Viking Boy

by Tony Bradman

  “But what if I can’t fulfil my oath? What if I fail?” It was the question that filled Gunnar’s daytime thoughts and haunted his dreams at night.

  “What if you don’t?” said Rurik, grinning. “A boy journeying to Valhalla and bringing his father back from the dead? Now that will be a tale to tell! The skalds will make poems about it that will be sung till the day of Ragnarok! I can almost hear it now, ‘The Saga of Gunnar the Fierce’.” Rurik began to chant in the way that skalds sang their verses, his deep voice rising and falling.

  “He came to the steading

  Gunnar of the stern gaze

  And slew his fearful foes

  His bright blade flashing

  A lightning bolt for a warrior

  The dark blood flowing…”

  Gunnar stared at Rurik, amazed to hear such powerful words coming from his mouth. But he loved the image it had created in his mind, that of Gunnar the Fierce, relentless in his quest for vengeance, the heads of his enemies rolling before him. “I didn’t know you were a skald, Rurik,” he said, smiling.

  “He isn’t much of one,” grunted Thorkel, who had come to join them. “Listen, Gunnar, I want to talk to you. We need to be practical. Taking your revenge on this Skuli isn’t going to be easy, even if Odin agrees to let your father out of Valhalla. However good a warrior your father is, he’ll need some men.”

  “He’s a great warrior,” said Gunnar. “And he’ll have you and Rurik, won’t he?” Gunnar almost said that he would be beside them too, but he knew it wouldn’t matter if he was there. What was it Father had said the night Skuli had come to the steading – this will be men’s work? And he was still a boy.

  “Even great warriors sometimes need help, Gunnar,” said Rurik.

  “What about Viglaf and his crew?” said Thorkel. “They certainly know how to fight. Maybe Odin led you to the Sea Eagle for that very reason.”

  “Do you think so? Viglaf doesn’t seem to like us much.”

  “Viglaf can be a grumpy oaf,” Thorkel said with a wry smile. “And liking us is neither here nor there. He’s a Viking, and if he believes there’s gold to be had in an adventure, he’ll be right behind you. He was awed by your sorcery with the prow, and I’m sure he could be persuaded to help you and your father.”

  “What was he doing in Kaupang?” Gunnar asked.

  “You mean was he there to sell slaves?” said Thorkel. “Not this time. He came to buy food, fill his water barrels, give his men a few days on land before they go raiding again. But I’d be lying if I told you Viglaf never took captives to sell as slaves. It’s a rare Viking who doesn’t if there’s a profit to be had.”

  Gunnar frowned and turned to Rurik. The big man shrugged.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers, Gunnar,” he said. “A wise warrior uses the weapons to hand, even if they’re not as good as the ones he’d like.”

  Gunnar thought for a moment, then he shrugged too. “Will you speak to him, Thorkel?” he asked. “I can offer him glory, but not gold. Not yet, anyway.”

  “We don’t have to tell him that,” said Thorkel, winking. “Hey, Viglaf…”

  Gunnar watched Thorkel go, but his mind was full of fighting, images of blades rising and falling, Skuli and Grim and all the Wolf Men paying with their lives for the evil they had done. Then he lay down to sleep, smiling fiercely, wishing that he could truly be the avenging Gunnar of Rurik’s poem.

  Three days later they turned north and the sea grew grey, the sun hiding behind black clouds. Then one morning Gunnar woke to a world of hushed voices and quiet splashing. The Sea Eagle was surrounded by a mist so thick it was impossible to see the ship’s prow from the stern. Gunnar threw off the furs he had been wrapped in and made his way forward. Rurik and Thorkel were already by the prow, peering into the mist, Viglaf close beside them.

  “What’s happening?” whispered Gunnar. The sail had been furled, and the crew were at their benches, gently dipping and raising their oars.

  “Viglaf thinks there’s land ahead,” said Thorkel. “But we don’t know how far because of the mist and we have to take it slowly, in case of rocks.”

  “Is it the Land of Ice and Fire?” said Gunnar.

  “It had better be, or we’re badly lost,” growled Viglaf. He turned and yelled, looking upwards and cupping his hands round his mouth. “Can you see anything yet, Einar?” Viglaf had a loud voice, but the mist seemed to deaden it.

