Arrowhead

by Ruth Eastham

  Skuli fiddled with the radio, catching a few snatches:

  Emergency … all areas … evacuation…

  “Turn it up!” said Jack, but the words gave way to a piercing wail of static.

  At the top of the road, Jack parked the van and turned off the engine, pushing open the door. The muddy ground gave way a little under his shaky legs.

  “Can you see Emma?”

  Skuli frowned. “She should be here by now!”

  The air was still strangely calm. All Jack could hear was the murmur of the sea in the distance. There were no clouds. The sky was pale blue in every direction and he could see the sun, a dull gold ball, making its long, shallow arc to the horizon. He checked his watch. Only five hours until midnight. From where they stood he could see right down over the town, to the pine tree in the square and beyond to the devastated bay. The sun’s yellow light made the rooftops glow like embers.

  “The museum will have got the brunt,” said Skuli by his shoulder. “What if the longboat got damaged?”

  Jack didn’t answer. He didn’t want to think about that. He looked at the water in the harbour, swirling and sinking, slowly settling back into place. He bit at his nails. How long did they have before the plague of earth kicked in?

  He hurried to the back of the van and swung open both doors. “Let’s get Tor.”

  They reached the standing stone and hastily pulled off the branches hiding the body. Jack stared a moment at the face, so like his own. He checked the straps on the stretcher. Soon, Tor, he thought, it’ll all be over… One way or another. “Ready to lift? One, two, three…”

  As they carried Tor to the van, Jack remembered the runes carved in the dragon’s mouth. Vekell… Son of Tomas. “Tor… Son of Tomas,” he said aloud.

  “What?” Skuli paused as they eased the stretcher into the back of the van.

  Son of Tomas… Son of Tomas… “ Tomassen!”

  “Jack Tomassen,” said Skuli, nodding. He smiled a little. “Tor really is your long-lost relative, eh?”

  They shut the doors and looked around again for Emma. She should come running up the lane any minute… Jack walked slowly through the graveyard and back. Still no sign.

  “She said not to wait,” said Skuli doubtfully. “She said she’d catch us up at the museum.”

  Jack looked at his watch again. “Let’s get back in the car. Maybe we’ll meet her on the way back. Keep a lookout.”

  He started the engine and swung back on to the lane, easing the van down the slope. But no Emma. All the way to the river, they saw no one.

  They reached the suspension footbridge, got out and stood on the edge of the gorge, the churning river below them. A car floated past, then a log; then a man’s body, too fast to make out the face. Jack stared after it.

  Hopefully Vekell has been swept away, he told himself as they unloaded Tor and carried him across the bridge. The handles of the stretcher dug into his palms and the planks under his feet wobbled. He thought about Petter. Was it right to hope that?

  They cast long shadows as they made their way along the boardwalk following the edge of the still-high, swirling tide. The sun was noticeably closer to the horizon now. They slowed as they approached the steel and concrete of the museum building, glancing round for any sign of Vekell.

  “The water must have blasted through here,” said Jack as they reached the shattered glass door. He nodded towards a pile of mangled wood and seaweed. “Let’s leave Tor behind there while we check inside.”

  Heart thumping he went in, Skuli close behind.

  They made their way towards the boat, picking their way over a mess of glass and plastic and metal; a broken display case, with gold coins and bits of jewellery scattered about inside; a trio of slumped mannequins dressed in Viking clothes.

  They got to the gallery and Jack went first, feeling cold water seep into his boots. Then a wave of relief. “The boat’s OK, Skuli!” he said.

  Skuli gave a short laugh. “The glass in here must be reinforced.”

  Jack looked towards the end of the room. The metal windowframes were twisted, the panes covered in cracks, the lower ones still dripping. But the glass wall had held!

  Jack smiled back at Skuli. Then he saw his friend’s grin fade.

  “That’s Emma’s!” Skuli stooped to lift an archery bow from the wet floor. “I’ve seen her use it at competitions!” He pointed at the engraved gold plaque on the shaft. “See? Her name’s on it.”

