Viking Boy (5 page)

And right at the bottom was a long grey feather from an eagle’s wing.

H
E SOON GOT
the fire going again with the flint and ate some more bread and cheese, washing it down with the ale in the flask. Then he sat and brooded, staring sometimes at the yellow flames, sometimes at the feather.

The old man had been friendly and generous – Gunnar guessed he had left the bag for him. But it had been a strange encounter. The old man had known his name without being told it, and hadn’t been surprised to hear Gunnar talking about Valhalla. And what did he mean about
flying with the eagle to the Land of Ice and Fire
? Falling asleep like that had been odd too. Perhaps the old man was a sorcerer and had cast a spell on him…

Now Gunnar tutted, angry with himself. It had been natural for him to fall asleep, and perhaps he had told the old man his name and then forgotten. And maybe meeting Brunhild was making him think everything was strange. The old man had come and gone, and Gunnar felt he should just be grateful for his help. But he thought he’d better keep the feather safe, and tucked it in his pocket.

It was fully dark outside the byre now, and Gunnar knew there was no point in setting off for Kaupang before morning. He kept the fire going as long as he could, then tried to rest. He slept uneasily, his dreams filled with blood and fire, and woke feeling unrefreshed, his back aching, the cold deep in his bones.

He finished the bread and cheese and left the byre, the old man’s bag on his shoulder. It was a crisp autumn day, the sun bright in a blue sky. The track that had brought Gunnar to the God House carried on, and he decided to follow it, hoping he would find someone who could tell him how to find Kaupang.

The track skirted the mountains and took him through low, rocky hills. Towards evening a shepherd told him he was already on the road for Kaupang. He passed the night in a cave, using the flint to make a fire, his stomach grumbling with hunger. On the second day the weather grew colder, the wind full of snow. Gunnar came to a village where he used one of the old man’s coins to buy oatcakes and goat’s cheese from an old woman, who offered him a bed for the night in her cow byre. And on the third day the track brought him to the crest of a ridge from which he looked down on Kaupang. He had arrived.

There were hundreds of huts, the smoke of cooking fires rising to hang in a blue-grey haze over their thatched roofs. Narrow alleys wriggled between the dwellings. Several bigger buildings stood among the huts, one in particular larger than the rest, perhaps the hall of some rich lord. Beyond it was the harbour, broad wharves with dozens of vessels tied up to them – lean longships with their proud dragon’s head prows, fat cargo ships, a host of smaller boats nestling cosily between the others like piglets suckling from their mothers.

Gunnar walked on and entered the town. The alleys were crowded, and everyone seemed to be yelling at the tops of their voices. Some spoke the Norse tongue, although many had strange accents, and there were plenty whose speech Gunnar couldn’t understand. Most of those looked wild and exotic – men with tattoos swirling over their faces, warriors in pointed helmets, women covered in jewels. There were ragged beggars everywhere, crying out for alms.

“Terrible, isn’t it?” said a voice behind him. “It’s the smell I can’t stand.”

Gunnar turned round. A boy a little older than him was standing near by, thumbs hooked in his belt, a grin on his face. He was wearing ordinary clothes and boots like Gunnar’s and had a shock of fair hair and blue eyes. The boy’s grin was open and friendly and Gunnar couldn’t help smiling back.

“Mind you, the whole town stinks, not just the beggars,” said the boy. “I hate to think what’s in the mud of these alleys. My name’s Gauk, by the way.”

“I’m Gunnar … Gunnar Bjornsson.”

“Well then, Gunnar, son of Bjorn, what brings you to crowded, stinking old Kaupang? Nobody comes here without a good reason.”

Gunnar paused. It would probably be a bad idea to tell the story of what had happened to him. If he started talking about Valkyries and Valhalla this boy might think he was mad, and a friend with local knowledge might prove useful.

“I’ve come to take passage on a ship,” said Gunnar at last, deciding to tell Gauk the truth, although not all of it. “I have to find my father.”

“Well, you won’t be the last to go on
that
particular quest.” Gauk put his arm round Gunnar’s shoulders. “This is your lucky day. I know plenty of men who own ships, so there’s nobody better to help you. But first things first. Let me treat you to breakfast. You look as if you could do with a good meal.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Gunnar felt his cheeks flush. He didn’t want Gauk to think he was poor like the beggars. “I can pay my own way.”

“Of course you can, no offence meant!” said Gauk. He took Gunnar by the elbow and led him towards the entrance of a narrow alley. “I was just trying to be friendly – I know the best places to eat. There’s a great tavern down here…”

Gunnar resisted, a small voice in the back of his mind warning him to be careful. But he was hungry, so he let Gauk pull him into an alley.

It was fine at first – but then gradually the huts seemed to close in on them. Strange faces peered at them from the shadows. A mangy dog growled from a door, a rat scuttled over Gunnar’s foot, the mud grew thicker and smellier.

“Wait,” Gunnar said. “Are you sure this is all right?”

Gauk smiled. “Nearly there,” he said.

They soon came to a place where another, narrower alley cut across the one they had been following. Gauk stopped and turned to face him.

“Is this it?” said Gunnar. He looked round, puzzled. The alleys were empty, the huts shuttered and silent. “I don’t see any tavern here.”

Suddenly two boys stepped out of the shadows. They were dirty and mean-looking and bigger than Gauk – and Gunnar. One was holding a wooden club the length of a man’s forearm, and they were both smirking.

Gunnar took a step backward. The boy with the club stepped forward, and the other new arrival moved to cut off Gunnar’s retreat.

“What’s this all about?” said Gunnar. “I’m not looking for trouble.”

