go, quickly now…” He didn’t wait to see whether they obeyed him, but hurried his wife and son back to the curtained-off chamber.

“I think we can make a hole in the wall here,” Father said. “Help me.” He pushed hard at one part of the wall, and Gunnar and Mother pushed too. Soon the turves were loosening. “We’ll need to be ready. Put on some warm clothes, but nothing that will stop you running. We’ll make for the forest.”

Gunnar and Mother busied themselves with finding clothes and pulling on boots. “We’re ready,” said Mother at last. She glanced up, and Gunnar followed her gaze. The fire had reached the thatch above them, and smoke billowed through the curtains.

Father had pulled on a thick tunic and strapped his sword on his hip. “Here we go,” he said, giving the wall a kick. The turves shifted and buckled then collapsed, folding in on themselves, and a hole appeared.

“Come on, Gunnar,” said Mother. They rushed out together – and ran straight into one of the Wolf Men. “To me, lads!” he yelled. “I’ve got a couple here!”

Suddenly Gunnar heard a hissing sound and saw a bright gleam sweep clean through the raider’s neck. Gunnar blinked with the speed of it, then saw the Wolf Man’s head bounce away across the grass. The man’s body seemed to realize something final had occurred, and slowly crumpled to the ground.

Father stepped over the corpse, Death-Bringer shining in his hand. Behind him the flames from the burning longhouse leaped into the sky.

“That’s for Arnor,” he hissed. He turned to Gunnar and Mother. “Run!”

It was too late. Gunnar heard snarling and saw the dogs come racing round one end of the longhouse, followed by a dozen Wolf Men. Father took the shield of the man he had killed, Mother grabbed the spear from the dead man’s hand, and they both turned to face the onslaught. Gunnar picked up a rock from the ground and stood between them, wishing he had a better weapon.

The first of the raiders reached them and also raised his spear, but Father brushed it aside with the shield and let the man run onto Death-Bringer, the blade piercing him through. Father yanked Death-Bringer out of his guts. “And that’s for Ranulf,” he hissed, seeking out the next opponent.

Two more Wolf Men and the first of the dogs attacked together. Father took one warrior low, Death-Bringer slicing through his legs, and the other high, with a stroke that almost severed the man’s spear arm, finishing both with thrusts into their chests. Mother dealt with the dog, skewering the snarling animal on her spear as it leaped, the others skidding to a halt just out of range, growling and showing their fangs. The rest of the warriors stopped as well, spreading to form a circle round Gunnar and his parents. Gunnar could see the archers among them, arrows notched in their bows.

Father stood before his wife and son, covering them with the shield, watching the Wolf Men. Gunnar’s heart pounded as if it were about to burst through his ribs. All three panted in ragged gasps, their breath a cloud in the cold night air.

“Why have they stopped?” whispered Mother.

“They’re waiting for me,” said a deep voice.

Suddenly two more men appeared and walked into the circle. Gunnar saw that one was the Wolf Men’s chief. But then he drew in his breath sharply.

The other was Skuli.

G
UNNAR
’
S MIND WAS
a whirl of hope and fear and confusion. Was this all a terrible mistake? Had Skuli come to save them? Then he guessed the truth, and felt a wave of hatred for Skuli sweep through him. Skuli and the Wolf Men were linked – and judging by the way the Wolf Men’s chief was hanging back behind him, Skuli was the man in charge.

“I’m impressed, Bjorn,” said Skuli. He stood with hands on hips, a tall, dark figure outlined against the flames consuming the longhouse. He wore a helmet and chainmail, but carried no shield, and his sword was still sheathed. “I’ve heard stories about how good you used to be in battle, and now I can see they were true. It’s a shame you and I were never shield brothers.”

“I always chose my shield brothers carefully,” said Father. “I would never have fought alongside any man who lied as you have, Skuli.”

“I told no lies,” said Skuli, grinning. “I just didn’t mention that the raiders I warned you about are my own men.”

“You’re a coward,” said Mother. “The kind of scum who gets others to do his dirty work. I should never have let you inside my home.”

“That’s a bit harsh, Helga,” Skuli said. “I’m happy to do my own dirty work when I have to. But why keep a wolf and howl yourself? It was easier to get Grim and his lads to make sure your husband wouldn’t be a problem. This is all his fault. I offered him a chance to join me, and he turned me down.”

Just then Gunnar saw the Wolf Men’s chief – or Grim as he now knew he was called – give a signal to the archers. They spread out, making it impossible for Father to keep Mother, Gunnar and himself protected by the shield at the same time. Mother pulled Gunnar to her and he waited for the arrows to rip into his flesh. But that didn’t happen, and Father lowered the shield.