Viking Gold

by V. Campbell

  Ragnar’s own men-at-arms stepped up behind Mord. “Enough of this,” Ragnar said, waving Mord down. He turned to Hawk. “Did you follow us here?”

  Hawk shook his head. “Hardly. This tree has been known to the Kanienkehaka – the Flint People – for many years. It is sacred to them. A peace council has been called—”

  Running Deer placed a hand over her husband’s arm. “This concerns my people,” she said, “I should explain.” Hawk nodded reluctantly, and Running Deer turned to face Ragnar and the other Northmen. “Many years ago, my ancestors … and the ancestors of the other peoples that live in this land … were always fighting. Many died, until a great man whose name has been lost to memory, convinced the six great chiefs to agree a peace. As evidence of their intentions to keep to their promise, the six chiefs agreed to bury their weapons beneath the tallest tree in the forest.” Running Deer looked up at the White Pine. “This was the tallest tree.”

  “So … there’s no treasure buried here?” Mord asked. “Just some old weapons?”

  Running Deer nodded.

  Mord’s lip curled in anger. “You lie. You have followed us here. You want to keep the treasure for yourselves.” He stamped over to Sinead, grabbed the Codex from her and held it up. “It says in here,” he said, shaking the Codex. “It says Saint Brendan travelled to a land in the west where he buried a great treasure beneath a white pine marked with Irish runes.”

  Running Deer glanced at Hiawatha. “My father …” she began hesitantly, “he … he didn’t want me to show you this at first. But I think … well, you should see it for yourselves.” She reached into a beaded pouch and a pulled out a piece of crumpled vellum.

  “What’s that?” Sinead asked, stepping forward.

  Running Deer handed the page to her. “I don’t know what the patterns mean. It has been in my family for many years. Some say it was left by the man who made the peace here all those years ago. When you brought out the book, the one that led you here, I remembered. I thought you should see it … in case it explained.”

  Redknee watched Sinead as she scanned the page. She frowned as she reached the end.

  “What does it say?” Mord asked.

  Sinead looked up. She smiled slowly.

  “Don’t hold us in suspense,” Ragnar said. “I’ve waited over sixteen years for this.”

  “It’s a list … an inventory, if you like.”

  “What?” Ragnar marched forward and grabbed the sheet from her.

  Mord grinned hungrily. “Does it list the treasures buried here? Swords inlaid with rubies, brooches of purest gold—”

  Sinead shook her head, her curls bouncing from side to side.

  “Tell us,” Redknee urged, unable to hold his tongue any longer.

  “It is certainly in the hand of the scribe who wrote the Codex. But this is a more … prosaic document. Laughably so. It lists the items needed to build an Irish curragh. There’s even a drawing.”

  “What’s a curragh?” Redknee asked.

  “It’s a boat made of leather. It must be what Saint Brendan used to sail here. Remember, I told you about them before? They’re stronger than you’d think.”

  Mord rubbed his hands together in glee. “This means Saint Brendan was really here.”

  “But not that he buried any treasure,” Sinead said.

  “Why else would he go to all the trouble of writing such a long book?” Mord scoffed, picking up his spade.

  Redknee didn’t recognise her at first, so much had she changed. She stood at the very edge of the clearing, behind Hiawatha’s warriors, half hidden by greenery, seemingly unsure whether to stay or go. Once lustrous skin hung dully over sunken cheeks, grey circles ringed her eyes and her lips were bitten raw. Astrid was a changed woman. But it wasn’t this that sent a shiver through Redknee’s spine; it was the fact that since he had noticed her … not once had her eyes left Hawk.

  Chapter 36

  Mord dug long into the night. He found five axe heads, four spearheads, a wampum headdress, a deerskin drum, six flint knives, a leather sling, four bows, two woven quivers and maybe fifty or sixty flint arrow tips. Ragnar remained unimpressed. He lit a fire, told everyone else to stop digging, and sat down.

  Sinead joined him, the book open in her lap. Her new bronze pendant glimmered in the firelight as Redknee took his place opposite. Hiawatha and his warriors sat a little way off. They hadn’t tried to stop the excavation, merely watched from a distance, wry grins twisting their faces.

