The Wolves of Dumnonia Saga Box Set

by Peter Fox

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  Blackness surrounded Rathulf, but this place was not the bleak landscape of his dreams. For a long time, he heard and saw nothing at all. Then the panic-stricken voices of his friends floated towards him from a great distance away, followed by the dull rumble of approaching horses. He presumed it must be the Valkyries coming to take him to Valhalla, but still he could see nothing. The thundering roar of the approaching riders remained constant, as though they were always riding somewhere nearby, but never quite reaching him. Perhaps they were circling him. It was all very strange. He had expected to smell his blood mingled with damp rock and earth, but instead, the fresh aroma of crushed grass filled his senses.

  Something was nudging his face, and he lifted his hand to move it away. He felt the short fur and moist nostrils of his horse’s muzzle. He opened his eyes to see Tariq standing over him, looking concerned. Rathulf turned his head, and there was Sigvald, also looking at him gravely. Beside the jarl was bare-chested Alrik, and behind him were the anxious faces of Ingrith, Arni and the rest of his friends. Rathulf looked back at his horse, now quite confused. How had they got down to him so quickly? How could Tariq be uninjured? Had he managed to stop in time, and only he had been thrown into the ravine?

  ‘Rathulf?’

  Sigvald’s face loomed huge over him. ‘How does it feel to be a fully-fledged Viking?’

  It was impossible. Rathulf looked at Alrik for confirmation, and his friend smiled and nodded, wiping tears from his face with his sleeve. Rathulf looked up at Arni, who was standing strangely, holding his hand to his stomach, but he was smiling too. Rathulf still could not believe he was alive. One moment he had been plunging to a grisly death, and the next, he was lying in the soft grass with all his friends around him. He still did not quite understand what had happened, and he turned again to Tariq, smiling at him and seeing his joy reflected in the animal’s eyes. It transpired that most of Rathulf’s friends and spectators had avoided serious injury, except poor Hakon, who had been directly in Tariq’s path. He was carried off suffering several fractured ribs.

  Helga arrived, and she and her daughter helped their favourite young Viking to his feet. ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again, young man,’ Helga scolded. ‘You scared me to death.’

  Rathulf grinned sheepishly at her. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve no intention of doing this again. Ever.’

  ‘What happened?’ Sigvald asked. ‘What made you pull up?’

  ‘For Thor’s sake,’ Helga protested. ‘At least let the boy gather his breath.’

  ‘It’s that damn idiot horse’s fault,’ Bardi said. ‘I told you this was a mistake.’

  ‘No, it’s this ring,’ Rathulf said, trying to tug it off. It wouldn’t budge. ‘Skítr! And now it won’t come off,’ he said angrily.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Helga pressed.

  ‘Last night, when I put it on, I heard a wolf howl. I went outside and saw it, sitting on top of Magni’s Stone.’

  ‘Hel’s thighs,’ Bardi muttered.

  ‘I think I know what it means now,’ Rathulf went on, but Sigvald cut him off.

  ‘Never mind about it now, Rathulf,’ the jarl said. ‘Whatever it means, it can’t be a bad omen, because here you stand among us alive and a Viking!’

  Everyone variously cheered and congratulated Rathulf while the next contender prepared himself up at the top of the ramp. For his part, Rathulf was glad it was over. Only now that he’d successfully made the transition to manhood did he realise just how anxious he’d been. And all that for what? Barely a handful of breaths and it was done. Just like that. He felt lightheaded with relief.

  ‘We’d better get back up top,’ Sigvald said to Bardi and Helga. ‘We adults aren’t meant to be down here.’ He smiled apologetically to Rathulf. ‘I’m afraid it’s the long ride down to the bottom for you; that is if you haven’t broken Tariq.’ The jarl turned to Myran, who had arrived and was carefully checking the stallion’s cannons and fetlocks.

  ‘He is unharmed,’ the stable master announced, although he did sound a trifle surprised.

  Rathulf breathed a sigh of relief and gave his crazy horse an appreciative pat. Tariq caught his master’s eye, and Rathulf felt a tingle up his spine as he recalled the inexplicable feeling of terror that he had felt just before they had jumped. Who or what had been responsible? Could it be my brother? he wondered, an unsettling notion beginning to form in his mind. What if I’m wrong? What if…?

