by Tony Bradman
“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!”
SEVEN
THE KING OF KAUPANG
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.
“You know what to do, Hogni, you miserable wretch,” growled Rurik. “And hurry up. I don’t want to be near you for any longer than I have to.”
“The feeling is mutual, you backstabber,” growled the smith. He held up the metal with a pair of tongs, and Gunnar saw it was shaped into a ring that wasn’t quite closed. “So it’s lucky for you this one is nearly ready.”
There was hatred in the exchange, but for all Gunnar cared they could kill each other on the spot – and Orm and everybody else who worked for him. All he wanted to think about was escape. He was sure he could outrun Rurik and the guards, although he wouldn’t get far with his hands tied. He strained against the binding, but sensed that he was being studied. Rurik was staring at him.
“Nothing to say, boy? At this point new slaves are usually weeping for their mothers and begging to be set free. You just seem to be thinking.”
“I’ve got plenty to think about,” said Gunnar. “What will happen to me?”
“The pig Hogni here will fit you with a nice, shiny thrall ring to go round your neck,” said Rurik. “Then Orm will put you up for sale. He buys and sells slaves, and he’s the richest man in town, which is why he’s called the King of Kaupang even though he doesn’t have a drop of royal blood in that fat body of his. After you’ve been sold you’d better just hope for a kindly master.”
The smith dipped the thrall ring into a bucket of water. There was a great hissing noise and clouds of white steam. He took it out again and approached Gunnar, pulling it open so he could slip it round the boy’s neck.
Gunnar had a feeling this was probably his last chance. “When are you going to untie my wrists?” he asked Rurik. “I can’t feel my hands any more.”
Rurik smiled and shrugged. “We can’t have that now, can we?” he said. He unsheathed the dagger on his belt and cut through the bindings.
As soon as Gunnar’s hands were free he stepped over to the wall and grabbed the shovel. He swung it round by the shaft and smashed the flat of the wide blade into the smith’s face. There was a dull clang and the crunching noise of bone breaking, and Hogni staggered back, toppling over the anvil, crashing down behind it in a terrific clattering of tools and thrall rings. Gunnar threw the shovel aside and dashed out of the smithy, listening for the clamour of pursuit.
But all he could hear was the sound of Rurik roaring with laughter.
EIGHT
A SILVER ARM RING
THE GUARDS CAUGHT him before he’d run ten paces. Gunnar struggled and kicked and cursed, but they pinned him down in the foul mud of the courtyard. “Hey, Rurik, what do you want us to do with him?” yelled the older guard.
“Do with him, Thorkel?” Rurik said, walking over to them. “Why, slap him on
the back and tell him what a good lad he is! That boy has just given me the biggest laugh I’ve had in years. Clang! And Hogni went flying.”
“What in Odin’s name are you talking about, Rurik?” Thorkel said, frowning. He had piercing blue eyes, grey hair tied in a ponytail, and wore a thick brown tunic. A decent-looking sword in a wooden scabbard rode on his hip.
“The boy smashed Hogni’s face with a shovel,” said Rurik. “Maybe it’s made him look better. It couldn’t have made him any uglier, could it?”
Thorkel smiled at him and shook his head. “I’m not sure Hogni agrees,” he said, nodding at the smithy. Gunnar strained to look round. The smith was striding towards them, blood running from his nose.
“I’ll kill him, I swear,” Hogni growled. “I’ll strangle the little swine!”
There was a sudden hiss of steel. Hogni stopped instantly and fell silent. The point of Rurik’s sword was resting on the soft white skin of his throat.
“Orm wouldn’t be very happy with me if I allowed you to kill a slave before he had a chance to make a profit on him,” Rurik said quietly. “So on your way, Hogni, or I’ll let the boy have another go at you.”
The guards sniggered, and Hogni scowled. “One day, Rurik, I’m going to cut your heart out and eat it,” he snarled, and stomped back to his smithy.
“So then, Rurik,” said Thorkel. “Is the boy for the pens, or what?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Rurik rubbed his chin and stared after Hogni thoughtfully. “Come on, boy, we’re going to see Orm again.”
Rurik pulled a confused Gunnar to his feet and marched him into the hall once more. Orm stared coldly from his seat at the warrior and the boy.
“It’s your lucky day, Orm,” said Rurik. “I’ve decided I need a slave, so you won’t have to go to the trouble of putting this one on the auction block.”
Gunnar turned to look at him, wondering what could be going through the big man’s mind. He had expected Rurik to tell Orm what had just happened, and for Orm to order a beating for him. Or something worse.
“Is that so?” said Orm. He seemed surprised too. “What’s brought this on? I’ve never known you buy a slave before. I doubt you can pay my price.”
“I can,” said Rurik. “This should be enough.”
Rurik took a thick silver arm ring from under one sleeve of his byrnie. He tossed it to Orm, and the fat man caught it. He raised his gaze to Rurik and smiled. “You’re right, this will do nicely,” he said. “The boy is yours.”
Rurik nodded and pushed Gunnar out of the hall. Then he strode off down a nearby alley, keeping the boy moving ahead. Soon they came to a hut and went inside. A ring of hearth stones stood in the middle, a fur-covered bracken bed against one wall, a wooden chest against the other.
“Don’t be worried, boy,” said Rurik. He eased his sword belt over his head and tossed it on the bed. Then he kneeled by the hearth and poked at the ashes with a bit of kindling. “I’m not going to eat you. Make yourself at home.”
“This is not my home,” said Gunnar. “And I will never be your slave.”
For a moment Gunnar thought Rurik hadn’t heard. The big man blew onto the ashes in the hearth and a red glow appeared that he fed with more kindling. “What’s your name?” Rurik said eventually. “At least tell me that.”
“Gunnar.” Yellow flames were starting to flicker over the wood.
