by Peter Fox
He arrived back at the house and took a deep breath. Calm down, he told himself. He’s likely having breakfast with his father. He was probably out on the toilet when I checked earlier. He opened the door to find Thorvald and Helga deep in conversation.
‘Is Ra with you?’ he asked, peering beyond Thorvald to check Rathulf’s sleeping place. It was empty.
Both shook their heads.
‘Isn’t he with Ingrith?’ Helga asked, surprised. ‘Husband?’ she added, seeing his expression.
At that moment, there was a clatter from the doorway, and Alrik burst inside, closely followed by his father. ‘He’s not here,’ Alrik said, panting.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Thorvald said.
‘I’ve just been to the stable.’ Alrik paused to take a breath. ‘Tariq’s gone.’
‘What?’ Sigvald spat, his worst fears realised.
‘I don’t understand,’ Thorvald said, frowning.
‘Rathulf’s gone to get Leif!’ Alrik said, astonished and disappointed all at once. He pointed to Rathulf’s bed-place. ‘Look, his sword’s missing, and his hunting bag.’
Sigvald swore roundly. ‘Idiot!’ he roared at no one in particular. ‘Someone fetch Myran. He’s got to be in on this. I’ll wring his scrawny little neck, the mangy Persian maggot.’ He turned to Bardi. ‘We haven’t a hope of catching up with the boy now, especially on that bloody horse of his. I’ll take a party after him by land; I might just catch him on his way back. You go by sea just in case someone’s there with a ship or something. If there’d been any wind at all, you might have been able to beat him there, but the Gods are against us today.’
‘What’ll you do when you find him?’ Arik asked, alarmed by Sigvald’s fury.
‘Wring his neck and his balls.’
5. Berserker
Horiksby, Lustrafjorden, Norvegr
Something was wrong. Rathulf felt it as soon as he passed through the steading’s gate, and his feelings of unease grew as he rode up the short path to the house. Horik’s hogs wandered freely about the home field, and the sty gate was inexplicably hanging open. Two large sows had broken into the granary and were gorging themselves on the miraculous supply of sweet barley and rye. A goat stood upon the turf roof of the farmhouse, watching Rathulf suspiciously, while its companions busily demolished the vegetable patch below. Rathulf dismounted and called out to Leif.
When no answer came, he drew his sword and moved cautiously towards the house, his chest tightening. He called again, but he was met with the same chilling silence. He paused, uncertain whether to go in or call for help. Don’t be a fool, he scolded himself. Horik is probably drunk again, and Leif has gone out with the sheep somewhere. He knocked on the door and listened.
Still there was no answer, so Rathulf carefully eased the door open and stepped inside. His foot squelched in something wet, and he looked down, frowning. A dark pool of blood glistened up at him. He sprang back outside, swearing in shock and wiping his shoe on the grass. His immediate thought was that Horik had finally gone too far and had killed his son. The hairs prickled on Rathulf’s neck, and he swung around, half expecting to find the crazed drunkard standing behind him, wielding whatever weapon he had used against Leif. But Rathulf was alone, save for the stray goat which now stood precariously close to the edge of the roof to keep watch on him.
Rathulf turned back to the house. He stood outside the door, trying to gather the courage to go in and confirm his fears. I want to be a man, he told himself, and so I must face my fear like a man. Another part of him thought otherwise, and he felt a sudden urge to get as far away from Horik’s farm as possible. He glanced at Tariq for support, but the stallion was of no help whatsoever. He seemed far more interested in the tempting store of grain that was currently being wasted on the two sows. I should have brought Alrik with me, Rathulf thought, now regretting not bringing his companion into the plan. But I didn’t, he told himself, so there’s nothing for it. With that, he wrapped both hands around the hilt of his sword, pushed the door wide open and walked inside.
The remains of the hearth fire smouldered in the centre of the room, and a single oil lamp sputtered above the bench nearby, casting a dim, uncertain light. The place reeked with the stench of blood, vomit and excrement, and Rathulf fought back the impulse to throw up. He was aware that a dark shape lay on the earthen floor near his feet, and he stared at the opposite wall, not daring to look down. He had never seen a murdered person before. Alrik’s grandfather had passed away in his sleep and had looked peaceful enough in death, and even Ragnar’s end – when the ship he had been working on fell off its slips and crushed him – had been neither gruesome nor particularly traumatic to Rathulf. But this was Leif, his friend, killed by his father’s own hand. Rathulf closed his eyes for a moment, then he swallowed and looked down. He recoiled in shock when he saw what lay before him.