  ‘Hey dreamy head!’ It was Alrik, waving his hand in front of his friend’s face to get his attention. Alrik frowned. ‘Are you ok? You hit the ground pretty hard.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Rathulf lied, unable to shake off his growing sense of foreboding.

  Two other boys were making the Leap today, and next up was a tall, dark-haired lad Rathulf had never seen before, from somewhere further north. To Rathulf’s considerable annoyance he made it over easily and without hesitation, springing with smooth agility from his mount before it had stopped on the other side, pumping his arms in the air and shouting to anyone who cared that he was the greatest.

  ‘Show-off,’ Alrik said, disgusted.

  ‘That’s how it’s meant to be done,’ Gunnar offered helpfully.

  ‘Fæn ta deg,’ Alrik answered, then added under his breath for Rathulf’s benefit, ‘the only thing you messed up was not trampling that drittsekk into the dirt.’

  The last boy was one of Gunnar’s friends. His ride could not have been more different than the previous contender’s. Harbjorn started off well enough, but it was immediately apparent that he was having second thoughts, and sure enough, barely halfway down he sat up and hauled on the reins much as Rathulf had done. His mare came to a stumbling stop, tipping Harbjorn over her head. The boy landed on his back, and they all heard his strangled cry as he hit the turf with a heavy thud well short of the ravine. Evidently disgusted with him, his pony turned and trotted back up the hill, leaving Harbjorn alone and humiliated on the ramp.

  ‘Great effort,’ Alrik said sarcastically to Gunnar.

  ‘What makes you the expert?’ Gunnar sneered back. ‘Oh, but wait, you’ve not made the Leap. So what would you know?’

  ‘I don’t need to, rasshull. I’m already a man, remember?’

  ‘That’s not what I hear,’ Gunnar said with a smirk and throwing a wink at his friends.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Alrik hissed.

  ‘Everyone knows about you two. You don’t even bother to hide it! Vignar’s father says you sleep together in Rathulf’s house.’ He spat on Alrik’s foot. ‘Sansorthinn.’

  The insult drew an audible gasp from the gathering, for there was no more offensive accusation in a Norseman’s armoury. Thus it was not made lightly, even by one as well connected as Gunnar.

  ‘Snorri sleeps in a tent with three other men,’ Alrik snapped back, ‘and Rathulf’s house is small.’

  ‘It’s not the only thing that’s small,’ Gunnar said, triggering another ripple of laughter from his followers as he wiggled his little finger suggestively.

  ‘Take it back, Gunnar,’ Rathulf warned.

  ‘Or what?’ Eirik’s son sniggered, ‘you’ll set your rassragr onto me?’

  Alrik’s eyes narrowed. ‘Say that again, hestkuk,’ he growled, resting his hand on the hilt of his dagger.

  ‘Rassragr,’ Gunnar sneered. He turned to Ingrith. ‘I wonder who the better ride is? You or Alr–?’

  Alrik ripped his dagger from its sheath, but Rathulf was quicker. The Briton punched Gunnar in the nose before he completed his sentence, wiping the smirk from the boy’s face and sending him staggering backwards in shock. Rathulf followed with a second punch to Gunnar’s stomach, dropping Eirik’s son to his knees, gasping. Within moments, daggers were drawn on both sides as the two parties faced off.

  ‘The only ergi here is you, grisskítr,’ Rathulf snarled.

  Gunnar scowled back at Rathulf, blood streaming from his nose. ‘You can stick up for him all you like, thral
l, but everyone knows he’s too scared to take the leap because he’s a charcoal-eating coward.’

  Alrik lunged at Gunnar, but Rathulf grabbed his arm and hauled him back out of harm’s way. ‘He’s stirring you up, Alrik,’ Rathulf murmured. ‘You’ll only make it worse.’

  ‘I’m going to kill that jævla Jötnahreðr,’ Alrik snarled back, wrenching his arm free.

  ‘Take the Leap and wipe his face in it,’ Rathulf urged. ‘You can ride Tariq if you want.’

  ‘I don’t have to show that kuktryne anything,’ Alrik said.

  ‘It’s not your horse he wants to ride, slave-boy,’ Gunnar said, regaining his confidence. His band of followers laughed, though some less than others as they eyed Rathulf’s dark expression and Alrik’s dagger.

