by Peter Fox
Eirik looked down at Rathulf, his face black with anger. ‘Rathulf Thorvaldarsson, you are a fool.’
When Rathulf did not reply, Eirik went on. ‘What were you thinking, attacking my brother like that, on his ground, at his home, and in front of me? A word of advice: learn to control your temper, particularly if you are taking on a man like my brother. Sink to their level, and you will lose. Always!’
Rathulf put out a hand to steady himself then mustered his last vestiges of energy to drag himself to his feet, using the hull to prop himself up. Alrik automatically went to his friend’s aid and propped him up by the elbow. ‘Is it true?’ Rathulf asked through clenched teeth, furious at the thought of his friend being torn to pieces somewhere up in the high passes. ‘That bastard sent Leif out to die, didn’t he?’
‘Mind your words, boy,’ Eirik said, his tone ominous. ‘As to Leif’s whereabouts, I have no idea. I had only just arrived myself when you turned up. However, I can tell you that Leif isn’t here.’
Rathulf had little choice but to take Eirik at his word. There would be no triumphant return to Sigvaldsby this night.
Eirik’s face hardened. ‘I presume you came here to attempt some kind of rescue?’
Rathulf glowered back at Eirik, knowing it was pointless to deny it.
‘You’ve been very lucky here today,’ Eirik said to both of them. ‘You particularly, Rathulf. I don’t want either of you coming back here again.’ Rathulf began to protest, but Eirik held up his hand for silence. ‘I won’t be present to save your neck next time, and given your knack for inciting my brother to acts of violence, it’s for your own good.’
‘But what about Leif?’ Rathulf said angrily, pushing himself fully upright. His aggrieved ribs erupted into another bout of protest, and he let out an involuntary cry of pain. Alrik tightened his grip, putting his arm around his friend so that he didn’t fall.
‘I’m afraid that your father’s kind offer has, on this occasion, been rejected. As for my nephew, I’ll send men out to find him.’ His tone was one of disgust. ‘Truth be known, my brother was goading you when he told you that rubbish about the wolves. What he said to me was that he awoke a few days ago to find the boy gone.’ He let out a short laugh. ‘Leif’s probably on his way back to you.’
Rathulf felt a pang of dismay. What if Leif is out on a mountain trail somewhere, trying to make his way to Sigvald’s? Surely not!
‘Listen, if he’s alive, he’ll be found, and if it turns out he is on his way to you and actually manages to get to Sigvald’s, you are to tell your fostri to send word to me immediately, do you understand? I don’t want you giving my brother any more excuses to come after you.’
‘But Leif’s my friend,’ Rathulf began, ignoring Alrik’s pleading face beside him.
‘Enough!’ Eirik roared, his patience exhausted. ‘This is not a request, Rathulf. I will, if need be, call my men back down here and name witnesses to your attack on my brother. As it is, I’ll have a hard enough time keeping this matter out of the Althing. Don’t give me a reason to change my mind.’
Rathulf glowered at the towering giant of a man, his sense of powerlessness feeding his frustration and anger. Why is it so hard to protect my friend? ‘Horik started it,’ he muttered.
‘I want your word, Thorvaldarsson.’ Eirik fixed his penetrating eyes upon Rathulf again.
Rathulf looked into the jarl’s angry face, then he remembered who he was talking to. This was not his father or Sigvald he was back-chatting, but Eirik the Black, hard-hearted killer of countless men, women and children, and leader of more than a dozen raids into the south. Rathulf came to his senses and nodded. Eirik immediately turned to obtain Alrik’s consent as well.
‘Good,’ Eirik said, once both boys had given him their word. ‘Now get into your karve and don’t come back.’ He glanced over their shoulders. ‘It’s getting dark, so you might want to hurry. My compliments to your father, Alrik, and to Thorvald, Sigvald and Helga.’
The chieftain stepped back up onto the grass and crossed his arms. Gunnar stood nearby, glaring at his father, undoubtedly frustrated that Rathulf had been let off so easily. Father and son remained on the beach, watching while Alrik called down a couple of slaves to help Rathulf up onto the boat. Only when they had pushed off did Eirik turn his back on them and stride up towards the hall. Gunnar stayed behind, his expression difficult to read in the gathering darkness. As the slaves took up the oars and began to pull them away from the shore, Rathulf slumped to the deck, exhausted.
