Viking Revolt

by Gavin Chappell

  Einar reappeared from under the awnings, Stafnglam to one hand, Sigfrid himself to the other, a bevy of berserks following. Voices were raised, fingers pointed. Einar spread his hands, Sigfrid shook his head. Einar turned on his heel and stormed to the side. He looked back for one parting shot, and an angry Sigfrid led his men back under the awning as Einar clambered down to his karvi.

  The sun was setting over the haven as he sailed into the darkness that had now swept over the eastern waters. The skipper watched unhappily as she vanished into the murk.

  He saw Gest watching. ‘Don’t you have work to do?’ he snarled, then turned and stamped aft, his men following him.

  In the gathering gloom and cold, Gest continued to swab the deck. When it grew too dark to see, he picked up his bucket and went to the side to pour the water away with a splash. While he was doing so, he heard raised voices floating over from the Red Grasp.

  He looked about the deck of the Sea Eagle. The disappointed crewmen had taken to their berths in deep dudgeon. No one was paying any heed to their newest member. He placed the bucket down on the deck, dropped the wet rag inside it, unbuckled his sword belt and placed it inside his sea chest, then took hold of a line and slowly lowered himself over the side.

  He began to swim towards the Red Grasp.

  —24—

  The water was bitterly cold. The short stretch that had passed so quickly when he crossed it in the skiff seemed endless. All was dark and bitterly cold, stars glittered icily in the sky aloft. The red eyes of fires aboard the ships seemed to watch his progress furiously, but no one called out to him.

  There was not a man to be seen on any of the ships, and Gest guessed that they were huddled round the cooking fires out of sight. Another source of light came from the awning on the aft deck of the Red Grasp; lanterns were burning within. A hubbub of rowdy conversation drifted across the water, growing louder the closer Gest drew to the dragon ship.

  A man clambered out of the gap in the awnings, straightened, and went over to the side to piss. Gest trod water, uncomfortably aware that he was developing cramp in his shoulders. The man was a black shape against a yellow glow that spilled from the awnings; unrecognisable, almost indistinguishable. After a moment, he finished pissing and Gest started swimming again.

  The skiff in which he had rowed to the Sea Eagle now bobbed a few fathoms away from the stern, at the end of a long tether. Gest gripped hold of her side and hauled himself up until he could rest his forearms on her gunwale.

  The dragon ship towered above him like some mighty fortress, dark and dense against the black skies. The awnings were out of sight this far astern, but the glow of light was visible, and he could still hear men speaking angrily. The skiff shuddered, almost capsizing as Gest seized hold of the gunwale and hauled himself up.

  Dripping, he sat in the stern and gazed up at the dragon ship again. After a moment’s thought he shipped one of the oars and paddled closer. The tether drooped into the water as he inched nearer the hull. A dull boom shook through the timbers as a sudden billow slammed the skiff into the side of the ship.

  The conversation from aloft broke off. Someone spoke in a commanding voice. Another voice bellowed across the deck. Gest dropped the oar and crouched down, covering himself with his cloak. Peeping up from under its hem he saw a large figure appear in the bow, holding onto the stern post as he scanned the waters below. The skiff drifted away from the side, its tether stretching out taut again.

  The man withdrew. As the skiff bobbed away from the side, Gest heard more heated discussion from aboard the ship, then it ebbed away. He cursed.

  He was getting nowhere like this. Flinging back his cloak, all that had hidden him from the dull eyes of the clot who had been sent to investigate, he seized hold of the tether and began climbing up it hand over hand. It drooped down under his weight, and the skiff was drawn closer to the dragon ship again, but before another boom rang out, Gest reached the stern post to which the tether was spliced.

  His booted feet pressed against the hull, he reached round to the sheer strake between stern post and steering oar, and used the latter to boost himself up onto the quarter deck. It was deserted, but leaning with his back against the ornately carved stern post, he received an unrivalled view of the whole deck.

  Closest to him, it was covered by the awnings, striped wadmal stretching towards the mast. They obscured his view of the deck beyond, but he could smell the rank smoke of the guttering cooking fire and glimpse a few slumbering forms near the prow. The sail was reefed, the oars were stacked beside the awnings. Only the creak of strakes as the deck rose and fell and the thrum of the rigging broke the silence, that and the moan of the wind around the spars. Shifting closer to the awnings, he listened.

