The Wolves of Dumnonia Saga Box Set

by Peter Fox

  ‘Well he’ll be in good company with you then, won’t he?’ Rathulf retorted, incensed by Alrik’s denigration of their friend.

  Alrik’s eyes narrowed. ‘At least I don’t shit myself,’ he countered.

  Rathulf stood up and angrily thrust his finger at his friend. ‘Your problem is that you only think about yourself, Alrik. You think you’re so special that the law doesn’t apply to you. You do whatever you please because you can. You don’t know how lucky you are, and you certainly have no idea what it’s like to suffer. Look at you; the Gods went stupid when they created you. I mean, you were given a longship for your twelfth birthday! What do you know about toil and hardship? The only reason you want to be around me is that I’m the king of Dumnonia!’

  ‘What?’ Alrik spat. ‘I took you to Horik’s after the avalanche to keep an eye out for you, drittsekk, since you’re so good at getting yourself into trouble.’

  ‘Eirik’s the one who saved me back then, not you. You were on your knees if I remember rightly. And it’s thanks to you that we ran into Ivar on the way home, and trust you to be the one to attract his attention. “Of course I know where I’m going.” Yeah, right. Real lucky.’

  Alrik punched Rathulf for that. The blow took Rathulf by surprise, and he stumbled backwards and fell into the water. Alrik seized the advantage and pounced on his friend and punched him again, this time in the stomach, forcing the air out of Rathulf’s lungs. Alrik held Rathulf under the water, ignoring the other’s desperate struggles as he ran out of breath.

  ‘Ungrateful hestkuk,’ Alrik snarled, sitting on Rathulf and pressing down on the other’s face to prevent Rathulf lifting his head out of the water. ‘I did it for you, dumbass. Everything I do is for you; don’t you get that?!’

  Rathulf couldn’t hear what Alrik was saying. Panic set in as he realised that Alrik didn’t seem to comprehend what he was doing and that if he didn’t get off him soon, he’d drown. He made one last effort to push Alrik off him, then suddenly Alrik was gone. Rathulf burst out of the water, drawing in long, ragged breaths, preparing himself for the next onslaught. He needn’t have worried, however, for Snorri had his friend in a headlock. When Snorri saw that Rathulf was safe, the strong-armed warrior shoved Alrik face down into the water and held him there. Alrik thrashed about as he struggled to free himself from Snorri’s powerful grip, and only when Alrik’s movements started to weaken did the big Viking relent. He hauled the sodden youth up out of the water like a rag doll and dumped Alrik feet first into the shallows that he’d moments ago been drinking. Alrik coughed and spluttered and swore profusely at Snorri, who stood looking down at him, completely unmoved.

  ‘What you both need is a sound beating to knock sense into you,’ Snorri growled, ‘and I’ve got a good mind to dish it out; especially to you, Thorvaldarsson. Your friend is right. You should listen to him.’ The brawny warrior turned to Alrik. ‘Tell him again.’

  Alrik glowered at Snorri, still spitting mud and sand from his mouth. ‘Tell him what?’

  Snorri crossed his arms and waited. Rathulf sat in the water, looking up at both of them, stunned by Snorri’s unexpected intervention.

  Alrik raised his hands at Eirik’s shield-bearer. ‘This is stupid. What am I supposed to say? I’m not going to apologise if that’s what you want. He’s the one in the wrong here.’ He pointed at Rathulf.

  ‘I know that. So tell him why you’re upset with him.’

  ‘Because he’s an idiot!’ Alrik shouted, his green eyes blazing with anger. ‘I should have been there Rathulf. That’s what friends do for each other. They don’t lie and sneak about like thieves and keep each other in the dark. After everything we’ve been through…’ He trailed off, shaking his head at his friend.

  And that’s precisely why I didn’t involve you, Rathulf wanted to say. I didn’t want you to get hurt. ‘Alrik,’ he said instead, ‘don’t be mad at me.’ He paused, having no idea how to say what was on his mind. ‘You’re in enough trouble as it is because of me, and this is the last thing you need.’

  ‘I don’t care about that,’ Alrik said, exasperated. ‘Don’t you get it? I want to get into trouble for you. I want to be…’ Alrik stopped, glanced self-consciously at Snorri, then shook his head, frustrated with both himself and Rathulf.

  Rathulf looked back at his friend, surprised, and saw that Alrik was blushing. ‘You want to be what?’ Rathulf asked cautiously.

