by Peter Fox
Leif scoffed at the idea. ‘I’ll be dead Ra. You do get that, don’t you? They already look at me as though I’m a ghost. Most people won’t talk to me, some spit on me, and Gunnar and his friends are horrible at every opportunity. He stands there gloating, Ra, making signs of slitting my throat.’
‘Drittsekk,’ Rathulf growled. ‘Eirik has promised to protect you all the way to the assembly. He’s bringing you to Odin’s Breach beforehand too. And anyhow, I’m going to stand with you at the Althing. I’ve already told Eirik that anything he accuses you of he accuses me too. I’m going to say that I gave you my sword to stab Horik with.’
‘Why?’ Leif burst out angrily. ‘Why are you doing this? For the love of Freyr, go and fulfil your dream.’
‘Our dream,’ Rathulf reminded him. ‘So what if they sentence us to outlawry? We’re going to go away anyhow aren’t we? We can start a completely new life away from all this. It’s a good solution, and no one needs to lose their head,’ he added pointedly for Snorri’s benefit, but the big Viking did not indicate that he’d heard.
‘That’s crazy talk, Ra,’ Leif said.
‘Well, that’s what I’m doing. You can tell whatever story you like, but I’m standing with you at the Althing. You and me, co-accused. I’ll not let you take this on your own.’
Leif looked at Rathulf for a long time, and then he shook his head at his friend. ‘You really are as stupid as people say, you know that?’
‘Eh?’
Leif reached into his tunic and pulled out something attached to a thong around his neck. It was a key. A golden key that looked very much like it might fit a golden padlock.
‘They,’ and he waved at the township in general, ‘say that I never intended to give it to you. Well, guess what, they’re right. And that’s the really sad thing about all this; you making such a fool of yourself protesting my innocence and saying you’ll stand by me at the assembly when what I wanted all along was to do just what you’ve said, only without you; take the chest and start a new life.’
Rathulf stared at Leif, his heart going cold.
‘I found it in the byre while I was hiding in there. I went back for it after the avalanche and hid it up on the shielings. I tried twice to get away from my father, and the third time I nearly made it, but then the weather turned against me. My last chance was your birthday, but my father knew I was up to something, so he followed me and found me with it. That’s how that split got in its side. He took it from me, but I followed him home because I wasn’t going to let him do this to me. I had a plan, Rathulf.’ His tone was bitter. ‘But then you came along on your stupid Jötunn-horse and wrecked it all.’
Rathulf’s throat felt dry. ‘What are you saying, Leif?’
‘I’m saying I was going to take your trunk, make my way to Dumnonia, and pretend to be you. I was going to escape this lousy existence here. But wait, we’re talking about Leif, who is such a loser he can’t even turn something as amazing as this to his advantage. So my advice to you is that you take your jævla trunk and all your jævla riches and get back on Snorri’s boat and leave me to be executed.’ He shoved the key into Rathulf’s hand and stood up.
‘You’re kidding me, right?’ Rathulf whispered. ‘None of this is true, is it?’
‘No, of course not,’ Leif said bitterly. ‘As always, I’m making it all up: a far-fetched saga playing out in my pathetic little mind.’ He slapped the side of his head derisively and violently, then turned and walked down the meadow towards the town, leaving Rathulf staring after him, his heart in shreds.
Rathulf sprang up and ran down to Leif. He grabbed his arm and wrenched him around. ‘I said, it’s not true, is it?’
‘Believe what you want, Rathulf. I don’t care either way.’
‘You ungrateful drittsekk!’ Rathulf shouted. ‘I’ve nearly been killed because of you. I’ve got a price on my head because of you. Alrik’s got a price on his head because of you. TELL ME IT ISN’T TRUE!’
Leif looked at Rathulf, tears in his eyes. He shook his head. ‘I’m not your friend, Rathulf. Don’t you understand that? I hate your good looks, your status, your wealth, your luck but most of all I hate you. You’re a bloody slave, and yet you have hordes of people falling over themselves to be your friend and kin. This was my chance, Rathulf. I’d finally done what I should have years ago and killed the bastard. All I needed to do was pack some things and leave, but then you had to come, saving the day yet again, ruining any chance I had to get away. One day, that’s all I needed — one more day. Now, thanks to you I’m up for murder and will be dead long before I get to the Althing. So yeah, I’m grateful. Fæn ta deg, Rathulf.’