  “Tell me, daughter,” Ragnar said gently, “tell me again what the book says about the treasure.”

  Sinead turned the pages, stopping when she found the right part. “It says … ‘They came to a great white pine, so tall, Saint Brendan could not see whence it touched the sky, but he was certain that it did. The youth said: ‘This tree lies in the centre of the Promised Land, so that all peoples may reach it, and none are further away than the other.’Saint Brendan nodded, for he understood. He took his most treasured possessions and buried them beneath the roots of this tree, the greatest of them all.’” Sinead stopped reading and scratched her head. “Wait, I don’t think that translation is quite right. It’s not his most treasured possessions that he buried, but the things he treasured most.”

  “What’s the difference?” Magnus asked, his calm steersman’s eyes unblinking in the flickering firelight.

  Sinead sucked in her cheeks. “I’m not sure … shall I read on?”

  Ragnar nodded.

  “‘Then he turned to his fellow monks, and told them to do the same. And, so it came to pass that many treasures lay beneath this tree, treasures great enough to bring peace to all the Earth.’”

  Ragnar wearily massaged the spot just above his blind eye, as if that blank orb was the source of all his pain. When he looked up and saw that Running Deer was tentatively approaching the fire, he waved her over.

  “There is no mention of Saint Brendan brokering a peace,” he said.

  Running Deer nodded slightly. “We think of this tree as precious because of what it stands for. I think that is what your book is trying to say. It’s not real treasure.”

  Ragnar inhaled sharply. He turned to Sinead. “Is that what you think?” he asked, his lips curling in disgust. “That this has been a … a symbolic journey?” He spat these last words.

  Sinead bit her lip and stared at the open page in front of her. A tear began to trickle down her cheek.

  “Pah,” Ragnar said, standing. “I never should have trusted Sven. He’s still leading me a merry dance, even from beyond the grave.” He called to Mord. “Come, son,” he said. “It is time to rest. You can try again in the morning, but I think we have to accept defeat on this one.”

  Mord looked up from the pit in which he stood. Mud splattered his face and clothes, only the whites of his eyes shone clean in the moonlight. He gave a low, desperate growl.

  Ragnar sighed. “There will be other journeys, and other treasures. We will be rich yet. And King Hakon will keep his promise to us about the jarldom. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Mord climbed out reluctantly, as if his limbs were made of stone. Ragnar threw his arm round his eldest and led him to the warmth of the fire. Mord slumped to the ground, fished a small piece of bone from his pocket and began working it, almost obsessively, with his knife.

  Redknee bedded down near Hawk and watched the others. Even with Silver at his feet, he couldn’t fully relax. Something was wrong. Ragnar had accepted defeat too easily. Had he known all along that there was no treasure? What about the stories in the Codex about a land where the flowers were made of rubies, raindrops of pearls and the rivers flowed blue, the product of a hundred thousand sapphires?

  Had it all been lies? Or, as Running Deer called it – symbolic. Which, if you asked him, was just about as good as lies.

  Redknee listened to the rumble of Olaf’s snores, worse now they were no longer at sea. He turned over, trying to block his ears. Mord had moved a little way from the others. He
was still awake, still working on his piece of bone, carving an intricate design on its smooth face. It looked like it was going to be the handle for a small eating knife or dagger. Even from this distance, Redknee could see the workmanship was good. Mord held it up. It caught the light. Redknee saw the design clearly – a pair of interlaced snakes.

  Suddenly he realised where he’d seen such craft, such a design, before. His head spun with the revelation. He slid from his sleeping fur, grabbed a discarded spade and pressed the iron tip into Olaf’s throat.

  “You!” he whispered, shaking with anger. “You were the traitor all along.”

  Olaf’s eyes flew open.

  “You! My uncle’s right-hand man. You have been in league with Ragnar from the beginning and I can prove it.”

  “What’s happening?” Ragnar demanded, stumbling groggily to his feet.

  “I know who your snake was,” Redknee called back, pushing the sharp tip of the spade into Olaf’s throat until a droplet of blood sprung forth.

  Olaf’s eyes bulged in his fear pinched face. “Not me,” he croaked.

