by Peter Fox
Rathulf continued to stare at him, speechless. Beside him, Alrik had very much the same expression on his face. Ingrith, meanwhile, was gazing dreamily at Rathulf.
‘They are a sight to be seen, master Rathulf. There is truly nothing more terrifying than to face such a foe. The sky boils in the wake of their coming, blotting out the sun and the light. The sound is beyond description, like a hundred thousand thunderclaps crashing overhead, rattling the teeth in your skull and bursting your ears. The very earth trembles before them. Horse and rider know no fear, master Rathulf, for no man can stop them.’
‘You were one of them,’ Rathulf suddenly realised, seeing the faraway gleam in Myran’s eyes. ‘A cavalryman?’
After a brief pause, Myran smiled. ‘Yes, but alas through misfortune my fate was to be sold as a slave to Lord Sigvald, a most benevolent master,’ he added, bowing to the jarl.
The chieftain rolled his eyes.
‘So as you see, master Rathulf,’ Myran continued. ‘Tariq comes from a heroic line, unequalled by any other. Beware his power. It can be a dangerous thing in untried hands, and many a man has perished believing himself as able as his mount.’ He looked Rathulf in the eye. ‘Tariq may be invincible, master Rathulf, but you are not.’
‘Enough of your twaddle, Myran!’ Sigvald boomed, shoving the slave aside. ‘I’ve never heard so much rubbish in my life. Rathulf will be more than capable of managing Tariq.’
Rathulf wished he could agree, but as he looked at the stallion afresh, any confidence he had previously felt evaporated under the weight of Myran’s revelations. The stable master had described the horse of Gods! What a sight he must have been in full armour. A wild thought occurred to him, and he turned to his foster-father.
‘Sigvald, does Tariq still have his armour?’
The chieftain laughed. ‘It was hard enough getting Tariq back here in one piece let alone however many hundred-weight of armour. I’m afraid you’ll just have to be satisfied with the horse.’
‘Oh,’ Rathulf said, more than a little disappointed. Alrik and Ingrith too shared his let-down.
None of them noticed Myran glance at the two large wooden crates sitting in the gloom at the far end of the building.
Alrik jabbed his friend in the side and laughed. ‘Oh well, what do you need all that junk for anyway? Apart from the fact that it’d rust within a day, you’d sink straight to the bottom of the fjord if you fell in.’ The mention of heavy objects falling into fjords reminded Alrik of his own indiscretion, and he grimaced and shut up.
‘Alrik, you’re touchier about that bloody thing than I am. How am I ever going to forgive you if you keep reminding me of it?’
‘You may have forgiven him,’ Sigvald interjected, ‘but I’ve yet to work out a suitable punishment.’
‘For losing the trunk or for spoiling my surprise?’ Rathulf asked. ‘I really don’t mind that much.’
Sigvald laughed. ‘Who’s cares about you? I’m talking about Helga. She is partial to surprises, but not when they involve finding out that I went to Byzantium without her.’
Rathulf threw a knowing glance at Alrik; how he would have loved to have been present when that discussion took place. Alrik twisted his face into a grimace and raised his hands like an ogre. ‘Run!’ he rasped, ‘for here cometh Járnsaxa, frost-giantess of Jötunheim. Run lest I catch you and eat you alive!’ He burst out laughing.
Even Sigvald couldn’t help smiling. ‘You’ve no idea how close you are to the truth,’ he said.
‘And I can be a lot uglier than that when I put my mind to it.’
Rathulf twisted around to see Helga appear beside her husband. Alrik ducked behind his friend, but Sigvald had nowhere to go.
‘Er, hello dear,’ he said meekly, then spotting a welcome diversion, added, ‘I see you have Thorvald in tow.’
‘Father!’ Rathulf cried, pleased to see his father out of bed.
Thorvald smiled at them all, equally delighted to have escaped his confinement. Water dripped from his hair and beard, but he didn’t seem to mind the soaking. He leaned awkwardly on a pair of finely carved crutches; a gift from Ottar.
‘I have let him come out on the express condition that you don’t overexcite him,’ Helga warned, which earned her a scowl from Thorvald.
‘I’m not a baby,’ he grumbled.
‘No, you’re my patient,’ Helga replied, ‘which means you must behave or I shall send you straight back to bed.’
