Viking Revolt

by Gavin Chappell

  He shook his head. ‘I fear that you hope to challenge Bork for his position. Other men have been just as prideful. They are with Aegir and Ran.’ He clapped Gest on the shoulder. ‘Go back to your training and think not of such things. You must prove yourself worthy of a place aboard the Red Grasp.’

  Vivil stood alone, waiting patiently. There was no sign of the berserk. Bork Wolf-mantle had returned to his seclusion with the others. As Stafnglam swaggered off to bully other men, Gest trailed back to Vivil.

  ‘You’ll come to a bad end,’ Vivil said, ‘if you defy the sea king’s picked men.’

  Gest lunged at him, and Vivil brought his shield up only just in time.

  ‘And you’ll come to a bad end,’ Gest said with a grim laugh, ‘if you waste your time wondering about what doesn’t concern you when there’s fighting to be done.’

  Stafnglam called a break and the men returned to their berths to eat. Gest lounged on his sea chest, sipping a horn of ale. When he finished, he unsheathed his sword and began sharpening it with a hone. Vivil watched curiously.

  ‘Who’s that for?’ he asked eventually.

  Gest looked up. ‘Whoever I meet next in the fight,’ he said. ‘We’ll be fighting for real soon enough, right?’

  Vivil shrugged. ‘You’re eager,’ he commented.

  ‘As keen as my blade will be when I’m done whetting it,’ Gest replied. ‘It’s summer. Campaigning season. Men grow fat and idle without war. What is the sea king waiting for?’

  ‘How would I know?’ Vivil asked, with a shrug. ‘Such folk don’t take common seafarers into their confidence. We never know what the sea king plans until he tells us! Sometimes not even then.’

  ‘Have you ever seen him?’ Gest asked. ‘What does he look like?’

  Vivil was shifty. ‘I saw him last year, when we were fighting. He seldom comes out from under his awnings except at night.’

  Gest considered this. ‘Even Stafnglam says he sees little of the sea king,’ he said. ‘A lord should be with his men at all times. It forms a bond.’

  ‘You know all about that,’ Vivil said sardonically. ‘You, who lost all his men not in the fight, but to the sea.’

  Gest grinned harshly. ‘All the same, I could counsel the sea king better than he is advised. He wouldn’t spend all his time hiding under his awnings, not daring to show his face…’

  ‘And what do you know?’ demanded Gram from the berth behind him. Gest looked over his shoulder, seeing hostile faces. Men were reaching for axes and spears. Stafnglam marched down the deck towards them.

  ‘Making trouble again, newcomer?’ he said wearily. ‘We could easily find another oarsman.’

  ‘He thinks he’s better than the sea king,’ Gram grumbled.

  ‘Needs to learn some respect,’ said another man.

  Vivil hissed to Gest, ‘Keep your teeth together! You’ll anger everyone like this!’

  ‘Who’ll teach this newcomer respect?’ Stafnglam called. ‘We’ll have a fight right here. Not training weapons either. Aye, make that sword sharp, newcomer! You’ll need it.’

  ‘May I choose my opponent?’ Gest asked, looking round the angry faces goadingly. ‘None of these striplings would give much of a challenge. I would fight a true man.’

  Stafnglam’s voice broke through the angry rumblings. ‘Who will you fight? Me? I am the chief warrior here.’ He put a hand on his sword hilt. ‘I’ll teach you a lesson, you yelping whelp. If you would haul an oar aboard the Red Grasp you must learn respect.’

  Gest rose, looked Stafnglam up and down. ‘I’ll not fight you. I demand a fight worthy of my steel.’

  Vivil flung up his hands. ‘You’re a witless fool, newcomer,’ he hissed, looking up at him. ‘Your pride has brought you low. Sit back down before someone slits your throat.’

  Stafnglam snarled, ‘There is no one else left to fight you!’

  Gest grinned. ‘I will fight Bork Wolf-mantle.’

  His words carried across the deck. All the oarsmen heard them. At first they were silent. Then they roared with laughter.

  ‘Very well,’ said Stafnglam bleakly. ‘I can do nothing. You’ve made your choice. You’ll fight Bork Wolf-mantle, if he’ll deign to accept your challenge.’

  As he stamped across the deck, Gest called tauntingly after him, ‘He’s a coward if he won’t.’ Stafnglam did not reply. He reached the awnings and called humbly.

