The Wolves of Dumnonia Saga Box Set

by Peter Fox

  ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’ Leif asked, wondering what lay above them.

  ‘It’s crushing me. You have to try.’

  Leif took a firm grip on the wood and gave it a good heave, but it barely stirred. He tried again but to no avail. ‘It’s no use. It won’t move.’

  ‘Try another one.’

  Leif shoved a different beam, but the result was the same. ‘It’s hopeless, Ra. I can’t do it.’

  ‘You need to find a lamp or a torch. There must be one about somewhere.’

  Leif nodded, then he realised Rathulf could not see him. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  He scrambled around the room, picking his way over the tumbled furniture and other debris, all the while feeling the space about him in an attempt to find his bearings in the ruined house. He found the hearth by putting his palm in the embers. He snatched his hand away with a yelp, but there was so little life left in the coals that his skin remained unharmed. He gingerly searched about on the floor nearby and found a toppled mead jar and an iron cooking pot, and then his hand came upon the cold, hard shaft of the fire iron. He muttered a prayer of thanks to Odin and poked the coals, blowing hard on them in the hope that he might stir some life into the embers. How long has it been since the avalanche hit us, Leif wondered. Is there anything left to catch alight? A few coals did respond eventually, but the best Leif could coax out of them was a dull glow.

  A lamp, he thought. Somewhere there must be a lamp.

  ‘Leif? Where are you? Have you found anything? What about father?’ Rathulf’s words came urgently between sharp gasps for breath. Leif hesitated before answering. In the past, it had always been Rathulf who had got them out of the tight spots, but suddenly Leif was faced with the unfamiliar position of being responsible for their lives, and it was Rathulf who was frightened.

  ‘I’m finding us light. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  He moved in the direction of the bench that ran the length of the wall opposite him. To his surprise, he came up against a solid mass of stone, earth and splintered wood. Leif frowned, confused. Where had the house-bench gone? He turned and crawled along the wall, groping about in the darkness, unsure exactly where he was. His knee bumped into something cold and sharp: Thorvald’s battle-axe. Leif then found a number of other household goods nearby, including wooden bowls and a couple of broken jars. He managed to avoid the toilet pail, finding the upturned bucket by its putrid stench just before crawling into its spilt contents. Turning aside, his hand rested upon a small clay object. He let out an elated cry. He felt it for a second time to be sure, but it definitely was an oil lamp. Leif carefully picked it up, half expecting its bottom to be missing, but to his joy, it sloshed when he shook it.

  He shouted his report to Rathulf, but his friend did not respond. Quelling fear, Leif scrambled back to the hearth, praying that Rathulf hadn’t heard him.

  He carefully tipped a little of the tallow onto the coals, then he put the lamp aside and blew steadily on the embers. After a time, thick, pungent smoke rose from the hearth, then the oil suddenly caught with a bright orange flash, and the fire sputtered to life. The tiny flame threatened to wink out again, and Leif quickly looked about for more fuel. Splinters of wood littered the floor all around him, and although much of it was damp, Leif soon had a bright, crackling fire burning in the middle of the floor. Now, with light at last filling the room, Leif looked around him.

  He gasped in shock.

  The entire left side of the house had been shoved in, but the wall had survived mostly intact; it just stood where the house-bench had previously been. Broken roof trusses, split wall staves, pieces of stone and clods of turf lay scattered all over what remained of the room. The main roof supports had buckled but had somehow held, so that around the edges of the house a man might still stand upright. In the centre of the room, though, the ceiling had collapsed to meet the floor, gouging a hole and shoving the hearth to one side. Rathulf lay trapped under all that rubble, and when Leif saw how much mangled wreckage covered his friend, he wished he had never lit the fire.

  Seeing the remains of the tiny room that imprisoned them sent a quiver of dread up Leif’s spine. What would Rathulf do? Leif thought desperately. Try to find a way out, he told himself. He made his way around to the front door, thinking that their best hope might lie there. Perhaps if the snow is not too deep, we might dig our way out. All the while fear gnawed away at him, but with light and life, hope remained. The door was still in its place, but it had broken from its hinges and hung partway open at an odd angle. Leif’s heart froze when he saw what lay behind it. A wall of wooden staves blocked the doorway. For a moment Leif looked at it, confused. How did that get there? he wondered.

