The Wolves of Dumnonia Saga Box Set

by Peter Fox

  ‘He comes whether he says he wants to or not. We’ll drag him aboard if necessary.’

  Alrik raised his eyebrows then he shook his head. ‘By Thor, Ra, you can’t force him to come. If Leif wants to stay, we’ll have to let him stay. And you still haven’t told me how we’re going to deal with Horik. Or are you just intending on sailing up to Horiksby and snatching Leif from his house? If Horik catches us, we’ll have to run for it, whether or not we’ve got Leif.’

  Rathulf looked at Alrik scornfully. ‘Leif comes, no matter what he or Horik says. I won’t have him suffer a day longer than necessary.’

  ‘Well,’ Alrik said, finally managing to sneak the piece across the board to where he wanted it. ‘He’ll have to suffer a bit longer yet, because I’m not going anywhere in this weather. I win, by the way.’

  ‘What?’ Rathulf said, looking down at the board in dismay. ‘You cheated! How did that piece get over there? You moved it while I wasn’t looking.’

  Alrik’s wide grin revealed his guilt. He began to re-set the pieces, but Rathulf shook his head, unwilling to subject himself to another round of fraudulent play. If only they could go today! Ever since he had made good his word to Leif, Rathulf could think of nothing more than whisking him away from Horik, and the sooner it was done, the sooner they could get the reprimands over with. Rathulf was also unsure how long Alrik’s offer of assistance would last. Probably no longer than his conscience takes to convince him that he doesn’t need to go, he decided, which means tomorrow at the latest. Curse the rain!

  Rathulf turned his attention to the game-board again, for a moment contemplating another round, but they had played it so many times already this winter that he was certain there could be no new permutations to the moves. He sighed and left the pieces where they lay. This time of year really was so interminably dull, especially when it was spent in someone else’s house with six broken ribs! How he wished he did not carry such an annoying injury, and with Alrik’s arm out of action they made a fine pair of cripples. Still, it was better to be alive than buried under a mountain of ice and snow, although in the face of this soul-destroying tedium, even that fact could be debated.

  ‘I suppose we should be sharpening our swords or something,’ Alrik said, nodding distastefully at the flurry of activity at the other end of the room.

  ‘We could always make a leather pouch or a pair of shoes,’ Rathulf suggested with mock enthusiasm, then added with a grin, ‘it’d make father happy.’

  Alrik flicked one of the playing pieces absently from hand to hand, then he dropped it back on the board. ‘So we’re agreed then?’ he asked.

  Rathulf glanced over at Sigvald, who was sharing a story with Thorvald. He nodded, then turned back to Alrik. ‘No matter what happens, it has to be better than sitting in this bloody hall.’

  15. Delinquents and troublemakers

  Sigvaldsby, Lærdalsfjorden, Norvegr

  Four days later the rain, sleet and snow finally abated, and on a cold, grey morning well before dawn, Rathulf and Alrik snuck out of the house; Rathulf to get the ship ready and Alrik to round up his slaves. Snow lay on the ground from an overnight fall, and the boys’ breaths came in clouds as they crept off to complete their respective tasks. Alrik’s karve lay tied up at the pier, so it would be a simple matter of climbing aboard and pushing off in the darkness. Rathulf glanced over at the tiny beach and thanked the Gods that Alrik had not pulled up there. It would have been impossible to mask the sound of the hull scraping over the shingles, to say nothing of the grunting of the slaves as they heaved the heavy boat into the water.

  Alrik seemed to take a very long time to gather his crew, but when he did finally arrive at the shore, he had the full complement of rowers with him. Alrik ignored Rathulf’s urgent hurry-along, calmly whispering instructions to the men who, given the ungodly hour, behaved remarkably obediently. They embarked one by one, the whole operation dragging on interminably as each man took his place on his rowing bench, careful not to make any sound. Rathulf attached the chains around their ankles, every bump and clink of iron resounding like a hunting horn in his ears. He caught himself glancing back up towards the hall at every second breath, expecting to hear someone shouting the alarm at any moment.

  When all the men were finally at their places and chained in, Alrik instructed the centre pair only to deploy their oars. With cloth baffles stuffed into the oar-holes to dampen the noise, they made their way slowly and quietly from the shore. Indeed the whole operation was so stealthily achieved that Rathulf wondered if this was not the first time that Alrik had made such a covert exit.

