The Wolves of Dumnonia Saga Box Set

by Peter Fox

  To his right, Snorri’s longship lay beached on the shingles, and around him, the tents of his crew shone white in the moonlight. A wisp of smoke rose from the watchfire, and beside it slumped the guard, draped in a blanket, his chin on his chest, snoring softly. Rathulf shook his head, wondering if the watch ever managed to stay awake for him. He was half-tempted to shout at the man to wake him up, but it would be just his luck for the warrior to mistake Rathulf for an enemy and run him through.

  The wolf remained seated, its head tilted as it followed Rathulf’s progress up the valley. Rathulf reached the base of the stone, and his body tensed. He changed his grip on the sword, ready to fend off an attack. None came. Rathulf paused. His heart pounded in his chest, and for a moment, he felt the urge to turn and run. He fought it, taking measured breaths and ordering his body to calm down.

  He met the wolf’s golden-eyed gaze, and suddenly the scene changed. It was as though he had been transported to another place, another time. He stood in bright daylight, on dusty ground, the sun in his eyes. Someone was coming at him with sword drawn and he let out a yelp and swung up his own blade to defend himself. He barely made it. His opponent – a lean, older man – attacked with strength and skill, forcing Rathulf backwards as he parried blow after blow, his arm jarring with every strike. The older man kept up his attack, and Rathulf collided with an unseen wall behind him, and in moments he had been disarmed, and his opponent held the point of his sword at Rathulf’s throat. The man shook his head at him, clearly unhappy with his performance, and Rathulf realised that the swordsman meant no ill will towards him. Is he my teacher? Rathulf wondered. Who is he, and where am I? Is this a vision from my future?

  The man bent down and retrieved Rathulf’s sword. Rathulf didn’t recognise the weapon, and it felt strange in his hand. He tried to alter his grip, but his hand didn’t respond. The man was saying something in a language unfamiliar to Rathulf, and from his tutor’s frown, he guessed he was dishing out a scolding. Rathulf adjusted his grip again but met resistance. You’re holding it wrong, you daufi, he thought, frustrated with his other self. Turn it a bit, dammit. And move your thumb. In response to his cussing, his grip changed, and it immediately felt better. Rathulf gave a couple of trial swings, then lunged at his opponent, trying to catch him off-guard. His opponent was far too cunning for that, and their swords clashed with a ringing clang. The older man smiled with approval.

  They sparred again, but Rathulf’s posture was all wrong. He tried turning his shoulder to better fend off the blows but again met with resistance. How have I become so hopeless? he wondered, shocked at how terrible a swordsman he was. Maybe I’m much older now? As old as the other guy maybe? He forced himself to change his leading foot so that at least he had some hope of retaining his balance. His other self fought against him again, but Rathulf pushed harder.

  ‘What the Hell?’

  The words burst into Rathulf’s head like a thunderclap. The voice was familiar to him from somewhere. It distracted him, and he took a clout on the shoulder. Fortunately, it seemed he wore chainmail armour, which protected him from injury. Angrily, Rathulf fought back, throwing himself at the older man, at the same time getting a better feel for the ground beneath his feet. Turn sideways! Rathulf commanded. Lead with the shoulder! Drive with the right foot! Watch the man, not the blade! These were the words that Sigvald had driven into him and Alrik in their sword drills, and he was astonished that he seemed to have forgotten everything.

  ‘Who the Hell is this?’ came the booming voice again.

  It’s me, you dumbass, Rathulf told himself. Your sword skills are terrible! How have you let yourself get so bad? And where the heck are we?

  ‘What? This is Sceaptesburh.’

  Where?

  Rathulf sprang forward again, and this time his body obeyed him. He even managed to elicit a look of surprise from his opponent this time. Yeah, take that, old man, he thought triumphantly. And for his own self’s benefit, added, that’s how you do it. Watch and learn.

  Rathulf went on the offensive again, and this time his other self worked with him. Rathulf pressed hard and fast, forcing his opponent onto the back foot, and suddenly the tables were turned, and Rathulf held his point at the older man’s startled face. Bam! Rathulf thought, pleased that he’d not entirely lost his touch after all.

