Viking Gold (25 page)

Redknee hurled himself
between them. The old sword suddenly felt smart as an arrow as he propelled it
towards the attacker’s shoulder. The spearman, still wallowing in his early
success, moved slowly. Redknee felt bones crumble and splinter as the blade
made impact. The man staggered. Redknee pushed him to the ground and raised his
arms for the final blow. The man closed his eyes and a tear trickled down his
cheek. Redknee wavered. This wasn’t what he’d intended. The ship would be
witness to a bloodbath and
none
would escape the volcano alive. The
fighting had to stop now.

He pressed his foot into the
spearman’s chest. “Submit, or I’ll fillet you like a cod.”

The man gripped the lesion at
his shoulder and nodded. Redknee saw the ship’s horn dangling from a hook on
the mast, grabbed it and blew as hard as he could.

The fighting continued. So he
seized his captive by the collar, pressed his sword against the man’s throat,
and blew again.

“Stop!” he shouted. “I have
your leader.”

A couple of heads jerked
round, but there was no let up in the fighting.

“Stop fighting or I’ll kill
him!”

Reluctantly, a few of the
Icelanders lowered their weapons. Redknee took this pause as his cue.

“We’re not your enemies,” he
shouted. “All we want is to escape the volcano, just like you. There are
hundreds of your fellow Icelanders still in the water, and not a few of my
uncle’s men.”

“Aye, and they’ll sink us if
we stop for them,” a woman shouted.

“Which would you prefer?”
Redknee asked. “To die by the sword or to help your fellow man? This ship is
strong, she can easily take more. And if you let me, I’ll tell you how we can
carry every last person floundering in the water to safety.”

At this, most of the men
lowered their swords. Many still had loved ones in the water and were willing
to listen to any plan that might save them.

They
neared the islands as dawn eclipsed the night. Tongues of sharp, white light
licked the heavens clean. Redknee lifted a hand to shield his eyes. Morning
made everything depressingly real.

He pulled his sheepskin
tightly about his shoulders and went to check on his uncle. Sven had lost a lot
of blood from his injury. Though the spear seemed to have missed any major
organs, it had re-opened the shoulder wound Sven had suffered during his fight
with Ragnar. Last night Redknee had ripped his woollen cloak into strips and
bandaged his uncle’s shoulder. Blood now showed through, a dark patch on the
brown wool.

“Ach,” Sven grunted, pulling
himself upright, “I’m fine. Look,” he said, raising his left hand, “I can still
move my arm. It’s the others you should worry about; the ones who have been in
the sea.”

Redknee lifted the bandage
gently. The wound was clean and it had started to clot. Satisfied, he nodded,
left Uncle Sven to rest and went to see the ropes.

Wavedancer
had never been so full. People lay everywhere on
deck, huddled together against the cold, propped upright against the mast, even
sitting on the gunwale, a sea of pink faces, crushed together in adversity. Yet
these were the lucky ones. Redknee pushed past them and leaned over the rail; a
blast of tart air caught his face. They had entered colder seas. They would be
lucky if anyone in the water had survived the night.

The water was glassy smooth,
devoid of life. He slumped against the rail. The sea had taken them. Beaten the
fires within, doused their will to live. He punched the blistered wood. They
had tried so hard to save those
Wavedancer
could not carry. The ropes
had been their only solution, to drag the wheezing, spluttering, half-drowned
husks in the water to the nearest island, a safe distance from
Mount
Hekla
’s wrath.
It was a crazy plan, but it was the best they could do. In the end though, it
hadn’t been enough.

A dark fleck near one of the
ropes caught his eye.
A head?
He called out, but it didn’t move. His
heart sank. It had been too much to hope.

Sinead joined him. “We should
pull the ropes in,” she said, her voice flat as the millpond surrounding them.

