The Wolves of Dumnonia Saga Box Set

by Peter Fox

  ‘She was until you went and smashed her to pieces. She’s a delicate piece of marine artistry, not a battering ram.’ Sigvald lifted a plank of decking and pointed into the hold. Water gurgled around the sacks and barrels beneath their feet. ‘I’ll wager every plank is either split or has sprung free from its caulking. You can kiss goodbye to all this, Thorvald. This ship is going nowhere but down.’

  Thorvald stared into the hold, stunned that his worst fears were being realised. How could this happen? he wondered. Only moments ago they had been skimming swiftly across the glassy surface of the bay, the drakkar’s doubled-up crew hauling on their oars to a half-sung, half-shouted song of victory. It had been a wildly successful raid, and Thorvald had just finished offering his token of thanks to the Gods when the færing had appeared.

  ‘Well?’ Sigvald demanded, cutting into Thorvald’s thoughts. ‘What do we do now?’

  Thorvald looked up at his friend, frowned, and then turned his gaze back down into the hold. Unwittingly mimicking Sigvald, he tugged the end of his own braided beard. ‘She can’t sink,’ he said, still unable to accept this had all been to no avail. ‘I’ve just made an offering to Njörd.’

  ‘What in the name of Thor happened here?’

  Thorvald and Sigvald looked up to find the sweeping hull of the Osprey drawing alongside. At its stern stood its captain, Bardi Longshanks. Aptly named, Bardi Hermundsson was the antithesis of Thorvald and Sigvald. Although matching Thorvald in height, Bardi had long, thin legs and arms and an equally lean face, whereas Thorvald and Sigvald were both broad in the shoulder and strongly built. Bardi’s straight, fair hair and clear blue eyes emphasised his sharp nose, and on the whole, he bore a close resemblance to the lean hunting dogs of the South; from whence his nickname was derived. Bardi stepped down from the tiller and regarded the doomed Sea Swift with its bizarre new stem-post comprising the rear end of a færing. He turned to Thorvald. ‘We heard the noise and thought Jörmungand had taken you.’

  ‘We ran into another ship,’ Thorvald said quickly; keen to forestall unnecessary panic at the mention of the most dreaded of all sea monsters. ‘It was a small færing of some kind,’ Thorvald added, gesticulating at the remains of the other boat impaled upon his own.

  Bardi frowned into the water apprehensively, his pinched expression revealing his distrust of Thorvald’s explanation. ‘Well, Aegir is about to claim your bounty for himself. Best get on board, all of you.’

  Upon hearing Bardi’s offer, the men sprang into action, scrambling over one another in their haste to escape to the relative safety of the Osprey.

  ‘Get back here and help unload this cargo,’ Sigvald snapped as the longship tilted precariously under the exodus, bringing a fresh flood of water onto the deck. He turned to Thorvald. ‘Quick. Give me a hand with this lot before it disappears.’ The big Viking scooped up two chests and threw them aboard the Osprey. He was reaching down for another when he spotted a small oilskin-covered trunk lying amidst the wreckage of the prow. He frowned. Where had that come from? He moved to retrieve it but stopped mid-stretch, coming face to face with a pair of dark eyes that peered back at him, wide with fear. He let out a grunt of surprise. A woman was trying to press herself into the wreckage, but she had nowhere to go. She clutched something in her arms, and suddenly it let out a squawk. A bairn?

  ‘What in the name of the Gods?’ Thorvald said, mirroring Sigvald’s surprise as he pushed past for a better look. ‘She must have been in the boat we hit.’

  ‘Hurry up,’ Bardi called from above, ‘or you’ll be joining the nine daughters.’

  ‘We’ll be a lot quicker if you lend us a hand instead of shouting at us,’ Sigvald responded.

  The other Viking’s eyes narrowed. ‘May I remind you that it’s thanks to you the Osprey is already full as it is? You know the rules: we don’t take hand luggage when we evacuate.’ With that, he turned away.

  Sigvald roared a stream of abuse at Bardi, but it was futile. Their raiding had been so successful that all of the ships were grossly overloaded, and Bardi genuinely could not fit another thing on board. As it was, he and the other captain would be forced to throw some of their own spoils over the side to accommodate the extra passengers.