  ‘Hunding,’ Vivil hissed, putting his hand on Gest’s arm. ‘What do you think you’re doing? You’ve made enemies here, enemies of all of us. Now you’ll be killed.’ He glanced at the gunwale. ‘Your only hope is to jump ship now and swim back wherever you came from. I’m advising you as a friend.’

  Gest grinned coldly. ‘I’d be filled with arrows if I followed your counsel,’ he said. ‘I’ll stand and fight Bork Wolf-mantle.’

  An angry roar erupted from the awnings. Stafnglam had been peering inside, speaking with someone. Now an angry figure shoved him brutally out of the way and came charging down the deck.

  ‘Who’d fight me?’ bellowed Bork Wolf-mantle, wildly swinging an axe as he ran.

  But someone else was watching from the opening to the awnings. A man Gest did not recognise, a face he had not seen before, could barely see now, obscured as it was by shadow. Stafnglam leaned down to hold a whispered conversation with him. Gest wondered if it might be the sea king himself.

  Seeing Bork stomping across the deck, neck wattling, face as purple as the cloak of the Greek Emperor, Gest wondered if his plan was not going awry. But he shook off Vivil’s arm and rose, unsheathing his sword and flinging the scabbard down on his sea chest. Bork saw him and changed direction.

  ‘You?’ he roared. ‘You’d challenge me? Challenge Bork Wolf-mantle? You! Whelp of an Icelander!’

  Gest sprang across the deck to meet him. Bork roared again, swinging his axe round and round his head. Gest lunged, hacked at the berserk’s unprotected chest, scoring a long red line across it, but the berserk paid no heed and swung his axe right at him. Gest raised his sword to parry but the blow was so fierce he lost his grip and his sword went slithering into the bilges. Weaponless, he faced his foe.

  Bork swung the axe again. Gest leapt back, but his feet caught in a trailing line and he fell. His backbone hit the sheer strake with jarring force and he lay against it, gasping. With a cruel smile, Bork lifted his axe. It glinted once in the sunlight, then swooped like a plummeting hawk.

  —23—

  ‘Hold!’

  The voice rang out across the deck. Bork whimpered, struggling to arrest the fall of his axe. Instead, it hauled him off his feet, and he fell sprawling in the bilges as the axe edge bit deep into the gunwale where Gest had lain until a split second before.

  Bork, absurd tears starting in his reddened eyes, boosted himself to his feet and lunged for the haft of the axe, which now stood at an angle, projecting from the sheer strake.

  Again the voice rang out. ‘Stand fast!’ and Bork hesitated, face pale now when it had been red with fury, the line of his jaw white against the paleness. Then he seized the axe handle and with a splintering of wood tore the blade free.

  ‘Seize him!’ the voice shouted, and Stafnglam and another man rushed to grab a-hold of Bork, who struggled vainly in their grasp.

  Gest, lying against the gunwale where he had rolled, craned his neck round. The deck was a scene of confusion, with the crew surging around to the fighting men. But aft of where Gest sat, the awnings stood open. The man who he had glimpsed earlier seemed to be the source of the commanding voice.

  ‘But sire!’ Bork whined like a beaten hound, hanging his head. ‘He slandered you with his filthy tongue.’

  ‘He fights well,’ said the man—this must be Sigfrid Redhand. He seemed to be a youngish man, in his early thirties. ‘Do not slay him. We wished to try him, to see if he was good enough to serve upon our ships. I think he has proved himself this day.’

  Stafnglam snatched the axe from Bork’s hand—now that the bers
erk fit was gone like a sudden storm, the great man seemed to be as weak as a kitten. The stem-man shoved him, not unkindly, towards the tented section of the deck. Other fur clad berserks came out from under the awnings to carry him inside, watched by the sea king himself. When Bork was no longer to be seen, Sigfrid turned to Stafnglam.

  ‘This Hunding will join my fleet,’ he said. ‘But not aboard the Red Grasp. He shall rather seek a berth aboard one of the longships. Let him row over to the Sea Eagle and we will exchange oarsmen. I will take the best of their men.’

  The sea king withdrew under the awnings. His voice could be heard, the words indistinct, but from the tone Gest knew he was berating Bork Wolf-mantle. The king’s man brushed a hand across his brow, finding that it was wet with cold sweat.