He ripped his arm from Rathulf’s grasp and continued down the slope.
Rathulf could barely breathe. I ruined everything? he thought, incensed. ‘You didn’t have a day, you idiot,’ Rathulf shouted at Leif’s back. ‘Cnut was about to find you, and you’d be dead if it weren’t for me.’
Leif stuck his finger up in a rude gesture and carried on walking.
‘What the…? Ungrateful rasshull,’ Rathulf muttered. He stomped back to his chest and ripped the Sword of Dumnonia from its scabbard. ‘You’re right about one thing,’ he snarled. ‘You won’t make it to the Althing.’
He turned to find Snorri’s considerable bulk blocking his way.
‘Move,’ Rathulf growled, pointing the sword at the Viking’s chest.
Snorri took a sudden step forward, walking fast and hard into the sharp blade. It knocked Rathulf backwards, and, taken off guard as he was by Snorri’s unexpected and suicidal action, it was easy for the older warrior to snatch the weapon from Rathulf’s grasp. Snorri tossed it onto the grass beside them and gripped Rathulf’s forearm tightly.
‘Old trick that one,’ Snorri said coldly. ‘Lucky for you, I’m an experienced warrior, and I’m wearing my chainmail, and you haven’t the faintest idea how to use that weapon. I understand your desire to run him through, but that would be an extremely unwise choice, don’t you think? Jarl Eirik is his uncle, remember? And I’m not sure you want to sully that exceptional blade with such an act.’
‘I want to go home,’ Rathulf said.
‘Not possible I’m afraid,’ Snorri said, pointing to the sky behind him. ‘Too dark now.’
‘Great,’ Rathulf replied.
Snorri released him then retrieved the sword before Rathulf could have second thoughts. He returned it to its scabbard and in turn placed it back in the trunk and closed the lid. He hoisted the chest onto his shoulder and nodded at the other men, who formed a guard around Rathulf. ‘Back to the hall,’ he instructed, and Rathulf followed him down the hill, seething with anger. They made their way through the outskirts of the township, only this time Snorri and his men stayed close now that night had begun to set in. Rathulf could well imagine what a massive temptation he must have presented to those who would prefer to take matters into their own hands: an arrow in the darkness, a knife plunged into his back from someone in the shadows. Right then, Rathulf hoped that someone would kill him and bring an end to this horrible feeling of emptiness in his heart. Snorri quickened their pace, and they made it inside without incident, Snorri indicating where Rathulf should sit.
There was no sign of Leif in the hall, for which both Rathulf and Snorri were grateful. A bed-place had been made up for Rathulf next to Snorri, and Rathulf returned there after the evening meal, his initial anger having progressed to misery and self-doubt. Surely he’d heard wrong? Surely Leif hadn’t really meant those things?
The meal itself had been tense, Eirik feeling the need to remind everyone of their oath to leave both boys alone. If he was concerned that Leif was missing, he did not show it. He specifically singled out his son, which only served to enrage the ugly boy. When his father wasn’t looking, Gunnar made a rude gesture to Rathulf, followed by the throat-slitting movement that Leif had already described. Rathulf glared at him and offered an equally offensive sign back. ‘Kuktryne,’ he said quietly.
‘My men will find him,’ Eirik assured Rathulf as Snorri prepared the ship for departure, but the young Viking just shrugged at the jarl. ‘He did save your life,’ Eirik reminded him.
‘So? He already knew where the trunk was before the avalanche,’ Rathulf said heatedly. ‘He’d already made his plans. He was saving himself, not me. It’s like they say, what was he doing at Thorvaldsby in the first place if not to take my things?’
‘Hmm,’ Eirik said. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Well I’m not coming here again,’ Rathulf said, ‘and you can give this back to him because I don’t need it. Thanks to Leif, we had to break off the lock.’ He took the key from around his neck and gave it to Eirik. ‘It can be a reminder of what he can’t have. He can rot between Hel’s thighs because he is no friend of mine.’