  Another surge of panic rose within him, and he clenched his eyes shut and took a deep breath. I must keep myself together, he thought. It’s up to me now. Think. There must be another way out. What about the storeroom? Was there a door to the outside? His head was so muddled that he just couldn’t remember. He turned to the low opening that led into the storeroom and swore. Where was it? There was another room here, surely? But it had disappeared; sheared right off the end of the house. In its place stood ice, stone and earth. All their food, firewood and provisions that might have kept them alive had been swept away.

  ‘Oh no!’ Leif muttered, falling back on his heels. ‘Not that too.’

  He looked up at the roof, desperate now, wondering what hope there might be of digging his way through whatever lay above. Smoke swirled thickly amid the rafters, and as Leif watched, little tendrils began to drift down the walls towards the floor. He looked over to the brightly burning fire, then back up at the roof. A horrible realisation dawned. The smoke. There was nowhere for it to go. But we must have a fire, he thought. For without fire, there can be no heat. And without heat…

  A low groan came from Leif’s right, and he turned to find Thorvald crumpled at an awkward angle against the wall, his left leg protruding from beneath his body in a place where a leg should not be. ‘Sweet Baldur,’ Leif muttered, wincing. He scrambled over to the farmer and reached out his hand to touch him on the shoulder. Thorvald’s skin glistened palely in the firelight, and his face was twisted in pain.

  Thorvald was trying to say something. Leif leant forward to make out the words, but although clear, they made little sense to him. Leif became aware of wetness around his knees. He looked down. Blood; lots of it. Could that all have come from Thorvald? A rush of nausea caught Leif by surprise, but he managed to contain it, forcing the bile back down his throat. What do I do? he thought in a panic. Stop the bleeding. I have to stop the bleeding. But what if it’s too late? Leif bit his lip. To stem the flow of blood meant that Leif would have to turn Thorvald over, and Odin only knew what carnage awaited him. Thorvald must surely be impaled upon something.

  Leif gritted his teeth and hauled Thorvald onto his side.

  ‘In the name of the Aesir,’ Leif stammered and threw up on the floor.

  White bone protruded from the torn skin of Thorvald’s left thigh, and blood pulsed slowly from the wound. Leif retched again. Water, he thought, his mouth suddenly dry. I need water. He searched about and found a bowl, then he reached up and scraped at the compacted snow that bulged through the ruptured ceiling. He coughed. A thickening haze of smoke was beginning to fill the room.

  He paused and sucked on the ice, drawing it gratefully down into his parched throat, then he returned to the snow above. He gathered it into one of the tunics that he found strewn on the floor and made his way back to Thorvald. The farmer had fallen back into a stupor, so Leif worked quickly to tie the rough ice-pack over Thorvald’s wound, placing it carefully so that the exposed bone was supported and covered by the bandage. Then he took another shirt and bound it tightly around Thorvald’s thigh in a belated attempt to slow any further bleeding. One part of him scoffed at the futility of it all, but Leif ignored that voice and sat back, pleased with his work. See, I can do this, he told himself. I just need to stay cal
m.

  ‘Leif! What are you doing? I can’t feel my legs. Leif?’ It was Rathulf.

  Leif abandoned Thorvald and made his way back to his friend. ‘I’m coming,’ he said, a little more confident now. He paused at the fire, then moved on. We need it, he decided.

  ‘Leif?’ Rathulf’s voice was desperate.

  ‘I’m here.’ Leif set to work at the broken joists and blocks of earth and stone, ignoring the pain as the jagged wood ripped his skin. He managed to clear a good deal of the loose debris, but the lowermost beams remained immovable. They had been driven into the earthen floor by the collapsing roof, and no amount of tugging or pushing on Leif’s part could shift them. One of the heavy wall staves lay across Rathulf’s chest, but it was immovable, pinned by a fallen rafter above. Leif threw himself at the largest of the beams again and again, but apart from the odd shiver, his efforts were in vain. Leif swore and hit the beam with a block of wood. A clod of turf fell on his head and he looked upwards. His heart skipped a beat when he realised that the beam he had been trying to dislodge probably held the roof up. He dropped to his knees and shut his eyes, too shaken to move. A thin trickle of water ran down the wood and over Leif’s hand. Elsewhere in the room, water dripped loudly onto the floor from above. He knew the meaning of all that water; the heat thrown by the fire was melting the ice. And the ice was what cemented the whole lot together.