  “Just mist and more mist,” replied Einar Squint-Eye, Viglaf’s best look-out man. He was clinging to the top of the mast. “Wait, I think it’s clearing…”

  Gunnar felt the breeze stirring. The mist ahead started to swirl and they all leaned forward, straining their eyes to see something, anything.

  “Steady as she goes, lads,” growled Viglaf. “Somebody tell Erlend to put us on a straight course.” More voices relayed Viglaf’s order to Erlend in the stern, and Gunnar felt the Sea Eagle twitch as Erlend moved the steerboard.

  Suddenly the breeze strengthened and tore gaps in the mist. Gunnar glimpsed massive, dark shapes looming in the distance. It was a chain of mountains, their peaks covered in snow, huge glaciers gripping their flanks. Below them lay a jagged shoreline of rocks and cliffs with skirts of seething white foam.

  “Well, that looks like Iceland to me,” said Viglaf, turning to Gunnar. “Is there a particular place you want to go? Most of the settlements are on the coast.”

  Gunnar felt the eyes of all three men on him. He hadn’t thought about where in the Land of Ice and Fire he would find Bifrost, but he was sure Odin would somehow show him where to go.

  “Just take us to wherever it’s easy to land,” he said. “But not near a settlement. I want to stay as far away from people as possible.”

  “I can understand that,” grunted Thorkel. “Do as the boy says, Viglaf.”

  Viglaf ordered Erlend to follow the coastline. Soon the mist had gone and the wind grew strong enough for them to raise the sail. Gunnar stood by the prow, studying the shore, looking for any kind of sign, perhaps even Odin himself. But there was nothing, and the only creatures Gunnar saw were crowds of wheeling, screeching gulls, none of them remotely interested in him.

  “Hey, Viglaf!” yelled Einar Squint-Eye after a while. “A beach, over there!”

  Viglaf peered in the direction Einar was pointing. “Seems as good a place as any,” Viglaf said with a shrug. “Right, lads, let’s take her in. Steady now.”

  Moments later the keel of the Sea Eagle crunched onto the beach and they came to a halt. Rurik jumped down from the gunwale beside the prow and landed in the sea, the water over his knees. He looked up at Gunnar.

  “Come on,” he said. “The Land of Ice and Fire awaits you.”

  Gunnar took a deep breath – and jumped down beside him.

  SEVENTEEN

  THE RAINBOW BRIDGE

  VIGLAF GOT THE crew to haul the Sea Eagle out of the sea and make camp. The beach was narrow, the sand coarse and grey, almost black. A path twisted upwards between tumbled rocks, but mist still clung to the cliff tops and it was impossible to see where it led. Gunnar stood at the bottom looking up.

  “Er … forgive me for asking,” said Viglaf. “But what’s your plan?”

  “Leave him alone,” said Thorkel. “Can’t you see he’s thinking?”

  “I was only asking,” snapped Viglaf. “No need to be so grumpy.”

  “Me grumpy?” said Thorkel. “You’re the grumpiest man I know.”

  Soon they were wrangling again, the crew looking on and laughing. Gunnar tried to block out their voices, but it was impossible. After a while Rurik came over to him. “When in doubt, do anything,” said the big man. “That way you’ll probably make something happen. Why don’t we head inland, you and I?”

  “Thanks, Rurik,” said Gunnar. “What would I do without you?”

  Rurik smiled and they set about preparing for the journey. Thorkel grumbled when he realized he wasn’t being invited along, but not much. Viglaf gave them cloaks and
some dried fish and flasks of water. He also gave Rurik a byrnie and a sword from the Sea Eagle’s weapon chest. At last they were ready.

  “Well, take care,” said Thorkel. “And don’t worry, Viglaf will wait.”

  Thorkel raised his hand in farewell and they started up the path, Rurik taking the lead. They soon entered the mist, which grew thicker as they climbed. At the top of the cliffs the path disappeared into it a few paces ahead.

  Suddenly Gunnar felt a cold breeze stirring and the mist parted as it had done at sea. He heard the beating of wings and harsh cawing, and a pair of ravens flew out of the mist to land in front of them. They cawed again, leaped back into the air and flew off in the direction from where they had come. Gunnar and Rurik turned to each other and grinned. Then they followed the birds.