  ‘Alrik, get on your horse and show that drittsekk who the loser is here,’ snapped Ingrith, glaring at Gunnar.

  All their other friends started pressing Alrik, and suddenly he was surrounded by clamouring supporters, urging him to refute Gunnar’s challenge in the most obvious way.

  ‘I haven’t prepared,’ Alrik said lamely.

  ‘You don’t have to do anything,’ Rathulf said.

  ‘Says you. How long have you practised for this? Months!’

  ‘Breerk, breerk, breerk,’ clucked Gunnar, flapping his arms for effect.

  Like Rathulf before him, Alrik sprang forward and punched Gunnar hard in the stomach, knocking the boy to the ground for a second time. ‘You think you’re a real man?’ Alrik snarled, holding his dagger up to Gunnar’s neck. ‘Then I dare you to stand at the edge here, right where I’m going to land and smash your butt-ugly face under my hooves.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ Gunnar ground out through gritted teeth, on his knees with his hand to his belly. ‘I’m not worried, because you’re going to pull out – something that comes easily to you, Bardisson.’

  Alrik muttered an oath and stormed off, shoving people out of the way as he clambered up the narrow path towards the waiting spectators who had gathered to see what the commotion was about.

  Rathulf watched his friend make his way through the onlookers towards his pony, feeling increasingly worried about what Alrik had just been forced into. He handed Tariq’s reins to Myran, then climbed up after Alrik, calling for him to wait.

  ‘Run, Rathulf! There’s still time to save your boyfriend!’ Gunnar called after him to howls of laughter.

  Alrik ignored Rathulf and continued to lead his pony through the crowd towards the top of the ramp. The adults were encouraging Alrik, congratulating him for following Rathulf’s admirable example, which only served to infuriate Alrik further.

  ‘What do you want?’ Alrik said when Rathulf finally caught up with him.

  ‘I just wanted to say that you shouldn’t take any notice of what Gunnar says. He’s a kukskalle.’

  ‘He said we were Sansorthinn, Rathulf, and that I’m a coward.’

  ‘So what? He says all sorts of dumb things. That’s what a Kukskalle does.’

  Alrik pulled away from his friend, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. ‘You’re the dumbass,’ he muttered as he stalked off.

  Rathulf made to go after him but felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Eirik.

  ‘Let him go,’ the jarl warned.

  ‘But I…’

  ‘Have done enough,’ Eirik finished for him. ‘Alrik needs to do this.’

  ‘No thanks to Gunnar.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what my son, or for that matter anyone else says,’ Eirik continued. ‘You should be confident enough in who you are not to be bothered by what other people think.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ Rathulf said.

  ‘One of the things that sets us apart from the rabble, Rathulf, is our ability to ignore the taunts of people like my son. Reacting to it shows weakness.’

  ‘So what do I do now?’

  ‘Go back down and wait to congratulate your friend on making the Leap.’

  ‘But he’s–’

  ‘Going to be fine. Now go.’

  Up at the top of the ramp, Bardi was far less disposed. ‘No,’ he said firmly to his son when Alrik presented himself to Thorleif.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ Sigvald asked, bewildered. ‘What were you lot fighting over down there?’

  ‘I’m coward and an ergi,’ Alrik spat. ‘Didn’t you know?’

  ‘What?’ Bardi said, outraged. ‘Who called you that?’

  ‘They all do!’ Alrik snapped.

  Bardi stared at him. ‘Who? Why?’

  ‘Who do you think? Gunnar and his bunch of losers. Why? Because I always take the easy way out, and apparently Rathulf and I spend too much time together.’ Alrik shook his head at his father then turned to his pony to check the saddle.

  ‘Alrik,’ Helga began gently, ‘you’re no ergi, and you mustn’t let the likes of Gunnar upset you. He’s jealous that you have such a good and loyal friend in Rathulf, whereas he has no one to claim as blood-brother.’ She pulled his summer riding cloak from its bindings on his horse and handed it up to him. ‘You should at least put this on,’ she said, nodding at his bare torso.

  He scowled down at her but did as he was told, ramming the pin through the cloth and clipping it into place.

  ‘Alrik,’ Helga pressed on, her concern deepening. ‘Who are you doing this for?’

  ‘The real rassragr here. I’m aiming for his pig-ugly face.’

