Viking Boy (3 page)

“Let’s not be hasty here, Skuli,” he said. “Maybe we got off on the wrong foot the other day. I’m a reasonable man. Surely we can talk some more…”

“The time for talking is over,” said Grim, scowling. “You made sure of that when you killed four of my men. Skuli, we need to finish this.”

“I know,” said Skuli, almost sadly. “Sorry, Bjorn,” he added.

“NO!”
screamed Mother, and Father sprang at Skuli, Death-Bringer raised. Grim nodded at his archers. Two arrows thudded into the shield, but the third struck Father in the chest. He staggered and dropped the shield, and Grim stepped forward to take a swing at him. Father parried the blow with Death-Bringer, the swords smashing together with a mighty
CLANG!

Mother leaped forward, aiming her spear at Grim, but one of the Wolf Men grabbed her, making her drop it. She kicked and screamed, but there was nothing she could do. Gunnar stood paralysed, letting the rock fall from his hand, watching as Father sank to the ground and onto his back.

Skuli walked over and looked down at him. “Cut his throat!” yelled another of the Wolf Men, the rest baying their agreement. Skuli shook his head.

“No need,” he said. “The moment of his doom is near.”

Mother shook off the Wolf Man holding her and ran to Father, kneeling next to him and sobbing, and Gunnar joined them. If only he was a man, a warrior like Father! If only he had been able to stand with him and take his share of the fighting! He was his father’s son, and to his shame he had done nothing.

Mother moaned and leaned over Father. He still held the hilt of Death-Bringer in his right hand. “Don’t you dare die!” she said. “I won’t let you!”

“Helga… Gunnar…” whispered Father, his breath coming in gasps, his chest heaving, his tunic darkening with the blood pulsing up round the arrow. His face was already deathly white, like that of a ghost. He squeezed his wife’s hands, moved his head so he could see Gunnar. “I’m sorry…”

Gunnar looked into his eyes, but they changed, locking into stillness, a last sigh escaping from Father’s mouth. Mother howled and Gunnar buried his face in Father’s neck, the skin cool and smelling of smoke. He felt Father’s amulet beneath his hand and gripped it, enormous sobs surging through him.

“Take the woman and the boy to the front of the longhouse,” Skuli said. “Bring the body too, so the rest can see it.”

Gunnar felt rough hands grab him. He kicked and fought and tried not to let go of Father or the amulet on its leather thong. Two raiders pulled him away, snapping the thong and leaving the amulet clutched in Gunnar’s fist. Mother was dragged away too, screaming something he couldn’t make out. The longhouse burned beyond her, red flames leaping into the sky.

Gunnar and Mother were thrown down. Father’s body was thrown down as well, just a few feet away from them, and Death-Bringer tossed on the ground beside him. The Wolf Men danced and whooped and told one another how brave they had been – and Gunnar felt fury growing inside him. “We’ll get out of this,” Mother whispered. “I’ll think of a way to get us out of this.”

She hugged him, but Gunnar barely noticed. He saw the people of the farm cowering in fear. Many were wailing at the sight of Father’s body, and the Wolf Men snapped at them, like dogs snarling at sheep. Gunnar’s fury grew hotter, fiercer, and he pushed Father’s amulet deep into the pocket of his leggings.

“You know, Grim, I’ve a good mind to make this my home for a few years,” Skuli said. “It’s a better farm than any of my others, and it won’t take long to rebuild the longhouse. Mind you, I’ll need a wife to take care of it. What about it, Helga? Would you like to be a rich man’s wife?”

Gunnar looked up. Skuli was standing over them, staring down at Mother, a cruel smile on his lips, Grim behind him, smirking. Mother stared back at Skuli defiantly, her face pale and smudged with ashes.

“I am the wife of Bjorn Sigurdsson,” she said. “And such will I always be.”

Skuli snorted and nodded at Father’s body. “Well, he can’t do you much good now, can he?” he said. “Marry me and you might be a queen some day.”

“I’d rather be dead,” said Mother, her eyes narrowed. She spat on Skuli’s boots. “And I’ll stick a knife in your ribs rather than let you touch me.”

