by Peter Fox
In the end, it was the weather that dictated his actions. He’d not get far now, especially as he’d spent the last two days crouched in his lair drooling over his treasure and thus wasting the fair skies. Instead, he’d used up all his food and fuel, which meant that he’d left himself with no other choice than to return home. That he could have left the fjordlands altogether was out of the question at this time of year, but then he’d not come up here with that in mind, at least not initially. Perhaps it is best, then, that the trunk stay where it is for the time being, and I can have a little more time to properly plan my escape to a new life in a new land.
He turned back to the entrance and peered outside. Through the blue smoke haze, he saw that heavy clouds were settling over the hills. Time to go, he thought, gathering up his pack. When he felt its lightness, he cursed himself for having just put the extra lump of peat on the fire. Then he laughed at himself and pulled out the remaining two blocks and set them up on the shelf beside the trunk. What was the use of taking them back home? I’ll need them for when I come back in summer to get the box.
He shuddered to think what punishment awaited him. His father would be beside himself with rage by now, and even Eirik’s threats against his brother had little sway with Horik. But Leif had to keep trusting that this was part of some divine plan that hopefully did not involve him being killed at Horik’s hand. The whole exercise of recovery had been so trouble-free, however, that Leif remained deeply suspicious that the Gods had yet another surprise in store for him.
They’re probably cooking up some new diabolical way to dash my dreams and ensure I never get away from this shitful place, he mused grimly. He let out a grunt as a thought came to him. What better way to guarantee that no one ever finds the trunk again than to make me slip on the ice up here and break my leg. Doomed to die out in the open, alone; a feast for the hungry trolls and other monsters of Ull who will ensure that no trace of me remains.
With that bleak thought, he collected his skis and snowshoes and made his way outside. He took one last look at his little sanctuary, then he began the long trudge home.
✽ ✽ ✽
On board the Wave Skimmer, Sognefjorden, Norvegr
Rathulf leaned far out over the side of the Wave Skimmer, his eyes closed, one hand clutching the topmost strake, the other riffling the water as he revelled in the ship’s speed. Spray stung his face as a stiff westerly breeze filled the sail and drove them swiftly up the fjord towards Sigvaldsby.
It had been two days since they’d abandoned the search for the trunk. They had stayed that night, then packed the ships ready for sail the following day. It had been a strange last evening at Thorvaldsby, and despite his insistence that he would be back, Rathulf nevertheless had the oddest feeling that he would not return.
‘You’ll fall in, idiot!’ Alrik shouted from the stern, then to make his point, yanked on the tiller so that the yacht rolled steeply and the shield rail dipped below the surface.
Rathulf let out a yelp as he lost his balance and his arm plunged into the freezing water. It was all he could do to haul himself back up to safety and not, as Alrik had clearly intended, tumble into the fjord. His friend laughed at him from his place at the steering board, although with the angle of the ship and the low cut of the sail, all Rathulf saw were Alrik’s legs. Cursing colourfully, Rathulf ducked under the bulging sheet, intent on revenge. Ingrith grinned at him from her place beside her cousin. Rathulf spat out another profanity when he saw that it was she who held the rudder, not Alrik.
‘You could have drowned me,’ he complained.
‘I’m just reminding you not to get too big-headed,’ she retorted. ‘We don’t want you getting above yourself, slave-boy.’
‘He’s the one who wants to be king,’ Rathulf countered, pointing at Alrik. ‘I was happy just being me.’
His friends both looked back at him sceptically, but neither offered to contradict him. Alrik nodded up at the towering mountainside to their right and the heavy grey clouds that truncated its summit. ‘We’re in for more snow,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope Aunt Helga’s stores hold out. I don’t fancy there’ll be much early trading this year.’
