Attack of the Vikings

by Tony Bradman

  This one is for Henry Treece – and Akira Kurosawa

  Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war!

  – William Shakespeare

  Contents

  Chapter OneA Loud Voice

  Chapter TwoReal Weapons

  Chapter ThreeFire and Sword

  Chapter FourThunder Rumbling

  Chapter FiveOut of the Darkness

  Chapter SixTime to Die

  Chapter SevenA Tool for Killing

  Chapter EightStolen Dreams

  Chapter NineTwo Blades

  Chapter TenViking Funeral

  Historical Note

  Glossary

  CHAPTER ONE

  A Loud Voice

  The red autumn sun was hanging low in the sky when Finn and his friends Egil and Njal returned to the village. They had spent most of the day in the forest, but the growling of their stomachs had finally brought them back. Egil and Njal were looking forward to their evening meal, and chattered cheerfully. Finn however was quiet, his mood darkening with each pace that took him closer to home.

  ‘Cheer up, Finn,’ said Egil as they passed through the gate of the stockade. As usual, the platform that ran inside it was empty of guards. ‘Why are you miserable, anyway? I wish I was going on the voyage to the Southern Isles.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll ask my father if you can go instead of me,’ said Finn. ‘I went last year and I told you, there’s nothing more boring. It’s a lot of sailing around from island to island, talking to other farmers and trying to persuade them to trade with us.’

  ‘Well, I think it sounds like fun,’ said Njal. ‘At least you get to visit somewhere different and meet new people. Nothing ever happens here.’

  Njal was right about that, Finn thought. Behind them the village’s sheep, a jostling flock of bleating woolly-backs, were being herded in for the night from beyond the wall. The shepherds were a couple of very young boys, but the real work was being done by two sheepdogs that snapped at the flock like wolves. It was all too familiar, the kind of thing Finn had seen every day of his life.

  He had known Egil and Njal his whole life as well. The three of them were about the same age, fourteen summers or so, and they had always been friends. Egil was short and dark and full of jokes and mischief, while Njal was pale and good-natured and had a nest of flame-coloured hair sitting on top of his bony head. Finn’s hair was light brown, and he was taller than Egil, but shorter than Njal. They wore the same kind of clothes – dun-coloured tunics, baggy leggings, and leather ankle boots.

  ‘My father’s going to be cross that I wasn’t here to help load the ships today,’ said Finn. They had come to an open space a spear’s throw from the forest gate, the point where their paths went different ways.

  ‘Will he beat you?’ said Njal, his voice full of concern.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Finn. ‘He’ll just do a lot of shouting.’

  ‘So what in Thor’s name are you worried about?’ said Egil. ‘A bit of yelling won’t hurt you – words aren’t swords. I take no notice when my father shouts at me.’

  ‘His voice isn’t as loud as my father’s,’ said Finn. But then Finn’s father, Ottar, was chief of the village, and it was useful for the most important man to have the loudest voice. Ottar sorted out arguments and disputes, and called meetings if he needed to make an announcement or explain a difficult decision. The villagers generally trusted his judgement, though usually he had to yell so they could hear him.

  ‘Maybe we should come with you,’ said Njal.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,’ said Finn. ‘I’ll stay out of his way.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Egil. Then he gave Finn a wicked smile. ‘And of course, if it does go badly, we’ll make sure you get a wonderful funeral, like a proper Viking.’

  ‘Very funny,’ said Finn. ‘See you both tomorrow... I hope!’

  They separated and headed for their homes. Finn’s path to his father’s hall took him through the main part of the village, up a muddy street of log-walled houses. The settlement wasn’t large. Just fifty Norse families lived there, the houses clustered round a small bay on the coast of Alba, on land seized by Finn’s great-grandfather from the Gaelic-speaking tribe who had lived there originally. To the west of the village was the cold vastness of the Great Ocean. To the east, beyond the fields they planted with crops, was a dark, dense forest and behind that were the mountains, their high rocky peaks capped with snow. The Orkney Isles lay three days’ sailing to the north, and the Southern Isles were the same distance in the opposite direction.