He looked round the deck. His
uncle still dozed, as did most of the others onboard. No one had truly slept
last night. But it was time. Koll was out there somewhere, and Redknee had to
know if his friend lived. He took the end of one of the thick ropes slung round
the gunwale and pulled. At first, it slid along easily, but soon he felt
resistance. He tugged hard, but it was stuck. He glanced at the water. Several
objects, visible now as heads, bobbed nearby. One of the heads looked up at him
and opened its eyes.

They were alive!

“Hang on to the rope,” he
yelled, pulling for all he was worth. “I’ll get you out.”

Sinead placed her hand on his
arm. “Bring that poor soul in. I’ll swap my place.”

“No. It’s too cold.”

“If
they
can survive
the night, I can make it to the islands. We’ll land before the sun has fully
risen.”

Redknee nodded. The choice
was hers to make.

Sven, Olaf and many others
came to help Redknee pull out the survivors. They rescued more than thirty
people. He didn’t know how many had clung to the ropes when they left
Reykjavik
last
night, but he thought it more than twice that number.

For each shivering wreck they
hauled aboard, one brave volunteer from the ship traded their place. The
exchange was performed in silence, without knowing the sum of who lived and who
had died. Both an answer and a question, each sodden being brought a queasy
sort of relief, for every family had spent a sleepless night, unaware if their
father, brother or son would endure. The final toll, they knew, would be known
only upon landing.

Joy and
sorrow warred in Redknee’s heart as they plucked the last survivor, trembling
and blue, onto the deck. Koll grinned shakily at him, his clothes plastered
against his body.

“Anything worth eating?” Koll
asked, rubbing his belly with a trembling hand as Thora ran forward to hug him.

Redknee
stared at the water stupidly, hoping to conjure more faces from the blankness.
But nothing came of it. Despair burned in his guts. Must death follow him
everywhere?

Brother Alfred shuffled over
to the rail and rested a plump hand on his shoulder. “We have done our best,”
he said. “It is as God wills.”

“How can you say that?”
Redknee snapped back. “You prayed to your god all night. You said he is
powerful; more powerful than all our gods. Stronger even, than Odin. So why did
so many die?”

“Oh, it is not the fault of
my god,” Brother Alfred said, shaking his head sadly. “Yesterday’s fire
mountain is only the beginning. The end of days comes fast upon us. The Son of
God will soon return to destroy the earth and claim the faithful as his own.
That is why I first came to these Northlands, to spread the Good News before
the final reckoning.”

“What rot you talk! We have
our own stories for the end of days. A great battle, known as Ragnarok, will
rage across the world. There is no mention of a fire-spewing volcano. Why
should I believe you? Why should I believe the end of the world is upon us
because one measly fire mountain kills half a town?”

“Oh yes, that is a very good
question,” Brother Alfred said screwing up his face. “It is the year, you see.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“This is the nine hundredth
and ninety-ninth year since the birth of our Lord Jesus.”

“So?”

“Well, it is thought by many
revered monks, indeed by the Pope himself, that Christ will return to earth on
the year marking the one thousandth anniversary of his birth. That year, my
child, is but six months away.”

“I can’t listen to this
anymore,” Redknee said, slamming his fist against the rail. “Your story doesn’t
explain anything. It is next to useless. What use are stories anyway? They
can’t wield a sword or sail a ship or feed a starving family. Do stories clothe
you when you’re cold, or nurse you in sickness? Can a story build a village, or
forge a river, or make the living from the dead? Even the greatest tales of
gods and heroes are, in the end, nothing but words that wander in the wind. It
is men, and only men, that keep them alive.”

Brother Alfred blinked in
astonishment. “How well you speak for a boy of sixteen summers. You are moved
by your experience, no doubt. Yes, that is the explanation. But I tell you, the
end of days
is
near. You should heed my warning. We must all prepare.
Christian or no, it is not too late to convert. I tell you, this spring shall
see the one thousandth anniversary since the birth of our Lord. Christ will
return. We are lucky to be living now.”

Redknee snorted. He did not
feel lucky.