Alrik, for once, had nothing to say. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on the shore, then when he judged them far enough out into the fjord, gave the order to dip oars and he leaned on the tiller. He brought the ship around until their prow pointed towards home. They travelled in silence for a time, as the full impact of what had just happened sank in. Rathulf had picked a fight with the brother of the most powerful man in Norway. One part of him reeled at his stupidity, but another part of him crowed with triumph. I survived through none other than Eirik’s intervention!
Rathulf laughed scornfully at himself. Triumph? This is a disaster. We came for Leif and instead here we are scuttling away with our tails between our legs and an order never to return. And how far has my recovery been set back by my humiliatingly brief scrap with Horik? And Odin only knows what harm has been done to Alrik’s arm. Then there are Sigvald, Helga and father to contend with. They will likely flay my hide when they find out what I’ve done, and in front of so many witnesses too. And then to top it off, Gunnar had been right there front and centre to watch it all. I’m better off dead, Rathulf decided miserably. He didn’t even dare imagine what had become of Leif. The thought that his friend lay dead in the snow somewhere was too much for him to bear, and he quickly brushed that heart-wrenching image aside.
‘I never thought I’d hear myself saying this Alrik,’ Rathulf said, keeping his eyes shut. ‘But I wish I’d listened to you.’
‘So do I.’
Rathulf placed a hand on his chest, gingerly testing for damage. A small patch of blood showed through his tunic where Horik’s sword had penetrated the cloth and the skin beneath. He grunted at the pain that accompanied the movement. ‘Sorry,’ he said finally. ‘You must think I’m an idiot.’
‘An idiot?’ Alrik burst out. ‘Do you have any idea how close you came to getting us killed? That was Eirik the Black you berated. You know, Eirik: the same jarl who cut out the tongues of three of his men for speaking out against him at the assembly last summer. I’m the idiot for coming with you!’
Rathulf smiled to himself, remembering whose idea it had been to sneak off to Leif’s in the first place, but he decided not to make that point just now; Alrik didn’t appear to be in a receptive mood. He looked up at his friend and was shocked to find that he could barely see Alrik in the darkness, even though his companion stood just two paces away. Night had fallen suddenly and completely thanks to the overcast sky, and Alrik’s pale face floated above him like a wan moon in the inky blackness. ‘It’s not all bad,’ Rathulf said, trying to reassure his shaken friend. ‘He did let us off, and that’s got to be a first.’
Alrik let out a derisive snort. ‘Don’t believe for one moment that Horik is going to let this lie. Forcing Eirik to take your side humiliated Leif’s father in front of all those people, and he is not going to forget that. You’d better get used to wearing your sword because next time you meet Horik, you can be sure that Eirik won’t be around to save you.’
Rathulf gave up picking the spinters from his hands and looked out over the side of the ship. How in all of Midgard can Alrik could see where he’s going? ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’ he asked, noting with alarm that he had no idea where the water ended and the shore started. ‘If you ask me, it looks pretty dark to be sailing.’
Suddenly a sheer cliff face loomed in front of them, and they hit it with a jarring thud. The rowers fell backwards on impact, cursing in their own languages as they picked themselves o
ut of each other’s laps. Rathulf let out a yelp and grabbed the shield rail, expecting the hull to split open beneath him.
‘Serð mik!’ Alrik swore, hauling on the tiller. ‘That’ll be a bend.’
The ship bumped along the smooth rock face then slipped clear as the rowers back-pedalled and they swung back into open water. Rathulf let out a long breath. ‘Careful,’ he complained.
‘You’re welcome to give it a try if you think you can do better,’ Alrik snapped. ‘It’s your bloody ship after all.’
2. The sweet taste of sweat
Lustrafjorden, Norvegr
‘Don’t say anything,’ Rathulf instructed from the deck. ‘We’ll just tell them Leif wasn’t home. Nothing happened.’