  ‘This is not happening,’ Sigvald muttered as he clambered over the scattered cargo to retrieve Threlkel’s body. He pulled the dead boy roughly from the oar that had impaled him and threw him over his shoulder as easily as if he were a cloak. Then with his other hand, he scooped up his own cherished sea chest and hoisted them both up over the Osprey’s shield rail, not caring one jot about Bardi’s stupid rules. He dumped them on the deck and turned to haul Thorvald up from the Sea Swift.

  Thorvald hesitated.

  ‘Thorvald,’ Sigvald said firmly, ‘you’ve got that look on your face which tells me you are about to suggest something stupid. Leave them be. They’re of no use to us.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Thorvald muttered, frowning at the survivors, aware that water now washed freely over the longship’s deck.

  ‘You heard Bardi,’ Sigvald reminded his friend. ‘No room for extra baggage. We can get more slaves on our next trip.’

  Thorvald turned his gaze upon the babe, the hairs prickling on the back of his neck. This accident had been no coincidence. Njörd or Aegir had put that boat right in front of him without any chance of avoiding a collision. They had even thrown the mother and her babe onto the Sea Swift’s deck. Before he could change his mind, he scooped up the woman’s sea-chest and heaved it up onto the Osprey. ‘We’re taking them back with us,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Sigvald spat. The jarl looked to Bardi for support.

  ‘He’s right, Thorvald,’ Bardi warned. ‘We don’t know who or what they are. They could be changelings, or worse. If we bring them aboard, they might turn upon us. And would you stop bringing more luggage aboard!’

  Many of the men made signs to ward off the presence of evil spirits, but Thorvald ignored them, unwilling to believe the woman and child were monsters. He stepped over to the woman and grabbed her wrist. She shrieked at him and tried to scramble away, but stumbled and fell backwards, losing her grip on the babe. Thorvald took advantage and snatched the swaddled bundle and tossed it up to Sigvald. The big chieftain instinctively caught the bairn, but upon realising what it was, held it away from him as though it was some kind of dangerous animal. It immediately began to squall.

  The Sea Swift lurched beneath Thorvald, and he threw himself at the woman, intent on saving her no matter what she wanted. He needn’t have bothered, for she yelled at him and shoved him out of the way, scrambling up onto the Osprey after the babe. Someone hit her over the head, and she dropped like a stone at Sigvald’s feet.

  Thorvald followed her onto the Osprey just in time, for the Sea Swift chose that moment to founder. The men groaned in agony as Aegir swallowed Thorvald’s longship and its precious cargo with little more than a bubbling plop.

  Thorvald glanced at Sigvald, but the mighty warrior glared stolidly out to sea, refusing to acknowledge the loss of his riches. Only the twitching ends of his moustache revealed his distress. He suddenly remembered what he was holding and shoved the screeching baby into Thorvald’s arms. ‘Soon I will wake from this nightmare and find myself back in my own home,’ he rumbled, glowering at everyone in general, ‘surrounded by my wife and children and all my precious things.’ With that he sat down on his sea chest, angrily flicking the drenched hem of his cloak from his knee.

  Eirik Ravenhair arrived moments later in the Sea Dragon to watch the last of the bubbles fizz on the water’s surface; his sizeable drakkar glided up beside the Osprey and came to a halt on the very spot that the Sea Swift had just vacated. Like Bardi before him, the Viking gazed with some amazement at the meagre scattering of flotsam that remained of the two ships. Unlike Bardi, however, whose dirty, salt-encrusted clothing looked exactly as one might expect after many days’ raiding and sea travel, Eirik had somehow managed to maintain his immaculate appearance. Barely a sp
ot of blood or dirt marred Eirik’s expensive russet tunic and black trousers, and his raven black hair was neatly combed and plaited. He stood with one booted foot on his shield rail, looking smugly down at Sigvald and Thorvald.

  ‘I wouldn’t stop there,’ Bardi warned, in part for fear of the Gods and in part out of respect for the recently departed longship.

  Eirik, apparently unconcerned, peered over the side and shook his head. ‘If I may say so, Sigvald, you aren’t much of an advertisement for your ships. First, you lose yours, and now–’ Eirik gestured with a be-ringed hand to the water.

  Sigvald glared back at the self-assured windbag. ‘There is nothing wrong with my ships,’ he snapped. ‘I cannot be held responsible for the ineptitude of their captains.’ He threw a black scowl at his friend.

  Eirik cocked a sceptical eyebrow. ‘And the Vixen?’