Soft,
pliant sands wreathed the islands off the coast of
Iceland
. Those
Wavedancer
towed were able to walk the last few miles ashore with ease.
From here,
Mount
Hekla
’s fiery rage was nothing but an ember on the horizon.

Redknee sought Sinead among
the hysterical families on the beach. He found her kneeling in the shallows,
her curls flattened against her face; her eyes pressed shut in prayer.
Goosebumps crinkled her pale skin.  

He pulled her to her feet and
pressed his warm body against her cold one. “You’re alive,” he gasped.

Her eyes flashed open in
response and he felt a surge of pure bliss. In that moment he forgot his sorrow
and despair. Hope is a simple animal. It will take the most meagre scraps and
invent a banquet.

“Do you still think I’m a
traitor?” she asked.

He cupped her head in his
hands and stared into her eyes. “I never thought that,” he said. “We must find who
really killed Karl and prove it to my uncle.”

Thirty-six
townspeople had survived the sea; together with the sixty who’d managed to stow
aboard
Wavedancer
, it was a sizeable catch. With the smaller boats also
heading for the coastal islands, Ivar volunteered to stay with the Icelanders
as their temporary Jarl. This would allow Astrid to sail west with
Wavedancer
to find her husband, Gunnar. Matilda agreed to look after Bleyõra.

They lit fires along the
beach and huddled round for warmth. The Icelanders kept to themselves, leaving
Sven and his men alone to discuss the next step in their voyage.

“This is madness,” Olaf said
when he heard Sven still intended to press further west. “Our supplies are low.
The
Codex
is lost. We should put an end to this stupid quest and return
home, where we know what awaits us. By Thor’s hammer, if we sail too far we
could fall off the end of the world, right into the jaws of Jörmungandr, the
great sea-serpent! He waits for foolish travellers like us, you know, and can
swallow a longship whole.”

Sven shifted uncomfortably.
“Olaf, you’ve always been my right-hand-man and I hear what you say about
Jörmungandr. It’s a risk. But your son is ill and … well, it seems you’ve lost
your thirst for adventure. I will understand if you want to remain here, with
Ivar. I won’t see it as you giving up.”

Olaf turned red. “I’m
not
afraid. I would gladly face Jörmungandr, Fenrir and all the monsters of Middle
Earth if I thought there was any point to this stupid quest of yours.”

“I never said you were
afraid,” Sven said mildly. “And while your concern about the serpent is valid,
we’re unlikely to have to face the giant wolf Fenrir at sea. I merely meant
that I know the value of family and I will understand if you want to look after
your son while he recovers from his … ordeal.”

Olaf stood, upsetting his
bowl of fish stew. “You’re obsessed with the legend of the Promised Land,” he
said, jabbing his finger in Sven’s face. “You can no longer see the stories
about it are preposterous. Have you heard the crazy tales the men tell to keep
their spirits up? With each passing day of hardship, the stories become more
ridiculous, more insane. Thora thinks she’s going to bathe each day in asses’
milk; Magnus thinks there will be emeralds the size of duck eggs; Koll thinks
every meal will be a feast to rival midsummer; and, silliest of all, that slave
girl thinks we will let her go free.” He sneered at the last.

“You are wrong about one
thing, Olaf.” Sven said, a smile tugging at his lips. “I still have the book. I
hid it on
Wavedancer
before that volcano blew its top. I tell you, we
will
find the Promised Land. We
will
avail ourselves of its riches.”

“Pah,” Olaf said. “You have
no idea. Karl has already suffered for your madness. I for one am not going to throw
my life away on rumours, or lose my only son, the last living member of my
family, under the leadership of a fool.”

Magnus stood. Redknee noticed
his hands shook. “I agree with Olaf,” he said, his voice feeble, like watered
mead. “We don’t really know much about the Promised Land, or even if the book
is reliable. If Ragnar wants the treasure, maybe we should leave him to it; not
go seeking more danger.”