Viking Boy (8 page)

Rurik scowled at him. “Take care, boy. Some men would kill you for speaking to them like that. My moods are not your business, or anyone else’s. And why all this talk of your father? What do you want from me?”

“My freedom. And your help.”

Rurik snorted. “To do what?”

“Avenge my father. He was murdered by raiders.”

“So it seems both our lives are darkened by the shadow of the past. But if you want a man’s help you must tell him the whole story.”

“Then you must tell me yours. That’s only fair.”

“I’ll be the one who decides what’s fair, boy,” said Rurik. “And this is not the moment for me to talk. I will tell you my story only when I am ready.”

Gunnar knew he was beaten, so he plunged into his tale. Rurik sat listening in silence. “I’ll take your word for some of it,” he said when Gunnar had finished. “I’ve seen halls burned, and that part of your story has the feel of truth. But the part about the Valkyries … can you prove you actually saw them?”

Gunnar looked at him, then lowered his gaze. “No, I can’t.”

“At least you’re honest,” said Rurik. “I’ve seen some strange things, but I’ve never seen a Valkyrie, and I’ve fought in my share of battles…”

“So you don’t believe me,” said Gunnar. “I swear it’s all true!”

“That’s not nearly enough, boy.” Rurik stood up, his face closed off once more. “Now, I have a raging thirst I need to quench.”

Gunnar watched his master go, and felt his heart fill with blackness.

W
INTER DRAGGED ON
, the sea freezing in the harbour, great dirty chunks of ice clunking against the thick pilings that held up the quayside. The days grew shorter, the nights longer and darker, and Gunnar sank to his lowest ebb.

It was Thorkel who kept him going, Thorkel who sought him out and made him eat and gave him his old sheepskin to wear when the cold bit even more deeply. Gunnar sometimes had the feeling he reminded Thorkel of somebody, and one day when they were in the crowded hall for supper he asked who it might be. Rurik was talking to Orm, Gunnar standing behind Thorkel as he ate.

“I had a son once,” said Thorkel. “A fine boy who would have been about your age by now, had he lived. But he didn’t, and neither did his mother. You’ve lost someone too – I can tell. Who was it? Mother, father? Both?”

“My father.” Gunnar shrugged, unwilling to go into more detail.

“Death casts a shadow over us all,” said Thorkel, spooning up broth from a wooden bowl. “There isn’t a man or woman in here who hasn’t been touched by it, or been its servant. The secret is not to give in to it until you have to.”

“And when is that?” asked Gunnar.

“When you stop breathing, and not before.”

“What about the Norns? Don’t they decide our fate?”

“What if they do? You don’t know when they’re going to cut your thread, so you should carry on as if it’s not going to happen. Otherwise you might just as well not have bothered to be born in the first place.”

Rurik came over and sat down beside Thorkel. “A lot of people wish that about you, Thorkel. And why are you talking to the boy about fate and death? I’d rather you didn’t make him any more miserable.”

“You’re lucky I like you, Rurik,” said Thorkel, shaking his head. “Starkad is right – that tongue of yours is sure to get you killed some day.”

“Well, one thing
I’m
sure of is that it won’t be Starkad who’ll do the killing,” said Rurik. “Fetch me some more ale, Gunnar, there’s a good lad.”

Gunnar filled Rurik’s goblet with ale from the big barrel in one corner of the hall. Starkad was at another table, watching Rurik, his eyes glittering with hate. Ari was there beside him, as were half a dozen other men, Starkad’s band of supporters. Rurik took the goblet from Gunnar and raised it in a mock toast to Starkad, who did the same back. Thorkel tutted, and Rurik turned to him.

“You’re such an old woman, Thorkel,” he said. “What’s wrong with a bit of healthy rivalry between men? Or should I say between a man and a fat boy?”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t get unhealthy then,” said Thorkel. “You know as well as I do where this kind of thing ends, Rurik. If I were you I’d stay away from dark alleys. You might be the better warrior, but hatred leads to cunning.”

Rurik shrugged, and Gunnar suddenly realized the big man didn’t care whether he lived or died. Gunnar understood that feeling now, and he guessed that it made a warrior like Rurik a very dangerous man to be around.

The days passed slowly. Spring arrived at last with a warm wind from the south, and the iron ruts in Kaupang’s alleys soon became the same old stinking mud. The sea ice melted and the harbour grew busier. Trading ships appeared first, then the longships came, many of them bringing slaves for Orm, and his pens were soon full again. Gunnar was afraid to look into them sometimes, half expecting to see faces he recognized, people from his own steading.

Then one morning he heard something that made his heart race. Rurik was in a black mood, and Gunnar was hanging around the quayside. He passed a longship where two men were mending sails, talking while they worked their needles.

“I’d never seen anything like it,” said one of them, a gingery man with a scrappy beard. “Mountains of ice that slide across the land and crush rocks to powder. Rivers of fire that burst out of giant cracks beneath your feet.”

“Sounds like a hard place to live,” said the other, a dark, wiry man with several of his front teeth missing. “What did you say it was called?”

“It’s got a couple of names,” said the first man. “The Land of Ice and Fire, or just Iceland. It’s not that bad, though. There’s good land to farm too.”

So the Land of Ice and Fire
did
exist! Gunnar asked Thorkel about what he had heard, wishing he had done so before. Soon he knew it took a month by sea to get there, as the old man had said. From then on Gunnar spent every spare moment on the quayside, wondering if he could stow away on a longship.