  It wasn’t until they rounded the first bend that Rathulf let out his breath. He was about to speak when Alrik held a finger to his mouth and shook his head. Sound travelled so well on a still, dark night. The moon sat low in the sky, offering just enough light to make out the shoreline and the dark smudges that marked the steep walls of the fjord. It was good to be free at last of the confines of the farmstead, even if this brief respite meant they would probably never again see the light of day when Sigvald eventually caught up with them. How long would it be before someone in the jarl’s household realised that Alrik’s ship had gone? Rathulf could imagine Sigvald’s reaction, and he pitied the poor servant fated to bring his master the ill news.

  Alrik’s spoken command to the other rowers startled Rathulf from his thoughts, and the ship suddenly came alive with thumps and bangs as the rest of the slaves thrust their oars through the oar-ports and dropped them into the water. Then they were off, moving at a steady – but Rathulf felt far too slow – pace. There was still no wind when the first pink hues of dawn lit the horizon, and Rathulf knew that if the breeze didn’t pick up soon, they would lose any advantage gained from their early start. But with no wind to fill the sails, Sigvald would also find it difficult to set out after them, for unlike Alrik, the jarl did not keep slaves specifically to row his longship, nor was the Vixen fitted with rowing benches. That said, the jarl would probably be angry enough to press every able-bodied person into service, and with thirty-six oars to our twelve… Rathulf abandoned that line of thought, convincing himself that Sigvald simply didn’t have the manpower to crew a warship.

  ‘How long is this going to take?’ Rathulf asked anxiously. ‘We can’t row all the way there. Sigvald will have found out we’ve gone by now.’

  Alrik smiled. ‘Stop being such a worry-wart, Ra. We’ll be well away by the time uncle works out what’s happened.’

  Rathulf didn’t like the look of Alrik’s sly grin. ‘What do you mean, works out what’s happened?’

  Alrik’s smile broadened, but he wasn’t giving anything away.

  ‘Alrik! We’re going to be in enough trouble as it is. Tell me what you’ve done.’

  ‘I’ve learnt from last time. I’ve given us a better chance of a head start, that’s all. Now be quiet, I have to make the offering.’ Alrik reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin, but as he did so, a cylindrical wooden object about the size of Sigvald’s thumb slipped from Alrik’s tunic and fell to the deck with a sharp clack. Alrik scooped it up quickly and stuffed it back in his pocket.

  ‘What’s that?’ Rathulf demanded, not entirely sure he wanted to know.

  ‘Nothing,’ Alrik said innocently.

  ‘It looks like a pin of some sort. Like it should be holding something together.’

  ‘It might be,’ Alrik smiled coyly. ‘I wonder how it got into my pocket?’

  Ignoring Rathulf’s angry protestations, Alrik went back to his offering. Muttering the traditional prayer to the God Njörd, he kissed the token then dropped it carefully in their wake. ‘Stop worrying,’ he said when he had finished. ‘I haven’t done anything that bad.’

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Sigvald hurried back out of Tariq’s stable and made his way down to the shore, fighting off a strong feeling of déjà vu. He frowned. Where is Gormond? Sigvald hadn’t seen him at all since he had risen, which was unusual because the steward alway
s had at least one tale of woe waiting for his master in the morning. Sigvald rounded the end of the house and looked down to the pier, even now trying to convince himself that the boys would not so blatantly disobey him. Glistening water sparkled back at him where Alrik’s longship should have been moored. Sigvald swore roundly, standing on the spot and glaring at the jetty, as though it should have done something to prevent the boys from leaving. He turned on his heel and strode quickly back up to the house, shouting for Gormond.

  ‘Where is that damn slave?’ Sigvald roared, storming back into the hall.

  Helga and Ingrith looked up from their places at the table, but the other three girls ignored him and ploughed on with their breakfast.

  ‘I haven’t seen him at all, come to think of it,’ Helga said, sounding a little concerned.

  ‘Well we need to find him,’ Sigvald snapped, trying to contain his fury but failing completely, ‘because that miscreant nephew of yours and his idiot friend have gone to Leif’s.’

  Ingrith looked up at her father, looking very pleased indeed. ‘I knew they would,’ she said admiringly.

  Sigvald shot her a scathing glare, then he turned to his wife. ‘We’ll have to take your longship. If we get going now, we might just catch them in time.’

  Helga raised her eyebrows. ‘Will we indeed? I didn’t hear the magic word.’

  ‘This is no time for wise-cracks!’ Sigvald thundered. ‘Those two boys have no idea what they’re sailing into. Damn that steward!’ Sigvald snatched up his cloak and turned for the door. ‘I’ll round up as many slaves as I can find. I’ll leave you to get your ship ready.’