  ‘Was stolen by a bunch of bog-dwelling brigands as you well know!’ Sigvald roared. ‘And when I get my hands on them I’ll cut open their stomachs and hang them up by their entrails!’

  ‘Now, now,’ Eirik soothed, his blue eyes glinting with suppressed laughter. ‘If these pickings are any indication, we’ll be rich beyond our wildest dreams within two summers. Who cares if we lose a boat or two along the way?’

  ‘I’ll tell you who’ll care: my wife! What do you think Helga will say when I tell her about her ship? You know how attached she is to it. I’ll never be able to afford to replace it. I had thought that maybe one or two of these nice little trinkets might placate her, but now I have nothing to offer. This is a disaster, Eirik. She’ll flay my hide!’

  ‘You have whatever you stowed in your trunk,’ Eirik grinned, wagging his finger at Sigvald. ‘Besides, it serves you right for taking the Vixen without asking, doesn’t it?’

  The men chuckled, knowing just how Helga would react when she learnt the fate of her much-prized longship. Not that Helga should own a drakkar, of course, being a female. But then Helga was no ordinary woman.

  ‘I didn’t steal it,’ Sigvald grumbled. ‘Those louse-ridden Britons did.’

  And there was the truth of it: to Sigvald’s great embarrassment and eternal regret, he had lost the ship. He had beached the Vixen in a perfectly safe place, indulged in a raid, but when he and his crew had returned to sail home, she was gone. Sigvald and his men had been left stranded in their little cove, wondering how they were going to get home. They had nervously dug themselves in, expecting at any moment to be greeted by the angry victims of their day’s raiding. It had been rather like stomping on an ant’s nest only to find their feet stuck in it. The place swarmed with Britons, and only good fortune saved them. Thorvald had arrived with his three longships just in time, and the Britons had scattered like mice. Once he had recovered from his shock and inevitable amusement over Sigvald’s sad news, Thorvald had offered to carry the jarl and his men back home in the three ships of their little flotilla.

  That had been three days ago. Sigvald had insisted that they immediately go after the miserable thieves, but after two fruitless days of searching, they could find no sign of Helga’s ship. Sigvald’s spirits had brightened a little upon the fantastic success of this last raid, but now he found himself back where he started, with no ship, no riches, and no future. The big man turned away from Eirik and scowled darkly into the sea that had just snatched his last hope of salvation away.

  ‘Chin up, Sigvald,’ Eirik said. ‘You never know, we might come across the Vixen yet.’ The jarl’s expression became serious, and he jabbed his thumb towards the shore. ‘Helga and sea monsters are the least of our worries,’ he said, ‘for the moment at any rate. Right now there’s a host of angry Britons somewhere behind us, and I don’t fancy our chances if they catch us out here. By my reckoning, we’re not yet out of the estuary. Bardi, come alongside, and I’ll take half those men.’ He paused, suddenly realising what it was that Thorvald held in his arms. ‘Is that a baby you’re holding?’ he asked, incredulous.

  ‘They were in the færing,’ Thorvald said, and when Eirik continued to stare at him in astonishment, added, ‘they are innocent parties in an accident.’

  ‘In Tyr’s name, stop talking,’ came Sigvald’s low growl from beside Thorvald, the big Norseman coming to Thorvald’s aid. He glanced at the men nervously. ‘What’s come over you? You’re acting like a charcoal-eater. We are Vikings. We raid. We kill. We plunder. We do not rescue babies! Throw it back in the water.’

  Thorvald regarded his friend for a long time before answering. To be dubbed a charcoal-eater was a most grievous slur upon a man’s character, meaning he was weak and soft-hearted; the charcoal referred to the cooking fire to which he was unhealthily attached. Such a denunciation would be sufficient grounds in Norse law to challenge the accuser immediately to a duel, but how could Thorvald defend himself when it was true?

  ‘I’ve already told you, they’re coming with us,’ he said, unable and unwilling to back down now.

  There was movement behind Thorvald, and suddenly the woman sprang up from the deck where she had been lying and launched herself at him, shrieking like a Valkyrie. She made little ground in the already over-crowded warship, but she fought like a wildcat, kicking and screaming as she was manhandled out of harm’s way. Bardi slapped her hard across the face then shoved her against the mast. She blinked, momentarily stunned, her chest heaving and her brown eyes wide with a mix of terror and fury. Her plain white skirt clung tightly to her skin, leaving little to the men’s imaginations. Her blue kirtle was richly embroidered, and her dark hair had once been tied in a ribboned braid. The ribbon had come astray in the water and her hair now spilt untidily over her shoulders. Even her boots were of fine make, fashioned from dyed suede with laces tipped with tiny silver caps.