‘Don’t worry; she says that to me all the time,’ Rathulf said, smiling at his father, delighted and relieved to see him looking so well. He glanced over his shoulder at his new horse. ‘What do you think?’ he asked, beaming proudly at his father.
Thorvald shook his head in wonder. ‘Well, he’s big,’ he said finally, unable to find words to adequately describe his impression. ‘How are you going to manage him?’
Rathulf shrugged. ‘I’ll work it out,’ he said, a little deflated by his father’s negative comment.
‘There’s plenty of time for the two of them to become acquainted,’ Sigvald said, trying to placate Thorvald’s concerns, ‘and once Rathulf’s ribs are properly healed, he can start riding Tariq in earnest.’
‘If the weather ever improves,’ Helga observed, flicking the water from her cape. It had been snowing earlier that morning, but the day had warmed during the afternoon, making conditions treacherous for anyone who dared venture outside. Nevertheless, much time would yet need to pass before all the snow melted to reveal the grass-covered valley floors.
‘Hmm.’ Thorvald said, clearly unconvinced, but to his credit he let the matter drop and instead turned to Alrik. ‘So when do you get to ride the monster?’ he asked.
‘I have to wait for Leif,’ the young Norseman said, his irritation plain. ‘Which means I’ll probably never get to ride him.’
‘It can be as soon as you want,’ Rathulf said, exasperated. ‘In fact, it can be tomorrow if we take the Wave Skimmer over to Leif’s right now.’
‘In this weather?’ Thorvald said. ‘Sigvald was mad enough to go out for the horse. Anyway, you are not fronting up to Horik’s unannounced.’
‘You’re damn right there,’ Sigvald said firmly. ‘What if Horik doesn’t want Leif to leave?’
‘We’ll take him anyway,’ Alrik said.
‘You will do no such thing,’ Thorvald said, alarmed.
‘No, you most certainly won’t,’ Sigvald agreed.
‘Yes we will,’ Rathulf said, clearly and calmly. ‘On the night of the avalanche, father and I made a promise to Leif that he would never have to return to Horik. I don’t give a damn what Horik says. I intend to honour our promise to my friend.’
Alrik laughed, despite Rathulf’s brevity. ‘And in thanks for your efforts, the Gods sent an avalanche to wipe out your home. Remind me never to agree to be fostered by you two. It’s positively dangerous.’
‘It’s lucky he was there,’ Rathulf said, remaining serious. ‘In fact, I don’t think it was a coincidence. We have to help him.’
‘Well don’t look to me for assistance,’ Sigvald said. ‘You’re not going either, Alrik. Bardi would certainly not support you in this.’
‘I’m a man in my own right,’ Alrik protested. ‘I don’t have to seek my father’s permission for everything I do.’
‘So you’re willing to start a feud with Eirik are you?’
The two boys looked at one another, both realising in the same instant the one flaw in their plan. They had forgotten about Horik’s younger brother: Lord Eirik – Jarl of Lustrafjorden – the wealthiest and most successful of all the Viking raiders. He was also one of the most vicious; a cold, calculating leader who had earned respect not through kindness but through fear. No one with a will to live crossed him. Rathulf swallowed. Perhaps Sigvald was right. Perhaps they could find another way of helping Leif.
‘That’s right boys, Eirik. You take on Horik, you take on his brother, and even I cannot protect you from him.’
‘
Bluster and bluff,’ Alrik countered, quoting one of his uncle’s favourite lines. He looked at his friend. ‘We’re not afraid of Eirik, are we? You and Thorvald owe Leif your lives, and given the added insult of him not being recognised for his efforts, it’s the least we can do.’
‘You’re not going,’ Sigvald said flatly, looking Alrik in the eye.
Rathulf looked to his father for support, but Thorvald shook his head also. ‘Sigvald is right, Ra. We must wait for the Althing to make a formal offer of adoption. Until then, we can only give Leif whatever assistance he seeks himself.’
‘But–’ Rathulf began.
Sigvald cut him off. ‘No.’ He said firmly. ‘All this talk of rescuing Leif is absurd. The boy is well able to look after himself. I’ll wager my sword that right now he’s sitting at home sipping on a mug of nice warm mead. The best thing you can do for him is to stay here and get better. You’ve got a thousand foot ravine to jump over in summer, remember?’