Rathulf peered upwards into the gloom and was at once struck by the memory of his conversation with his father on the night of the avalanche; about how much Rathulf had desired to be a Viking and earn his place amongst the Northmen, when all the while the Gods had been deviously working against him. Thorvald had sealed their fate when he’d made the decision to keep the truth from his adopted son, and so had begun this tumultuous journey. Rathulf could only imagine how differently things might have turned out had Thorvald given him the trunk that night. There’d have been no avalanche. Leif would be safe at Thorvaldsby. Alrik and I would not have had our altercation with Horik, or run into Ivar… Rathulf let out a muttered curse and cut off that futile strand of thought. What’s the point of wishing for something else now? he thought grimly. It is what it is. Fate has led us to this place, and now we must live with the consequences. Hopefully we’re on the right path now, and Dumnonia will fulfil the promise that it supposedly holds for me; for all of us.
Rathulf certainly hoped so, for so much seemed to be riding on it now, although he had absolutely no idea how or where to begin this next leg in his life’s unpredictable passage. Which brought him full circle to the trunk again. Why, if it was so important, did it remain missing? If this was all happening to some divine plan, then it could mean only one thing: there was more trouble yet to come. He shivered at that thought.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Alrik said, wrapping his good arm around Rathulf’s shoulder and grinning at him. ‘Anything’s got to be better than this frigid bloody place.’ He paused, then twisted on his hip and peered into Rathulf’s face, his eyes twinkling with the boundless confidence that belonged exclusively to Alrik. ‘It’s going to be alright, you know,’ he said, once again surprising Rathulf with his insight. ‘And I’m gonna keep saying this until you believe me: I’ll be here, right beside you, and so will Sigvald, your dad, Helga, Ingrith and half the fjordlands like as not. It’s gonna be scary, sure, but it’s also gonna be amazing! It’ll be the adventure to end all adventures!’ He leaned back and tilted his handsome face to one side, seeing that Rathulf remained unconvinced. ‘Well, maybe not quite as exciting as Konastinopol, but hey, it’s pretty close.’
Rathulf couldn’t help but smile, both for Alrik’s terrible pronunciation and his enthusiasm.
‘What?’ Alrik said, still holding Rathulf’s gaze. His grin broadened. ‘Uh oh, you’re about to get soppy.’
Rathulf laughed. ‘Says you!’ He pulled himself from Alrik’s grip and returned to the Wave Skimmer’s prow, leaving the other two to steer the ship. This time he wisely hung onto the stem-post and stood straight and tall, his thoughts returning to the approaching summer and what it might bring. Suddenly the hairs prickled on Rathulf’s neck, and Aneurin appeared in Rathulf’s mind’s eye. This time his kinsman’s expression was different. Aneurin’s hazel eyes looked not through Rathulf at some far-distant point but instead stared directly at him. All trace of despair had gone, and instead, Rathulf felt a frightening sense of determination pouring from Aneurin’s hazel frown. Rathulf took an involuntary step away from the vision, nearly pitching backwards onto the deck.
For a moment – no more than the barest flicker of a torch flame – the image before Rathulf became clear and real. He saw the interior of a building, dark and damp, with filthy hay piled up on the floor, and in the shadows beyond, he sensed the shuffling of beasts. It was so convincing that he even smelt the sickly sweet stench of cattle dung and silage. Rathulf lifted his hand and reached out to his kinsman, but Aneurin vanished, to be replaced by the deep blue waters of the fjord. Rathulf kept his hand outstretched nonetheless, startled by the unexpected potency of the image. He stared into the blue-black depths, watching the water rush beneath the prow as they rode the stiff breeze up Sognefjorden; the image having faded, but
the feeling of premonition growing within him.
I have heard you, brother, he thought, and I am coming.
PART II
Westseaxna Ríce
Sólmónað, 823 AD
(Kingdom of Wessex
Late February, 823 AD)
6. Escape
A river near Worgemynster, Kingdom of Wessex
Saeric, newly-escaped slave of Baldwyn, Saxon thegn of Wilcote, stumbled and fell face-first onto the damp forest floor, his body at full stretch. His ankle chain had snagged on a stump and stuck fast, wrenching him to a sudden stop. Spitting mud and mouldy leaves from his mouth, the twenty-three-year-old twisted around and yanked at the iron links, pulling them free of the rotting wood. Through the driving rain he saw that his pursuers were nearly upon him, doggedly bashing through the dense underbrush after him, swords drawn and shouting at him to halt.