  The sun was finally sinking into the sea, and lamps were being lit – warm yellow pools of light spilling from doorways where mothers called to their children. Finn trudged past, the chill air full of the tang of woodsmoke from the evening cooking fires. At last he came to his father’s hall. It stood on a rise in the heart of the village and was the biggest house by far. The walls were made of sturdy pine logs, and the main beam of its turf roof was curved like the spine of a great whale. Two huge crossed beams framed the front like the horns of some legendary beast, and the doorposts were covered in carvings of heroes and gods to ward off evil. Above the doors was the face of Odin the All-Father, the one-eyed god who ruled the world.

  Finn stopped and looked at him. ‘Great Odin,’ he murmured under his breath, ‘why have the Fates given me this life when I want another?’ He hated the thought of being a farmer, though he felt he was doomed to end up that way, just like his father. Everyone seemed to expect it of him in any case. But there was another future path he dreamed of, one that would surely lead to adventure and glory, wealth and fame. Finn wanted to be a Viking, a mighty lord of war, leading his warriors into the storm of battle.

  He had heard of such men in tales told by the villagers around his father’s hearth on winter evenings, and often imagined himself into their stories. They were great heroes who defeated hordes of enemies, and they always died holding a sword so that Odin would send his shield maidens, the Valkyries, to take them to Valhalla, the great hall of warriors in Asgard, where the gods lived.

  Now Finn could see himself standing proudly at the prow of his own longship, his silver chain mail and helmet shining, his hand gripping the hilt of a fine sword. He would give it a name, of course, something terrifying like Neck-Biter or Dragon-Fang. The sun would flash off its steel blade as he drew it, and his enemies would fall before him.

  A piglet squealed and ran past, with a small girl chasing after it, splashing his legs with mud. Finn snapped back into the moment and sighed. Odin’s face was unchanged, so it seemed the god would give him no answer today. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, pushed open the hall doors, and slipped inside. There was a chance his father might still be out somewhere – the village chief was always busy.

  The hall was full of noise and movement, the usual early evening hustle and bustle. A couple of servants were lighting the oil lamps that hung on the walls, while two more tended the large cooking pot that hung over the hearth-fire, its fragrant steam rising to the smoke-hole in the roof. Finn’s stepmother Astrid was giving orders to yet another servant, and his stepsister Gunnhild was sitting on a bench behind her.

  Astrid’s gown was blue with an embroidered hem of silver thread, and Gunnhild’s was red. Mother and daughter were both small and slight, and both had hair the colour of summer wheat. Finn had few memories of his own mother, who had died of the coughing sickness when he was five. His father had remarried three years ago – Astrid was a widow – and at first Finn had been worried that he and his stepmother would argue, something he had seen in other families. But luckily they liked each other, and got on well.

  It was a different matter with Gunnhild, though. She and Finn had never
hit it off, and they bickered a lot. Astrid thought it was because of the gap in their ages – Gunnhild was only twelve. But Finn had a feeling it was because Gunnhild knew he had no time for girls, and she resented that. She stuck her tongue out at him now, and as usual he did his best to ignore her.

  ‘Ah, the wanderer returns,’ boomed a loud voice. ‘And where have you been?’

  Finn froze as his father emerged from the shadows at the far end of the hall. He stood staring at Finn across the burning logs inside the wide ring of large, flat stones that made up the hall’s central hearth. Ottar was a big man, with broad shoulders and hands the size of shovel blades. His thick, dark hair and beard were touched with grey, and his eyes were the green of northern seas. He was wearing his working clothes, a rough old tunic and trousers that Astrid often threatened to burn.

  ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ said Finn. ‘I... I meant to come home sooner, but...’

  ‘Spare me the excuses, Finn,’ said Ottar, shaking his head. Everyone else in the hall stopped what they were doing to watch and listen. From the corner of his eye Finn could see Gunnhild smirking. ‘We both know the truth,’ Finn’s father continued. ‘You don’t want to come on the trading voyage because you think it’s boring, unlike the dreams of being a Viking hero your head is full of, and you’ve been doing whatever you can to get out of coming with me. That’s right, is it not?’