  “And it looks like she tried to use it.” Jack pulled out an arrow embedded in the wall. With rising dread he waded round the room, picking up the scattered arrows that floated on the water. Most were broken, their shafts snapped. He found the quiver, and pushed the only intact ones inside. He counted five.

  As he stood up he saw something half hidden in an alcove in the wall.

  “Her backpack,” he said, opening it up. “Firelighters inside, look, and a couple of lighters. Even some kind of blowtorch. She thought of everything.”

  “She must have decided to come straight here,” said Skuli worriedly. “Why, do you think?”

  “There must have been a reason or…” Jack stopped. He heard a noise close by, back the way they’d come; a patter, like footsteps, then a splashing. He turned round just as a shape appeared at the doorway.

  “Sno!” Jack rushed forward and crouched to wrap his arms round the dog’s neck. “How did you get out of Skuli’s?”

  Sno whined. He was limping and his tongue lolled out from his mouth at a funny angle. Jack stroked his fur, finding stiff patches of dried blood. And as he ran his fingers round Sno’s collar, he saw that there was something scrawled on it.

  Quickly Jack flattened the fur round Sno’s neck. He read the words, then reread them. Breathlessly, he unbuckled the collar and pulled it taut.

  “The church,” he read. “Only Tor.

  Bring the arrowhead.

  Or she dies.”

  18

  RANSOM

  To them was naught, the want of gold.

  VÖLU SP — THE VALA’S PROPHECY

  Jack stared at the message and at the handwriting. It was the same looping scrawl he’d seen written on a kafé napkin. His fingers tightened on the leather collar. “It’s Petter’s writing.”

  “At least that means Emma’s still alive,” said Skuli. “Doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Jack. “Of course.” But he couldn’t look Skuli in the eye. He stroked Sno, feeling queasy.

  “But why does Petter – Vekell – why does he want the arrowhead so badly?” Skuli gabbled. “And why take Emma back to the church?”

  “Maybe he wants to keep the three of us apart,” said Jack. “The message says only Tor should go. Me.”

  Skuli nodded. His voice was tense. “He knows our protection runes are too strong otherwise. But what about Tor’s funeral? What are we going to do?”

  Jack wiped his face with the back of his hand, then stood up. “Help me get Tor to the boat.”

  “And Emma?” said Skuli, rushing after him as he strode back to the entrance and out of the building.

  “Do you really think Vekell’s going to hand Emma over without being given the arrowhead?”

  “But we can’t just leave her!”

  They lifted the stretcher and carried Tor into the building, stepping over the debris.

  You have to send the arrowhead back, a voice in Jack’s head told him. The power’s growing. Can’t you feel it? Each plague’s worse than the last. Look how low the sun is!

  Through the fractured glass, fragments of gold light glinted, and all around him, Jack felt something pressing down. It was hard to describe; like a charge in the air, something gathering and growing.

  With a grunt he and Skuli lifted the stretcher up and over the edge of the hull.

  Jack looked at Tor, ly
ing in the bottom of the boat. This should have been a special moment, with all three of them to see it. Tor in place after all these centuries, ready for his funeral. Ready to take the arrowhead back.

  Jack lay Emma’s bow and quiver of arrows by the body. It seemed right, somehow. He put the blowtorch and lighters in there as well, and arranged the firelighters along the hull; waxy bundles of resin-soaked kindling. Then he uncoiled the rope from its bracket on the wall.

  “We keep to the plan then, do we?” said Skuli flatly. “Sacrifice one to save all, is it?”

  Jack didn’t answer. You’ve what you need, the voice inside him soothed. The arrowhead, Tor, the boat, even the firelighters and blowtorch. Everything’s in place. You and Skuli can launch the boat. The plagues are happening all over the world. Emma’s just one person.

  Jack slipped his hand into his pocket and his fingers curled protectively around the arrowhead. The gold was pleasantly warm…

  But she’s Emma.

  Jack’s mind jolted. His hand recoiled. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed black wings sweep past the broken windows.