Grim moved forward, raising his hand to strike her, and she stared at him, her eyes full of hate. But Skuli grabbed Grim’s arm.

“No, leave her, Grim,” he said. “She’s got a right to be angry with me. After all, I have just had her husband slaughtered, and seized her home.”

“This steading will never be yours, Skuli!” yelled Gunnar, unable to control himself. “It was my father’s, and now it’s mine!”

“Ah, the son speaks!” said Skuli. He grabbed Gunnar and yanked him to his feet. Mother screamed, but Grim held her down. “What are we going to do with the boy, Grim?” said Skuli. Grim shrugged. “Maybe I should adopt him. How would you like to be the son of a king, boy? That would make you a prince.”

“Murderer!” yelled Gunnar, lashing out, trying to punch and kick him. “I hate you! I am Gunnar, son of Bjorn Sigurdsson, and I swear on the blood of my ancestors I will take vengeance on you for the murder of my father.”

Skuli held him at arm’s length and laughed, the man’s iron grip biting into the flesh of Gunnar’s shoulder. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, boy,” said Skuli. “A blood oath isn’t a thing to be taken lightly.”

“I know that,” hissed Gunnar, although he wasn’t exactly sure what a blood oath involved. But saying it had certainly felt right.

“What a family you are!” said Skuli, shaking his head once more. “I offer your father the chance of power and riches, and he says no thanks, he’d rather just be a farmer. I offer to make your mother a queen and you a prince, and you both threaten to kill me! Where’s the gratitude? Here, Grim, you have him.”

Skuli pushed Gunnar over to the other man. Grim threw a mail-clad arm round his throat and Gunnar almost choked, his nostrils filling with the smell of oiled steel and old sweat.

“What are you going to do?” said Mother.

“Well, that’s an interesting question, Helga,” said Skuli, smiling down at her again. “I was thinking of being nice to the lad, of making friends with him so you’d come round to the idea of marrying me. Then he went and spoiled things with that oath of his.”

Gunnar tried to speak, but Grim squeezed tighter, silencing him.

“He can’t hurt a man like you,” Mother said. “He’s just a boy.”

“Little boys grow up to be big boys,” said Skuli. “And I can’t take the risk that he’ll turn out to be as good a warrior as his father. Don’t worry, Helga, you’ll have plenty more sons, I can promise you that. Kill him, Grim.”

“
NO!
” Mother screamed again, more horrified, more desperate than before. She flung herself at Grim, and two Wolf Men grabbed her and held her down, even though she flailed and kicked and tried to bite them.

Gunnar fought too, but Grim grabbed his hair and pushed him to his knees. He heard the sound of a dagger being pulled from its scabbard and struggled even harder as Grim yanked his head backwards. “Hold still, you little swine,” Grim snarled. Suddenly the man’s grip seemed to relax, and Gunnar saw Skuli looking up at the sky with a puzzled expression.

Something was coming in a blaze of light and a great beating of wings.

A
LL EYES WERE
turned in the same direction, out over the sea. A huge ball of light had appeared on the horizon and was moving towards them, silver beams radiating from it across the white-capped waves, the pulse of beating wings growing louder the closer it came.

Grim had let go of Gunnar, and he rose to his feet just as the radiance broke into an arrowhead shape made up of nine separate lights. For a moment Gunnar thought it was a skein of magical, glowing geese, the brightest at the tip, the rest angled behind it, four on either side. Then he gasped, and there were screams from those around him as the shapes gradually became clear. The lights were enormous flying wolves with riders on their backs.

Gunnar glanced at Mother – and was amazed to see her smiling.

“I fear no man,” muttered Skuli, eyes narrowed, hand on his sword hilt. “But what monsters are these? This must be a dream, or some kind of madness!”

“It’s neither,” said Mother, turning to glare at him. “Don’t you recognize them from the old stories, you fool? Don’t you know who they are?” Her voice rose until it almost cracked. “They’re coming!
Odin’s Valkyries are coming!
”

Gunnar knew about the Valkyries. They were Odin’s shield maidens, legendary beings who rode winged wolves. In the old tongue their name meant Choosers of the Fallen, and Odin sent them to collect the bravest men, any warrior who fought against great odds and was killed with a sword in his hand. The Valkyries carried them to Valhalla, the Hall of Fallen Heroes, where they would feast until the day of Ragnarok, the terrible reckoning at the end of time, when they would fight for Odin against the forces of darkness.