  ‘Forget it,’ Alrik said, turning to get away while he still had a few shreds of dignity left. Snorri put out a hand to stop him.

  Rathulf realised his heart was racing, and he took a deep breath to calm himself down. Life was getting way too complicated.

  ‘Alrik?’ Rathulf asked clumsily. ‘You know I like Ingrith, right?’

  ‘Of course I know that!’ Alrik said, red-faced. ‘That’s not what I mean, you numbskull.’

  ‘Then, what?’ Rathulf began.

  ‘I really shouldn’t have to say it,’ Alrik said.

  ‘Tell me!’ Rathulf demanded.

  ‘Fine,’ Alrik shouted back. ‘I don’t want to be your boyfriend, drittsekk. I want to be to you like…, like Snorri is to Eirik. Or uncle Sigvald was to Thorvald. I thought I was your best friend. You’re going to be a king, Rathulf, lord of a vast kingdom, and I thought we’d go there together and…, I don’t know…, I’d ride by your side as your shield-bearer or attendant or something…’ He paused, searching for the words. ‘I’m not doing this because I want to steal your stuff or your glory, okay?’

  Snorri let out a sigh, reached down and dragged Rathulf to his feet. ‘Thorvaldarsson, let me put it to you plainly. Alrik can’t understand why you would go so far out of your way to put your life in danger on Leif’s account when Leif offers so little in return. Alrik is not alone in that. You yell at Alrik when really you want to yell at Leif, but you can’t, because you feel guilty about him, for reasons only you and the Aesir know, so you keep doing stupid things to try to save him. It’s time you realised you can’t, and shouldn’t,’ Snorri said cruelly. ‘He’s not worth it, Thorvaldarsson.’

  Rathulf stared at the burly warrior, speechless. Where had that come from?

  ‘Do you truly believe his story about your sea chest?’ Snorri went on. ‘Exactly how did Horik come by it do you think? How long has he had it? A day, a week, months? Ask yourself what Leif’s part is in all this. He may well be completely innocent, and the first time he saw the trunk was when he went into the house and saw his father with the axe, about to hack off the lock. Would that be enough to send him into a berserker rage, to turn a cowardly charcoal-eater into a deranged killer? I’ll let you work that out for yourself. And did you tell him not to say anything about who killed Horik, or did he shut his mouth all by himself and let you take all the credit? Funny way to repay your loyalty.’

  ‘It’s not like you make it out to be,’ Rathulf said indignantly. ‘You’re as bad as everyone else, and you forget that he saved my father and me after the avalanche.’

  ‘No Rathulf, he saved himself. There’s just one person who’s blind here, and it’s time you opened your eyes. The boy worth giving your life up for is standing here in front of you: the same person brave enough to face Horik with you, and the same boy over whom you were willing to start a feud with Ivar. You two love one another like brothers; any dimwit can see that. Rathulf, you are wrong for not involving Alrik in this. He is your sword arm, your beating heart.’ Snorri punched his own chest to emphasise the point. ‘What you two have been through together forges a powerful bond, and you are fools not to honour it. Both of you.’ He grabbed Rathulf’s right hand, and before the Briton knew what was happening, Snorri had produced his knife and jabbed it into Rathulf’s palm, drawing blood.

  ‘Ow!’ Rathulf cried, trying to wrest his hand back, but Snorri’s grip was too firm.

  ‘Hold up your hand, Bardisson,’ he ordered.

  Alrik did as he was told, wincing when Snorri cut the boy’s hand, just as he had Rathulf’s. Snorri she
athed the knife, then bent down a scooped up a handful of muddy sand from the floor of the boathouse. This he smeared onto the boys’ palms, then he pressed their hands together so that their blood and the sand and dirt mingled in their palms. ‘Now, to which God do you pray?’

  Both boys answered ‘Thor,’ causing Snorri to smile. ‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘Repeat after me: as Thor is our witness, we swear that we will treat one another as brothers, bound as we are by our earth and blood and that we will defend one another no matter the circumstances, right or wrong, easy or hard, and should one of us be killed by another, we swear to avenge him.’

  Alrik and Rathulf both repeated the oath in unison and Snorri nodded at them, satisfied. ‘You are now blood-brothers, forever bound in honour and valour, as borne witness by me, Snorri Egilsson, shield-bearer to Jarl Eirik Ravenhair of Lustrafjorden.’ He let go of their hands, nodded at them again, then strode out of the boathouse and up onto the shore, leaving the two dripping boys standing face to face, stunned by Snorri’s passionate intercession.