  ‘She wants the child,’ Thorvald said, stepping up beside Bardi.

  The woman sprang forward and snatched the baby from the Viking’s outstretched arms. She then backed away to the far end of the ship, pressing the infant to her chest and glowering at them through dark, threatening eyes. The child continued to wail.

  ‘Good choice, Thorvald,’ Eirik observed wryly from the Sea Dragon. ‘She’ll make a fine companion.’ A number of his men smirked and chuckled at Thorvald’s expense.

  Thorvald was left holding the sodden wrap. He looked down at it and blinked in surprise. It was a square of fine, burgundy-dyed wool, hemmed with an intricate geometric pattern woven in green, blue and yellow yarn, but it was the design at its centre that caught his attention. Two charging wolves, each exquisitely embroidered in gold and silver thread glittered back at him in the dim light. Unconsciously he let out an oath. He had never seen such an astonishing display of wealth as this. So much gold and for what; a baby’s blanket?

  Eirik peered at the expensive cloth from over his shield rail, his eyebrows raised. ‘Well, well,’ he muttered. ‘Perhaps you were right to save them after all.’ His eyes narrowed at some inner thought, and he looked upon Thorvald’s passengers with renewed interest.

  Sigvald, in turn, whistled softly, but he was struck by the significance of the picture rather than its extravagance. ‘Maybe you aren’t as daft as I thought either,’ he said to Thorvald. ‘You know what they are, don’t you?’ He pointed at the two wolves. ‘This bairn is protected by Odin’s companions, Geri and Freki. With such favourable omens as those, perhaps the Gods will smile upon us after all.’

  Thorvald glanced at the woman and child, a sense of foreboding again prickling the hairs on his neck. Could those two be so important that the Gods would trade them for a longship and its entire cargo?

  ‘Or,’ Bardi countered, ‘they could be Sköll and Hati, wolven companions of Fenrir, bringer of Ragnarök and the end of the world!’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ Sigvald scoffed. ‘Typical Bardi: finding gloom where others see sunshine.’

  ‘You can bring them onto the Sea Dragon if you like. We’re not afraid of women and babes, are we men?’ There was a sneering chorus of nays from Eirik’s longship. �
�You’ve gone soft in the head Bardi,’ Eirik added in a scathing tone.

  He gave the order for the men to secure his ship to the Osprey and supervised the redistribution of men and spoils. Getting the woman on board proved quite a challenge, and even Thorvald began to have doubts as he watched the men struggle to contain her. In the end, Eirik simply wrenched the bairn from her grasp and took it aboard the Sea Dragon, dumping the child in the shelter of the prow. They all then stood aside as she flew off the Osprey to retrieve her charge. Upon scooping up the poor bairn, for a moment it appeared she was considering leaping into the water, but some sense of self-preservation prevailed, for she crouched down instead in the shelter of the Sea Dragon’s prow, muttering some dark incantation at her captors.

  Eirik laughed, clapping a stunned Thorvald on the shoulder. ‘Fine compensation for your loss,’ he said, grinning.

  Once the Sea Swift’s crew had been distributed between the two surviving longships, Eirik gave the order to move off. There was a cry from the water behind them, and one of the surviving Britons grabbed one of Sea Dragon’s oars and used it as a ladder, clambering up onto the ship to attack the monsters who had taken the woman and her child. He barely got a foot onto the deck before crashing face first onto the timbers with an axe in his back. Thorvald closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer for the poor soul.

  ‘Well, that’s one way to deal with the survivors,’ Sigvald said mercilessly as one of Eirik’s men rolled the dead Briton back over the side, axe and all. The big Viking shook his head as the body floated past, a dark fan of blood spreading behind it. Amongst the flotsam beyond, the boy and the man in the skirt watched helplessly as the ships drew away. The boy shouted something unintelligible at the departing warships, but the black-skirted man, in turn, yelled at the boy, presumably to shut him up. The boy ignored him, and, still shouting in his own language, abandoned his shield-raft and made after the longships, thrashing at the water as he tried to make his way through the debris.