  ‘Who are you?’ came the voice in his head again, sounding both surprised and worried.

  The old man was also asking him something, but again Rathulf had no clue what he was saying because he spoke in an unrecognisable tongue.

  I told you, Rathulf said again. I’m a better version of you.

  Suddenly a tawny owl’s mournful cry rang out over the fjord, and the image before Rathulf’s eyes flared white. When his vision settled, he found himself back at Magni’s stone in the starry darkness. He blinked and looked around him, momentarily disoriented. He looked up at the top of the boulder. The wolf had vanished.

  He leaned his sword against the base of the stone, then cautiously picked his way up the steeply-sloping rockface towards the top, all the while wondering whether the wolf waited for him above. The rock was damp and rough under his hands. Rathulf reached the summit, but it was empty.

  He looked around, but the animal was nowhere to be seen. Did I just imagine all that? he wondered. Trying hard to still his wavering breath, Rathulf pulled himself up onto the summit and settled down in the place where the wolf had been. The rock felt cold to the touch. He stared down the valley, past the homestead to the bright crescent moon reflected in the tar-black waters of the fjord. What was that all about? It had seemed so real, like I was there, inside my other self’s head. He paused in his thinking, frowning at the moon. Was it a premonition of me in the future? If so, who was my sparring partner, and what was that clawed beast on his tunic? Moreover, what language were we speaking? Was it Dumnonian? Is all this telling me that I am on the right path after all?

  A chill ran through Rathulf, and he sneezed. He glanced down and realised he was dressed only in his light sleeping trousers. Fenrir’s balls! What possessed me to come out here in the dead of night, half-naked? He climbed back down, cold and confused. The little huddle of buildings that made up his home seemed so far away, and Rathulf found it hard going along the path. He followed the stream instead, the grass on its banks soft and damp under his toes.

  He arrived home just as the whisper of a breeze stirred the waters of the fjord, and the eastern horizon glowed pink ahead of the dawn. The cattle moved restlessly in the byre, and the geese flapped their wings and honked softly as he passed by. Rathulf relieved himself, then he crept back into the house, praying that his father and Alrik would still be asleep. He also made a mental note to have a word with Snorri about the so-called night watch. Thorvald lay on his sleeping place, snoring gently. Rathulf pulled off the ring, placed it back in the trunk and carefully closed the lid. He winced as he did so, waiting for another wolven howl, but the only sounds he heard were the gentle snores of his companions. He carefully lifted the chest from the table and put it back on the floor, then he slipped into his alcove and crawled into bed beside Alrik, grateful for his friend’s body heat after the chill of the night air outside. Alrik stirred and rolled onto his side but did not awaken. Rathulf pulled the covers up to his chin and lay on his back, staring into the gloom above him, wondering about the significance of this strange night and what it might actually mean.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Rathulf woke much later to the sounds of the stirring farmstead. A beam of sunlight sliced the air just above Rathulf’s head, and he huddled further into the covers, gazing at the bright sliver of gold that blazed on the raw timber of his shield, filling the space with its diffuse, warm glow. His exposed forearms prickled in goosebumps as cool, scent-laden air flowed into the house through the open doorway. He glanced to his right and saw that Alrik had already awoken and gone out. He heard the hollow rattle of logs rolling off the woodpile then the crack of an axe in wood. Rathulf lay
back in the semi-darkness, listening to the axeman at work. The axe wedged in a block of wood, and Rathulf smiled when he heard Snorri’s muffled curses as he tried to knock the blade free. A dog ran past barking, and moments later there was a flurry of wings and excited squawks as the geese scattered in a panic. Snorri shouted at the dog, and all was quiet again.

  With a yawn, Rathulf threw off the covers and sat up, contemplating what to wear. He opened his trunk and sifted through his clothes. He settled upon a pair of dark blue trousers, a plain white shirt and his favourite tunic of burgundy-dyed wool. He finished it off with his best leather sword belt, and as he combed his hair, his thoughts drifted to the sparkling eyes of the wolf that had sat upon the rock in his dream, and the sword practice, and how terrible a swordsman he had been. He paused. It had all felt so real, but he had obviously dreamt the whole thing; the walk out in the starlight and the strange yearning he had felt when he had looked into the wolf’s golden eyes had all been part of it. But what does it mean? he wondered. Will something bad occur today?