Horik, or what remained of him, lay in a sea of blood, his face and head battered almost beyond recognition. Shards of gleaming white bone and lumps of pulped brain spread in a sloppy mass onto the floor from the hole where his skull had burst open. A thick block of wood lay beside Horik, the dark grain coated in a grisly plaster of blood and flesh. Something else was attached to the beam, and with a sickening flash, Rathulf realised that it was an eyeball. He uttered a cry of horror and flew outside, barely making it into the sunlight before vomiting.
He staggered away from the house over to the brook that ran through the home field. He fell to his hands and knees and plunged his face into the sparkling, clear waters, desperately trying to wash away the taste and smell of the sick from his lips. The image of Horik’s shattered skull returned, and he retched until his throat burned. Lord Odin protect me, he gasped. I am not ready for this. I will never be ready for this. And surely Leif couldn’t have done that. Leif didn’t kill. Leif didn’t even own a dagger.
He heard a sound behind him, and he swung around in fright, but it was only Tariq, come to find out what was wrong. He looked down at his master, concerned but unafraid, and a little of Rathulf’s terror subsided under the stallion’s calming gaze. Rathulf stood up shakily, holding Tariq’s harness for support. He lay his face against his mount’s neck and breathed in the familiar smell of him, trying to soothe the convulsions that shook his body. He stood like that for a long time, clinging to his horse for dear life, while the stallion, in turn, curved his head protectively around his master.
When Rathulf finally mustered the will to open his eyes and look about him, the shaking had settled, but he felt cold and sore. His body ached all over as though someone had thrown him down a slope strewn with sharp rocks, but his head seemed a little clearer, and the terror that had come with the discovery had waned. He gave Tariq’s neck a gentle pat and sighed. Tariq snorted and nodded towards the house. Rathulf turned and saw that someone, or something, was standing by the door, watching him. It took Rathulf a few moments to realise it was Leif.
His friend stood before him naked, his thin body smeared with blood, vomit and dirt. Rathulf called Leif’s name, but his friend stood staring blankly into space. Rathulf took a few cautious steps toward him, unsure how Leif might react. ‘Leif, it’s me,’ Rathulf said carefully. Leif showed no sign of recognition. Rathulf moved closer, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on Leif’s face. Leif continued to stare right through him, even when Rathulf had come to within arms’ reach of him.
Rathulf paused, painfully aware that his sword lay on the grass by the brook. Now what? he wondered. This was territory entirely unknown to him. The Leif that Rathulf had known was quiet and predictable; subservient to the point of being irritating. But the person who stood before Rathulf was not Leif, and the more Rathulf looked, the more convinced he became that this was not his friend at all. He had heard of such things, of monsters taking on the form of humans. One of them had slaughtered a whole household last summer then disappeared into the mountains before anyone could catch it. Had the same thing happened here? Rathulf backed away, mutter
ing a quick prayer to Thor for protection. He decided to risk a glance behind him, but no sooner had he removed his gaze from the Jötunn than its eyes suddenly changed focus, and it looked directly at Rathulf. Rathulf’s heart froze. He took another step backwards and thrust his hand out behind him, groping for Tariq’s bridle, reins, tail, anything. The changeling snarled at Rathulf, its blue eyes burning with an unsettling ferocity. ‘Go away,’ it said.
‘Leif, I’m your friend, remember?’ Rathulf offered, trying to sound calm. The Jötunn’s eyes narrowed, and it bared its teeth menacingly. ‘You’re not my friend!’ it snarled at him.
‘Serð mik!’ Rathulf blurted. He turned and ran.
The beast leapt after him with a half screech, half growl. The young Norseman ran towards his horse, yelling Tariq’s name, intending to jump up and gallop to safety. He got no more than five paces. The monster threw itself at Rathulf’s back and clamped on tight. Rathulf cried out and crashed to the ground, struggling against the thing that tore at his neck and face. Its claws ripped into Rathulf’s cheek, and he screamed, twisting his body violently in a desperate attempt to throw it off. There was a surprised grunt in his ear, and he felt the beast’s grip loosen. Rathulf wrenched himself away and scrambled on his hands and knees towards the creek, but the troll let out a guttural snarl and grabbed his legs, pulling him back. Rathulf kicked at it as hard as he could, feeling his boots hit its face and shoulders, but it held on. ‘Sweet Baldur,’ Rathulf gasped. ‘Don’t let me suffer this fate!’
