Viking Gold (37 page)

“She was bad for morale,”
Ragnar said, casually drying his hands on the hem of his tunic. 

Redknee
stumbled along the ledge. “Run!” he shouted to the others as he reached the
steps. “Run … Ragnar has escaped.”

“We should stand and fight,”
Koll said.

“No.” Redknee said, charging
past him. “We have the
Codex.
And we’re outnumbered.
”

“The tunnels then.”

They scrambled along the
riverbank to the secret entrance. Redknee pulled aside the ferns concealing the
door and gave a sharp knock. No answer. 

“Come on,” Astrid said. “Just
open it.”

Redknee felt for a handle,
but the door was completely smooth, without a mechanism for entry.

Koll drew back. “I’ll kick it
in.”

“No,” Redknee said, “they’ll
see where we’ve gone.”

Astrid pushed him out the
way. “My hands are smaller, let me try.” She worked her fingers between the
door and the wooden frame and yanked, but nothing happened.

“Hurry,” Koll said. “I can
hear them coming.”

“I’m doing my best. Unless you
want to have a go with your big blacksmith’s paws?”

“Just keep trying,” Redknee
said, catching the sound of heavy footsteps beyond the riverbend.

Olvir strung his bow and took
an arrow from his quiver, ready to pick off the front-runners. Then, just as
Ragnar came into sight, sword raised, face set against the wind … the door
stuttered open and they all piled through.

“Did he see us?” Magnus asked
breathlessly as Koll jammed the door shut behind them.

Redknee pressed his ear to
the door; the footsteps were receding.

◊

Thorvald wept into his
drinking horn. “I can’t believe she’s dead.”

Redknee had come straight to
the main hall to tell Thorvald of Gisela’s death. They were alone apart from
Bjorn, Thorvald’s chief man-at-arms, who stood to attention behind Thorvald’s
throne. Redknee placed a hand on Thorvald’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said. But he
felt uneasy saying it. Gisela had not been loyal.

Bjorn spoke into his master’s
ear. “What your kingdom needs now, is strength – not magic. Gisela’s powers were
nothing against Ragnar’s fury.”

Thorvald nodded. “You’re
right, Bjorn. I have been living under a shadow. We all have.”

“You need protection,” Bjorn
continued. “I’ll post three of my fiercest berserkers to your personal guard.”

“Is that needed?” Redknee
asked. “It’s
us
Ragnar is after.”

Bjorn frowned. “You doubt I
have the best interests of my king at heart?”

“I think you’re
over-reacting,” Redknee said, but as he spoke, the thick oak beams holding the
ceiling above them shook, sending clumps of earth spiralling to the floor, like
underground rain.

“What’s happening?” Thorvald asked,
his face pale with fear.

Redknee grabbed Thorvald’s
wrist. “We’re being attacked,” he said, dashing for the cover of the table in
the centre of the room, pulling Thorvald with him.

“Is it Ragnar?” Thorvald
asked as they huddled under the table.

Redknee nodded. “I should
have killed him when I had the chance.”

Timbers crashed all around
them, smashing furniture, bringing down whole sections of ceiling, deluging the
hall in waves of horrible, choking mud.

“Come on,” Redknee said, “if
we don’t go now, we’ll be buried alive.”

They ran for the exit,
dodging falling beams, splintered furniture and mounting piles of earth. Bjorn
was just ahead of them when the lintel above the door gave way, knocking him
flat. Redknee and Thorvald scrambled through the small opening, and began to
pull Bjorn free.

“Leave me, Sire,” Bjorn said.
“Save yourself.”

Thorvald shook his head just
as Bjorn’s leg came unstuck.

“Can you manage?” Redknee
asked.

Bjorn tested his ankle and
nodded.

Redknee started up the
tunnel. Many of the beams had already fallen in, but it was still passable on
hands and knees. He’d barely gone ten feet when he heard Bjorn shout after him.
He spun round to see Thorvald lying unconscious on the ground, blood gushing
from his temple.