✽ ✽ ✽
The blow sent Leif sprawling, leaving his left ear ringing where Horik’s fist had connected with it. Leif’s meagre dinner lay scattered amid the grimy rushes on the floor, and his bread was already burning to a blackened lump in the fire.
He had no idea what he had done wrong, for the punch had come without warning. He had just finished serving his father’s guests, had doled out the scraps to himself and was making his way into the farthest corner when his father had hit him on the way past. Horik laughed roundly at Leif’s confused anger, his own bellows accompanied by the other men in the room.
‘Hey boy! If you’re not hungry, then give your scraps to the dogs. No point throwing them all over the ground.’
Leif glared at the despicable man, but he said nothing, determined not to give him any satisfaction. Swallowing his rage, he picked himself up, leaving his bowl and its spilt contents where they lay.
‘Oh, have you heard?’ Horik added, smiling maliciously. ‘Gunnar here has just come from Bardi’s. He tells me that Rathulf and his boyfriend have split up. Apparently, Alrik lost something of his.’
Leif stared at his father, forgetting himself for a moment. ‘He what?’
‘What’s the matter, boy? I thought you’d be pleased. You’ll have Thorvaldarsson all to yourself now.’
Leif frowned at him. It couldn’t be possible. He must be making it up. ‘What did he lose?’ he asked, barely able to speak.
Horik shrugged and turned to his nephew.
‘Some kind of trunk,’ Gunnar said, smiling maliciously. ‘Contained some important stuff is what I heard. Threw it overboard, Bardisson did. Caused a right stink.’
Leif fled from the house, barely hearing the peals of laughter that rang through the doorway after him. He ran through the muddy yard to the byre, choking with despair. It can’t be true, he told himself. Gunnar must have heard wrong. Alrik couldn’t possibly have found it. But why would Gunnar lie? How could he know what Leif had been planning?
Leif slammed his fist against the door post, cursing himself for his vacillation. You stupid, pathetic coward, he berated himself. You should have just taken your things and gone. But no, you were too scared to try, and look where that got you. And now that drittsekk Alrik has gone and ruined everything. May he rot between Hel’s thighs!
He stumbled into the byre, his vision blurred by tears. There was a rustle of straw at his feet, and Leif looked down to find Horik’s latest acquisition – a young slave from the southern isles – staring fearfully up at him through dark eyes. He must have been no older than eleven summers, and already he bore the marks of his custodianship on his face and body. Naked to the waist, the boy shivered terribly.
‘Get lost!’ Leif shouted at him, oblivious to his state. When that had no effect, Leif waved his arms and shouted, ‘go on, scat!’
But the slave just shrank further into the corner, scrunching his body into as small a space as possible in the hope that he might become invisible. Leif yelled again, recognising himself in that pathetic posture, but the thrall simply threw his hands over his head with a whimper and waited for the blows.
It was too much for Leif. Without knowing what he was doing, he threw himself at the defenceless drudge and hit him as hard as he could, needing the thrall to strike back, to resist, to show any sign of defiance or spirit. But the boy simply curled tighter into himself and took the beating.
As suddenly as it had struck Leif, the urge to vent his rage disappeared. Leif backed away, stunned and horrified by what he had done. The slave remained where he was, arms still folded tightly about his face, simpering with terror.
‘Hel’s thighs,’ Leif swore softly, turning away. ‘What am I doing?’
He closed his eyes and shook his head, both saddened and frightened by his violent outpouring of emotion. I’ve got to keep going, he told himself. Somehow I have to defeat the Gods. There must be a way I haven’t thought of yet. Then he laughed scornfully at himself. And what might that way be, exactly? I’m no different to that slave: a waste of food, just like my father says. No wonder no one believes that I might have been capable of rescuing Rathulf and Thorvald.
At the thought of his friends, the tears of despair returned, and he slumped down opposite the thrall, no longer concerned that he wept in his company. What was there worth caring about now anyway? The Gods couldn’t possibly make it any clearer to him: he was destined to remain here as his father’s slave, and each time he tried to break free, they would knock him down as hard and as often and as cruelly as they could devise. He reached up to his throat and tore the little amulet of Odin from his neck and hurled it into the far corner of the byre.
