‘I think so,’ Napoleon said.
He looked down at his hands. They were shaking.
He didn’t know the first thing about sword fighting. What if the new software didn’t work?
‘Anxiety unnecessary, BB,’ Skin’s voice interrupted Napoleon’s thoughts. ‘The software is cutting-edge technology.’
‘Thanks, Skin,’ said Napoleon.
Even though Skin was a bundle of microchips and circuits, he was the only friend Napoleon had at the moment.
A large shadow fell across him.
‘Enough!’ Bloodaxe towered over Napoleon. ‘Let’s see what sort of a Viking you really are.’
The king’s men had formed a wide circle.
Bloodaxe drew his sword, handed it to Napoleon and led him into the ring.
‘You’ll fight our youngest warrior.’ A nasty grin crossed his lips. ‘Come, Haeric.’
A red-haired boy stepped from the crowd.
He was older than Napoleon, taller by a head, and broader across the shoulders. He was carrying a long-handled battleaxe.
‘Scans of the opponent indicate that he is stronger than you,’ said Skin, ‘but he is not as fast. Maintain distance from that axe. It could definitely “snap” your head off.’
Haeric was scowling but Napoleon thought he also looked sad.
‘Are you ready, Thorven, son of Ragnar?’ Bloodaxe shouted.
‘Ready!’ Napoleon called out in his strongest voice. He was shaking inside, but they didn’t need to know that.
‘Haeric?’ Bloodaxe’s grin grew wider. ‘Are you ready?’
The boy’s eyes were downcast and he didn’t answer.
Bloodaxe raised his voice. ‘Haeric. Answer me!’
Haeric lifted his head. ‘Yes,’ he said, staring at Bloodaxe. ‘I’m ready, Father.’
‘What!’ Napoleon gaped at the king. ‘Your son? But I can’t fight him . . .’
Bloodaxe laughed and raised his hand in the air.
‘Let the fight begin!’
The Vikings banged their shields and chanted.
Some sounded really wild and furious.
‘They are the Berserkers,’ said Skin. ‘Battle-mad warriors who work themselves into a fury. They will start biting their shields soon.’
Skin was right. The whole front row began sinking their teeth into the top of their shields, shouting and screaming.
‘This is what they do before they charge into battle,’ said Skin.
‘But why are they doing it now?’
‘To inflame Haeric. To incense him. To make him so mad that he will hurl himself at you with all the strength of his ancestors and —’
‘Yes, all right, Skin,’ said Napoleon. ‘I’ve got the picture.’
Napoleon looked at Haeric. His eyes were frenzied. He was frothing at the mouth and shaking all over.
He gave a horrible cry and charged at Napoleon, swinging his battleaxe.
Napoleon was paralysed with fear.
‘Duck!’ Skin yelled.
Napoleon’s legs bent before he could even think about it.
He felt the wind of Haeric’s axe as it skimmed over the top of his head.
‘Roll to the right!’ Skin shouted again.
Napoleon’s body was already rolling.
Haeric’s axe clanged loudly on the cobblestones inches from him.
He grunted in frustration and lifted the heavy axe above his head.
Napoleon sprang to his feet. ‘I’m getting the feel of this sword fighting,’ he said. ‘I think I’m quite good at it!’
He leaped high into the air as Haeric swung at his feet.
Haeric swung so wildly that he lost his balance and sprawled across the cobblestones. Napoleon whacked him on the backside with his sword and cartwheeled to the other side of the ring.
Haeric scrambled up and threw himself at Napoleon, bellowing with rage.
When the boy was almost upon him, Napoleon stepped aside like a bullfighter.
Haeric kept going, crashing into the crowd.
‘He is wearing himself down,’ said Skin. ‘Stay out of his way and you will win.’
Napoleon was tired too, but he kept dancing around the ring, dodging Haeric’s attacks until the boy was exhausted.
Soon, panting and dripping with sweat, Haeric staggered to a standstill, fell to his knees and slumped face-first onto the cobblestones.
He had passed out.