  It was some while before either of them spoke. Rathulf found voice first. ‘What do you want me to say?’ he said defensively, feeling more than a little embarrassed by the whole incident, and conscious that his hand hurt.

  ‘How about: sorry for being such a kukskalle,’ Alrik said, still not quite ready to let it go.

  Rathulf let out an exasperated snort. ‘What was I supposed to do? I wish none of this had happened, okay? I want everything to go back to normal. Life was heaps better before my father dug up that stupid trunk.’

  Alrik opened his mouth to say something, then he thought better of it and shrugged. ‘Yeah,’ he said. He looked Rathulf in the eye. ‘Can we just start again?’

  Rathulf allowed himself a smile. ‘Okay. I suppose I shouldn’t have said that thing about showing off or pissing yourself,’ Rathulf added. ‘Even if it is true.’

  Alrik crossed his arms. ‘That’s rich coming from you, poopy pants.’

  ‘Poopy pants?’ Rathulf said, struggling not to laugh at the pathetic attempt at a slur. ‘Is that the best you can do?’

  ‘How about shitty britches then?’ Alrik replied, the hint of a smile playing on his lips.

  ‘Better,’ Rathulf said, grinning back.

  Alrik rolled his eyes. ‘Why are we fighting?’

  ‘Because you’re jealous,’ Rathulf said before he could stop himself.

  Alrik started to deny it, then he thought better of it and said instead, ‘well really, Ra. I don’t understand it. No one does.’

  Rathulf thought for a moment. Why do I care so much? he wondered. He shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Honestly, I don’t,’ he added when Alrik looked at him sceptically. ‘I feel I have to protect him. I don’t know why. I just do. It’s sort of like I’m his older brother or something.’

  ‘And me?’

  Rathulf wasn’t sure whether Alrik was joking or serious. ‘As I’ve said before, you’re different.’

  ‘Meaning what exactly?’

  ‘I dunno. You’re my beating heart,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Bleating fart more likely,’ Alrik laughed.

  ‘Best friend, actually,’ Rathulf said, serious now. ‘Look, I didn’t want you to come with me because I didn’t know what I was doing, and I didn’t want to risk your life again on my account. I know, I know, I won’t do it again. I get that. And if you really want to know, there were a hundred times I wished you’d been there. I was so scared when I saw what Leif had done to Horik, and yes, I spewed up all over the place. It was dreadful. Then I couldn’t get Leif onto bloody Tariq, and then we met Cnut…’ he raised his hands in the air.

  ‘You are such a moron,’ Alrik said.

  ‘And just so we’re clear,’ Rathulf continued, ‘of course I want you to come to Dumnonia with me, and yes, I want you to be right by my side as my shield-bearer. No one else comes close to you, Alrik. Surely you know that? Although to be honest, right now I wish you had lost my trunk in the fjord. It’s true what Eirik says about it bringing trouble.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t lose it, which is good news, because it’s waiting on the table for you.’ He clapped Rathulf on the shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s get it open. I reckon Thorvald’s got an axe lying around somewhere, eh?’

  ‘Hmm,’ Rathulf said, not at all convinced this was a good thing.

  ‘Aren’t you even a little bit excited?’ Alrik asked, peering into Rathulf’s face. He was clearly amazed that Rathulf could be anything but. His expression changed as the realisation dawned. ‘You really are afraid something’s going to leap out and rip you to bits!’ he crowed, laughing.

  ‘No, I’m not, on both counts,’ Rathulf said. His teeth chattered. ‘I’m cold,’ he announced. ‘And my hand hurts. Whose stupid idea was it to slash your palm to make an oath? Couldn’t we have sworn on Thor’s hammer or something like that instead?’

  ‘Sissy,’ Alrik said, grinning. He bent down and swished his hand in the water, washing off the sand, mud and blood. Rathulf did the same, but he noticed that their hands still bled freely.

  ‘It’ll be all right, you know,’ Alrik said, meeting his friend’s hazel gaze. ‘We’ll go to Dumnonia together, and we’ll get your kingdom back. Promise.’

  ‘That’s if we don’t bleed to death in the meantime,’ Rathulf said, scowling up at Snorri, who had returned to his sentry point by the boathouse’s entrance.