  Redknee laughed bitterly. “It’s all so clear now. Why didn’t I see it before? When my uncle went to Kaupangen the month before Ragnar’s attack, you and Harold went with him. Sven went to see if he could find a buyer for the Codex – or at least if anyone there could read it. Harold returned from that trip with a fine ivory-handled dagger. He boasted you got the dagger from a Frankish merchant. I now know that to be a lie. For it was Mord who carved the fine decoration on the handle. You met Ragnar when you visited Kaupangen, he gave you the dagger as a gift for agreeing to be his spy, and you gave it to your son.”

  Olaf tried to shake his head despite the pressure of the spade at his throat. “It’s not true,” he said. “Harold won the dagger in a game of dice. I didn’t see Ragnar when I went to Kaupangen. Didn’t even know he was there.”

  “You lie. You were against this voyage from the start. Always telling my uncle to give up, to go back home. You were working for Ragnar – tell me the truth.”

  “No – I truly thought the voyage futile—”

  The blow to his head knocked Redknee sideways. His vision blurred. When he stumbled round, Harold stood opposite him, sword and shield in hand. Harold stood tall and straight, all signs of frailty gone.

  “You?” Redknee said, more accusation than question.

  Harold raised his sword. “My father was always in your uncle’s shadow. Serving him like a faithful dog. He’s the one who organised this voyage. He readied the supplies. He oversaw the building of Wavedancer. Hell, he even checked the sea routes. Without my father, your uncle would have been nothing. And what thanks did he get?”

  “Come, son,” Olaf said, gripping the necklace of blood at his throat. He too was on his feet now, along with most of the camp. He held out his arms, beseeching Harold to desist. “I respected Sven. We had our differences, but he treated me well. Like the brother he’d lost.”

  Harold shook his head. “No, father, Sven didn’t treat you like a brother. Did he reward your service with land, with power?”

  Olaf’s silence was answer enough for Harold. He jabbed his sword at Redknee. “And him – one day he would be jarl! Despite being a better warrior, I would never inherit anything. I had to do something.”

  “And you thought Ragnar would give you what you want?” Redknee asked.

  Harold laughed; sparks danced in the pits of his eyes, the mania had not left him. “It was Mord I found at the Kaupangen docks. Trying to sell a boatload of slaves from the Rhineland. He wasn’t having much luck. Surly bastards, Germans. He was drunk, throwing dice with some Frankish merchants. Gambled away half his cargo. When I heard who he was, I told him about the book Sven had come to Kaupangen to sell and how he could make his money back a hundredfold. Provided he saw me right. The dagger, however, I won. Always did have a fast hand.”

  Ragnar cut in. “Is this true?” he asked, staring at Mord.

  “I told you I had my spies,” Mord said, stepping closer. He’d been keeping his distance in the shadows, but came forward to answer his father. The light from the fire danced across his mailcoat. He still held the bone carving in his hand.

  “I meant about losing half the slaves – you told me they’d died from sea-fever.”

  Mord shrugged. “They were weak and would’ve died anyway.”

  Harold banged on his shield. “Come on, Red-knee,” he said, drawing the name into an insult. “Are you a coward like your father? Going to run?”

  Redknee tilted his head and smiled. “Only to hunt you down.” He’d learned a lot since that hot day in the village when Harold had beaten him at sword craft. He shifted his weight. Tossed the iron tipped spade from hand to hand. This time he would win … and the outcome would be final.

  Harold swung first. The blade nicked the edge of Redknee’s sleeve. Damn, he thought. Enough talk. He’d have to be quicker.

  The others stopped gawping and stood back, forming a wide circle round them. Torches flickered between the faces. Hiawatha’s warriors joined the onlookers. Olaf tried to intervene, but Ragnar held him back.

  Redknee burned with anger. Harold was the traitor; he’d killed Karl and Thora, he was to blame for his mother’s death. He let out a roar and charged, swinging his spade at Harold’s head. The crowd gasped, but Harold snapped to, and Redknee’s blow glanced off Harold’s shield. Before he could pull back, Harold thumped him between the shoulders with his pommel. He lurched towards the ground, only stopping himself falling flat at the last moment.