His saviour came in an unexpected form. Rathulf heard a whinny beside him, then a sharp crack as Tariq’s iron-shod hoof connected with the changeling’s skull. The thing let go, and suddenly all was still. Rathulf sprang up and ran to retrieve his sword. He snatched it up and whirled around, ready to face the wild-eyed beast.
Tariq stood beside the filth-smeared thing, strangely unconcerned by the danger it presented. Rathulf advanced cautiously, keeping one eye on his mount, and the other on the Jötunn, which lay on its back in the grass. A trickle of blood ran down the monster’s temple, but its chest still heaved. Rathulf’s heart skipped a beat. It lived. Now what do I do? he wondered. The law demanded that he kill it, but to kill a troll, one first had to sever its head from its shoulders, then cut out its heart, and finally, burn the three parts in separate places so that they may not get back together again.
Rathulf glanced at the house. Surely Leif could not have done that to Horik. Only a monster could have caused that much damage. He looked back down at the thing that inhabited Leif’s body. This was once my friend, he despaired. How can I cut out its heart? It blinked up at him and frowned. In a panic, Rathulf lifted his sword and held its point over the beast’s chest.
‘Rathulf?’ it said weakly, still frowning up at him.
Rathulf stayed his thrust and peered down at the Jötunn, terrified and uncertain. It is a ploy to trick you, a voice inside his head warned him. Kill it before it kills you!
‘You can’t fool me,’ Rathulf growled, tightening his grip on the hilt. ‘What have you done with my friend?’
Rathulf glanced at Tariq, but the horse had turned away and was chewing on the grass by the brook. Why aren’t you afraid? Rathulf demanded angrily in his thoughts. Help me! He heard a strangled sound and looked down at the imposter, which was, in turn, looking back at Rathulf, despair in its eyes. All of the hatred and animosity had vanished, and instead, tears ran down its grimy face. ‘Kill me,’ it said. ‘Please… just kill me.’
Rathulf was speechless. The Jötunn had gone, and lying in the grass instead was his friend.
‘Do it,’ Leif pleaded, crying. ‘Please?’ He suddenly reached up to grab the blade, but Rathulf pulled it away and threw it out of reach.
Leif closed his eyes and turned away, sobbing.
Rathulf let out a long hissing breath and sank to his knees beside his friend. Leif lay in the grass, weeping quietly.
They stayed like that in silence for a long while, as the goat returned to its meal on the roof and the pigs noisily resumed their gorging.
‘They’ll kill me for this, won’t they?’ Leif said eventually, staring up into the sky. ‘That’s what they do to boys who murder their fathers.’
Rathulf looked upon his friend with renewed respect. ‘Did you really do that?’ he asked, both horrified and amazed. Who would have thought that Leif had the Berserker rage in him? Whatever suffering Horik had inflicted upon his son, this time must have been grave to have awoken it. Even so, there is no excuse in the law for what Leif has done.
‘We have to get out of here,’ Rathulf said, knowing that if anyone arrived while Rathulf and Leif were present, they would both be charged with murder. Rathulf reached out to his friend, but Leif recoiled. ‘Leif,’ Rathulf said urgently, ‘we have to go.’
Leif shook his head and refused to move. ‘No,’ he said, sounding strangely determined. ‘I don’t want you getting involved in this. You’re always getting into trouble because of me.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Leif. I’m hardly going to leave you here, am I? Now get up.’
Leif refused. ‘No, Rathulf. Get away now while you can. I mean it!’
‘You’re coming with me, whether you want to or not,’ Rathulf said.
Leif gave him a long, hard look, then his mouth twisted into a peculiar smile; one which carried no mirth in it at all. ‘Of course I am,’ he said, letting out a half-laugh, half sob. Suddenly he rolled over and vomited; the shock of what he had done, the pig muck he had been forced to eat, and internal injuries from the beating all taking their effect. He tried to get up, but he fell to his knees, bent over in pain. The taste of the mud and bile made him throw up again all over himself, but he didn’t make any effort to move. He cried, no doubt ashamed that his friend should see him in such a miserable state.