  ‘Certainly my Lord,’ he heard Helga say sarcastically as he strode out the door and made his way to Gormond’s tiny hut. I’ll have that man’s guts for bowstrings, Sigvald thought blackly, seeing that Gormond’s door was still shut. What does he think he’s doing, sleeping in when he should have been preventing that damn fool nephew of mine from sneaking away! He wrenched the handle and almost pulled it off its mountings when the door refused to move. Annoyed, he looked down and saw that someone had locked it from the outside. He let out a curse, threw back the bolt and yanked open the door, already knowing what he would find. Lying on the cramped floor was Gormond, trussed up like a hog with a rag stuffed into his mouth.

  ‘Brilliant,’ Sigvald muttered. He tore off Gormond’s bindings and dragged the man to his feet. ‘I’ll deal with you later,’ he warned ominously. ‘Go and scrape a crew together. I want the Vixen in that water and ready to sail by the time I’ve laced up my boots. Understand? Good.’

  When Gormond nodded meekly, Sigvald turned and stalked back to the hall, wondering whether he should take his sword to run through the boys’ bellies, or his battle axe to chop off their brainless little heads.

  ‘Now then, husband,’ Helga said soothingly. ‘You must have known they would try this, so stop crashing around the place like a thunderstorm and get a grip of yourself.’

  ‘Get a grip? You do know what they are up against, don’t you? Neither of them is in a fit state to cross Horik. We may well be too late as it is.’

  ‘Rathulf is not that foolish he’d challenge Horik, especially in his condition.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of Rathulf!’ Sigvald snapped. ‘It’s that irresponsible lout of a nephew of yours who’s the cause of all this.’

  ‘He’s your nephew too, dear.’

  ‘It’s your brother he belongs to.’

  ‘You’re always telling me that Alrik has spirit and initiative. Indeed, your singing his praises is what has given him such a big head.’

  ‘Well he’s about to lose it,’ the chieftain snarled, fingering his axe. ‘He’s no sense whatsoever in that skull of his.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ came a groggy voice from the other side of the room.

  Sigvald and Helga both looked over to Thorvald’s bed.

  ‘For Thor’s sake don’t let on what’s happened,’ Sigvald murmured. ‘Give him something to put him to sleep again.’ He raised his voice and said cheerfully, ‘morning Thorvald. Sorry about the racket. One of the slaves made off with a horse this morning. How are you feeling today?’ Sigvald leaned over the edge of the bed and beamed down at his friend.

  ‘I’ve got a screaming headache, and I can’t seem to find my left leg.’

  ‘You’re improving then,’ Sigvald observed, making a flurry of hand signals behind his back to hurry Helga along. ‘As for the leg, we took it off last night. It just couldn’t be saved I’m afraid.’

  Thorvald’s expression of utter horror was matched by the menacing glare Helga threw her husband as she appeared beside him.

  ‘He’s telling fibs again Thorvald. Your leg is doing fine, and it’s still attached to the rest of you. Now drink this,’ she said kindly. ‘It will ease the pain and help you sleep.’

  Thorvald’s face twisted into a grimace as he drank the bitter potion, which, to Sigvald’s amazement, began to take effect immediately. Within moments, Thorvald was back asleep and snoring contently. Sigvald looked at the dregs in the bottom of the mug, impressed. ‘What did you put in that?’ he asked.

  ‘None of your business,’ Helga admonished him with a click of her tongue. ‘Fancy telling him you’d cut off his leg.’

  ‘Speaking of removing limbs, are you ready yet? I’d hate to arrive after Horik had cut off Alrik’s head. I was rather looking forward to doing it myself.’

  Helga smiled at her husband as she gathered up her sailing cloak and scarf. ‘You’re just annoyed because they went without you,’ she said, then raised her hand in deference. ‘Fear not husband, I am just as worried as you are, but there is little we can do except getting there as quickly as possible. No amount of blundering about like a crazed bear is going to make things better, is it? We must trust the will of the Gods.’

  ‘Given their recent performance, I don’t fancy our chances if anything should go wrong. You know how riled Rathulf gets when Horik prods him.’

  ‘Nothing is going to happen,’ Helga repeated, leading the way out of the house and down toward the jetty. ‘Whilst you were rushing around like a chicken without its head, I consulted the rune stones and they said the boys would return safely.’