  As though in response to Leif’s thoughts, the beam under his hand suddenly shifted and slipped downwards. Rathulf cried out as the pressure on his torso increased, then he fell into a fit of gasping and coughing. Leif snatched his hand away, afraid now to touch anything. He looked down at the rubble that encased his friend, struggling now to remain composed. ‘Ra? Are you all right?’

  ‘Leif,’ Rathulf said, his voice muffled by the debris, ‘you’ve got to get me out of here.’

  ‘I’m trying,’ Leif said, fighting back tears of frustration. ‘But it won’t move.’ He shoved again, but it was hopeless.

  ‘Leif?’ Rathulf didn’t seem to be listening. ‘Leif, are you there?’ Rathulf’s breaths came in shallow bursts now, and Leif heard him gasp as he strained against the rubble. His strength was running out, and soon he would be unable to hold back the weight of the wreckage that pressed down on him. ‘Leif,’ he croaked, ‘you’ve got to get this off me.’

  Just then, one of the beams gave an ominous groan, and the whole structure shifted. Rathulf cried out in pain.

  Leif sprang out of the way and threw his hands over his head, expecting the worst, but nothing more happened. Rathulf cried out again, and Leif opened his eyes. He looked around in desperation and saw the fire iron lying nearby. Of course! he thought, hopeful again. I can use it to lever the beams off Rathulf. He scrambled over to the fire, snatched up the heavy bar, and returned to his friend.

  ‘Thor protect us,’ Leif prayed, jamming the bar in through the timbers and lodging it under the stave that lay across Rathulf’s chest. He leant downward, pushing as hard as he could. The wood let out a loud creak.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Rathulf yelped. ‘Leif?’

  Ignoring his friend’s frantic cries, Leif gritted his teeth and took a firmer grip on the fire iron. He had no choice. If he let the stave drop any further, it would kill his friend. He took a deep breath and threw all his wiry strength into the rod.

  The stave groaned again, and Leif felt it move. He pushed harder. Sods of turf and ice fell on Leif’s head and shoulders from above, but he ploughed on, resolute. Rathulf was shouting now, pleading with Leif to stop. Leif ignored him. The stave was shifting, and if he could get it to lift just a little more, he might be able to drag Rathulf from beneath it. He gave the bar another heave.

  The stave suddenly gave way with a splintering crack and broke in two. Leif stumbled forward as the bar dislodged, cracking his head as he fell. The freed beam slipped downwards and sideways, its point driving into the shattered remains of the plank that lay on Rathulf’s chest. Rathulf screamed, but his suffering was brief, for that stave had also held up the heavily weighted roof. With an ear-shattering crash, the straining wood above gave way, and the entire world came tumbling down upon them.

  6. Sigvald the Blind

  Sigvaldsby, Lærdalsfjorden, Norvegr

  Where’d it go? Sigvald said to himself, splashing back out of the boathouse. There was no sign of the wolf anywhere. Swearing to the Gods, the jarl ran up the duck-boarding towards the house.

  ‘Helga, get dressed for sailing and gather your herbs and salves. Alrik, rouse your slaves. Where’s Gormond?’

  Helga stared at her husband. ‘What has happened? Sigvald?’

  The chieftain looked into his wife’s questioning green eyes. ‘A wolf, Helga. There was a wolf on your drakkar. It’s a sign. We have to go. Now!’

  ‘You can’t mean to set off now? Not after that omen?’

  ‘Yes, and because of that omen. What more sign do you want, Helga? Rathulf is in trouble.’

  ‘I knew it,’ Alrik said anxiously.

  ‘Husband, night is falling,’ Helga persisted. ‘We cannot sail. We don’t know what it means.’

  ‘We must!’ Sigvald exclaimed, gripping his wife’s arm. He stared into her doubting eyes, hoping – willing – her to understand. It all hinged on Helga now, for no one would move unless she gave her blessing. ‘If we don’t go now, it may be too late,’ Sigvald said. ‘Curse it! Why did I not listen to you before?’

  Helga held his gaze for what seemed an eternity, then she released her arm from his grip and pulled away.