He turned away, scooped up his trunk then clomped up the gangplank onto Snorri’s longship. He strode down towards the stern, trying hard to preserve his composure in front of Eirik, Snorri and the host of other hardened warriors who surrounded him. He nearly made it, but as he passed the mast, his foot snagged in one of the ropes, and he stumbled. Thrown off balance by the unwieldy chest, Rathulf fell forward, and the trunk crashed onto the deck, bursting open and spilling its contents at Snorri’s feet. Rathulf also landed heavily, cutting his palm on one of the nails in the decking as he threw out his hand to save himself.
‘Arrrgh!’ Rathulf roared, scrambling to his feet and cursing the Gods for their mischief and Leif for his betrayal. Swearing roundly, he kicked the trunk out of the way, sending the sword of Dumnonia spinning across the deck in its scabbard. Rathulf left it all where it lay, wanting none of it and cursing his father for keeping it. I just want to be a Viking, he thought, his distress overwhelming him. He stumbled up to the sternpost, furious that he was trapped on this ship with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. He lifted his hand to his face, but his little finger snagged in the amulet that had itself been tangled in the cord that had held the key. Rathulf angrily ripped it from his neck and hurled it into the fjord.
‘And you can rot in Niflheim too, Thor, for all the good you’ve brought me.’
Then he sank to his knees and wept.
9. Magni’s Stone
Thorvaldsby, Aurlandsfjorden, Norvegr
Rathulf woke with a start and sat up, banging his head on the shelf above him. Disorientated, he blinked and looked about him. The familiar smell of earth and peaty soot brought him back to his senses. He was at home, in his sleeping place. Alrik lay beside him, fast asleep and oblivious to his friend’s awakening. Thorvald muttered something from the other side of the room, but his breathing remained deep and steady. I’m home, Rathulf thought again, pushing aside the hazy remnants of a dream about Leif and the chest and the terrible circumstances of their parting. It had been two weeks since he’d left Eiriksby, but his final conversation with Leif still weighed heavily on his mind.
Rathulf lay back on the furs, blinking away the last vestiges of the dream. I need to sleep, he told himself. I must be clear-headed today, on this of all days. He turned his head and looked at Alrik beside him. How I wish I could be you, Rathulf thought enviously. Why can’t my fate be as uncomplicated as yours?
Rathulf sighed inwardly, knowing that not to be true. Your life is anything but simple anymore, thanks to my pig-headed belief in Leif. Despite Alrik’s bravado, Rathulf knew that his friend held a constant fear of kidnap or worse, and not three days ago Rathulf had caught a snippet of unguarded conversation between Snorri and one of his scouts reporting trouble on the mountain overlooking the farmstead. Although he didn’t catch all of it, from what Rathulf could deduce, two men had been caught watching Rathulf practising on Tariq. They’d been unarmed and had claimed to be nothing more than keen betting men who were deciding which side to back: when pressed they’d answered with a thumbs down. Alrik had made light of it, taking the opportunity to tease Rathulf and Tariq, but Rathulf had seen the anxiety behind the young Viking’s mocking smile.
As though aware of Rathulf’s attention, Alrik muttered something indecipherable in his sleep and turned his face away. Rathulf sighed, deeply grateful for Alrik’s company these past two weeks. Bardi had brought his son and Myran back to Thorvaldsby soon after Rathulf himself had returned from Eirik’s; quite possibly as a result of hearing word of what had transpired between Rathulf and Leif. Alrik and the equerry had kept Rathulf busy practising on Tariq, although in truth there was nothing more that Rathulf could do to prepare for the Leap.
To Alrik’s credit, he had allowed his friend to rant, shout and even wail about Leif’s betrayal, giving Rathulf the space to grieve for the loss of his friendship, and to a lesser extent, his pride. In the time since Alrik had returned, Rathulf’s hurt had subsided, but a dark knot of resentment remained that was difficult to dislodge. Much of that residual anger he directed at the trunk, his inheritance, and his father for revealing it. Until Thorvald had dug it up, Rathulf’s life had been normal, predictable, taking a steady course towards Viking manhood.
What I wouldn’t give to return to that path! he had thought. It’s clear that the curse of Fenrir taints my trunk; for it bears the two wolven brothers of Ragnarök carved into its lid.
