Viking Gold (13 page)

“Thanks,” Redknee said, not
sure what else to say. “I’ll ask her when we get there.”

“Jarl Ivar!” A shepherd boy
ran towards them from the direction of the hills. He had a bow in his hand and
his face was pink with exertion. “They’re here!” he shouted.

“Where?” Redknee asked, his
heart pounding.

“At
Whale
Bay
,” the boy
said, trying to catch his breath. “Hundreds of them!”

“Let’s go,” Redknee said to
Ivar, “while we still have the advantage.” He charged towards the longhouse to
wake the others, but before he went more than five steps, the door flew open
and Sven burst out dressed in full armour, his battleaxe in his hand.

Redknee turned to Ivar. “How
far is
Whale
Bay
?”

“We can row there before
sunrise,” Ivar replied. “But it’s not Ragnar this shepherd boy comes to warn us
of … but the
gungiger.
”

Redknee must have looked
confused, because Ivar explained, “
The gungiger
– the little whales.”

Sven visibly relaxed, sliding
his battleaxe through a loop on his belt. “You’re going on a whale hunt?” he
asked.

Ivar nodded then turned to
the shepherd boy. “Have you told the other farms?”

“Yes … I’ve lit the beacons.”

Sven tensed. “Ragnar will see
them.”

Ivar looked thoughtful. “But
he won’t know to what … or where we go.”

Koll came up beside Sven in
the doorway. He was also wearing his leather armour and carrying his axe.
“Fresh meat for breakfast!” he said, grinning. “And if Ragnar shows up, we’ll
cut him down in the shallows with the whales.” He emphasised this with a series
of crude slashes.

Sven nodded and stood aside
to allow the rest of the men, who had now woken and dressed, to filter into the
yard. Redknee went to stand beside them. He had no weapon for the hunt save the
eating knife Matilda had given him. But when Sven saw Redknee he motioned for
him to go inside.

“You should let the boy join
us,” Ivar said. “It will get him used to killing.”

“It’s too dangerous. He needs
to learn the difference between being brave and being downright foolish.”

“But he’s the son of a great
warrior—”

“We do not speak of that,”
Sven snapped. He turned to Redknee.  “You stay here and guard the
Codex
.”

Redknee
waited until the rowing boats bobbed out of sight. Everyone had gone, even the
women and children. But not him. No, he had to stay and watch the stupid book.
He kicked a pebble, watched as it plopped beneath the surface of the water,
then he turned, head bowed, to go back inside the longhouse, Silver trotting
quietly at his heels.

Damn his uncle for refusing to
allow him on the whale hunt. His uncle’s censure echoed in his head.
He
needs to learn the difference between being brave and being downright foolish.
His
cheeks reddened. Downright foolish. That’s what his uncle thought of him
chasing Ragnar.

He turned to Silver, who’d
already settled himself by the dying fire. “But I nearly killed Ragnar,” he
said. “
And
I got the book, didn’t I? Eh, little pup? What’s so foolish
about that?”

Silver looked up, a quizzical
expression on his face. Cursed book. He was with Olaf there. They were never
going to find the treasure, even with Brother Alfred’s help. Sven was an idiot
for even trying.

If only he hadn’t grabbed the
book from Sinead. Let Ragnar piss away time looking for some poxy treasure. By
Odin’s eye, it probably didn’t even exist.
They
should be avenging their
dead. First Ragnar then King Hakon. Nothing foolish in that.

The longhouse stank of sweat
and mead. He joined Silver beside the fire, giving the embers a prod with the
toe of his boot. It would be a long night. Suddenly, he wanted another look at
the
Codex
. When Brother Alfred had been turning the pages, he’d seen the
picture of the unicorn again, with its cornflower blue eyes and gold mane. Next
to it, the pages with words looked drab. But it wasn’t just that. There was
something very real about the unicorn, its sad eyes staring from the page, as
though …

Redknee shook his head. He
was going mad if he thought that. As mad as his uncle. He raked the fire with
his toe again, orange sparks danced in the half-light. His stomach grumbled. If
he looked, maybe he could find some leftover bread.