A few days later, Rurik set off to the hall for supper with Gunnar as usual. The setting sun was a red ball and night was starting to fill the town with darkness, but the air was still warm and seagulls swooped and squawked above the roofs. After a while Rurik and Gunnar came to a crossroads and stopped. Three men blocked the way ahead, the sun outlining them with a fiery glow.

It was Starkad, flanked on one side by Ari and on the other by Hogni, their faces grim. Starkad and Ari were wearing chainmail and helmets. They carried shields and had drawn their swords. Hogni was also wearing chainmail, a rusty old byrnie with big, ragged holes in it that was far too short for him. He carried an old short-handled battle-axe, its blade a thick slab of black iron.

“So, the moment has come,” Rurik said, hand on his sword hilt. “Is it to be just you and me, Starkad, or do I have to kill your two puppies as well?”

“You’ll have to kill the whole pack, Rurik,” said Starkad, a smile on his lips. “You don’t seem to have many friends among the men of Orm’s hall.”

Gunnar looked round and drew in his breath. Starkad’s supporters blocked each alley, half a dozen of Orm’s Hounds armed and ready for battle.

But Rurik just laughed. “You call that lot
men
?” he snorted. “And where did you get that byrnie, Hogni? You should have stolen one that was a better fit.”

“You think you’re so funny, Rurik, don’t you?” said Hogni, his face dark with anger. “Well, you won’t be laughing much after I’ve finished with you. And then I’m going to kill that slave boy of yours as slowly as I can.”

“You won’t be killing anyone today,” Rurik said quietly, slowly drawing his sword from the scabbard. “Give me some room, Gunnar.”

Suddenly Ari rushed forward with a yell, wildly swinging his sword. Rurik simply stepped to one side and Ari stumbled past, flailing. Two more men moved forward, their swords raised, and Rurik parried huge blows from both, blade ringing on blade. Rurik soon killed one man, almost hacking his neck through, and wounded the other in the shoulder, forcing him to back off.

“Come on then, Hogni!” said Rurik, laughing. “What are you waiting for?”

Hogni roared and came at him, his axe held high. Rurik’s sword flashed, and Gunnar glimpsed a look of terror on the smith’s face. Then Hogni was dead too, his body sprawled at Rurik’s feet, his head split wide open.

“What about you, Starkad?” said Rurik. You haven’t struck a blow yet. But then maybe you’re a coward who watches while others do the fighting.”

Now Starkad stepped forward and rained blows on Rurik, who parried every strike. Starkad was soon gasping for breath, his face red with effort.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” said Rurik, enjoying himself.

Gunnar realized Ari was sneaking up behind Rurik. “Watch out, Rurik!” he yelled, and Rurik looked round. Starkad saw that Rurik was distracted and came in for the kill. But Rurik quickly turned back to deal with him, ramming his sword deep into his chest. Rurik pulled his blade free and Starkad sank to his knees, looking surprised, then fell face down in the mud.

Ari roared at the others and they charged, shields overlapping, a wooden wave that crashed into Rurik and knocked him down. They held him on the ground as Ari stood over him, his sword point at Rurik’s throat.

“I could kill you here,” Ari hissed. “But I think that pleasure should belong to someone else. Take him to Orm – and bring the boy!”

O
NCE MORE
G
UNNAR
was dragged through the alleys and made to kneel before the King of Kaupang in his dark hall. Rurik kneeled beside him, stripped of his sword and chainmail, blood running down his face from a gash where an iron shield rim had struck his forehead. Both had their wrists tied behind their backs.

Ari stood over them with his sword drawn, and a crowd had gathered in the hall. Starkad’s corpse was laid out on a table near by. Vigdis had wailed when he had been brought in and flung herself on the body, but now she stood in front of Rurik and Gunnar.

“Somebody give me a knife!” she screeched. She spat in Rurik’s face, then did the same to Gunnar. “I’ll butcher the pair of them like pigs at the autumn slaughtering,” she hissed. “They killed my son, my Starkad!”

“Enough, woman,” Orm growled. He was sitting on his throne. “You never had a good word to say about Starkad while he was alive.”

“What are you talking about?” Vigdis screamed, rounding on her husband. “You were the one who ran him down, saying he was too rash!”

“And he proved it by getting himself killed,” rumbled Orm. “He was a fool to think he could fight Rurik. I told him, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Is that it, then?” screeched Vigdis. “It was Starkad’s fault, so you’re going to let your precious Rurik get away with murdering him? He was our
son
!”

“I know that as well as you do, Vigdis,” said Orm. “I’m not going to let Rurik get away with anything. He must pay for what he’s done.”

“What does that mean?” said Vigdis. “I want to see him die slowly.”

“Oh, he’s going to die,” said Orm. “But he owes me compensation. Pay me the blood price for my son, Rurik, and I will make sure your death is swift and painless. How much Greek silver do you have hidden away?”

Gunnar glanced at the big man kneeling beside him. Rurik smiled but didn’t reply to Orm, and Ari prodded his shoulder with the end of his sword.

“Your master is waiting for an answer,” he snapped. “Speak up.”

Rurik looked coolly at Ari, then turned to Orm. “I don’t have any more silver arm rings, if that’s what you mean,” he said. “Not that Starkad was worth one.”

“So my son was worth less than a slave boy,” growled Orm.

Rurik shrugged. Vigdis spat in his face once more, and Rurik laughed at her. Gunnar glimpsed Thorkel looking on from the crowd. Thorkel gave a slight shake of the head, and Gunnar knew he was saying he couldn’t help.

“We should just cut their throats and be done with it,” said Ari.

“Not the boy,” said Orm. “I might get something for him.”