“It seems you’ve found it anyway,” said Gauk, still smiling. “My friends are called Ivar and Njal. Now hand me that bag of yours.”

“No, I won’t,” said Gunnar.

Gauk shrugged, and Njal smashed his club into Gunnar’s elbow. Gunnar cried out and dropped the bag, as pain shot from his shoulder to his fingertips. Ivar picked up the bag and turned it upside down, tipping a few coins into the mud.

“That’s not going to make us rich, is it?” said Gauk. “You’re turning out to be a real disappointment, Gunnar. But at least we’ve got another way of making a profit from you. Well, don’t just stand there, you two – tie him up!”

Njal and Ivar wrenched his arms behind his back. Gunnar cried out again, but Ivar silenced him with a punch to the gut, and he felt them tying his wrists together, the rough twine biting into his flesh. Then they hustled him away down one of the dark alleys, Gauk following behind.

“Where are you taking me?” said Gunnar at last, struggling to catch his breath. He was stumbling and splashing through the stinking mud, Ivar and Njal each holding one of his arms, and his elbow felt as if it was on fire.

“Why, to meet the king, of course!” said Gauk, laughing. “Lead on, lads!”

A
FEW MOMENTS
later they arrived at the doors of the hall Gunnar had seen from the ridge, the one he’d guessed belonged to a rich lord. He was dragged through the porch past racks of spears and into the dark interior. He caught a glimpse of long tables and benches and faces, and then he was flung down on the reed-covered floor.

A fire burned in the hearth, big logs crackling and spitting. Beyond it a huge man sat on a throne of bones, a pair of giant narwhal tusks crossing above his head. He was bald and fat, the flesh of his jowls merging into his neck as if they had melted, the mountain of his body covered in a fine red tunic. He wore a thick gold chain round his neck and gold rings on all his fingers, and he stared at Gunnar, his eyes like those of a lizard, cold and unblinking.

“What’s this you’ve brought me, Gauk?” the man said, his voice so deep it seemed to come from somewhere in his vast belly. “A gift? You shouldn’t have. But then you’re such a generous, good-hearted lad.”

The rest of the hall had fallen silent, and Gunnar sensed people gathering in the shadows around him to watch what was going on. Half a dozen hard-faced warriors stood behind the throne, hands on their sword hilts.

“A new boy for your slave pens, Orm,” said Gauk. “I only wish I could make you a gift of him, but alas…”

“What did you say?” hissed Gunnar, glaring at Gauk and trying to get to his feet. “I’m freeborn. You can’t sell me like some farm animal!”

“We can do whatever we want with you!” hissed Ivar, cuffing him round the head.

Njal grabbed the back of Gunnar’s neck and pushed him down, grinding his face into the floor. “Now … just … keep … quiet,” he said. Gunnar struggled, but his mouth was full of dirt and reeds, and Njal’s hands were strong.

“My heart bleeds for you,” said Orm, studying Gauk with narrowed eyes. “But I’m not in the market for any more slaves just now. My pens are full.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Gauk. “You’re always interested in a bargain. I’m not even going to ask you for the going rate. Just give me five gold pieces.”

“Show me his face again,” rumbled Orm. Gunnar gasped as Ivar grabbed his hair and pulled his head up. It felt as if his scalp was being ripped off his skull. “He looks better than the filthy scrapings of the alleys you usually bring me,” said Orm. “But I’d still be mad to pay you more than two gold pieces.”

“Now it’s my heart that’s bleeding,” said Gauk. “I’ll settle for four.”

“Three, and that’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.”

“Done. You’re a hard man, Orm, but a fair one.”

Orm snorted like a walrus. “Pay him, Rurik,” he said.

Njal let go of Gunnar. One of the men behind Orm stepped forward and counted coins into Gauk’s hand. “So long, Gunnar,” said Gauk. “We wish you happiness in your new home – wherever that may be, of course.”

They strolled away, and the others in the hall drifted back to whatever they had been doing. “Put our new purchase in the pens, Rurik,” said Orm.

“You’re not putting me in any slave pen!” Gunnar yelled. “I’m no thrall!”

“Oh, but you are, boy,” growled Orm. He smiled, his white teeth glinting in the firelight. “You’ve been bought and paid for.”

Gunnar started to protest again, but Rurik pulled him to his feet. The big man had hair the colour of straw, but his beard was brown, and his eyes were greeny-grey, reminding Gunnar strangely of Mother’s. “Give it up, or Orm will make me beat you,” said Rurik. “That’s something neither you nor I will enjoy.”

There was gentleness in the big man’s voice, and sense in what he’d said too. So Gunnar did as he was told, and let himself be led out of the hall. He needed to think, to work out what to do. But then they entered a courtyard, and Gunnar saw something that soon had him dragging his feet, a line of enclosures made of wooden stakes lashed together – like animal pens, but for people instead.

Those packed into the pens were young and old, tall and short, fair- or dark-skinned, but all of them were quiet, expressions of despair or blankness on their faces. Somehow the silence made it worse. Gunnar felt his soul start to shrivel, and wondered how long it would be before he looked the same.

Rurik dragged him across the courtyard, past some guards standing round a brazier, its flames flapping in the cold wind. Gunnar expected to be put straight in the pens, but Rurik led him towards a smithy in the far corner.

Rurik pushed Gunnar inside and then stooped to follow him through the wide entrance; the stifling heat hit Gunnar like a blow. A dark, sour-faced man was standing at a big anvil. He wore a leather apron and was banging away with a heavy hammer at a rod of white-hot metal, his huge arms and shoulders shining with sweat, the forge behind him glowing red like the mouth of a dragon. Pieces of metal of all sizes and more tools – tongs, pokers, a shovel – leaned against the walls.