  They walked across empty, rocky country, the ravens just keeping ahead of them. After a while they arrived at a gorge, its entrance flanked by huge stone pillars, and at that moment the sun burned through the mist. Gunnar looked up and was amazed to see a colossal rainbow arching across the sky. One bright end was grounded in the gorge, the other lost in the far distance.

  “Bifrost…” said Rurik. “So such a thing really does exist.”

  “Why of course it does!” said a booming voice, and a red-bearded giant appeared. He wore a shining silver helmet and a silver byrnie that reflected the colours of the rainbow bridge. In one hand he carried a tall spear, its perfect leaf-shaped blade gleaming in the bright light. Gunnar knew this was no mortal.

  “You must be Heimdall,” he said, remembering what Odin had told him.

  “And you must be Gunnar, the boy who wants to visit Valhalla,” boomed Heimdall. “Odin told me to keep an eye out for you – and not to stand in your way. He’s impatient to see you.”

  “Your quest is almost over, Gunnar,” said Rurik, slapping him on the back. “It won’t be long before you’re on your way home with your father.”

  Gunnar smiled and they stepped forward, but Heimdall barred Rurik’s way with his spear. “Only the boy,” Heimdall said. “Odin didn’t speak of you.”

  Rurik scowled and half pulled his sword out of its scabbard, ready to fight the God. Gunnar put his hand over Rurik’s, stopping him. “Don’t worry, Rurik,” he said. “I’ll be fine. Go back and wait with the others.”

  “Very well,” said Rurik, his eyes still fixed on Heimdall’s. Then he turned to Gunnar, his face troubled, as Gunnar remembered it from their night on the drowning posts. “My brother’s name was Olaf,” said Rurik. “He died bravely, so he might be up there. If you see him, tell him…”

  “I will, Rurik,” said Gunnar. “So, Heimdall, what do I have to do?”

  “Just go to the foot of the rainbow.” Heimdall lowered his spear and moved aside. “You’ll soon work it out from there.”

  Gunnar went past him into the gorge, a jagged crevice in the land with rock walls rising on both sides. He walked towards Bifrost, and as he got closer he began to make out the colours blending into each other – red, yellow, green, blue, purple – the whole thing like a giant column of magical, sparkling ice.

  He looked back. Rurik was watching intently from the entrance to the gorge, Heimdall next to him. Gunnar carried on until he was less than an arm’s length from the bridge. He looked for steps within it, but found nothing. He went closer, took a deep breath … and touched the rainbow.

  His fingertips tingled – and he was pulled inside, then felt himself being flung upwards at incredible speed. He was flying in the colours, helpless as an autumn leaf caught in a fast-flowing river, and screaming at the top of his voice.

  Then it was over as suddenly as it had begun. Gunnar flew out of the rainbow and rolled over and over until he came to a halt. He lay face down for a moment, gasping for breath, and only raised his head when he heard the sound of ravens cawing. The same two birds were standing in front of him, staring at him with their beady black eyes, their heads cocked to one side.

  “Hugin and Munin…” he murmured. “How did you get here?”

  “They live here, Gunnar,” said a voice. “At least they do when they’re not being my eyes and ears. Welcome to Asgard, home of the Gods.”

  Gunnar looked up. He was on a path that climbed a short, rocky slope. At the top was a great throne carved from stone, and sitting on it was a smiling Odin. He wore a long white robe and was bare-headed, but otherwise he was the same old man Gunnar had met at the God House. Above them the sun was shining in a blue sky, although a pale moon was also visible. The ravens flew to Odin, settling on the throne like sentinels behind him, one on either side.

  Gunnar stood for a moment, taking it all in, amazed he was truly there. But then he remembered all that had gone before and resentment swelled in his heart. “I suppose I should thank you,” he said. “You were generous to me at the God House, and I would have drowned if you hadn’t given me that knife in Kaupang. But why did you let it all happen? Why did I have to suffer?”

  The ravens squawked, but Odin just laughed. “If I didn’t know before that you weren’t afraid of anything, I’d know now,” he said. “How many other boys would talk to me like that? How many men?”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  Odin sighed. “I can’t control what happens in your world, Gunnar. Skuli was right about man being wolf to man. You mortals do terrible things to one another – always have done, always will. But Rurik was right as well. It is the Norns who weave everyone’s fates, even mine. There is no escape from fate.”