  ‘You fought well,’ Stafnglam said grudgingly. ‘I’ve never seen a man fight against one of the king’s berserks and live. But had it not been for the sea king’s word, you would be dead by now.’

  Gest nodded wearily. ‘But he will not have me aboard his own ship, it seems,’ he commented.

  ‘Aye,’ said Stafnglam. ‘Count yourself lucky he did not have you beheaded.’ He gave orders to the crew and the skiff that lay cradled on the middeck was winched over the side.

  Gest jumped down into it, shipped the oars, and began rowing away. The gunwale was lined with stern faces. One of them was Vivil, who now looked at Gest with mingled scorn and wonder.

  He looked over his shoulder, seeing the other longships nearby. As he drew hard, powerful strokes on the oars, the closest came closer. Her prow had a figurehead depicting a stylised Sea Eagle, its antlers gilded and glittering. He sculled his oars and allowed the current to draw him closer, stretching out one to prod the painted bow of the ship and stop the skiff from banging against its hull. Men looked curiously over the gunwale.

  A man in a dark green cloak stood in the stern. ‘Who are you?’ he barked.

  ‘I bring word from the sea king,’ Gest yelled up at him.

  The man frowned, tugged thoughtfully at his short auburn beard, then gestured to Gest to come aboard. One of the crew flung down a line and Gest made the skiff fast before climbing up the side to where men held hands out to help him aboard.

  Two crewmen were wrestling on the deck while the others watched and laid bets. The man in the green cloak, who Gest took to be the skipper, came down from the stern, cloak swirling around him as he came.

  ‘What word does the sea king send?’ he asked, coming to a halt before Gest and folding his arms arrogantly. ‘I’ve not seen you before.’

  ‘I’ve come to join your crew,’ Gest said shortly.

  ‘No you don’t,’ said the skipper. ‘Get back in that skiff and row back where you came from if all you’ve brought me is insolence. You said you brought word from the sea king.’

  Gest nodded patiently. ‘That’s the sea king’s word,’ he said. ‘I’m to join your crew. My name is Hunding.’ He held out a hand but the skipper looked at it disbelievingly. He glanced warily over at the Red Grasp.

  Then he turned away. ‘Get back where you belong,’ the skipper said brusquely. ‘I need no more crewmen.’

  ‘The sea king said you should send him your best man,’ Gest said stubbornly, ‘and accept me in exchange.’

  The skipper glanced over at the Red Grasp again, but the deck was quiet now, a few men still mock fighting with wooden swords, others swimming in the water. The sea king was playing a risky game, keeping his men so idle. What were they waiting for? It was summer, raiding season. On most summers the ships would be sailing the length of Norway’s seaboard, sacking and plundering coastal settlements. These men were bored and resentful.

  The skipper shook his head. ‘Why should I take you on? What recommends you to me? I’ll not take the sea king’s leavings. This is too much! First we sit idle in this haven for days, now I must yield up one of my men for an untested stranger. Why should I lose my best man?’

  Gest had nothing to say. Looking around the hostile faces of the men on deck, he got the distinct impression that he was unwelcome.

  ‘All I can say is that this is the sea king’s command,’ he said, spreading his hands. ‘As for being untested, why, I am the only man who has stood against Bork Wolf-mantle and lived to tell the tale.’

  An awed murmur rose from the men. The skipper’s eyes glittered. ‘If that is true,’ he said slowly, ‘I should take you on. But if you slew him, why are you not one of the sea king’s guards?’

  ‘I did not say I had killed him,’ said Gest. ‘I stood against him and lived. The sea king was so impressed…’

  ‘…that he sent you to irk me,’ the skipper said wearily. ‘I am beginning to understand. You’re a troublemaker, Hunding. I must bow my knee to the sea king, or else take my ship and men to plough our own furrow. We have seen scant booty this summer as yet, but the word is we will gain the richest of prizes ere raiding season is out. So we stay with Sigfrid Redhand, and we follow his orders.’

  He turned on his heel, green cloak flaring out around him, and spoke to an immense, muscular man who stood nearby, holding a long handled axe over a brawny shoulder. ‘Take the skiff and go to join the sea king’s crew, Skjold,’ he said, clapping the man on the shoulder. ‘We’ll miss you aboard the Sea Eagle, shipmate, but it’s a great honour for you.’