“Just Gunnar?” Rurik sat with his back against the chest and crossed his legs. “Suit yourself. And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me how you ended up being sold as a slave by Gauk of the Silver Tongue, are you?”
Gunnar shrugged. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“There’s always a story to tell, and I can probably guess some of yours. Your clothes are of fine quality, but they’re stained with blood. So you’re of good family, but something bad must have happened. Am I right?”
“Maybe,” said Gunnar.
“You’re a tough one, I’ll give you that.” Rurik grinned. “And you’re a fighter. That’s what I like about you.”
“So let me go,” Gunnar said quickly. “I swear I’ll find the money to pay you back. But I can’t be your slave. I can’t stay here.”
Rurik’s grin vanished. “Listen, boy. Until today you might have thought you were free, but this was always going to be your fate, foretold by the Norns.”
That same image of three ancient women in ragged black clothes filled Gunnar’s mind again. He remembered Brunhild talking of them too, and he suddenly felt angry. “What have they got to do with me? I’ve heard them mentioned in old stories, but I don’t even know who they are.”
“They know you,” said Rurik. “Some call them the Norns, others the Three Sisters. They sit at the foot of the great tree Yggdrasil and weave a web in which each thread is a life – its past, present and future. They decide all that will happen from the day we’re born to the day they cut our threads – and we die.”
Gunnar wondered if it was true. Had he always been doomed to see his home burned and Father murdered, and to end up a slave? If so, there was no point fighting against it, and he might as well give up any idea of bringing Father back from Valhalla and saving Mother. But a new thought occurred to him and he spoke it out loud before he could catch himself. “What if this isn’t my final fate? What if my fate will lead me to other things?”
“Perhaps it will,” said Rurik. “My fate has brought me to this stinking hole. You might find your way to somewhere else, but for now you’re my slave, and you’d better get used to the idea. As fates go, it’s not that bad.”
“Really?” Gunnar scowled at him. “How did you work that out?”
“I’ll be a kindly master. I won’t beat you or make you work too hard.”
“But you’ve never bought a slave before. Why did you buy me?”
“I thought it would be worth it just to see Hogni’s face when he finds out I’ve bought you, and that you’re going to be around all the time…”
Gunnar’s heart sank – he was to be Rurik’s means of tormenting the smith. His presence in Kaupang would be a constant reminder to everyone that Hogni’s nose had been flattened by a mere slave boy. So not only was he stuck here when he should be on his way to Valhalla, he was caught in a feud between two violent men. “Why do you hate each other?” he asked.
“I played a prank on Hogni one evening when I was bored, and he didn’t like it,” sighed Rurik. “Harsh words were spoken, threats were made.”
Gunnar frowned, hardly able to believe that was all there was to it. “And what if I still say no to being a slave?” he said, looking Rurik in the eye. “What if I refuse to accept it’s my fate, and try to escape again the first chance I get?”
“So you’re stubborn too. Well then, I’d better show you.”
Rurik picked up his sword belt and put it on again, then ducked out through the hut’s door, beckoning Gunnar to follow. The sky was darkening over the town, the air growing colder. Rurik’s stride was long and his left hand rested easily on his sword hilt, and most people quickly got out of his way.
“This will do,” said Rurik at last. “We can see them from here.”
They had arrived on the quayside. The tide had ebbed and many of the ships were tilted onto their sides, the setting sun casting deep shadows. Gulls swooped and squawked, and a mud-and-sea smell filled Gunnar’s nostrils. But there was another odour too, something foul and disturbing.
“See what?” he asked, looking round at Rurik. The big man said nothing. He nodded at a couple of posts stuck in the mud twenty paces from the quayside, a pair of roughly trimmed logs the height of a man.
Now Gunnar understood where the stench was coming from. A dead body was tied to each post, the flesh puffy and green, white bones poking through sodden rags that had once been clothes.
“That’s what happens to slaves who try to escape,” said Rurik. “They soon get caught – the locals and most of the ship crews know it doesn’t pay to make an enemy of Orm. Once t
hey’re returned, he has them tied to the posts at low tide and lets the sea kill them. It’s not a good death, or a quick one.”
Gunnar stared at the posts, then lifted his gaze to the open sea. The Land of Ice and Fire was somewhere across those waves…
NINE
FRIENDS AND ENEMIES
THERE WAS STILL the matter of Gunnar’s thrall ring to be settled. Orm heard about what had happened and sent another of his men to Rurik’s hut with a message. Gunnar was to have a ring fitted by Hogni, and that was the end of it.
“Come on, boy,” said Rurik. “You’ll have to swallow your pride.”
Night had fallen by the time they entered the courtyard again, the smithy’s forge casting the only light. The guards crowded round the front of the smithy, laughing and nudging one another, clearly hoping for more entertainment. Rurik pushed through, pulling Gunnar along behind him. Hogni looked up from his anvil, and Gunnar saw that his face was bruised and swollen.
“You’ve got some gall coming in here, Rurik,” he growled, glaring at them. “Unless you’ve brought the boy back so I can kill him after all.”
“No, Hogni, that’s not what’s going to happen,” Rurik answered. “We’re here because Orm says the boy must have a thrall ring like the other slaves. And as he belongs to me now, just make sure you don’t do him any harm.”
“What are you talking about?” muttered Hogni, looking confused.
“I bought the boy from Orm,” said Rurik with a grin. “Cost me a silver arm ring. But it was worth it just to know he’ll be protecting me from you.”
The guards howled with laughter. Suddenly two more men barged into the smithy past Thorkel and the rest and went over to stand by Hogni. One was a young man with a cruel mouth, the other a balding warrior who was missing most of his right ear. Both wore chainmail byrnies, the young man’s particularly fine, although Gunnar noticed that his stomach bulged over his sword belt.