There was a movement opposite him and he looked up to find the slave peering at him through his still tightly-wrapped arms. When he realised Leif had spotted him, he closed the gap again and tried to shrink into the wattle wall, but of course there was nowhere he could go.
‘Stop being so pitiful!’ Leif snapped.
It drew a frightened whimper from the boy and Leif instantly felt guilty. Why am I angry at him? he wondered. He sighed, knowing the answer. But I am different, he thought. I did save Rathulf, and that must count for something. I just have to find a way to escape. Rathulf did say he would help me, and he did punch Alrik, and he did stand up to my father. Leif smiled at the memory of Rathulf’s hot-headed promise to come and rescue him. If only it could have been possible!
Leif glanced again at the slave. The poor lad was still shivering.
Letting out a long breath, Leif stood up, peeled off his thick sheepskin jacket and handed it to the thrall. The boy just looked at him, too terrified to move.
‘I’m not like you,’ Leif said aloud. ‘If Rathulf will not come, then I will go to him. I’ve done it before. And who’s to say Gunnar is right? I will go and see for myself.’
With that, he dropped the coat in front of the slave, rubbed away the last of his tears and walked back to the house to clean up the mess he had made on his father’s floor.
✽ ✽ ✽
‘Not afraid of Eirik?’ Rathulf hissed, keeping his voice low. ‘You must be kidding!’
Sleet-laced rain poured down outside, and Tariq’s byre was in sore need of a mucking, but as the boys had no desire to assist the slaves in that unpleasant chore – after all, what were slaves for – they had instead retreated to the other end of the hall to play their favourite board game, hnefatafl. Sigvald sat near Thorvald’s bed, while Helga supervised the household slaves in the preparation of the midday meal.
‘Thank you Alrik, for offering to risk your life and limb on my behalf,’ Alrik replied sarcastically, abandoning his attempt to move a piece while Rathulf wasn’t looking. He glanced up at his friend, amused. ‘We’ll be fine, trust me.’
Rathulf wasn’t sure he liked what Alrik was suggesting. ‘What if Horik does give us trouble?’
‘You’ll deal with him as you always have; tell him he’s a bastard then turn around and come home. Why he hasn’t ever brought a complaint agai
nst you in the assembly is beyond me. You’ve given him ample opportunity, the way you keep suggesting that he and his cesspit have so much in common.’
‘He deserves it,’ Rathulf said defensively.
‘More reason to go then, isn’t it?’ Alrik paused and frowned at his friend. ‘Two days ago you were shouting at everyone and telling them they couldn’t stop you. Why the change of heart all of a sudden?’
‘We’ll both get into trouble, and you can’t afford to upset your father again. He’ll likely take off your head for real this time.’
‘Leif saved your life, Ra!’ Alrik peered intently at his friend, then his eyes widened. ‘You really are afraid of Eirik, aren’t you?’
‘I’m not scared,’ Rathulf snapped, revealing to Alrik that he was. ‘I just don’t think we should rush into any action that might annoy a jarl with more than three hundred warriors at his command.’
‘We’re not. We’re waiting for the rain to stop, remember? Your move.’
Rathulf shook his head and nudged one of the bone counters into the adjoining square, wondering how they were going to do this without winding up grounded for the rest of eternity. Bardi would have a fit if he found out what they were planning, and Sigvald wouldn’t be any more forgiving. But as Rathulf had said himself, he owed it to Leif to do something, and what was a bit of grief when Leif had saved his life? ‘Fine, we’ll play it your way,’ Rathulf said, ‘but don’t blame me when Horik confiscates our ship, my father disowns me, and Eirik has us banished to some remote corner of Norvegr where the sun never shines.’
‘They’ll never know. Your move again.’
Rathulf stared at his friend, wondering how much of his banter was genuine, and how much covered the fear that he must surely feel for what they were about to do. Rathulf moved a piece, but he found it hard to concentrate on the game. A disturbing image had settled in his mind; Leif curled up in the corner of their byre, freezing to death. I should never have allowed him to go back home, Rathulf thought, angry with himself.
‘Has it occurred to you that he may not want to come?’ Alrik said, scratching his chin as he pondered his next move. He looked up at Rathulf, his expression serious. ‘What if he says no?’