  “So why did you help me?”

  “Because you made me an offering of the only precious thing you had.” Odin held out a hand – and showed him Father’s amulet in his broad palm.

  How strange to see it after all this time, Gunnar thought, and to know in whose palm it lay. But how fitting too. His journey had begun with the amulet, and now the journey was ending with it. It seemed his quest was over, although he had another question he hardly dared ask. Gunnar raised his eyes to Odin.

  “Is my father here?” he said, his voice a whisper. “Can I see him?”

  “Turn around, Gunnar,” said Odin. “He has been waiting for you.”

  Gunnar did as he was told. Father was behind him, smiling as he always used to when Gunnar came home to the steading after a day running wild in the forest or out along the Great Fjord. He was dressed as he had been on the night of the hall burning, but there was no bloodstain on his tunic.

  “Is it really you, Father?” said Gunnar, his heart leaping.

  “Yes, Gunnar,” said Father, hugging him. “It’s really me.”

  Gunnar hugged him back, surprised to find himself as tall as Father now. He stood back to look in Father’s eyes, then turned to face Odin. “I have one last favour to ask of you,” he said. “Will you let my father come home?”

  The smile on Odin’s face vanished like the sun behind a thunder cloud, and he uttered five words that hit Gunnar like hammer blows.

  “No, that can never be.”

  EIGHTEEN

  CUTTING THE THREADS

  FOR A MOMENT Gunnar was too shocked, too disappointed to speak. “But I swore on the blood of my ancestors!” he managed to splutter at last. “I need Father to come home with me so he can kill Skuli and Grim and save Mother…”

  “You swore the oath, Gunnar,” said Odin. “So only you can fulfil it. To avenge your father’s death you will have to kill Skuli in single combat.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that at the God House?” said Gunnar, his heart filling with anger and resentment again. “You could have saved me a lot of trouble.”

  “Ah, but you needed the trouble,” said Odin. “It was the only way.”

  “Now you’re talking in riddles,” said Gunnar. “I don’t understand.”

  “The instant you swore the blood oath you stepped into the world of men,” Father explained. “Odin set you on a path that would help you grow up quickly.”

  “Is that why it had to be so hard? Is that wh
y I had to be a slave?”

  “I didn’t choose that for you, Gunnar,” said Odin, shrugging. “It was what happened to you on your journey, that’s all. Still, it seems to have worked.”

  “Odin is right, you’re not a boy any more,” said Father. “And I’m not just talking about you being taller. I’ve seen what you’ve done, what you’ve suffered – Odin showed me everything. You might only be sixteen summers old, Gunnar, but you’re braver than most men twice your age. Rurik and Thorkel must think so or they would never have agreed to serve you.”

  “Even so…” Gunnar said uncertainly. “How can I fight Skuli?”

  “I can teach you to be a warrior,” Father said. “I always took you hunting with me from the time you learned to walk, so I know you can use a spear. And I showed you something of how to use a sword and shield, if only in games…”

  “There are others here who can help you too,” said Odin. “Great warriors who sit in Valhalla with little to do, waiting for Ragnarok and wishing they were still alive in the mortal world. When you have learned what you need, you can go back with Rurik and Thorkel and Viglaf and his crew and they can deal with everyone other than Skuli. You would never have met them either if it hadn’t been for your journey.”

  “But all that will take too long, won’t it?” said Gunnar.

  “Don’t worry,” said Father. “Your mother is safe for the time being. Skuli pressed her hard to begin with, but she held him off. He said he would give her a year and a day – then marry her whether she liked it or not.”

  Gunnar looked at him and Odin. Could they really turn him into a warrior in such a short time? They clearly believed it was possible, but Gunnar’s heart was still full of doubt. If only he could be sure. If only he could know the future! Then he remembered he was at the top of Yggdrasil, and sitting at the foot of the tree were three beings who had already decided what was to happen.

  “All right,” he said. “But first I want to ask the Norns about my fate.”

  “You might not like the answer they give you,” said Odin, frowning. He and Father exchanged a look, and Father shrugged as if to say it was fine with him.