“He’s been hit by a beam,”
Bjorn said. “You go ahead. I can manage him.”

Redknee shook his head.

“Don’t be daft. Look at the
tunnel. There’s not space for the two of us to move him.”

Redknee glanced ahead. Bjorn
was right. He would have to pull Thorvald through gaps in the fallen earth. It
would be tough going, but Bjorn was a big man; a second person would only be a
hindrance.

“Alright. But if you’re not
out behind me, I’m coming back for you.”

Redknee
burst out of the tunnel into a silvery evening. Fearful villagers huddled,
waiting for their leader to emerge; Koll, Olvir and Magnus were among them.

Astrid ran forward. “I’m
so
glad you made it,” she said, wrapping her arms round Redknee’s neck. “The
villagers say Ragnar attacked from the caves. The tunnels were vulnerable to
assault. Ragnar had only to remove a few supporting beams for the whole place
to cave in.” She pressed a kiss onto his cheek. “I’m so sorry about what happened
at the waterfall, I had no idea Gisela meant to give the
Codex
to
Ragnar.”

Redknee pushed her away as
Brother Alfred came forward, sleeves rolled up, forearms splattered with blood.
He held a strip of linen in his stained hands. He’d been assisting the injured.
“This brutality will only stop when every man, woman and child is baptised.”

“Is there no fighting in
Christian lands?” Astrid asked.

Brother Alfred shifted
uneasily. “Of course, there is some. But not like this … the Promised Land, we will
make it Christian  … and it will be peaceful.”

Astrid smiled and nodded. “My
husband will help us – he is a great leader and will crush any opposition to
peace,” she said, shooting Redknee a challenging look.

Redknee pushed past Astrid
and watched as Bjorn crawled from the tunnel. Mud and sweat smeared his face.
“It’s hopeless,” he said, collapsing to his knees. “I brought Thorvald as far
as I could, but he refused to leave.”

“But he’s only a boy – you
could have dragged him out.”

“It … it is Gisela’s curse …”
Bjorn said quietly. “He cannot survive the daylight.”

Redknee shrugged off his
knife belt, his leather body armour, the straps that held his battleaxe, even
Flame
Weaver
– anything that might add extra weight or cause him to become
trapped. Then, carrying only Harold’s ivory-handled dagger and a spade, he
headed back inside the tunnel.

Koll caught up with him. “You
can’t go back in there,” he said. “We must get to
Wavedancer
before
Ragnar.”

Ignoring him, Redknee
continued towards the tunnel entrance.

“If we don’t go now, it will
all have been for nothing.”

Redknee stopped and turned to
Koll. “No, if I leave Thorvald to die in that hole,
then
it will have
been for nothing.” He lowered his head and spoke quietly. “I would do the same
for you.”

Koll nodded once and stood
aside. As Redknee passed him, he heard his friend whisper something. It was
only in the darkness of the half-collapsed tunnels that his mind strung the
words together until they repeated themselves over and over, echoing the rhythm
of his spade as he ploughed through the fallen earth.

“You are your mother’s son
...”

The
air grew thin as Redknee pushed deeper into the man-made warren. It was close,
heavy work. Some of the beams still held true; there were pockets where he
could crawl freely but where the supporting structure had collapsed he had to
wedge the fallen beams into makeshift supports and use his spade to burrow
under. Sweat oozed down his spine, soaked his tunic. He wiped his forehead with
his sleeve. The whole place could cave in at any time; his heart thumped in his
chest; he had to find Thorvald:
fast
.  

He redoubled his efforts.
Eventually, his spade broke into a cavern. It was almost in total darkness, but
he realised he must be in, or near, the great hall. Wheezing, he called for
Thorvald. There was no reply. He called again, his throat hoarse from the thin
air. If he did not return to the surface soon, he never would.

He was about to go back, when
he heard a soft moan. “Thorvald,” he said. “Is that you?”

“Over here,” a small voice
replied.