  Skjold looked glumly at Gest, then got his few belongings from his sea chest, and jumped down into the skiff, which almost capsized under his weight.

  ‘What should I do now?’ Gest asked.

  The skipper gave him an unfavourable look, then pointed at the deck beneath him. ‘These boards haven’t been swabbed in a week!’ he barked. ‘Get on your knees and swab them!’

  The rest of the crewmen laughed uproariously and left Gest to it.

  By late afternoon, Gest had swabbed the foredeck clean, and was sore and aching. He had spent all that time on hands and knees shuffling from spot to spot, carrying a bucket of filthy water and a wet rag. The Sea Eagle had not been cleaned in a while, rather longer than the week the skipper had suggested. Another token of the idleness that had gripped these vikings. Again Gest wondered what they were waiting for. But how could he hope to learn what that was berthed aboard the Sea Eagle? The skipper was almost as in the dark as Gest himself.

  Wearily, he scrubbed at the wooden strakes. After flinging more water over the middeck he crouched down to swab the strakes around the mast. As he did, he glanced out to sea and his eyes widened a little at what he saw.

  At first it was hard to make out, a sail out to sea. But what kind this solitary vessel might be was impossible for Gest to say. As he knelt on the middeck, it resolved itself into a ship with outspread sail and oars rising and falling on either side. It was bearing straight for this remote island. As far as he could see, it was coming from the direction of the mainland.

  ‘Belay that!’ barked the skipper’s voice.

  Gest looked round. The skipper was gazing at him from the stern, where he had been sipping a horn of ale. ‘Get back to work,’ the skipper added, gesturing at him with the tip of the horn. ‘You’ve yet to prove your worth. I’ll have no slacking.’

  ‘Aye, skipper,’ said Gest. ‘But have you seen?’ He dropped his rag and pointed out to sea.

  The skipper sprang up and went to the side. He shaded his eyes with his hand and watched in silence. More of the crew saw what he was doing and crowded to the side to join him, pushing past Gest as they did so.

  ‘Is he come at last?’ a man said breathlessly. ‘We’ve been waiting a long time.’

  ‘Too long,’ the skipper commented. ‘But it’s not the knar we saw last time.’ He caressed the pommel of the highly polished sword he wore. ‘This is a karvi, a ship of war.’

  They watched in silence, and Gest watched with them. No one noticed that he was no longer swabbing the decks singlehandedly; all were too intent on the appearance of the new vessel. The skipper was right, it was indeed a karvi, like the one he had sailed in to the trolls’ c
liffs. Up on the masthead hung a shield painted white in token of truce.

  Why was a peaceful vessel approaching a gathering of viking ships like this? Despite the laws of the viking brotherhood that Stafnglam had recited, Gest doubted that they would resist the chance to plunder a vessel if her skipper made it so easy.

  Rounding the sandbar that guarded this haven from the rolling sea waters, the karvi bore down upon the Red Grasp. The dragon ship seemed to dwarf her as she weighed anchor a few fathoms off. Gest waited for shouted orders and men to leap down upon the deck and put the crew to the sword.

  He glanced up at his fellows. All seemed fascinated, no one spoke. At a shout from the Red Grasp, he looked back, to see a man from the ship being welcomed up onto the deck. At once Gest recognised the red cloak and green tunic, and the white streaks in the newcomer’s beard.

  Einar shook hands with Stafnglam, but seemed not to share the stem-man’s delight. Stafnglam asked a question but Einar gave a sad look and gestured to the ship behind him. The stem-man shouted something that the breeze snatched away before Gest heard it, and led Einar aft. They vanished under the awnings.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ said one of the oarsmen aboard the Sea Eagle.

  The skipper shook his head. ‘What could be wrong? This man is our friend. He’s helped us before. What…’

  He broke off, and gnawed at his nails absently. The spars creaked, the lines thrummed overhead. The wind stirred the water into wavelets. The crew of the Red Grasp were waiting on the deck watching the awnings expectantly. Some stood at the side, speaking to the crew of the karvi, shaking their heads glumly.

  Gest remembered the cargo of the knar that he had hijacked. Had those weapons been bound for Sigfrid Redhand’s fleet? Was that what the sea king had been waiting for? He smirked to himself. He was already disliked. How much more disliked he would become if anyone learnt that he was responsible for this setback.