He got to his feet, but even
as he started to shuffle round the room, he knew he wasn’t looking for food. It
was the eyes that troubled him. They were beautiful, yes, but it wasn’t that.
It was the way they looked as if they held a secret.

He
found the chest against the back wall of the longhouse. He tried the lid, but
found it locked. He supposed it made sense.

“You stealing?”

He spun round to see the
shepherd boy staring at him. Silver trotted over and started sniffing the boy’s 
mud-caked boots. “No … I thought I was alone.”

The boy had a quiver full of
arrows slung over his shoulder and he carried a slender yew-wood bow in his
hand. He smiled.

“Clearly.”

“Actually, I was looking for
the book my uncle put in here. But it’s locked.”

“I see,” the boy said. “Don’t
you want to go on the hunt?”

“My uncle said I should
stay.”

“Oh. I suppose that’s that
then.”

“Why haven’t
you
gone?” Redknee asked.

“I was just leaving.”

The boy didn’t move. He was
smaller than Redknee, thinner, but Redknee reckoned they were about the same
age.

“Well,” Redknee said. “Don’t
let me stop you.”

“My name’s Olvir,” the boy
said. “I can show you where they’ve gone.” 

Ivar’s advice about killing
came back to him. If he was going to take his revenge on Ragnar, he’d need to
do a better job than he’d done at the caves. He’d killed before – fish,
chickens, a pig – nothing that would actually fight back. And what, after all,
did he care about guarding the book?

“Alright,” he said. “Show
me.”

The
rowing boat slid through the calm sea like an eel. Redknee had left Silver at
the longhouse with strict instructions to behave. The pup had whined a little,
scraping his paws down the inside of the longhouse door as he’d been shut in,
but Redknee was firm. Silver was still too small for the dangers of a whale
hunt.

Olvir proved an excellent
navigator, for a shepherd, and they came upon the other boats while the moon
was still full in the sky.

The rowing boats formed an
arc closing off the head of a shallow bay. Beyond them, flumes of water spurted
into the air.

“Whales,” Olvir said,
pointing to the spurts. “The men will circle them and drive them ashore. No one
will see us if we join the end.”

 Redknee nodded. Soon
boats arrived from the other farms and they were lost in their number.

The boats crept forward in
tight formation, forcing the whales towards the beach. As many as a hundred of
them thrashed in the surf, each as long as four men, their waxy black fins
catching the moonlight, churning the water to a milky soup. One tried to escape
by smashing its tail against their boat, knocking Redknee flat. They were going
to capsize. But a man waded over, plunged a long metal hook into the whale’s shiny
skin and dragged it into line.

When they were only yards
from the beach the men leapt into the water and dragged as many of the whales
ashore as they could. Redknee and Olvir copied them, but without one of the
long hooks, they couldn’t gain purchase on the whales’ smooth contours.

“Here,” a toothless old man
said, handing Redknee a spare hook, “stick the metal end in the blow hole and
pull. That’ll hook ’em good and tight.” He laughed. “Hook ’em … get it?”

He waded off, still chuckling
at his own joke. They took turns hooking the whales and dragging them ashore.
Redknee felt the muscles in his arms and shoulders being worked.

When there was no space on
the beach, the men took out their knives. With probing fingers, they felt for
the jugular vein and sliced it open. Blood seeped into the sea, weaving round
Redknee’s legs.

Olvir’s face drained of
colour.

“What’s wrong?” Redknee
asked.

Olvir didn’t reply, instead
he fell forward, disappearing beneath the surface of the waves. Redknee shot
over, hoisted him up and carried him ashore, laying him on the sand. His face
was grey, expressionless. Redknee lifted his head and slapped his cheek. Olvir
spluttered awake.

“I thought you were dead.”

Olvir reddened. “I hate the
sight of blood.”

“No slacking, boys!”

Redknee
turned to see Ivar shouting at them. His tunic was soaked in blood and splats
glistened, like pimples, on his face.