  ‘Alrik,’ Bardi said, taking hold of the pony’s bridle. ‘Are you sure about this? You’re not thinking straight, and you’re not prepared.’

  ‘So you’re saying I’m a coward as well?’ Alrik countered, and he tugged the reins to wrest his pony’s head from his father’s grasp. ‘They want me to prove that I’m a man, so I’m going to do that.’

  He kicked his mare’s flanks, and suddenly he was off. Thorleif called in vain after him, the boy not having spoken the customary words of transition.

  Helga uttered a silent prayer for her nephew, then she dug into her belt pouch and pulled out a stone. She didn’t look at it but instead held it in her fist. Helga closed her eyes and uttered another prayer, this time to Baldur. She opened her fingers. In the centre of her hand sat a rune stone, only it was face down. She closed her fingers back over it, unable to find the courage to turn it over.

  Alrik reached the start of the run, and without hesitation, he pushed his pony into a gallop. He charged down the ramp, urging his mare on ever quicker.

  ‘He’s going too fast,’ Bardi said. ‘He won’t see the gap until it’s too late.’

  ‘He’s angry,’ Sigvald responded. ‘Better anger than fear.’

  ‘Well at the rate he’s going he’ll jump further than Tariq. We really should talk to Eirik about Gunnar, you know.’

  ‘And say what?’ Sigvald protested. ‘Let’s just hope your boy stays true to his word and aims for the obnoxious dritt and forgets about what he’s trying to do.’

  ‘With any luck, he’ll break Gunnar’s neck and do everyone a favour,’ Bardi said coldly.

  The first arrow missed Alrik by a good length. Fired from somewhere up behind Sigvald, the jarl heard the dull twang of the bowstring but didn’t realise what was happening until he saw something bounce off the wall behind Alrik’s galloping pony. Alrik wasn’t even aware of it. He had reached the point of no return and was leaning down in readiness for the jump, his cloak flying behind him like the wings of a great bird.

  Sigvald snapped around to see a bowman hidden up in the rocks behind them loose a second missile. This one flew true and struck Alrik’s pony just as it reached the breach.

  The mare squealed and stumbled, throwing Alrik off her back. She blundered into space, crashed against the opposite wall of the ravine then dropped out of sight. She screamed as she fell, then the noise cut off abruptly when she hit the rocks at the bottom with a distant smack.

  Alrik bounced once, and then he too disappeared over the edge after his horse.

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  Alrik made
a desperate grab at the rim as he tumbled over the precipice, but it was his cloak that saved him. It caught on one of the rocks that protruded from the lip of the ravine, and he jerked to a stop as the garment pulled tight around his neck. He clawed frantically at the cliff face to pull himself back up before he choked, or the pin gave way. His right hand found a projecting piece of rock, and there he clung, staring down into the gaping mouth of the ravine.

  Helga screamed, but Bardi’s cry of horror caught in his throat. Sigvald launched himself down the ramp, yelling at Thorleif and Bardi to get after the assassin. To Sigvald’s astonishment, Alrik seemed to have saved himself; at least that was what he deduced from the way the spectators on the other side of the Leap were yelling and shouting for help. Sigvald ran as fast as he could down the ramp, dividing his attention between the ground immediately in front of him and the line of spectators in the distance that signalled the edge of the ravine. Never had the Breach seemed so far away than now!

  Out of sight of Sigvald, Alrik was desperately trying to get his other hand up to the overhanging lip to pull himself to safety, but it was beyond his reach. Alrik’s friends were in the worst position of all; they stood just yards away on the lower side of the ravine, but for all they could do to help him, they may as well have been on the other side of the world.

  The sound didn’t register at first, perhaps because it beat in time with Sigvald’s pounding heart. Then it fell out of rhythm and became an identifiable, separate thing: hoof-beats, coming from somewhere below. Sigvald first thought it must be Alrik’s pony fleeing down the ramp, but then he remembered she had never made it over, and there was something alarmingly distinctive about that gait; the long pause between strides, the heavier-than-usual thumps as the hooves struck the earth, and the sound came towards him, not away. Sigvald looked down slowly, reluctantly, knowing already what he would see. It took Thorvald and the others a few moments longer to realise what was happening, but one by one they all stopped and stared down the hill in horror.