  Finn stared back at him for the space of half a dozen heartbeats, and their eyes locked together. ‘I can’t help the way I feel, Father,’ he said, shrugging.

  Ottar sighed, and shook his head. ‘Still, at least you’re honest, so maybe I haven’t done too badly in bringing you up,’ he said, but then he paused. Finn could see he was turning something over in his mind. ‘Very well,’ the chief said at last. ‘I will relieve you of your burden, Finn, even though most sons would think it a great honour to go on such a voyage with their father. This time you can stay at home in the village – but there is one condition. You will take my place while I am away.’

  At first Finn couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard, and he frowned. Then it sank in, and his heart lifted. ‘I swear I won’t let you down, Father,’ he said.

  He smiled for the first time that day, excited at the prospect of doing something different, something that would help him prove himself worthy to his father.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Real Weapons

  Finn’s father called a meeting the next morning, and everyone crowded into his hall. The chief came straight to the point, and told the villagers he would be leaving his son in charge while he was away.

  Some of the men glanced at each other.

  ‘Are you sure about that, Ottar?’ said Kalf, a grumpy older fellow. Kalf had an ugly face and a bushy tuft of white hair that stuck up on top of his bald head, and he never missed a chance to criticise or sneer at others. His nickname in the village was Kalf the Sour. ‘The boy is far too young to take on such a responsibility.’

  There were some mutterings of agreement from the people around Kalf. Finn was standing at his father’s right hand and felt his cheeks beginning to turn red.

  ‘Yes, I am sure,’ growled Ottar, glaring at Kalf. ‘I was much the same age as Finn when my own father died and left me to care for my mother. Besides, how will he learn to be a man unless he does the things men have to do?’

  Finn glanced at his father. He had known that Ingvar, his grandfather, had died when Ottar was young. But Finn hadn’t realised quite how young he had been. Well, like father, like son, Finn told himself, proud that he was being given this chance to be in charge, and convinced he would rise to the challenge. He glimpsed Njal and Egil in the crowd, they were both grinning at him, and he grinned back. Then he saw Gunnhild. She was looking at him with a raised eyebrow and the same smirk as before.

  ‘Well, if you put it that way...’ Kalf was muttering, clearly irritated.

  ‘I do,’ said Ottar. ‘Anyone else got something to say?’ He surveyed the crowd and waited for a moment, but nobody spoke. ‘Right, that’s settled,’ he said. ‘Finn will be in charge, and if you have a problem, you go to him as you would to me.’

  The rest of the day passed in continued preparations for the voyage. The village had two ships – not lean, beautiful, deadly Viking longships with dragon prows, but stubby knarrs that were slow and steady and could take plenty of cargo. This time Finn did his share of work with the other boys and men, loading the ships with baskets of vegetables, barrels of their own ale, and bales of homespun wool.

  ‘We’ll be gone ten days, maybe a little longer,’ said Finn’s father when the loading was finished. They were standing on the quayside, looking down at the two ships below. The sun was sinking into the sea in a blaze of fire, the shadows deepening, and a cold wind was whipping in from the mountains. ‘If you’re not sure what to do, ask Astrid. Your stepmother has plenty of common sense. That’s why I married her.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ said Finn, and waited for more advice. But none came.

  The ships left at dawn the next day, on the ebb tide, their crews rowing clear of the bay before raising the sails and turning southwards. In them went all the young and fit men of the village, leaving only the old and the women, the boys and girls.

  Finn watched the ships from the quayside until he could see them no more.

  * * *

  Nothing much happened for the rest of that day, or the next. Finn kept himself in readiness, waiting for someone to come to him with a problem or a dispute. But life in the village continued calmly, everybody just getting on with normal things.

  ‘This isn’t very exciting, is it?’ said Egil. ‘I was hoping we’d be busier.’