  ‘Nah, that would be a dumb way to die,’ Alrik laughed. ‘I for one am gonna die a hero.’

  8. No friend of mine

  Thorvaldsby, Aurlandsfjorden, Norvegr

  ‘Are you sure we should do this?’ Rathulf asked, watching anxiously as Ottar raised the mallet and tightened his grip on the chisel with his other hand.

  Rathulf and Alrik had changed into dry clothes, and Helga had treated and bandaged their hands, tutting at Snorri for his over-deep incisions. He, in turn, had shrugged, unmoved by her scolding and telling her that deeper cuts made for deeper bonds. They all now stood inside Rathulf’s new house, gathered around the table in the centre of the room.

  Sigvald had removed the belt and put aside the oilskin covering. ‘Unless you’ve got the key, there’s not a lot else we can do,’ Sigvald said to his foster-son. ‘You’ll be careful, won’t you Ottar?’

  The shipwright smiled and nodded. He held the hammer poised in the air, waiting for Rathulf’s permission to strike the first blow. Rathulf looked at the expectant ring of faces: Sigvald, Helga, Thorvald, Alrik, Bardi, Ingrith and the other three girls all crowded into the small, ill-lit space around him, all breathlessly waiting for Rathulf’s command to break the lock. Even Snorri had managed to inveigle his way into the house on the pretence of guarding the door. Myran was also with them, although out of the way in the shadows, having been reluctantly allowed in under pressure from Rathulf. Neither Sigvald nor Thorvald had forgiven the slave for his impudence in presuming to assist Rathulf in his disastrous mission to rescue Leif, but Rathulf had pointed out that if it weren’t for Myran’s help, they’d not be standing here now, opening the recovered chest.

  Rathulf, feeling no small amount of trepidation, looked down at the thing that had caused him so much suffering these past few months. Much longer than it was wide, the oaken trunk was even more impressive than Rathulf had expected. And although it bore some marks of its long burial underground and one side was rent with a fresh split from end to end, it was exquisite in its quality; as good as anything that Rathulf had seen in jarl Eirik’s hall or the summer markets of the Althing. Its shape and style were unfamiliar to Rathulf, fashioned from dark oak and finished with finely wrought polished iron fittings inlaid with gold.

  Unlike Norse chests, this one was relatively free of carving, except for the design set into the centre of the lid. It was this which caught the young Viking’s eye. Two wolves carved in exceptional detail chased one another around in a circle, their sparkling enamel eyes and bared ivory fangs fiercely defiant. Underneath the design was a sil
ver-inlaid inscription in an alphabet Rathulf didn’t recognise: CADWYR REX DVMNONIA.

  What does it mean? he wondered. Could it be a name? Was it even writing? If it was, he had no idea what it said, but one thing was clear: this trunk was not the property of a simple fisherman.

  Rathulf took a long, shuddering breath in an unsuccessful attempt to calm his nerves. ‘Do it,’ he said.

  Ottar brought the mallet down on the chisel, not in a mighty blow as Rathulf had expected, but rather a gentle tap against the bracket that secured the latch.

  ‘Well, I’m hardly going to smash this beautiful box to bits, am I?’ Ottar said upon seeing Rathulf’s surprised and somewhat impatient expression.

  The shipwright carefully worked at the four nails, jimmying them loose one by one until the whole latch, lock and all, fell off onto the table with a heavy thud. ‘There,’ Ottar said, rubbing the holes smooth with a wet finger, then pushing the redundant ironwork aside. ‘Not a splinter out of place.’ He stepped out of Rathulf’s way. ‘All yours.’

  Rathulf took another breath, and then he eased the lid open. He gasped when he saw what lay inside. He had expected it to contain treasure, but never in his wildest dreams had he imagined this! Piles of silver coins, gold and silver arm rings and bangles, some loose gems, and a gold cup sparkled back at him in the lamplight. Lying across it all was a long, tightly-wrapped bundle of burgundy cloth shrouding what could only be a sword. Rathulf reverently lifted the bundle from the chest and laid it on the table. He carefully unwrapped the fabric, which carried a tinge of earth and mould, and was astonished when he saw that the cloth itself was a treasure; a banner proudly bearing his family’s wolven standard, woven in so much gold thread that Rathulf felt the heavy weight of it in the fabric.