Napoleon walked over to Haeric. He held out his hand to help him up, but Bloodaxe stopped him.
‘Leave him,’ the king said.
‘But he’s your son.’
Bloodaxe shook his head. ‘He has shamed the family name.’
‘But he did his best,’ said Napoleon. ‘He fought hard.’
‘Not hard enough. Leave him, I say. Only then will he learn to be strong.’
The king threw his arm around Napoleon. ‘Come, young Thorven. We feast tonight in your honour. Your father would be proud. You, at least, are a true warrior.’
He looked scornfully at his son lying on the ground.
Haeric opened one eye and watched them walk away.
Napoleon was resting in a tent before the banquet.
‘It doesn’t seem fair, Skin,’ he said. ‘I only won that fight because of you. Haeric did his best. But his father is mad at him for losing.’
‘That’s the Viking way,’ said Skin. ‘Honour is everything.’
‘But —’ said Napoleon.
‘Intruder detected,’ interrupted Skin.
The tent flaps opened and Haeric entered.
He placed a round shield on the furs before Napoleon. With the shield was a silver breastplate, a helmet and a sword in its leather sheath.
‘My fath— the king sends these.’ Haeric kept his eyes down. ‘They’re yours now.’
The shield was red, covered in leather, and rimmed with copper. The breastplate had fine carvings all over it and the polished helmet reflected the lamp’s flame like a mirror.
Napoleon slid the sword from its sheath; it too was covered in fine carvings.
‘This is your armour, isn’t it?’ he said to Haeric.
The boy glanced up, and Napoleon saw that it was.
‘There is to be a big battle tomorrow,’ Haeric said. ‘The king wants you at his side.’
‘And you?’
‘I’m not fit to stand next to him.’
‘Yes you are,’ Napoleon said. ‘You more than anyone else should be at his side.’ He picked up the shield. ‘I can’t take these.’
‘The king will be furious.’
‘I don’t care. They belong to you.’
Haeric smiled. ‘Thank you. I won’t forget this.’ He paused. ‘And now it is time to eat and drink. For tomorrow,’ he held up his sword, ‘we fight!’
Rows of tables stretched into the night, filled with warriors eating and drinking, laughing, talking, arguing, singing.
Bonfires sent sparks into the sky, while torches of pitch and tar lit the scene with an eerie glow.
In true Viking style, a horse had been killed and sacrificed to the gods, its meat skewered and roasted. Chickens, ducks and a goat had also been barbecued.
Wrestlers, acrobats, jugglers and jokers moved between the tables with drum-beaters and fire-eaters.
A wizened man told tales of gods and giants.
A young boy plucked a harp and sang songs of wars and warriors.
Napoleon felt as if he was floating in a vast dream.
‘Here, young Thorven!’
The king slapped him on the back and poured a sweet-smelling liquid into Napoleon’s drinking horn.
‘Come, lad. Drink. Victory tomorrow.’
‘Advise caution, BB,’ Skin said. ‘The drink is mead. It has a high alcohol content. Do not swallow it.’
Napoleon tipped the horn to his lips and took a big mouthful, but as soon as Bloodaxe turned away he spat out the sweet liquid.
The king guzzled from his drinking horn and held it out for
more. Then he staggered off to join his men.
If only he knew, Napoleon thought. Tomorrow would be the end of Erik Bloodaxe and many of his warriors.
The king’s enemies were gathering their forces in the mountains around Stainmore right now.
And what about Haeric? Napoleon wondered. What would happen to him?
Haeric was carrying platters of food and jugs of beer, mead and buttermilk from one table to another – punishment for losing the fight.
Napoleon walked over to him and together they watched the king boasting and boozing.
‘It’s how he thinks a king should be,’ said Haeric. ‘Fierce and feared.’
‘My dad’s in the army too,’ said Napoleon. ‘He doesn’t think I’m much of a soldier either.’
‘There are many different kinds of soliders,’ said Haeric.
‘And different kinds of kings,’ said Napoleon.