  Friend or foe the demon birds?

  His throat was tight as he spoke. “We go back to the church,” he said. “We go for Emma.”

  Skuli looked at him, wide-eyed. “Yes, but—”

  An idea was forming in Jack’s head. Jack took the small blowtorch back out of the hull. “Your mum, Skuli – she made jewellery, right? So you know about that stuff?”

  “Yes, I used to watch her when I was younger, but…”

  “So you’d know how to use this on metal?”

  Before Skuli could answer, Jack pulled him back towards the entrance and fished the gold coins from the smashed glass cabinet and floor. He handed Skuli the pieces, then the arrowhead itself.

  Skuli nodded as he caught on. “If we melt the surface of these coins with the blowtorch, we might be able to fuse them, then make an impression… But won’t our arrowhead melt too?”

  “I wouldn’t be worried about that!” said Jack. “It’s nothing like ordinary gold – you’ve seen how it can cut through anything! Think you can do it?” he urged. “Make a fake? And fast enough?”

  Skuli rotated the coins between his fingers. He nodded. “Yes, maybe.”

  “Come on then!”

  Skuli found a metal surface to work on, then hunted around for other metal scraps to use as tools. He laid out the gold coins and lit the blowtorch, directing the short jet of fire at them. The metal surfaces melted and glowed. Skuli eased them together and Jack watched as, slowly, slowly, he shaped them, finally pressing the arrowhead on top so it hissed and smoked.

  The blowtorch flicked off and Skuli wiped the sweat from his top lip. “Just made it before the gas ran out.”

  Sno brushed up beside Jack, his fur pricking. His body was rigid, and his ears pointed stiffly. Then he let out a low, strange whine.

  A shudder ran through the floor. Jack instinctively reached for the wall but almost as soon as it came, the trembling was gone. He stared at Skuli.

  Skuli’s face was pale. “Some kind of tremor.”

  The plague of earth, thought Jack, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

  He watched Skuli lift the fake arrowhead between two strips of metal and dip it in a puddle of water on the floor. Coils of steam rose off it.

  “It’s good, Skuli,” said Jack, turning the fake arrowhead over in his hands. “Really good.” He held the real arrowhead in his other hand. The weight, the look, everything was virtually the same. Only the engravings were all reversed. Would it fool Vekell? What would he do if he realized? Jack gave Skuli the real one and shoved the fake in his pocket.

  Jack wrestled a hooded tunic from an overturned mannequin and tossed it to Skuli. “If we meet any kids, we need to try and blend in.” He took another tunic and pulled the soggy material over his head. “Grab that helmet. We’ll take clothes for Emma too. Now let’s get to the church.”

  It was only as they headed for the door that the next quake hit, throwing Jack off his feet and against the wall.

  There was a crash and a twisting, and a growling lurch … then nothing but a hollow, suffocating silence.

  Trust not…

  A croaking raven …

  A tree with roots broken …

  Ice new formed …

  A brother’s slayer.

  The Hávamál

  Tor. Running on ice, gripping the arrowhead. A growling tremor throws him to the ground, opening cracks around him. He pulls himself up and runs on with a sob. He knows what he must do. There is only one choice left.

  “Tor!” A voice roars from behind him. He looks back, sees Vekell gaining, the cold glint of a sword in his hand.

  Another tremor hits, sweeping snow from ridges, filling the air with flakes, like a blizzard. The plague of earth, just as the old monk told him. Already air and water have ripped through the village. He stumbles as he thinks of those already dead. The killings.

  Tor comes to a stop. It is a dead end. An ice cliff plunges away below him.

  He turns and draws his sword, facing Vekell. The wind lifts a sheet of snow off the edge of the ice crest. Strange clouds are gathered round the peak of the Brennbjerg mountain.

  “Give me the arrowhead,” growls Vekell. His scarred lips are a livid blue. Frost settles in his plaited beard as he comes closer.

  This way, the raven whispers to Tor. It will be safe this way.