  He could hear voices from within, but they were muffled, and it was still impossible to make out any words. He guessed that they were sitting to for’ard. There was a tent flap at this end, but it was tightly bound and would take too long to unknot, even supposing he was not found in the midst of his task.

  It was vital that he learn what they were discussing. The appearance of Einar had confirmed much of his suspicions, allaying his doubts. There was indeed some link between these vikings and the strange goings-on in Rogaland. Were they keeping Hild prisoner under the awnings? Something stirred within him. He must know.

  Silent as a shadow, he flitted for’ard, passing along the deck between the gunwale and the starboard oar-stacks. Lines hung down and he used these to help him along the way. A wind was getting up, and the waters of the haven grew rough. The deck swayed beneath his feet and he came close to stumbling. His flailing hand brushed against the awning before the other gripped the gunwale. He froze. Had the men within been alerted?

  He heard nothing but the wailing of the wind. After a moment he continued for’ard.

  At last he reached the far end of the awnings. The cooking fire had been banked down and only embers glowed, shedding a wavering light on slumbering forms. Aloft the sea wind tugged at the rigging. Gest crept round the side, seeking the tent flap he had seen previously. But as he rounded the corner, he collided with what felt like a solid wall of muscle and hair.

  A squat, broad, reeking shape roared menacingly and he felt two hands seize his shoulders. His unseen assailant forced him to his knees. If only he had brought his sword! But weighed down by the iron blade he would have been severely hampered swimming even that short stretch of water.

  He struck out at the muscular limbs, wrapping his right arm round his attacker’s left, then gripping the man’s throat in both hands, shaking him like a hound with a rat. His attacker jabbed a brawny knee into his groin and he gasped out in pain, but did not break his grip on the man’s throat. He pressed his thumbs into iron hard flesh, seeking the man’s windpipe.

  Now fingers of steel seized his own throat and they found his own windpipe easily. Stars flashed in his vision as the man began to throttle him. Gest let go of his enemy’s throat and seized hold of him by the wrists, hauling vainly at them, but it was like wrestling with a statue of Thor.

  He stamped down on the man’s instep, at the same time driving a bunched fist into his belly. The man grunted, but did not slacken his grip on Gest’s throat. The dark world turned grey in Gest’s sight and his chest was an agony.

  In desperation, he seized the man by his flowing beard and yanked hard. His foe endured the assault but tightened his hold on Gest’s windpipe. With ebbing strength, Gest hauled on the man’s beard with such force that he thought he would tear it out by the roots. The man grunted, let go with one hand and gripped Gest’s wrist crushingly, twisting it so the king’s man lost his grip on the beard.

  Now the man had him by wrist and throat, but the pressure on his windpipe had lessened. Again Gest sank a fist into his attacker’s belly, following it up with a clout round his ear, of the sort Gest’s mother had often given him when he was a lad. The man snatched hold of his other wrist, but to do so he had to let go of Gest’s throat. Gest had li
ttle to grumble about this.

  He head-butted the man, who lost his hold on Gest’s wrists and staggered back against the mast. Quick as lightning, Gest seized a dangling line, looped it round his enemy’s neck, and hauled. There was a whizzing sound, a muffled cry from the man, and as he was lifted bodily off his feet and swept up into the rigging, Gest felt more than saw an almighty waft of stale air, heard the boom as the sail unfurled, felt sudden pain as it struck him in the middle of his upturned face. The back of his head connected with the deck strakes as he fell.

  For a moment he lay there, listening dreamily to the yells of confusion from all around him, staring up into the starry sky where the twitching form of his attacker hung. By the time men seized him, dragged him to his feet, and belaboured him with outraged blows, the squat, broad, bearded form who he only now recognised, had breathed his last.

  ‘Cut him down,’ said a powerful, masterful voice from the awnings. ‘Cut Bork down and pitch him over the side. He’s no good to me now. Let the fishes feast upon him.’