Haeric nodded. ‘I want to be a brave king, like him. But I also want to be a king of peace. The people are tired of fighting. They want peace so they can farm and trade again.’
Bloodaxe was arm-wrestling with a younger warrior.
‘His men love him,’ Haeric said. ‘They’d die for him.’
His words echoed in the space between them.
And tomorrow, thought Napoleon, many of them will.
It was still dark when Haeric woke Napoleon the next morning.
‘It is time,’ he said.
The air was cold and the men moved around the campsite, preparing for the battle.
In a long procession, they marched through fog to the mountain pass of Stainmore to fight the King of Dublin’s army.
By the time the sun rose, the Vikings were lining up for combat.
A tense silence spread among them.
Napoleon stood with Bloodaxe, Haeric and a small band of men, high on a hill above the battleground.
‘The younger warriors are lining up in front of the older men,’ explained Skin, who was recording everything. ‘They must prove themselves first. And here are the Berserkers.’
These fierce warriors gathered ahead of the main troops.
Some wore wolf or bear skins, the head of the animal pulled up over their own head, fangs snarling, eyes staring.
Many bared their tattooed chests.
‘Where’s their armour?’ asked Napoleon.
‘They show how brave they are by not wearing any,’ said Skin. ‘They feel no pain when gripped by the fury. They know no fear.’
The Berserkers turned to Bloodaxe and saluted him.
The king shook his axe in the air.
A chieftain next to him held up a long spear. On the end of it fluttered a flag with the image of a red-eyed raven, its claws clutching a battleaxe.
‘That is the king’s banner,’ Skin said. ‘The raven is Odin, God of War, and the chieftain holding the banner is called the Merkismathr. He must keep that banner safe. It is sacred.’
The Merkismathr waved his banner in the air and the Berserkers roared.
The rest of the army followed and their battle cry swept across the mountains.
Or was it an echo?
As the fog lifted over Stainmore Pass, the Vikings could see a vast army waiting on the other side.
The narrow valley seemed to shake with the sound of enemy soldiers shouting back.
Haeric flinched. ‘There are more than I expected,’ he said. ‘Many have turned against us. Traitors!’
He leaped onto a high rock, drew his sword and shouted at the enemy. ‘Traitors are dogs. Die like dogs!’
The Vikings took up the cry. ‘Die like dogs!’ they shouted.
The roar was so loud it silenced the enemy.
Bloodaxe glanced behind him. Father and son stared at each other, and the hint of smile crossed the king’s lips. He seized a spear and hurled it at the enemy.
‘The God of War is with us!’ Bloodaxe yelled.
The Vikings fired a volley of arrows into the air, followed by more. Many enemy soldiers in the front row fell.
A rain of spears flew next, then another.
The Berserkers began to growl. Soon they howled and screamed. They stamped their feet, bit their shields and frothed at the mouth, waiting for the order to charge.
Bloodaxe swung his axe above his head and bellowed like a bull, ‘Die like dogs!’
The Vikings surged forwards, charging down the slope, leaving the king and his men to watch from the hill.
On the other side, the enemy did the same.
The battle had begun.
Napoleon had read about the bloodthirsty Battle of Stainmore (it was one of his dad’s favourites) but nothing had prepared him for being there.
It was like a huge monster thrashing about in the valley below, its body made of thousands of men fighting to the death.
Grunting and growling, hissing and howling, it slithered and wriggled and writhed.
It leaped up and screamed, its breath hot with hate and fear.
At first it seemed to Napoleon that the Vikings were winning. But as the battle dragged on he saw that they were slowly losing.
Bloodaxe saw this too.
‘There are too many of them,’ he shouted. ‘No matter how many dogs we cut down, they keep coming.’
He grabbed his axe and turned to his band of warriors. ‘My men are dying. They need me.’
They shouted in agreement and took up their weapons.
Haeric followed, but the king stopped him.
‘Please, Father, let me come too.’
‘No,’ the king said, laying a hand on Haeric’s shoulder. ‘You must stay.’
‘But what if you …?’