He scrambled to his feet and pushed on, exhausted, but by no means beaten. The river must be on the other side of this hill, he told himself, having been disappointed more than once already. He had crested the last two heavily wooded ridges only to find another rising ahead of him. Which can’t be a good thing, he decided, given how noisy the river is now.
It had been raining solidly for two days, and he knew how fast and high the rivers could rise in these parts. At least the weather had given him an advantage; he’d have been caught by now if it wasn’t for this downpour. Despite the hindrance of his injury and the ankle irons, he was lighter on his feet than his pursuers. The thegn’s men wore leather armour that grew heavier and more cumbersome with the rain, and they thrashed about in the brambles with their swords, which, predictably, slowed them down as the blades tangled in the vines. Saeric had purposefully aimed for the thickest, foulest undergrowth, barely noticing the thorns tearing at his body as he barged through. He had experienced worse pain than this, and, short of actually losing a limb, he was determined that nothing would prevent his escape.
He came upon the river suddenly. It raged through a steep, narrow gorge ahead of him. He hesitated. I can’t go into that! Saeric heard a muffled shout behind him then the thwack of an arrow thudding into a tree to his right. Sarding cheats! he thought. He threw a glance behind him, then half slid, half ran down the slope. The next arrow flew true, striking him in his left shoulder. He stumbled and yelped in shock and pain, but the slope was so steep that his momentum carried him downwards, and the arrow was immediately ripped free by the bushes as Saeric pushed on towards the river. There was another shout from his pursuers, and then the river was right in front of him, thundering through the narrow passage in a foam-wracked fury.
Even had he wanted to stop, Saeric had no hope of avoiding his fate. He barely managed to gulp in a breath of air before hitting the maelstrom.
Satan, save me, he thought as he hit the water.
The torrent grabbed him and tossed him upside down, then rolled him end over end in a disorienting pummelling as it swept him away from his pursuers. He had already forgotten them, his focus now on saving himself from drowning. He hit numerous rocks as he tumbled down-stream, then the river smacked him into a large boulder that split the flow midway. He cried out, losing the last of his precious breath to the tumult.
In desperation, he grasped at the rock but was dragged away by the powerful current. He managed to snatch another breath before being pulled under again. All the while, he struggled to push himself out of the main flow, aware that his ankle chain might at any moment jam amongst the rocks on the riverbed. If that happened, he’d drown, no matter how determined he was to survive.
The Devil had other plans for him, however, for soon afterwards the river rounded a bend and Saeric’s tumbling, battering passage eased. He burst to the surface, drew in a ragged breath, and quickly looked around, expecting to be dragged under again at any instant. But luck was with him, and he had been spat out by the current into a gentle eddy that was taking him over to the opposite bank. He paddled towards the shore, grabbed an overhanging bough and hauled himself up with his good arm, clinging onto the damp, slippery branch as he caught his breath. He hung there for a while, smiling at the thought of the thwarted faces of his pursuers.
You’re not free yet, he reminded himself, aware of the sharp pain in his left shoulder. He shuffled his way along to the riverbank. As soon as his feet found land, he pulled himself up the muddy bank and stumbled into the forest that crowded this side of the river, knowing that he had to get as far into the trees as possible if he was to avoid being spotted by his pursuers. With any luck they’ll have given up the chase, he thought. Surely they won’t think I could have survived the river.