  ‘You and your oracles,’ Sigvald snorted, remembering his encounter with the Lady Valgerd. ‘I hope someone remembered to tell Horik he’s going to be benevolent today.’

  ‘It’s written in the stars,’ Helga said, smiling. She knew how much Sigvald hated the idea that their destinies might be pre-ordained. Better to take one’s life into one’s own hands than rely on the Gods, he always said. ‘They will be fine, I am sure of it, so why don’t you…’

  Helga stopped mid-sentence. Her magnificent longship was drawing in towards the pier, four slaves dragging it around from the boatshed through the shallows. They had almost come to a stop when the steering board nudged the gravel. There was a short, sharp snap, then the rudder disconnected itself from its mounting and fell with a loud slap into the water.

  Helga’s smile evaporated. For a moment no one spoke. The slaves who had been moving the boat stared up at their mistress with ashen faces. Sigvald began to lift his hand in a placating gesture, while Gormond looked with wide, horrified eyes from Helga to her ship, to the steering board that was now floating away, and then finally back to Helga again.

  ‘I… I shall have them flogged,’ the steward stuttered. ‘They were careless, Lady, most careless. I always tell them to be mindful of the–’

  ‘Silence!’ Helga snapped, throwing her bundle of things to the ground. She strode out onto the jetty, her skirt whooshing violently in her wake. The slaves by the hull shrank away from her as she approached.

  ‘This is not the act of careless slaves,’ she hissed, eyes narrowed. ‘This is the work of Alrik!’

  She climbed into the longship and made her way straight to the stern and the crippled steering assembly. ‘That conniving, cesspit-skulking delinquent!’ she cried, her voice ending in a high-pit
ched shriek. ‘He’s removed the shear pin!’

  She whirled around, looking for someone to lash out at. Everyone variously ducked, glanced away or lowered their eyes, none willing to be the subject of the impending tempest. No one, not even the most daring of men, would ever dream of touching Helga’s precious longship. To accidentally cause damage, even the smallest of scratches, was bad enough but to intentionally sabotage it? Helga stormed back up the pier towards her husband. Gormond hovered behind the chieftain, his hand clasped to his mouth in nervous terror.

  ‘Stop that pathetic snivelling and send someone to retrieve the rudder,’ she said to Gormond. She turned to her husband. ‘Can you fix it?’

  ‘Er, yes dear,’ Sigvald said, choosing the only available answer. He had no idea whether he could or not, and now rued his suggestion that they knock Thorvald out with the potion. The farmer was much better with his hands, especially when it came to working wood. ‘I’ll go and fetch my tools,’ Sigvald said and darted up the hill. Of all the times for Ottar to be away!

  By the time Sigvald had found what he needed and had returned to the Vixen, Helga had already dismantled what remained of the tiller and now stood next to the various components, shaking her head in fury.

  ‘I shall tear that little tub of his to bits, strake by strake,’ Helga said between clenched teeth. ‘Just wait until I catch up with him, the vile little brat.’

  Sigvald winced. ‘Ah, petal, it’s not his ship anymore, and I thought the idea of this expedition was to make sure Alrik didn’t get himself hurt. We didn’t want him getting about and annoying people like Horik, remember?’

  Helga cast her husband a withering glare. ‘Well you’re too late because he has annoyed me, and when I’m finished with that boy, he’ll wish he had picked a fight with Horik.’

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Leif gritted his teeth and strode into the freezing water barefoot, splashing out of the boathouse and up around to the shore. Why in the name of Asgard hadn’t Thorvald put a back door into this damn building? he thought as his body set off on another bout of shivering. As soon as he made it to the shingle beach he rubbed his feet dry on the bottom of his tunic, then he pulled on his wool-lined boots and made his way through the mud and slush towards the remains of the steading. The rain had stopped for the moment, but the air was still infused with a damp fog, all of which contrived to chill Leif miserably. Oh, for the warmth of a hearth fire, he thought longingly, pulling his damp riding cloak more tightly around his throat. He shivered nevertheless, having been out too long in this atrocious weather without proper food or shelter. His mittens and trousers were soaked through, and he had long ago lost sensation in his fingers, toes and nose. At least I shall soon be warm, he told himself, and at that encouraging thought, he half-jogged, half stumbled to the mound in the snow that marked the site of the ruined house. He glanced up into the gathering darkness, realising that he would have to move quickly, and not just for the sake of avoiding freezing to death. The last thing he needed was to be caught out in the open. It would be a perfect irony to be eaten by a draug on Rathulf’s doorstep.