by Peter Fox
Rathulf walked over to Leif and handed the boy his clothes. ‘We have to get out of here,’ he said, glancing down the fjord. To his relief, there was not a ship of any kind to be seen. ‘And you need to get dressed.’
‘Why?’ Leif said. ‘What’s the use? There’s no point Ra, don’t you get it?’
Rathulf ignored him and instead pulled the boy to his feet. It was a considerable effort for Leif to pull on a clean tunic, and the boy winced and gasped as his battered body protested at the painful movements. Rathulf then led him over to the stable and saddled up Horik’s pony.
‘Do you think you can ride?’ he asked.
Leif shrugged, then he put a hand on Rathulf’s arm. Rathulf was surprised at how cold Leif’s touch was.
‘I’m asking you one last time, Ra. If you truly care about me, and you want to do what’s right by me, you’ll leave me here and go back to Thorvaldsby. Alone.’
‘What? Why would I do that?’ Rathulf said, astonished.
‘Because it’s what I want, Ra,’ Leif replied, his tone level and firm. ‘It’s what I need, what we both need.’
‘No,’ Ra said, tugging the stirrup to test the slack. He looked Leif in the eye and saw anger in his friend’s face. It was no surprise, even if it was misplaced. ‘Listen, we’ll work it out, okay? But we have to leave here first. Father and Sigvald will know what to do.’
Rathulf stood by to help Leif climb up onto his pony, then he retrieved the rest of Leif’s things and wrapped them in one of Horik’s horse blankets. This he lashed behind Leif’s saddle, taking good care to bind it tightly. Then Rathulf led Tariq over to a barrel and climbed on board, having long ago lost his embarrassment over his need for aids to mount the stallion. At some point, he’d get the knack of the heave and swing up over the high withers, but now wasn’t the time to practise that manoeuvre. Rathulf gave the word to Tariq and they were off, straight into a trot. Rathulf glanced behind him to check that Leif was following, then he eased Tariq into a canter, keen to put as much distance as possible between them and Horik’s farm, fearful of the fate that awaited them when Horik’s mangled body was inevitably discovered. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone would come to visit Horik, either by land or water.
As he rode up the valley away from the farmstead, a myriad thoughts and images flitted through his mind: Eirik and his men thundering over the next rise in front of them, axes and swords drawn; Alrik shouting at Leif for putting them all in peril; Eirik cutting Leif down in front of Rathulf and Sigvald, fountains of blood spurting everywhere; and Rathulf feeling the heavy blow in his back from a battle-axe, throwing him from his horse and cleaving his spine in two.
It was not until Sol had reached the western horizon that Rathulf eased their pace. They had made good time, all things considered. Rathulf had steered away from the well-used paths across the fells, instead choosing a wide, circuitous route home. It meant they had avoided meeting other travellers, but as a consequence, they were still a good day’s ride away from safety. He looked up at the sky. A clear blue dome stretched from horizon to horizon, so they would be able to ride on into the night and pick up some lost time.
On more than one occasion, he had thought of Alrik, Sigvald, and everyone back at Thorvaldsby, who were doubtless well on their way after him by now. And what fate has befallen poor Myran? Rathulf offered a prayer to Rig, God of slaves, to look out for the Persian. Then a terrible thought struck him: what if Sigvald or some of the other menfolk turned up at Horik’s just before or after one of Horik’s friends? What if there was a fight? What if Sigvald or, Thor forbid, Alrik was killed? He uttered another prayer, this time to his patron God, asking for his guidance and protection in what he must surely see as the honourable rescue of a friend in need.
Rathulf and Leif had not uttered a word to each other throughout their flight, and on an impulse, Rathulf turned to check on his friend. Leif was no longer behind him. Rathulf looked around in a panic, but his friend and horse were nowhere to be seen. Rathulf hurriedly retraced his steps, amazed that Leif could have disappeared so silently. Surely Leif could not have been foolish enough to try to return. Rathulf urged Tariq into a gallop.
He had just begun to panic when he found Leif lying face-down on the bank beside one of their earlier river crossings. Leif’s pony stood nearby, chewing on the lush grass. Rathulf dropped down to his friend. He rolled Leif onto his back, and the boy groaned and opened his eyes. He looked about him, clearly confused, and then he settled his gaze on Rathulf. ‘What happened?’ he said.