  Just then Snorri came through the door, carrying an armful of freshly split wood. He dumped it noisily onto the pile and said over his shoulder, ‘looks to be a wonderful day to die.’

  Rathulf scowled at the big man, but the Viking just grinned back as he went back outside. All around him Rathulf heard the farmstead coming to life; the chatter of Snorri’s men, the mooing cows and bleating sheep. I’m not going to die, Rathulf told himself. He poured a mug of water and drank in thirsty gulps. Three bowls of cooling oatmeal porridge sat on the table, but Rathulf was alone in the house; the other two must have gone outside to conduct their morning ablutions. He sat down at the bench and waited for his father and Alrik to join him. He stirred the sloppy meal slowly, watching the steam rise in the wake of his spoon. Porridge, always porridge. Even on this special day, porridge. If only they had been at Alrik’s. He imagined the meal he would be sitting down to just now: hot broth, followed by tender spiced mutton, fresh bread, ale, nuts and fresh fruit. But no, here was Rathulf, eating boiled barley porridge again.

  Moments later Thorvald came in, hopping along on one crutch. He settled down opposite his son and poured himself some water. ‘You look terrible. Happy other-birthday, by the way.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Rathulf said ruefully.

  Thorvald looked at his son, waiting for an explanation. When none was forthcoming, the farmer put down his spoon and said, ‘there is nothing to be ashamed of Rathulf. This is a big thing you are doing today. Little surprise it gave you restless sleep.’

  Rathulf hesitated. For a brief moment, he pondered whether he should tell his father about his dream, but he decided it was best left alone. He looked over to the doorway to confirm what he already knew: that his sword stood where it always did, propped up in the corner, ready to be grabbed should anyone come for him. His heart skipped a beat. His scabbard stood leaning against the wall, but of the sword, there was no sign. Rathulf swallowed, the hairs prickling on his neck.

  Thorvald saw Rathulf’s change in expression and followed his gaze to the doorway. ‘What is it?’

  Rathulf remained silent, not sure what to say, what to think. It had to be a dream. He unconsciously rubbed the spot on his finger where the ring had been.

  ‘What did you see, Ra? Was it the nightmare again?’

  ‘No. I just found it hard to sleep, that’s all.’

  ‘Eirik’s right, you know. You’re a terrible liar, Rathulf. You dreamt about Dumnonia again, didn’t you?’

  ‘No,’ Rathulf said firmly.

  ‘Your sword is missing. What happened?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Rathulf snapped. The last thing he needed was Thorvald calling off the day. But his father clearly didn’t believe him. ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Rathulf said eventually, giving in, ‘so I went out for some air.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘I had my sword for protection,’ Rathulf explained, not that it had been any use to him. ‘And we’ve got Snorri and his men all over the farmstead.’

  Thorvald nodded in the direction of the stable. ‘Tariq is a very sensitive horse. If your temperament unsettles him even half as much as your dream has spooked you, you will both end up dead. Perhaps I’m missing something here, but I don’t find any joy in that thought.’

  Rathulf frowned at his father. ‘I won’t change my mind. I’m riding Tariq.’

  ‘Take your mountain pony.’

  They had been through this a thousand times, and Rathulf couldn’t believe his father would persist, even now. He stood up and walked out the door without a word. It was bad enough to start the day with a strange omen, but to have his father cast a sour note on the day as well… If only I could have his blessing.

  Rathulf went straight to the stable, but Tariq’s stall was empty. He found his stallion standing in the yard outside, but to his surprise, he was already saddled up. Tariq walked over to Rathulf and rubbed his muzzle into his master’s hand in greeting. Only then did Rathulf notice that the saddlecloth was new, as was the saddle itself. He ducked back into the stable and confirmed that his own gear still lay on its rail by the door. Rathulf returned to Tariq, confused.