‘What if I die?’ Bloodaxe laughed. ‘Dying is a part of living, Haeric. All Vikings know that.’
He slid a ring from his finger. It bore the royal seal. ‘This is why you must stay.’ He placed the ring on Haeric’s finger. ‘So you can take your place as king. You have earned it, my son.’
Bloodaxe grasped Haeric’s hand and shook it hard. ‘I leave you some of my most trusted men,’ he said. ‘And the Merkismathr. Stand by him. Help him keep our banner high.’
‘I will, Father,’ said Haeric, swallowing hard.
The king turned to his men. ‘Victory or Valhalla!’ he cried.
They repeated his words, and charged down the hill.
Bloodaxe was ferocious.
He cut down everyone in his path with his enormous two-handed axe, hacking his way deeper into the battle.
‘The warrior in action,’ Skin said, recording the scene. ‘We have never captured such images before.’
But Napoleon wasn’t listening to Skin.
He was watching Haeric.
The Viking prince was growing more and more restless the further Bloodaxe fought his way into the battle.
‘He’s surrounded,’ Haeric yelled. ‘There are too many for him!’
Haeric grabbed the banner from the Merkismathr and broke away. ‘My father needs me!’
‘No, Haeric!’ cried Napoleon. ‘Don’t go. You’ll die.’
‘You heard my father,’ said Haeric. ‘Dying is a part of living.’
He bowed to Napoleon and rushed down the hill, waving the banner high. The rest of the soldiers followed him.
‘Victory or Valhalla!’ cried Haeric as he charged into battle.
‘Wait for me, I’m coming too,’ called Napoleon.
‘No, BB,’ said Skin. ‘Unidentified danger detected. Immediate exit strongly recommended.’
‘What? Where?’ said Napoleon, looking around him.
But then he heard it – a deep rumble, like a thousand horses galloping.
And then he felt it – the ground trembling beneath his feet.
Whatever was coming was big. Very BIG!
A huge inky cloud loomed over the mountains, growling like an angry giant, lit by bolts of lightning.
The cloud grew quickly, swirling and swallowing the mountains.
‘What is it?’ Napoleon cri
ed.
‘Danger identified,’ Skin said after a pause. ‘It is the Time Twister.’
A bolt of lightning shot from the cloud.
It hit Napoleon full in the chest and sent him hurtling backwards.
Glowing like a light bulb, he slammed into a rock and slid to the ground.
Every bit of Napoleon’s body ached.
His ears rang with a high-pitched squeal.
But he was alive!
He’d been struck by lightning.
He should be dead.
But he wasn’t.
He should be in one of those incredible medical books.
He stood and checked himself for wounds. Skin had a big burn mark where the lightning had hit, but that was all.
‘Skin,’ he said. ‘You saved my life.’
There was no reply.
‘Skin? Talk to me.’
There was total silence.
Napoleon had a closer look at his chest, then at his arms and hands, and saw that Skin had turned grey.
Then he realised that the ringing in his ears was Skin’s Shutdown Signal.
The lightning had damaged Skin’s circuits, and Skin had shut down to avoid major harm.
‘Skin,’ he said. ‘Please answer me! Haven’t you got some backup power? I need you.’
There were a few crackling sounds from Skin and some fuzzy words, but Napoleon couldn’t understand them.
The black cloud had doubled in size. Now it was a spinning funnel, spiralling towards him.
When it reached the battlefield, it sucked up the men, tossing them around like toy soldiers.
And then it reached Napoleon.
The whirling wall of wind picked him up and flung him about like a rag doll. He cried out, but couldn’t even hear himself for the noise.
This wasn’t just the howl of a storm. There were other noises as well – men shouting, guns firing, swords clashing, bombs exploding.
Napoleon’s head was soon ringing with the deafening wail of war.
He saw things, too. Warriors of the past. Vikings, Romans, Zulus, Red Coats, Cossacks, Hittites, Samurai and more – soldiers from every age and land, caught with him in this whirlwind of time.
Bloodaxe Page 2