Rathulf heaved a sigh of relief, realising that Leif must have drifted into unconsciousness somewhere along the way, and had fallen off his mount as it had climbed up the steep bank. ‘You slipped out of your saddle,’ Rathulf said blandly. He held out a hand to help Leif to his feet.
Leif swayed for a moment, then sank back down to the grass. Leif shook his head apologetically. ‘I feel dizzy.’
‘Well I’m sorry, but we can’t stay here,’ Rathulf said, hauling his friend to his feet. He half-dragged, half-carried Leif to Horik’s pony. He tried without success to lift Leif onto the horse, and after the third attempt, he fell to his knees, exhausted by the effort. He was stunned by how weak he felt. It was as though someone had wrung all the strength from his body. He tried again, but it was no use. He dropped to the ground with his barely conscious friend cradled in his arms. Nearby, Tariq let out a little snort and looked at his master ruefully, as though he was apologising for the pony’s short-comings.
‘It’s not her fault,’ Rathulf muttered. He looked about him for a moment, then he sighed. ‘I suppose we’ll have to stay here then,’ he said to himself. At least down in this little vale they were offered some protection from the elements, and, more importantly, Horik’s friends; who, for all Rathulf knew, were already combing the fells looking for the murderers. Rathulf glanced up at the cloudless sky. The evening star shone bright and clear in the pale blue dome of Asgard as twilight slipped away. It would be a cold night.
Rathulf helped Leif along the bank to the shelter of a birch thicket, and then he fossicked about in the saddlebags to see what supplies remained for another night in the open. The pickings were not as lean as he had first feared. He always carried a fire-lighting kit, and there was still a reasonable stash of emergency rations in the form of dried mutton and salted fish. He threw out the bread; it was so dry and hard now that he could barely mark it with his teeth. The mead jar was empty; he’d not realised how much he’d drunk last night on his way to Leif’s, and as soon as he saw it, he felt a strong desire for its warm, sweet taste. He took the empty jar and filled it with water from the river instead, and then he set about making a fire. He was a little unsure about the wisdom of drawing attention to themselves out in the open like this, but he was becoming concerned about Leif, who had curled himself up into a ball and was shivering wretchedly. The fire would also ward off the sharp-clawed trolls and other beasts of the night.
There wasn’t much wood to be found; the upland meadows were mostly pasture and heath, but Rathulf went ahead and lit a fire with what little he could collect anyway. If nothing else it provided the impression of warmth, and that was good enough for Rathulf. He gathered together their meagre meal and sat down next to Leif.
‘It’s not much I know, but it’s better than nothing,’ Rathulf said, offering Leif a strip of mutton.
‘I’m cold,’ Leif muttered.
‘Cold,’ Rathulf said stupidly. ‘He’s cold.’
He stumbled over to the horses and untied the bundle that held Leif’s things. Leif’s clothes spilt out onto the grass, and Rathulf scooped them up and ran back to Leif. The boy was shivering violently now, and Rathulf spread the clothes over him, topping them with Leif’s cloak. He bundled up a couple of shirts and a tunic and placed them under Leif’s head for a pillow. Leif’s teeth still chattered, and his body shook with terrible spasms. ‘Now what?’ Rathulf muttered in despair, and then he remembered the horse blanket. He
shook the hair and dust out of it as best he could before laying it over Leif’s temporary bedclothes. It seemed to make little difference, but there was nothing more Rathulf could do. He sat and watched Leif anxiously, afraid to take his eyes from him even for a moment, in case his friend died while he was not looking. His concern was unwarranted, however, for Leif soon settled into sleep.
Rathulf remained beside Leif as the sky continued to darken overhead. Before long, the high dome of Asgard sparkled with the millions of flickering embers from Muspelheim. Rathulf leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes, shocked at how the day’s fortunes had changed so rapidly, so disastrously. It was like the avalanche all over again, smashing his life asunder and once again hurling him violently off course, towards who knew what fate? That said, one thing was sure: the immediate future was going to be very unpleasant indeed.