‘What?’ Alrik spat. ‘Are you serious?’ Alrik stood bare-chested beside the tiller, a deep scowl clouding his face. ‘You can say whatever you want, but I’m telling them exactly what he did.’
‘You can’t! You heard what he said, and you’re going to attract attention going about half-dressed like that. You should at least put on my cloak.’
‘I don’t want your bloody clothes!’ Alrik snapped. ‘I want mine back!’ Alrik shook his head at Rathulf, and for the thousandth time, Rathulf felt both the humiliation caused by this infuriating injury and intense guilt for the distress he had caused his friend. This day was turning out to be the worst in his life. He squinted into the distance at the approaching longship, praying this really was Sigvald, although a part of him hoped it wasn’t. It was bearing down on them quickly, as if borne across the waters by some magical force.
He tried his best to stand upright, but the pain in his chest was simply too great, forcing him to lean on the mast for support. He began to wonder whether everything he had suffered during the avalanche had really been worse than this. His entire body ached, and he felt utterly exhausted. The fight with Horik, then the lecture from Eirik and subsequent cold, sleepless night on the open deck of their longship had wrung him dry. The last thing either of them had needed was further trouble, but trouble they had managed to find. How could one simple little act turn into such a calamity? It was now well into the afternoon of the day following their disastrous landing at Horik’s, and Alrik’s mood verged on hysteria. Whether he would ever forgive Rathulf for this morning’s events was doubtful. Right now, Rathulf wanted to crawl into his bed and die. Never had he felt so terrible in his life. Hard to believe though it was, they would have been better off staying the night at Horik’s.
Instead, Rathulf and Alrik had rowed long into the previous night, and despite Alrik’s confidence, the young captain had taken a wrong turn somewhere. Instead of leading them to the home of a friend of his father’s, he had steered them in a series of wrong turns towards the steading of a particularly unpleasant jarl who, had they known it at the time, was the last person they would want to ask for hospitality. Realising they were hopelessly lost, Rathulf and Alrik had rejoiced upon seeing the lights of the farmstead. Rejuvenated by the thought of a cosy fire-hall and a mug of warm mead, they put on an extra turn of speed, only to find themselves met by wild shouts and the baying of dogs from the shore.
Alrik had managed to get the ship around in time to escape unharmed and hopefully unidentified, but the encounter shook them badly. Alrik had ordered his slaves to ship oars as soon as he deemed them far enough away from the unfriendly quarter. They pulled into the shore and made fast to an overhanging oak, remaining in the dubious shelter of its leafless branches for the remainder of the night. No one came after them – from Horik’s or any other camp – but regardless, neither Alrik nor Rathulf could afford to fall asleep. Chained to their benches as they may have been, the twelve cold and hungry slaves could easily have overpowered the two boys, tossed them over the side, then rowed off to freedom. Rathulf didn’t dare think what either he or Alrik would have done had the slaves been bold enough to mutiny, given their weakened state.
When dawn finally came, they quickly worked out where they’d gone wrong in the dark, but their error had led them into unfriendly territory. To add to their predicament, both boys had seen a longship making its way towards them from the direction they’d gone last night, although neither had mentioned it to the other in the hope that it might just go away. It didn’t, and things had rapidly deteriorated between the two exhausted friends.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve done this heaps of times before,’ Rathulf said sarcastically, gazing up at the unfamiliar landscape of steep mountainsides and hanging valleys. ‘Well steered, Sea-master Alrik. You’ve taken us into Gaupnefjorden, which both our fathers have forbidden us to enter. Given what happened last night, now we know why.’
Alrik scowled back at his friend, just as angry with Rathulf for getting them into this mess in the first place. ‘Gee Alrik, I’m bored. Let’s go pick a fight with Eirik and Horik. That should be fun. A fat lot of good it did us, and where’s Leif? Not even home. Brilliant.’
‘It was your idea!’ Rathulf protested, ‘and a lot of help you were when Horik came at me.’