  Outlined by the glow of light from within, the speaker turned to Gest, who drooped in the men’s arms as limp as the hanging berserk. ‘Cunning. I like that. He defeated you once, but you came back in the dead of night and worsted him.’ He lifted his voice commandingly, and gestured with a hand on which he wore a scarlet gauntlet. ‘Let go of him. Do not lay hands on the newest member of my guard!’

  The men’s grip slackened. Gest fell to his knees, unable to stop himself. Muzzily he looked up. Standing over him was a rangy, powerful figure in his early thirties. Gest knew that voice. This was the man who had spoken from the awnings when he fought Bork the last time. This was the sea king, Sigfrid Redhand.

  ‘No man as doughty and ruthless as you need bow the knee before any man,’ Sigfrid added, holding out his gauntleted hand to help Gest to his feet. ‘Except to me. You will acknowledge me alone as your master.’

  ‘Aye, sire,’ Gest gasped, rubbing ruefully at his tender throat. ‘Only to you will I bow.’ He glanced up at the rigging where men were untangling Bork’s heavy corpse. He watched as they dropped his body abruptly to the deck, then dragged it over to the side. As the splash of the corpse striking the water below rang out, he turned to Sigfrid Redhand, looking searchingly at him.

  In the glow of the distant lantern, he could make out little of the man’s features, but there was something strangely familiar about him.

  Sigfrid laid hand on Gest’s shoulder. ‘Leave the crew to their toil,’ he said, ‘and follow me. There are folk within I would have you meet.’

  Underneath the awnings, all was luxury and splendour. Horn lanterns shed an amber light upon men who sat or lolled upon heaps of furs and silks, horns of mead in their hands, steaming meat heaped upon platters before them. Burly men clad in pelts of wolves or bears, full bearded and fierce faced, formed a strange counterpoint to the luxurious style in which Sigfrid Redhand dwelt.

  The sea king strode down to the far end of the compartment, which stretched only partway aft. Beyond it the enclosed deck was in shadow; he guessed that these were sleeping quarters for the berserks who stared inquiringly up at him as he stood in the opening. As Sigfrid reached a heap of furs at the far end, he turned to Gest and pointed to an empty space at his right hand.

  ‘Take Bork’s place here,’ he said, and sat down cross-legged. As Gest followed him, the sea king addressed the other men. ‘This man—Hunding, wasn’t it?—has defeated Bork and now he will take his place among you by right of conquest. I’ll expect you to begin his training on the morrow.’

  He sipped deeply from a drinking horn of gold, wrought with figures of gods and trolls. Gest sat down, aware of the eyes of the berserks blazing upon him. In the quivering light of soapstone lanterns, they resembled trolls themselves. Each of them looked to be six or seven feet in height when standing, and were fittingly broad about the shoulders. They wore little or no armour, but berserks scorned such unmanly protection.

  Gest had met berserks before, of course; both the wandering, lawless bullies who plagued settlements on the mainland, and the disciplined warriors of the royal guard of King Harald Finehair. If Bork could be taken as any kind of yardstick, these men were closer to the former in temperament, but it seemed that Sigfrid had them whipped into a disciplined fighting force.

  None of them raised an objection to Gest’s presence, although any court of the kingdom would find him guilty of murder. He’d broken the law of the land—but not, it seemed, the law of the vikings.

  One man, whose vast auburn beard spilled over a massive chest, who wore the pelt of a bear round his brawny shoulders, but whose face was crazed with broken veins and whose eyes had the red stare of a drunk, lolled back on his furs and tore at a leg of mutton.

  ‘Weren’t you the one who Bork stomped on earlier?’ He guffawed fit to burst. ‘We all thought it was you who’d be feeding the fishes, until our lord the king intervened.’ He gave Sigfrid, who was listening in absent silence, a respectful nod.

  ‘Mercy is not something we anticipate from our king,’ commented another berserk, a grim faced man with a black beard, who ate and drank little. ‘He saw something in you, perhaps, that recommended you to him.’

  ‘And here I am,’ said Gest with a grin, ‘in your esteemed company.’ There was no sign of Hild. Perhaps she was kept in the sleeping area. Bound and gagged, no doubt. ‘Before I bumped into our departed friend, you were deep in talk. Don’t let me hinder you.’