Now Gunnar understood why Mother was smiling. The Valkyries were coming for the only man who had died a true hero’s death that night.

At last the beating of enormous wings filled the air above them and the giant wolves swept down to land. The flames in the longhouse had begun to subside, but now there was a greater brightness, the wolves and their riders giving off an eerie, shimmering glow that reached out to touch everything with silver, even the trees in the forest and the high snowy peaks of the distant mountains.

The wolves were creatures of nightmare, each the size of a horse, but with bristling grey pelts and huge, leathery wings. Their eyes glowed red, and blood dripped from their muzzles as if they had come from some ghastly carrion feast, which might have explained the foul odour they brought with them. They swished their tails, snarling and showing their glistening fangs, swinging their massive heads from side to side, tugging at the reins held by their riders.

The Valkyries were an even more terrifying sight than the wolves. Gunnar felt a chill of fear as he studied them – nine tall women warriors in black chainmail and black cloaks, all holding red shields and spears with leaf-shaped blades, the points sparkling like stars. Their faces were completely hidden in black helmets with visors in the shape of a raven’s curved beak.

There was muttering in the crowd, desperate prayers to Odin and Thor and the whimperings of those whose minds had given way. The four surviving dogs of the Wolf Men lay with stomachs pressed to the ground, ears flat to their heads, whining in terror. The leading Valkyrie dismounted and walked over to Father’s body. She took off her helmet, and Gunnar gasped as her coldly beautiful face was revealed. Her long black hair had the glossy sheen of a raven’s wing and her eyes were like two dark pools.

“I am Brunhild, Queen of the Valkyries,” she said, her voice echoing in Gunnar’s head. “Who speaks for this warrior? Who will tell me his name?”

For a long moment nobody dared reply, the only sounds the steady crackling of flames and the whining of the dogs. Gunnar stepped forward. Brunhild turned to face him, her eyes boring into his. But he stood his ground, meeting her eyes with his head held high, refusing to show he was scared.

“I speak for my father,” he said. “I am Gunnar Bjornsson, and he is … I mean, he
was
…” His voice faltered, and he felt tears fill his eyes, but he steadied himself and carried on, his voice gaining strength with every word. “He was Bjorn, son of Sigurd, holder of this steading that has been ours since before remembering. And that coward had him murdered!”

Gunnar spat out the last part and pointed an accusing finger at Skuli. Brunhild swung round to stare at the man. Grim and the rest of the Wolf Men had backed away, their faces masks of terror. Skuli was left alone with Gunnar and Mother, Father’s body beside them. But he met Brunhild’s gaze too.

“It was battle, not murder,” Skuli said, shrugging. “He gave as good as he got.”

“But it was
you
who attacked
us
,
you
who killed Arnor and Ranulf and burned down our home,” Gunnar yelled. “My father was only defending his family. He had no quarrel with you!”

“Such is the way of things, boy,” snapped Skuli. “Man is wolf to man.”

“But what you did was a crime!” said Gunnar, turning to Brunhild. “Aren’t you going to punish him for it? Isn’t that what the Gods are for?”

“We are servants of the Gods, not Gods ourselves,” said Brunhild. “We take fallen warriors to Valhalla. You must pray to Odin for anything more.”

Gunnar stared at her, desperately trying to think of something he could say that would make her help him. For the briefest of instants he thought he could see a softening in those cold, raven eyes, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Come, Gunnar,” said Mother. “We must let them take your father.”

He looked at her, and she smiled and kissed his forehead. Gunnar gave in, and Mother and son stood next to each other, their hands clasped.

“Sisters! Lift up the fallen warrior!” said Brunhild. The Valkyries dismounted and lashed their spears together, covering them with their cloaks to make a bier. They raised Father from the ground and placed him on it, breaking off the arrow in his chest and laying Death-Bringer there, folding his fingers round the hilt. At last Brunhild and her Valkyries climbed into their saddles.