  Tor pushes the arrowhead into the deep pocket of his cloak and moves a few steps along the ridge. He turns and draws his own sword. A silent mass of snowflakes twists between him and his brother.

  Vekell slashes with his sword, and Tor lunges fast to block it. Sparks flicker where their blades clash. Ice is thrown up under their scuffling feet.

  Tor staggers back. Under one heel he feels a movement. The ice slumps and a crack widens under him.

  Another quake. The ice beneath Tor gives and his sword spins away. His fingers claw for a grip. His two hands hook on to the thinnest of ledges. His legs kick the void of a crevasse.

  Vekell crouches above him, holding out his arm. “I will help you, brother. Reach up to me.” But Tor sees that Vekell’s eyes are on his cloak, searching greedily for its hidden pocket. The words of the old monk tumble round his head. Bury it deep… Until the right time comes.

  He knows what he must do.

  Tor lets go with one hand, but instead of reaching up to Vekell, he lets the arm hang limp by his side. Vekell’s eyes widen. “No!” he shouts, straining to reach for him. “I will carry the arrowhead back! You will not take it from me!”

  But already Tor’s stretched arm is shuddering as, one by one, his fingers start to lose their grip.

  It will be safe this way, the ravens soothe. We will ease your fall.

  Father, Tor whispers in his head. Mother.

  And he lets go.

  19

  THE GOD OF HANGED MEN

  No knowledge can save you,

  And no magic will save you.

  The Doom of Odin

  Jack felt his legs curled under him, cramped and numb. He thought of Tor … falling, sacrificing himself to stop the plagues … carving runes in the ice cave while he died … waiting centuries to be brought to the Viking boat. He thought of the sun getting lower on the horizon. Emma. His family. The people already dead. His head throbbed under his helmet, making him grimace. He pulled himself up, the room coming back into focus. “Skuli? Sno?”

  He heard a bark, then there was warm, ragged breath on his face. He rested his head against the thick white fur of Sno’s neck for a moment, then heaved himself to his feet.

  “Skuli?” Jack saw a movement and stumbled over to help. “Are you OK?”

  Skuli wiped the blood off his forehead below his helmet and blinked hard. “Think so.”

/>   “Let’s get to Emma then. Grab those Viking clothes for her.”

  Why did he get the feeling that quake was just for starters?

  They left the museum and went quickly back over the footbridge, jumping new gaps where the tremor had ripped planks from the walkway, revealing the dark river far below. Out to sea, Jack saw the yellow sun edged with a deepening orange. The faded blue sky was oddly empty; not even a seagull flew across it. But he saw a strange bank of cloud collected round the Brennbjerg mountain. It swirled up from the peak and oozed down the craggy rock slopes before melting away.

  “Forget the van,” he said as they reached the other side of the footbridge. “The kids will recognize it.”

  They reached the town, picking their way over broken roof tiles and cracks in the pavements, tensed for the next tremor. Now and again windows rattled and jagged pieces of glass fell and smashed.

  “They’re getting stronger,” said Skuli, and Jack thought about his mum and Gran and Gramps, ill in bed. They had no way to get out if a bigger quake hit.

  Then he saw a movement and gripped Sno’s collar, pulling him down. They crouched behind a low wall, watching.

  Two cars were burning in the main street. Kids dressed in Viking costumes appeared from doorways. Some with cuts and bruises. A few limped as they ran. They didn’t seem bothered by their injuries. They were caught up in something else.

  Odin’s vengeance. Odin’s vengeance… Jack heard their shouts, the same words repeated. Hunt … hangings… He was sure he heard his name. Skuli’s too, and Emma’s. There was another tremor and the air filled with yelps of delight. They crouched lower as a mob of children hurtled past. A whoop went up as a kid lit the petrol tank of another car and it burst into flames.

  Jack signalled to Skuli and they drew back and went a different way, dodging the kids, keeping close to the twisted pine tree in the middle of the square. Jack bit his lip as they passed its gnarled trunk. Where there had been one noose swaying from the branch before, now there were three.