✽ ✽ ✽
Rathulf’s meagre supply of wood ran out sometime towards the middle of the night, and as the coals winked out one by one, a penetrating coldness settled upon him. Despite having his cloak to protect him, Rathulf began to shiver, and he wrapped his arms around his shoulders in a vain attempt to stay warm. Frigid air flowed down from the mountains in an invisible stream, cutting straight through him and chilling him to the core. Time passed interminably slowly, and Rathulf found himself looking hopefully towards the east for any hint of the coming dawn. He sat cross-legged with the tree at his back. His unsheathed sword now lay across his legs, ready to defend them from whatever beasts of the night might come hunting. Yesterday he’d allowed himself a couple of hours’ sleep at dawn; too afraid to camp out alone on the high fells at night, knowing how unsafe it was. For that reason, he had to remain awake now; it would be ironic to have gone to all this effort only to be torn to shreds by one of the beasts of the night.
Leif had fallen into a deep sleep, his breaths coming more or less regularly. The boy no longer shivered, but at times he moaned and shifted position. Rathulf ensured that his friend remained well covered, but as the night wore on, he began to think that perhaps Leif didn’t need all those layers after all. But when Rathulf leaned across to retrieve the heavy woollen horse blanket, Leif muttered in his sleep and clasped onto it. Rathulf drew away quietly, feeling guilty. There was a movement beside him, and Rathulf sprang aside, yelping and snatching out his dagger. It was just Tariq.
‘Hel’s thighs,’ Rathulf muttered, relieved. ‘Don’t do that!’
He settled down again and felt Tariq’s moist breath on his neck. The stallion rubbed his cheek against Rathulf’s shoulder as if to say I’m here, don’t worry, and Rathulf reached up and stroked Tariq’s nose in thanks. With a quiet harrumph, Tariq settled down on his knees, then rolled onto his side next to his master. Rathulf smiled at his horse. ‘I guess you’re freezing too, huh?’ he murmured. He settled himself against his stallion’s underbelly, which was soft and warm. He laid his sword back across his knees, well aware of the ever-present danger of the trolls, but having Tariq here reassured him. Despite himself, he slipped into a fitful sleep alive with nightmarish ghouls with battered heads and bloodied faces and hands, stumbling blindly around the uplands in search of their attackers.
Rathulf woke with a start when the first rays of sunlight flared over the rim of the valley. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, surprised he had slept. The last thing he remembered was Tariq nuzzling him in the bitter cold, but Sol shone warmly now, glistening brightly on the vast ice cap that rose above the mountains to the east. It would be another beautiful summer’s day. Rathulf felt tired and stiff, but some sleep was better than none. He turned to find Leif sitting beneath one of the birch trees nearby. The boy was staring at him, his face pale and drawn.
‘Hey,’ Rathulf said in greeting. ‘How are you feeling?’
Leif didn’t respond.
It was then that Rathulf noticed his sword lying in the grass at Leif’s feet. Rathulf swallowed, not at all comfortable with what he was seeing. ‘Leif?’
Leif frowned, then he looked away and stared off into the distance. ‘He tried to cut off my head with the axe,’ Leif said, slowly, quietly, ‘but I saw his reflection in the water. My father was drunk – what a surprise, stupid qlfuss – so I ducked out of the way, and he smashed the water barrel to bits instead. That pissed him off of course, and I was in the hog pen, and he was blocking the gate. I slipped in the muck, and he got me. He punched me in the head until I fell. Then he made me take off all my clothes and crawl about in the mud like I was one of the hogs. He made me eat it. I threw up, and he kicked and hit me again and again until I ate more of it. I remember him whipping me with something; his belt, I think. I suppose that’s how I got these.’ He reached his hand behind him, and he croaked in pain as the movement stretched the torn skin on his back. He lifted his eyes to his friend. ‘It was horrible. The pig muck I mean. I’ve never tasted anything so disgusting in my life. It makes me ill to think about it.’
It makes you ill? Rathulf thought, horrified by what he was hearing. Could Horik truly have been that depraved? Rathulf closed his eyes and shook his head as if that might clear it all away.
‘I didn’t mean to hurt him,’ Leif said, ‘but I couldn’t stop. He was laughing at me. Laughing over and over, each time he hit me, with every mouthful of grisskítr he made me eat. I don’t know what happened. I found some wood, I hit him, and he stopped laughing. It felt good, to stop him laughing.’ He looked back up at Rathulf.