“We’ve got to make this
harvest before sunrise.” He squinted in the half-light. “Is that Olvir?” he
asked. “Faint again?”

Olvir nodded.

“You stick to your bow and
arrow, son,” he said, shaking his head and wading back into the sea.

“I’ve failed,” Olvir held his
head in his hands. “Ivar will never let me go on another whale hunt.”

“Why did you come when you
knew there would be blood?” Redknee asked.

“I
so
wanted to prove
myself.”

“Look,” Redknee said, his
voice softening. “I think it’s best if you wait here for a bit. Keep an eye on
those dunes,” he pointed to the low grass-fringed hills behind them. “Ragnar is
out there and all this noise is going to attract his notice.”

Olvir nodded. Redknee left
him and made for the water.

Stupid boy, nearly getting
himself killed just to impress Ivar. It was an insult, being left to nurse such
a … a weak-stomach. Anger coursed through Redknee’s veins as he grabbed the
nearest whale, tilting it onto its back to reveal a snow-white belly. This
would be easy. He’d seen the men do it many times. He placed his knife between
his teeth and let his fingers probe for the jugular. But everything under the coarse,
blubbery skin felt the same.

A short way off, Harold and
Olaf hacked frenziedly at the remains of a large bull, their blood-splattered
faces twisted with pleasure. Redknee looked away in disgust. There was a skill
to this that meant the beast didn’t have to suffer. He gripped his knife
firmly, readied himself to make a good clean cut, but at the last moment, he
saw his face reflected in a big glassy eye, and hesitated. The whale fluttered
her dorsal fin and a tiny calf darted from under her, twisted between his legs
and disappeared out to sea. 

Nausea rose in his throat. He
fought it down. He would
not
be weak. The muscles in his arm extended
and jerked back as if some outside force controlled him. Her skin made a
ripping noise. Blood stung his eyes; he fought to contain the spurts by pushing
her beneath the water. The wound bubbled, fizzed, died. He let her bob back to
the surface. Her white belly had turned salmon-pink and she felt limp. He wiped
the blood from his eyes and began to move quickly, slotting the hook into her
blowhole and pulling her onto the fat-soaked beach. He skidded on some yellow
gore and lay exhausted on the sand, little pieces of flesh and guts crusted to
his face. 

Scavengers circled overhead.
Little children ran along the beach batting them with oars. This sea-harvest
was vital for the island. Ivar would divide the kill equally among the many
farms. Every part of the haul would be used, and the black meat would feed them
through winter.

The whales hadn’t stood a
chance. Their bodies lay along the beach in neat lines.
Battle
dead.
Their black livery shining in the fading moonlight, each with a stripe of
honour cut into its breast. Redknee had never seen or smelt so much death in
one place. Not even when Ragnar had come to his village.

He sat up and scanned the low
hills enclosing the beach. Clumps of silvery grass blew in the wind. There were
no trees. Not even in this sheltered bay. A shadow flickered between the dunes.
A moment later, a lapwing waddled out. He rubbed his eyes. Tiredness was
playing tricks on him.

He found Olvir sitting on his
own some distance from the others, his head in his hands. Redknee hunkered down
beside the shepherd boy.

“It’s not your fault if you
can’t stand the sight of blood.”

“I’ll always be left alone
with those damn sheep if I can’t fight like a man.”

There was nothing brave about
the dispatch of the whales. Still, though, he recognised the outsider in Olvir.

“I’ll bet you’re a sure shot
with your bow.”

Olvir sniffed. “Yes … but the
others say it’s a coward’s weapon. You don’t get up close. Don’t see the
blood.”

As Redknee listened, he saw a
figure move between the dunes. This time he wasn’t imagining things – it was
the clear profile of a man. He motioned to Olvir to get down as, a moment
later, a hail of arrows purred through the air and landed on the sand. A group
of more than twenty heavily armoured men charged from behind the dunes towards
the main part of the beach where the others were dismembering the carcasses.