Once he felt himself safely hidden, he paused and took another long breath, knowing that he was in bad shape. He shivered both from the bone-chilling cold and the shock of his ordeal. Shelter, he thought, looking up at the darkening sky. I need to find it and quickly. The chain snagged again, and he swore. And I need to get this sarding thing off me! He yanked his leg angrily, but the chain was stuck fast, and he lost his balance and fell over again. He didn’t quite make it to the ground this time because a protruding branch caught the heavy leather collar that bound his throat and nearly strangled him. In a fit of rage he tugged at the brutal choker, trying to break the iron pin that held it shut, but it was to no avail, and all he succeeded in doing was to cut his neck; his skin already fragile due to the constant chafing of the thick band. He swore roundly, then he closed his eyes and consciously steadied his breathing.
I’m nearly there, he told himself, ignoring the pathetic voice inside that pleaded with him to lie down and let God or the Devil decide his fate. He was vaguely aware of a searing pain in his left foot, and both ankles had been slashed and bruised horribly by the iron shackles. The soles of his feet had been torn to shreds by the countless sharp sticks and stones he’d trodden on during his flight from his master’s hall. Every bit of him bled, and every part of his body caused him pain or distress; and now he had a new injury to add to the hundreds of others: his left shoulder. The ragged hole left by the arrow pulsed blood freely, but he couldn’t twist his neck far enough to inspect it. What can I do about it anyway, even if I could see it?
He let out another curse and forced himself to sit up so that he could make a closer inspection of the chain attached to the iron band on his right ankle. He’d managed to break the link on the left one before he’d fled Baldwyn’s hall, but it had made such a mess of his ankle that he had left the other be, in case he crippled himself entirely. At least my feet are free of one another, he thought, but another part of him wished he’d been bold enough and finished the job. He laughed at himself. Had I tried it, I’d have broken my other foot too. I’d be dead by now; impaled on a stake alongside the other slaves who’d been blamed for the collapse of the estate’s prosperity. He smiled to himself, feeling nothing but pleasure at the thought of his mistress’s misfortune. And may you rot with your cattle, bićće. A slow and agonising death is what you deserve, and if the Devil doesn’t beat me to it, one day I’m going to deliver that gift to you myself.
He abandoned his fruitless inspection of the chain. There was nothing he could do without the right tools, which he would only find at a blacksmith’s forge. But he couldn’t just walk up to a smithy and calmly ask for assistance because the collar and ankle bands were the unmistakable symbols of his thraldom. Escaped slaves were to be put down immediately, no questions asked; no one would pause to ask his name or his master’s before they cut off his head.
So my best option is to stay out of sight, find a smithy, then lay in wait until the opportunity arises to hack off the iron bands myself, he decided. Although how he was going to manage that small feat, given how badly he’d done in his first attempt, he had no idea. He looked down at his swollen left ankle, which was covered in blood, and black and yellow with bruising. God knows what I’ve done to it, he thought grimly, knowing that it was only worsening the longer he put his weight on it. And how the Hell am I going to find a smi
thy and get these off without being caught? He laughed at himself, thinking again about the prospect of losing his head. It’s one way to get rid of this collar, I suppose.
His body convulsed in an uncontrollable shudder. He knew that sign. He’d felt it on more than one occasion in the past when he’d been out too long in similarly dreadful conditions. He’d also seen what had happened to people when they’d not paid attention to the warning signs.
If I don’t find shelter and warmth soon, they won’t need to cut off my head, he thought.
He hoisted his reluctant body to its feet, then he limped on through the forest, this time seeking the path of least resistance. The rain still pelted down relentlessly, and it was with some relief that he came upon a large farmstead soon afterwards. He made his way to the byre that adjoined the house, then he snuck in through the doorway, aware that there may be people as well as animals inside.
He came upon both, but again the Devil’s hand was at play, for the man that Saeric startled with his unexpected arrival was an ally, not a foe. Older than Saeric by at least a score of years, the stranger put his finger to his lips and ushered Saeric into a small room off the byre. At first, Saeric was hesitant, but then he saw that it was a simple living space with rudimentary furniture and trappings. Most precious of all, it boasted a small fireplace in which a warm, crackling fire burned. Remaining silent, the man indicated that Saeric should strip off his soaked clothing, which Saeric did gladly.