‘Well it’s over now,’ Rathulf said, reeling at Leif’s tale.
‘I tried to kill you last night,’ Leif continued, his tone disturbingly matter-of-fact. He nudged the sword with his foot. ‘I held it at your throat,’ he said, putting his finger in the nape of his neck to show what he had done. ‘But I couldn’t do it.’ Leif frowned, his tone revealing his self-disgust.
Rathulf swallowed again, keeping his eye on the sword. He’s gone mad, Rathulf realised. He’s been driven insane by the extremity of his ordeal.
‘So I decided to kill myself instead,’ Leif went on, continuing in the same monotone. He shrugged. ‘But I couldn’t even do that.’ Leif looked at Rathulf, his face full of fear and self-loathing.
‘Leif,’ Rathulf began carefully. ‘Let’s just get back to my place where we can get you help.’
‘Father’s brains went everywhere,’ Leif continued, his voice barely a whisper. ‘I battered him over and over until his head split open. I did other things, too, to make sure he was dead.’
Rathulf felt a knot of nausea twist in his stomach, and he swallowed, forcing his body to obey him. What will people think of him? he wondered, aware of the shock and horror that would come when word spread of Leif’s unspeakable act.
‘I nearly did it, Ra, I nearly got away, but then the Gods played their last trick on me.’ He looked up at his friend, malice in his eyes. ‘They sent you.’ He laughed bitterly and looked down at the sword. ‘How was I able to kill him and not you?’
Rathulf swallowed.
Leif went on. ‘You were fast asleep, snoring away in Njorun’s care.’ He held his hand in front of his face, peering at his palm as if there were some flaw in it. ‘It should have been so easy!’
‘Leif?’ Rathulf said, getting slowly to his feet, wondering how he was going to get out of this in one piece. ‘Can I have my sword back? Please?’
Leif’s expression changed, and he stood up. ‘Go ahead. The Gods obviously don’t want me to use it.’ He left the sword on the grass and walked down to the beck, crouched down beside the stream and splashed water on his face.
Rathulf sprang forward and snatched up the weapon, then, spotting his scabbard lying on the ground nearby, quickly strapped it on and returned the blade to it. Safely armed, he called to Leif, trying his best to sound carefree. ‘We need to get going.’ He prodded Tariq, who was lying on the grass, sunning himself. ‘Up you get, and be quick about it. And thanks for warning me last night. Fat lot of good you are.’
Tariq let out a snort and got to his feet i
n an ungainly fashion, and then he shook himself from nose to dock, his tail snapping sharply as the ripple flowed to its very end. Rathulf looked around the clearing for Leif’s pony, but it was nowhere to be seen. ‘Hel’s thighs,’ he swore, standing with his hand shielding his eyes as he scanned the valley. There was no sign of the mare anywhere. I must have forgotten to tie her up, he thought, annoyed with himself. The stupid animal had wandered off, probably making its way back home.
‘Well that’s just great,’ he said. ‘No matter, we’ll both have to ride you, Tariq. Come on, let’s pack up.’ Rathulf began to collect Leif’s clothes from the grass where the boy had been sleeping. Leif seemed in no hurry to move.
Rathulf swore inwardly. Doesn’t he understand the danger we’re in? ‘Leif, we have to go.’
‘Then go,’ Leif said.
It was clear that Leif was beyond reason. Rathulf glanced over at his horse, suddenly getting an idea, then before he could change his mind, he walked up to Leif and without a word, bunched his fist and hit Leif in the face as hard as he could. It wasn’t a particularly good punch; Rathulf lost his nerve and pulled back at the last moment so that the blow grazed Leif’s cheek and simply snapped him out of his self-absorbed state. Leif shook his head and blinked at Rathulf. Rathulf hit him again, this time square in the jaw and Leif fell backwards and stayed there.
‘Sorðit!’ Rathulf swore, shaking his hand. That hurt! He blew on his smarting knuckles, genuinely worried that he’d broken his hand. Tariq gave him a reproachful look. ‘What?’ Rathulf demanded. ‘You’re the one who gave me the idea. Instead of standing there eating, why don’t you try to be helpful?’