  ‘Helga, please.’

  Helga said gently, ‘I need my arm to fetch my things.’

  Sigvald sighed with relief and beamed back at her, thanking the Goddess Frigg for sending such a wonderful woman to him, then he turned and shouted up to the house. ‘Gormond? Ah, there you are. I want the Vixen ready for oar immediately. Alrik, why are you still here?’

  Alrik dashed off to rally his slaves, but the chief steward remained where he was, his face ashen. ‘But night is upon us, Lord,’ he pleaded. ‘You cannot mean to sail in this? How will we see? The air grows ever colder and if we encounter fog…’ His eyes grew wide with fear.

  ‘Gormond, I have sailed these waters since I was three summers’ old. Don’t you think I’d know my way around by now?’

  ‘But what of the monster Jörmungand? Lord, you cannot risk sailing when it prowls the winter depths, hungry for human flesh.’

  ‘You and your monsters, Gormond. If they’ve any sense, they’ll be asleep.’

  Despite his bravado, Sigvald nonetheless found the prospect of becoming a sea monster’s dinner unappealing. But what choice have I, the chieftain wondered. We will just have to pray that Jörmungand has found himself tastier pickings further to the south. Still, a small offering to Njörd might be prudent.

  ‘Then what of the ice, Lord?’ Gormond continued. ‘Master Alrik’s slaves reported fog in the fjords yesterday. You know how perilous it is to sail in a black mist.’

  ‘Gormond!’ Sigvald roared. ‘Enough of your whining. If ice is such a worry to you, put braziers on the deck. Now go and get the Vixen ready.’

  Gormond hesitated. He dropped his eyes and flinched. ‘Lord, the braziers are all in the stallion’s stable.’

  ‘Then take them out!’ Sigvald thundered.

  ‘But Lord,’ Gormond continued, almost in tears. ‘The braziers will not protect us from the black mist.’

  ‘Then you had best pray we don’t run into any.’

  The Vixen pulled out into the fjord in near darkness, fires burning brightly in their iron baskets at both prow and stern. Sigvald stood by the steering board, nervously watching the flames. Knock one of them over and the ship would burn to cinders in the blink of an eye. Whilst fabulously waterproof, whale grease and tar were not well regarded for their fire-resistance, and knowing that the incendiary mixture was slathered liberally all over the decking and hull gave him little comfort. Gormond is right, Sigvald lamented. Only a l
unatic would set out on this mission.

  To ease the burden on the slaves and to expedite the ship’s progress, two men had been assigned to each oar. It made for a tight squeeze on the makeshift rowing benches, but the ship slid across the still waters at a quick speed. Gormond paced the deck, wringing his hands anxiously and peering out on either side of the rail, presumably in search of his dreaded demons. Helga sat calmly in her portable armchair on the little steering deck behind her husband, while Alrik stood lookout on the prow with Ingrith to keep him company. Sigvald had protested vigorously against his daughter joining them, citing the dangerous nature of the expedition, but Helga had reminded her husband that as the Vixen was her ship, she would decide who would and would not be coming aboard. ‘Fine,’ Sigvald had said, ‘why not bring all the girls along and we can have a picnic?’

  ‘You will let me know before we run into the rocks, won’t you?’ Sigvald called to his nephew. ‘Are you sure there isn’t a turn here someplace?’ They had been running along this arm for some time now, and at some point, they would come up against the crossways junction with the main trunk. They had grazed the curving sides of the fjord twice already, but given the circumstances, they had done remarkably well and had travelled a goodly distance without serious mishap.

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t see a thing.’

  Gormond snapped around, his face white. ‘My Lord,’ he begged. ‘Would you have us all perish? You must slow down. If we drop even a finger in that water, it will freeze solid or be eaten off.’

  ‘Better keep your hands in your pockets then,’ Sigvald offered, noting Alrik’s mischievous grin.

  Alrik turned back to the front and suddenly stiffened. ‘Rock wall, dead ahead!’ he yelped.

  Sigvald hauled on the tiller. ‘Starboard!’ he called to the oarsmen. ‘Dig those blades in!’

  The ship juddered as the slaves on the right-hand side plunged their oars into the water and held them firm. The Vixen slewed around in a tight turn, the portside oars scraping against the plunging rock face as they swung by.