  Impossible as it was, his horse was fitted with magnificent new tack; not a poorly modified saddle like Rathulf’s old one, but one custom-made especially for the big Nisean. Rathulf shook his head in wonder, now even more confused. Surely Thorvald couldn’t have; not after all that fuss. Rathulf ran his fingers over the pattern of interlocking animals carved into the leather. The polished silver and bronze studs gleamed in the bright morning light, and Rathulf smiled, amazed. How could his father, a poor shepherd, have afforded something this extraordinary? The silver alone would have been worth a small fortune. Rathulf turned and saw Thorvald leaning on his crutches by the house. The old warrior was smiling too.

  ‘This doesn’t mean I approve, mind. I had still hoped to convince you to ride your mountain pony; this was to be your gift when the thing was over. But I suppose if you must insist on killing yourself, you should do so with style.’

  Rathulf laughed. A hundred things sprang to his lips, but he was so stunned that the words came out in a jumble. ‘It’s wonderful!’ he blurted at last, turning again to Tariq, just to be sure he wasn’t dreaming. ‘But how did you afford it?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Thorvald said. ‘You’re thanking the wrong person. This has nothing to do with me.’

  Rathulf frowned, and then it dawned. He leaned to his left and looked behind Tariq. Sure enough, there was Alrik, sunning himself on the bench beside the stable, his face lit with a broad grin.

  ‘Thank the Gods you like it,’ he said, ‘because it bloody well did cost every last ounce of my silver.’

  Rathulf laughed. ‘It’s the best present ever!’ he said.

  ‘Better than your sword and all that money?’ Alrik asked, disbelieving.

  ‘Way better,’ Rathulf said.

  ‘I just thought you should have a proper saddle for today,’ Alrik explained, blushing. ‘The last thing we need is you coming off halfway across the ravine.’

  Rathulf smiled ruefully, having no wish to repeat that humiliation, to say nothing of the terminal result of a fall.

  ‘You’ve no idea how much your father and I fought about this,’ Alrik added, getting up and moving over to Rathulf and his horse.

  ‘Oh, I can imagine,’ Rathulf said, throwing a glance at Thorvald, who was watching them from his place by the doorway. Myran stood beside Thorvald, also smiling in approval. Rathulf was pleased that the two men had resolved their differences, although Thorvald had been clear that he did not agree with Myran’s actions and would look dimly upon any repeat offence.

  ‘Come on,’ Thorvald said to the two boys. ‘Time to finish your meal. This isn’t a thing to do on an empty stomach.’

  Rathulf and Alrik followed Thorvald back into the house. The porridge had disappeared, and instead, the delicious aroma of spices and wine now filled the main room. Thorvald handed Rathulf
a new bowl. It was filled to the brim with a chunky stew. For the first time that Rathulf could remember, they would not eat porridge for breakfast.

  ‘I’ve never tried making this before. I hope it’s all right. One of Snorri’s men helped with the recipe.’

  ‘It’s fine, father,’ Rathulf grinned, before tasting it. This was far better than any meal he had ever eaten at Alrik’s or Sigvald’s. As it was, the stew was delicious, and Rathulf served himself a second helping, as did his friend. He was about to go back for a third when Thorvald lifted his hand. ‘Leave enough room for dessert.’

  Rathulf cast his father a quizzical glance. He looked at Alrik who shrugged and responded with a look that said he had no idea either. Thorvald disappeared into the little storeroom and returned grinning triumphantly. He handed his son his last gift: a small wooden box, carved with the tall, elegant script of the Abbasids. Rathulf carefully placed it on the table and opened the lid. Inside lay an assortment of eastern delicacies: dates, pomegranate, baklava and some pink, translucent cubes. Rathulf looked at his father, amazed. He didn’t dare ask Thorvald how he had managed to procure the delicacies; he feared it might somehow break the spell. Thorvald indicated to his son to eat, but Rathulf took a knife and divided everything into three parts. He handed the pieces to Thorvald and Alrik. ‘I don’t deserve any of this.’