  Sigfrid laughed harshly. ‘We discussed strategy,’ he said. ‘Bad news came to our ears today. But let us forget it until the morning. I will seek my bed.’

  He rose and made his way, bent double to avoid brushing his head on the low awning, into the unlit compartment aft. Gest sat watching him in silence.

  He looked round at his new companions. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said cheerily, and stretched. ‘Time for some serious drinking, no?’

  —25—

  The longship crossed the waves and spray surged over the deck. Gest clung onto a line and looked to leeward. Strakes creaked, lines cracked, the sail billowed full-bellied in the wind. The air was wet and salty. But the sea was empty of prey.

  He turned to face the berserks who stood forward of the mast, while the backs of oarsmen rose and fell as they hauled at the oars. The skipper stood at the steering oar, eyes on the distant horizon. It was the man whose crew Gest had briefly joined, whose name it turned out was Orm. He had been more than a little startled to find his ship commandeered, in the name of the sea king himself, by a man who had previously swabbed his decks. He seemed uneasy, and avoided Gest as much as he could.

  Gest was still under trial. No one had said as much, but it was clear that this raid was meant to test him. He cast his mind back to the sea king’s words.

  ‘Our stock of provisions is running low. We’re still waiting for the sign to attack, but it’s taking longer than expected. I want you, Hunding, to take Valgard, Kari, and Ulf on a raid. Bring back food.’

  ‘Aye, sire,’ Gest had said. He had seen the look the sea king gave him from beneath shaggy brows, and known that the three berserks he had named were Sigfrid’s most trusted men. As they set sail the following morning, he had noticed all three giving him appraising looks. The spy was now spied upon.

  ‘No sign of any ships,’ he told them. ‘The sea lanes are strangely empty.’

  ‘We can sail further west,’ said Valgard with a grunt, ‘and search the seas around the English kingdom.’

  ‘Or turn about,’ lisped Kari, as the wind blew his long, well combed locks, ‘and seek landfall. An attack on the Norway coast will see our hold well stocked with meat.’

  Gest was unwilling to make a strand-hewing raid on the king’s subjects. And if he was commanding this expedition, it would go according to his wishes.

  ‘It’s a long way to the English kingdom,’ Ulf growled. ‘I say we attack the nearest coast, then return to the fleet.’ He looked round at them. ‘Why not? As long as we don’
t attack the folk who have been so hospitable…’

  Valgard scowled at him. ‘You know not to speak of them,’ he said. ‘Remember many of us have kin along these coasts. Outlaws we may be today, we must be slow to spill blood that may be close to our own. I say we attack the English. We have no loyalty to them.’

  Ulf bristled. ‘We need to make a fast attack and get back as soon as we may,’ he said. ‘No time to sail to England and back. But what does the man in charge say?’

  They all turned to gaze at Gest. Gest returned their looks, studying the three berserks absently as he mulled it all over in his own mind.

  Valgard was big, heavily built, clad in furs and wearing an iron helm with a long, silver nasal in the form of a flying dragon. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks crazed with broken blood vessels, his beard was greying. Food and grease stained his linen breeks. The handle of the axe which he held like a yoke over his shoulders was carved with a long series of notches, which he had bragged to Gest marked each man he had slain with the weapon.

  Kari was another matter. Younger, less well built, but sinewy, his face bare but for a slender moustache, he wore a rich linen tunic and matching breeks, over which his fur cloak was elegantly arranged. He was as vain of his appearance as a girl, and spent an inordinate time in the morning combing his long hair, for which Ulf and Valgard teased him. They were the only men who would dare. Kari kept no tally of the men he had killed, but in his berserk frenzy he was unstoppable.

  Ulf was less fastidious in his dress, but not as slobbish as Valgard. He wore no armour, but carried a sword and an axe and spent much of his spare time honing their blades. There were tales of his dark knowledge of arcane matters, and he kept in his luggage a blackened skull dug up from a Danish bog to which he was rumoured to speak on certain nights. He considered himself a good counsellor, and persisted in advising Gest at every possible turn, providing the benefit of his greater wisdom, as he called it. Gest had yet to see him in the fray, but he was rumoured to be a dirty fighter.