‘What could I do, Rathulf Iron-fist? I wasn’t the one who hit Horik in front of the most powerful jarl in Norvegr, who just happens to be his brother, and let’s not forget the shipload of armed men at his back. Oh, and next time you challenge someone to a duel, try to remember to take your sword with you. Iron-head is a better name for you.’
‘Fine,’ Rathulf said curtly. ‘So I made a mistake. Happy? Eirik let us off, so no harm was done. Now stop complaining and do something to get us out of here.’ He waved his hand violently at the fjord. ‘That’s unless you’re waiting to ask directions.’
‘Ahoy there! Are you lads all right?’
Rathulf started at the sound of the voice and Alrik spun around so quickly that he almost lost his balance. A plain, battle-scarred longship drew towards them at a lazy pace, and at its prow stood a huge, muscular giant with fiery red hair and beard, dressed in a rich brown cloak that flapped around his ankles.
‘We’re fine,’ Alrik shouted back quickly, waving them on. ‘They were quick,’ he muttered.
‘Get us out of here,’ Rathulf whispered.
‘What? There’s no way we can outrun them. Let’s just pretend we’re out fishing or something.’
‘You do know who that is?’ Rathulf spoke louder than he had intended, and the burly captain of the other ship raised his bushy eyebrows.
‘Are you sure we can’t help you?’
‘We’re fine,’ Rathulf said, standing up and gripping the halyard for support. ‘We took a wrong turn last night.’
‘Rathulf!’ Alrik spat, his green eyes blazing.
‘Rathulf Thorvaldarsson?’ the sailor asked, more interested than ever now. Rathulf saw the faces of the crew turn towards him.
‘Great,’ he heard Alrik mutter. ‘Now they know who we are.’
‘Of course he knows who we are!’ Rathulf hissed back. ‘Yes, that is I,’ he said in a louder voice, ‘and who might I have the pleasure of greeting?’ He already suspected he knew the answer, but a large part of him fervently prayed he was wrong.
The longship drew closer, and the Viking saluted. ‘Ivar Blood-trader, jarl of Gaupnefjorden and slaver to the Northern Lords.’
Rathulf heard Alrik croak in horror behind him. Ivar Blood-trader’s reputation was well-known, and as his name implied, the pirate was a dealer in men, women and children in exchange for gold. He held no scruples whatsoever, to the point where it had been said by some that he had even sold his own kin into slavery. Right now, looking into those cold, hard eyes, Rathulf believed it. His heart pounded wildly, and for a moment he wondered if there might be any hope of escape. He could try swimming for the shore, but with his ribs, he’d be lucky to get over the side, and he could hardly leave Alrik to die on his own. They were doomed, delivered right into Ivar’s hands by their own stupidity. Rathulf knew the slaver lived somewhere on Sognefjorden, but so near? Now he understood why Bardi and Sigvald had warned them against sailing here.
Ra
thulf looked across to Alrik, and beyond him, the slaves. What a splendid prize Ivar had found: a shipload of conveniently-packed thralls with the added bonus of two fine specimens of Viking manhood in their prime; sixteen and seventeen years old respectively, strong and fit – injuries aside – and worth a small fortune in the slave markets in the east. Rathulf had heard about the eastern masters and their taste for the young flesh of the west. A shiver ran up his spine as Ivar eyed him as though he were a succulent side of meat awaiting the knife.
Ivar’s leering smile broadened, his clean white teeth flashing amid the red mass of his beard. ‘You’re looking a little pale, Master Rathulf,’ the slaver purred, sounding concerned. ‘Was your journey over-rough?’
‘Ah… no… that is…’ Rathulf stuttered, ardently wishing that he was anywhere else but here. ‘We really don’t wish to trouble you, so we shall take our leave,’ he finally managed to say.
Ivar’s smile remained, but his eyes betrayed his hunger. ‘So that I may forswear your pleasurable company? No. I think you should stay a while.’ He turned his gaze upon Alrik. ‘I should especially enjoy sharing a drink with your comely friend.’
Rathulf felt Alrik tense beside him. He swallowed.
‘That pretty little ship,’ Ivar continued, looking back at Rathulf, ‘wouldn’t belong to Alrik Bardisson by any chance?’