‘Why couldn’t you have just left it wherever you’d hidden it?’ Rathulf had shouted during one of his outbursts. ‘I was happy being Rathulf Thorvaldarsson, but now everything is ruined. I never asked to be king of Dumnonia!’
Rathulf rolled out of bed, suddenly feeling thirsty. He stepped into the room to get some water, reminding himself that he’d be of little use to anyone if he fell down the ravine tomorrow. The hearth fire had died to coals, but in its dim red glow Rathulf could just make out his father asleep on the bench opposite. Rathulf’s Dumnonian chest sat on the floor beside him, and Rathulf bent down and carefully lifted it onto the table. He sat for a long while staring at it in the orange-tinged gloom, clasping his mug in both hands, wondering what the Gods had in mind for him.
He’d not opened the chest since his trip to Eirik’s; the memory of Leif’s angry admission still too raw and hurtful. He put down the mug and ran his fingers over the carved letters on the lid, which Thorvald had said spelt the name of his father – his birth father – however remote that concept was to him. The characters were as foreign to him now as they’d appeared when he’d first seen them, in a language that meant nothing to Rathulf, from a land and a people that were utterly unknown to him, but which told him that he was Lord over them all. I don’t want to be him, he thought. I want to be a Viking.
Despite himself, he lifted the latch, took a breath then carefully opened the lid. The sword lay on top in all its ridiculous magnificence, but it was the little maroon pouch he sought. It lay near the scabbard’s tip, and Rathulf took it out of the box. He unwrapped the ring and turned it over in his palm, trying to understand its appeal, remembering Leif’s covetous expression when Rathulf had handed it to him. He could well imagine his friend sitting in his dark hiding place and dreaming of a better life. How ironic that the one who owned it wanted nothing of it, and the one who’d had it… He closed his eyes and, for the first time since it had been revealed to him, Rathulf slipped the golden band onto his finger.
Suddenly a long, mournful wail echoed up and down the walls of t
he fjord, crashing into Rathulf’s thoughts. He yanked off the ring with a start and dropped it onto the table. It hit the wood with a loud metallic clink. Rathulf looked to his father, but the old farmer barely stirred. Alrik hadn’t moved at all. Rathulf frowned, not at all sure he’d actually heard anything. It’s my imagination, he told himself. I’m probably losing my mind. Little wonder with everything that’s happened since the avalanche. Having convinced himself he was overreacting, Rathulf picked up the ring and slipped it back onto his finger. Moments later, the sound came again, and this time it was unmistakable: a wolf’s howl, ringing clearly in the night air. Rathulf resisted the urge to rip off the ring and instead sat still, listening, but he heard only Alrik’s steady breathing and his father’s coarser snores. Snorri’s dogs were quiet too.
Surprised that no one had stirred, Rathulf rose to wake his father, but at the last moment, he hesitated. What if there is no wolf? How will I look then? Father will demand they call off the trial and force me to wait another winter before I can claim my place amongst the Northmen. He crouched by the fire, waiting to see if the wolf might howl again. Not a sound came from outside. Rathulf prodded the coals impatiently, conscious of the cold hardness of the gold band on his finger. Wide awake now, he padded over to the door and eased it open. Cool, sweet air greeted him as he stepped outside, and his bare chest and arms prickled with goosebumps. Muspelheim’s embers glittered brightly in the vast dome above him, and Rathulf shivered. I must be mad, he thought. His Norse sword stood leaning by the door, and Rathulf reached in and carefully drew it out of its scabbard.
Taking a firm grip on the hilt, Rathulf walked out into the home field. The waters of the fjord lay dark and still, mirroring the night’s beauty. It was so perfect a reflection that Rathulf imagined he could step from the shore straight into that limitless void. He turned and looked back up the valley, to the massive boulder that stood alone in the centre of the dale. Rathulf took a few moments to register that there was something on Magni’s Stone. He felt the hair prickle on his neck when he realised what it was: a wolf, perched atop the great rock. It sat dead still, but even from this distance, Rathulf felt its eyes upon him. He glanced back to the house, wondering whether he should wake his father or Alrik. Good sense told him he must, but another voice urged him not to. Trust your instincts, it said. You are safe. Rathulf took a deep breath and walked through the gate.