  It was a fine autumn day, the air was cool, the sun high in a clear blue sky. Finn was sitting with Egil and Njal on the guest bench outside his father’s hall. He had told his friends they could be the first two warriors in his war-band, and Egil had instantly claimed the right to be his second in command. Njal had simply smiled and shrugged, but Finn had said they were both his shield-brothers, and equal in his eyes.

  ‘We should be glad it’s quiet,’ Njal said. ‘We don’t want any trouble.’

  Finn wasn’t so sure. How could he prove to his father he knew what it was to be a man if he didn’t actually do anything while he was away? He needed at least a few achievements to report on... Suddenly he had an idea, and jumped to his feet.

  ‘Come on, let’s take a walk around the village,’ he said eagerly. ‘My father always does that when he has a spare moment, just to check all is well.’

  ‘Like guards doing their rounds in a fort...’ murmured Egil. ‘But we should do it properly. Warriors don’t go on patrol without weapons, do they?’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Finn, nodding. ‘We’d better see what we can find.’

  Finn led his friends into the hall. He thought his father and the other men had probably taken most of the village’s real weapons with them – the long knives that could pass for swords, the best hunting spears – a wise precaution on any voyage. But there was a large storeroom at the rear of the hall, and Finn was hoping they might have left something behind. The third chest they opened revealed a surprise.

  Egil pulled out an iron helmet, a short mail-shirt and a sword in a plain wooden scabbard, complete with belt. The helmet was badly dented, the mail-shirt was ragged, the sword was battered and blunt, and they were all covered in spots of rust.

  ‘I wonder who they belong to,’ said Njal. ‘Are they your father’s, Finn?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Finn, feeling puzzled. He had never seen them before, and he couldn’t believe they were anything to do with his father. Ottar Ingvarsson was a farmer, not a fighter. ‘I suppose they might have been my grandfather’s...’

  ‘It doesn’t really matter, does it?’ laughed Egil. ‘They belong to us now!’

  Finn laughed as well, and as chief in his father’s stead, he quickly claimed the sword. Egil cho
se the helmet, even though it was a little too big for him, which left the mail-shirt for Njal. ‘Good, we’re ready,’ said Finn. ‘Follow me, men!’

  They set out on their patrol of the village, Finn proudly leading the way. They did a full circuit – down the main street, along to the stretch where the wall of the stockade faced the quayside, then back up to the gate and down to the beach on the far side. They passed quite a few people, most of whom paid them no attention, although Kalf made sure to give them a sour look. At one point a gaggle of younger children started following, but Finn quickly chased them off.

  After a while they headed back to the hall. The three of them were laughing, enjoying themselves, but then they bumped into Gunnhild. She was with two dark-haired girls, her friends Freydis and Signy. They were both taller than Gunnhild, yet Finn knew they thought of his stepsister as their leader. Finn went to step round them, but Gunnhild blocked his path, staring at him with her infuriating smirk.

  ‘Where in Freya’s name did you get that ancient sword?’ she said. ‘It makes you look even more ridiculous than usual. And as for your daft friends...’

  ‘Why don’t you just run along, Gunnhild?’ said Finn, determined to give as good as he got. ‘Shouldn’t you be sewing, or spinning, or whatever it is girls do?’

  ‘So speaks the hero,’ said Gunnhild, ‘the boy who is going to protect us while the real men are away. If you ask me, Ottar should have left my mother in charge.’

  ‘Nobody is asking you,’ said Finn, pushing past. ‘And my father chose me.’

  ‘Well, let me know if you need any help,’ said Gunnhild. ‘We’d hate to see you make a mess of things, wouldn’t we, girls? You’d never live it down.’

  Gunnhild and her friends burst out laughing. Finn scowled at her and stomped off, with Egil and Njal hurrying after him. The three of them finally reached the hall, where they sat on the guest bench in the sunlight, muttering and complaining about girls. They kept telling each other all the clever answers they should have given Gunnhild, and then Egil walked up and down pretending to be a girl and mimicking the way she had spoken. It wasn’t long before the three friends were laughing once more.