‘Sorðit!’ Leif swore as he spat out the remnants of vomit and bile.
Rathulf crouched down and held a steadying hand out to his friend, all the while fighting to keep his own shock and distress in control. Leif angrily smacked Rathulf’s hand away.
‘I don’t want your help,’ he said.
Rathulf felt a surge of pity rise in his heart. ‘It’s over, Leif,’ was all he could think to say. ‘You’re free of him now.’
Leif looked back at him, his face covered in filth and eyes filling with tears of despair. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll never be free. Don’t you get it? Never!’ He held Rathulf’s gaze a moment longer, then he closed his eyes and broke down again.
Rathulf bent down and scooped Leif into his arms, smearing himself in mud, blood and vomit in the process. He staggered over to the stream and carefully sat Leif down in the cold water, and then he proceeded to wash him. Leif neither struggled nor helped Rathulf; he just sat there crying, allowing his friend to look after him however he saw fit. But as soon as Rathulf touched Leif’s skin, his friend yelped and pulled away.
‘What is it?’ Rathulf asked, splashing water onto Leif’s back. ‘Hel’s thighs,’ he gasped as the grime disappeared to reveal overlapping welts on Leif’s back. Some still oozed blood, and Leif cried out again when Rathulf touched one of them. Tears of anger and pity sprang to Rathulf’s eyes as he cleaned away the rest of the muck, but he forced them down. Lash marks scored much of Leif’s back, and Rathulf finally had to look away, the pain of his friend’s suffering overwhelming him. Large bruises also marked Leif’s arms and legs, and his torso was swollen in many places where Horik had kicked him. Rathulf’s hands trembled as a wave of rage swept over him, and he looked toward the house, feeling nothing but loathing for the dead farmer.
You got what you deserved, he thought angrily. He was also furious with himself, for he knew that Horik must have been beating his son while Rathulf had been partying with his friends; no doubt because Rathulf had been celebrating his birthday. Rathulf cursed himself for his selfishness and stupidity. I should have been more insistent with Eirik, Sigvald and father. Instead, I went back to my fun while Horik was bat
tering Leif to within a breath of his life. And now, as a result, Leif has killed his father and will likely suffer the same fate himself, all because I was too self-centred to notice.
A dark knot of rage tightened inside Rathulf’s heart as he cleaned Leif’s shredded back, despising himself for allowing this appalling thing to happen.
‘I should’ve come,’ Ra said in dismay. ‘I should’ve ignored Eirik and come straight back for you.’
Leif twisted around to look at Rathulf, grimacing as he did so. ‘You think you’re different from the others, don’t you?’ he said bitterly. ‘You’re not, you know. You’re worse. You keep screwing everything up.’
Rathulf looked away, trying to suppress the hot rush of anger that came with Leif’s indictment. It wasn’t my fault our house was wrecked! he wanted to say, and you’re the one who wanted to go back to Horik’s! But Leif was right. How many times in the past had Leif attempted to call on Rathulf’s or for that matter anyone else’s help, but to no avail? People knew what was going on, but no one ever did anything to fix it, least of all Rathulf. There was no one at all in the world Leif could turn to for help; not even his friend.
Rathulf felt immensely ashamed of himself, and his friends and family too. They would all come rushing to Leif’s aid now, of course, but it would all be too late; just as Leif had said. Everything was always too late for Leif. Rathulf stripped off his own tunic and washed it as best he could, then he bent down and helped Leif to his feet and led him up onto the grass. He left his friend sitting in the sun to dry while he went back to the house to gather together some of Leif’s things.
He took a deep breath and walked through the other entrance via the storeroom, keeping his eyes away from the grisly remains of Horik as he made his way across the other end of the house to Leif’s sleeping place. There was very little to collect; just a few clothes and a small bag of trinkets Leif kept in the bottom of his trunk. All the while a terrible ache of regret gnawed at Rathulf’s soul, and a part of him wanted to take up the block of wood and bash Horik’s body until nothing remained of the monstrous man. But he managed to keep his rage in check and quickly made his way back outside, pulling the door shut behind him, and in so doing, setting his life on a trajectory from which there would be no retreat.