Redknee squinted through the
darkness. He saw a hand stir in the gloom and crawled towards it. A six-foot
beam lay across Thorvald’s legs. Redknee began to move it, but stopped when
Thorvald screamed.

“Let me die,” Thorvald said. “I
can’t leave the tunnel anyway.”

“That’s not true,” Redknee
grunted, having another go at the beam. “You only have Gisela’s word you’ll
burn above ground.”

Thorvald flinched in pain as
Redknee heaved the beam from his legs and pushed it aside with a roar.

“Here,” Redknee said,
extending his arm. “Lean on me.”

Thorvald wrapped his arm
round Redknee’s shoulders. He was small and light, but with his leg broken he
was a dead weight. More than once, Redknee had to stop, but each time he did so
he heard the groan of the few remaining beams, and forced himself to push on.

Eventually, Redknee stumbled,
exhausted, through the tunnel entrance, dropped Thorvald onto the wet grass,
took another two steps and collapsed.
They’d made it
. If he’d had the
strength, he would have punched the air. From somewhere far off he registered
screaming, but he paid it little heed, so glad was he to be out, to be alive.
Instead, he revelled in the judder of his ribs as his lungs clamoured for air.

“You did it.”

He
looked up. Astrid stood over him; bright spots floated in front of her face. He
thought he would black out – then he remembered Thorvald. He tried to turn, to
see if Thorvald was all right, but found he was too stiff, too tired. Then it
hit him.
The screams.
Those terrible screams. Had they belonged to his
friend? Had his rescue been futile? He looked up at Astrid and mouthed one word
– “Thorvald?”

Astrid glanced at a spot on
the grass behind him. For a moment Redknee thought she was going to shake her
head, then her face broke into a smile. “He’s fine. It seems Gisela’s curse was
a lie.”

“But the screams?”

“Not him.”

Koll came over and stood
above Redknee, arms folded. “Someone fetch our hero a drink,” he shouted. One
of the villagers scurried over with a pitcher.

Redknee reached for a sip,
gladly anticipating the liquid on his parched throat. But Koll had other ideas.
Instead of a refreshing swig, Redknee was drenched in cold water. He sprang to
his feet, arms outstretched, seeking the blacksmith’s neck. “Why you …”

Silver bounded over; began
hopping on his hind legs with excitement. He liked the joke too, did he?

“Well,” Koll laughed, “you
seem to have found your feet again.”

Redknee glowered. “You might
have let me drink some of it.”

“No time for that. We must
get to
Wavedancer
.”

Redknee glanced to where a
group of village women were clucking over Thorvald. “I have to go,” he called.

Thorvald nodded feebly. His
skin, pale as it was, had not shrivelled instantly in the sun. Perhaps the boy
king would not lead a normal life, perhaps his exposure to the sun would have
to be limited. But who could claim freedom from all bonds? Who was not bound by
their abilities, by their fears, their hopes?

Redknee turned to follow Koll
and, as he did so, from the corner of his eye, he saw Bjorn approach Thorvald,
a look of supplication on his broad face. Some things, it seemed, would never
change.

Olaf
stood on
Wavedancer
, Harold beside him, his body folded in on itself
like a wind-ravaged tree. Harold’s face twisted into a smile when he saw
Redknee. Sinead sat nearby, her hands tied behind her back, mouth gagged, eyes
bulging with terror.

“Let her go!” Redknee called,
breaking into a run across the sand.

“Ah, the wanderers return. I bring
you the slave girl, in exchange for passage for my son and me,” Olaf said.

Redknee stopped at a safe
distance and drew
Flame Weaver
. Every muscle in his body tensed. The
father was strong and fast, the boy unpredictable. That made Harold the more
dangerous of the two. “I’m not sure it’s a fair trade,” Redknee said, eyes
darting between father and son. “You nearly got me killed.”

Olaf shuffled forward.

“Stay where you are!”

“You’re mistaken. I saved
your life.”