  “Catch.”

  He chanced a sideways glance. Toki smiled at him from the sidelines then threw a shield in the air. He caught it, sliding his arm through the metal handle.

  Keep your shield high … like a jug of mead …Yes, that’s what Uncle Sven had taught him. And watch for the snakebite – that, he had learned himself.

  He spun round and stared into Harold’s eyes, certain the hatred he saw there was reflected in his own. This time he met Harold’s blow with his shield, dropped his right knee and swung low, catching Harold’s ankle with the tip of his spade. He grunted with pleasure as Harold recoiled. The blow had little power, but it served as a warning.

  “You’ve improved,” Harold said, lunging forward again, and again, and again, his face set in a wolfish snarl.

  As each blow smashed into Redknee’s shield, he struggled to catch them with the iron boss and not the fast disintegrating wood. As he was pushed backwards, sleeping furs snarled his feet. Seizing on this, Harold attacked harder, his face glistening with sweat. Redknee didn’t think he could hold out much longer when he saw Sinead push to the front of the crowd. He wished she’d stay out the way. Didn’t need the distraction.

  They were near the White Pine now, among the snare of roots. Being backed against it would be suicide. Redknee faked a stumble. But he’d judged it wrong – fell flat on his back.

  Sinead was above him, pressing something into his hand. Flame Weaver. He rolled away as Harold’s sword whizzed past his ear and twanged against the hard earth. She came through for me, Redknee thought, rounding on Harold with renewed energy. This was his chance for revenge.

  Lead with the sword, follow with the body. Sven’s words echoed in his head as he propelled Flame Weaver through the air, shattering Harold’s shield into splinters. It was a decisive blow. Redknee moved in for the kill, smashing the iron husk of his own shield under Harold’s chin. Blood and teeth spewed from Harold’s mouth as he flew back, into the trunk of the White Pine.

  Redknee stood over him, poised to bring Flame Weaver down, to send the traitor to his grave. Silver must have seen it first. The pup sprung into the air, throwing himself between Redknee and Harold’s knife.

  The scream was no less terrible for not being human. Silver fell to the ground, blood streaking his white fur. Redknee crumpled over the pup’s body. How could this have happened? He had defeated Harold – hadn’t he?

  Harold smirked down at Redknee
, the bloodstained knife still in his hand. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he said. “Now, I’m going to have my other wish.” He swung his sword at Redknee’s neck, but Redknee was already up, moving. The swing missed Redknee completely; Harold’s sword plunged deep into the trunk of the White Pine. Harold tugged. It was stuck. Redknee raised Flame Weaver—

  “Stop!” Olaf demanded. “I won’t allow my son to be killed.”

  Redknee looked round at the horrified faces staring at him. Suddenly he realised just how outnumbered he was amongst Ragnar’s men. If he killed Harold, there would be many to exact revenge.

  Olaf stalked over and pulled Harold’s sword from the tree trunk. Redknee thought Olaf was going to fight in his son’s stead but he knelt over Silver and bundled him into his arms.

  “Sinead,” Olaf asked, “do you have medicine that can help? I know you worked for the monks in their infirmary.”

  Sinead hurried over and stroked Silver’s head. The pup whimpered. The wound in his side was large, ragged; he’d lost a lot of blood. A tear sprung to Sinead’s eye. “I’m afraid I have nothing here.”

  “Wait,” Running Deer said, stepping forward. “I think I can help.”

  Olaf laid Silver on the ground beside the White Pine. Running Deer took a sharp blade from her belt and sliced into the bark, using the cut Harold’s sword had already made. Thick, sticky sap oozed forth. Running Deer scooped as much of it as she could with the edge of her blade, and, very carefully pasted the greenish-white paste over the wound in Silver’s side. The sap soon hardened to form a sticky poultice.

  “There,” Running Deer said as she finished, “that should stop the bleeding. But we’ll have to wait until morning before we’ll know if he’ll live.”

  Chapter 37

  Redknee sat with Silver, well away from the others. He kept his sword by his side: no one would take it from him again while he lived. He nudged the pup gently. Nothing. No response.

  “How is Silver?”