Viking Gold (7 page)

Olaf handed Karl the oars.
“There’s six there,” he said. “Mind, I’ve counted them.”

Karl nodded and disappeared
to the other side of the deck.

Olaf turned back to Redknee.
“Still worried about Ragnar, boy? It’ll do you no good. Now take my lad, he
doesn’t waste time thinking about things that might never happen. He just gets
stuck in. That’s why he’s coming on this raid. I know I can trust him to focus.
I won’t find him mooning about the woods with some silly slave girl.”

Redknee stared into Olaf’s
hard eyes. He’d never understood why Sven chose him as his right-hand-man. Was
his uncle
afraid
of him? “Do you …” he asked, “do you have something to
say to my uncle?”

“Nah,” Olaf said, slapping
Wavedancer’s
hull with his hand. “We’ll bring this slippery fish back to him in a few days.
See if he still wants to go on his adventure.”

“Adventure?” Redknee asked.

“You really don’t know?” Olaf
said.

Redknee shook his head.

“Your uncle wants to take
Wavedancer
north to the ice sea.”

“Why? Is it because of a
book?”

“A book?” Olaf said laughing.
“You’ve been spending too much time alone. All that thin mountain air has
fuddled your head. I’ve never heard your uncle talk about a book. No, I think
he’s dreamt up the whole trip. But I say there’s no gold up there. Fat
monasteries – that’s where we should be going. But why do you ask? Has he shown
you a book?”

“I need you now, Leif!”

Redknee turned to see his
mother hurrying down to the beach, her goatskin boots slipping on the wet
pebbles.

“Come on,” she called,
puffing heavily.

“Aye,” Olaf said, waving his
hand. “Go help your mother with her chores.” 

His
mother led him to her weaving hut at the far end of the village, behind the
feast hall. It was dark inside and she lit a whale-oil lamp. The hut was little
bigger than a rowing boat, and smelled of damp wool and pine kernels. The loom
stood against the far wall. A length of drab brown fabric hung from the
crossbeam, the warp threads held taut by hooped stone weights. Large baskets of
raw wool crowded the earth floor. She picked a small bowl off the only table
and held it out.

“Take some,” she said.
“You’ll need breakfast.”

Redknee took a handful of the
roasted pine kernels and stuffed them into his mouth. They’d always been his
mother’s favourite. He remembered her teaching him to count with them when he
was little more than a babe in arms. He held out a second handful for Silver.

His mother smiled and turned
towards the far wall. At first, he thought she was looking for something on the
floor, then he realised she had opened a secret door beneath the loom. He
peered over her shoulder and saw the door hid a shallow compartment hewn in the
dirt.

She pulled out a long, thin
bundle of rags. “I didn’t want the men to find this,” she said. “And what man
ever comes into the weaving hut?”

Redknee smiled, for it was
true.

She unwrapped the parcel and
Redknee gasped. A blade as long as a man’s leg and straight as an arrow, shone
in the lamplight. The sword was the finest he’d ever seen. As he took it in his
hands, heat surged along his arms and spread through his body. Every nerve
tingled. He made a sweeping motion with the steel blade that seemed to split
the air in two. Silver’s amber eyes followed its every move.

“Was it my father’s?” he
asked.

His mother tilted her head to
one side, studying him. “Your father used it for a while,” she said eventually.
“But it belonged to
my
father – your grandfather.”

Redknee inspected the
workmanship more closely. A pattern of interlaced copper decorated hilt and
pommel. He turned it in his hand. A shallow groove ran the length of the blade,
the better to collect blood and aid withdrawal from spasmed muscles.

“It’s yours to keep.”

“Mine? But you’ve heard the
men, I’m no fighter—”

“You’re my only child. And,
much as I wish it wasn’t true, I’ve a feeling you’re going to need it. But you
must promise me you will never use it in vengeance.” Redknee nodded.

“No,” she said. “You must say
the words, for it will not be easy.”

“Alright,” Redknee said,
shrugging. “I’ll never use it for revenge. But what about Uncle Sven?”

She folded her hands beneath
her cloak. “What about him?”

“He would have more use for
it.”

“My father didn’t want it to
go to Sven.”

Redknee digested this. From
the stories he’d heard, he couldn’t understand anyone favouring his father over
Uncle Sven. Strong and clever Uncle Sven who had taken Redknee under his wing
as his own son and who led the village so ably.
“Why?”
Redknee asked.
“Why did grandfather not want the sword to go to Sven?”

“I don’t know,” she said,
tensing. “But it belongs with you.” As she said these last words, her eyes
darted towards the door.

His mother knew more, but he
nodded slowly, in a kind of understanding. She had kept the sword for him – she
believed
in him. That was enough. Perhaps his grandfather had too,
though he didn’t remember the old man.

He thought about pushing her
again for answers about his father. But her pinched face warned him not to. He
would bide his time – ask her again when the time was right. Eventually, he
asked, “Does the sword have a name?”

“If it does,” she said
smiling, clearly more comfortable with this question, “I don’t know it.”

Redknee held the sword aloft.
Sunlight streamed through a crack in the door and reflected off the blade. “I
shall call you
Flame Weaver
,” he said, “after this place where you have
hidden, waiting for me.”

Shouts came from outside the
weaving hut. “Wait here,” Redknee said, pushing Silver into his mother’s arms
as he sped through the door.

Women and children were
running for the longhouses, their faces pale with fear. Equally terrified men
ran towards the approach road. He saw Magnus struggling into his leather
breastplate and grabbed his arm. “What’s happening?”

“Ragnar is coming,” Magnus
said, fumbling with a complex arrangement of straps. “Will you help me into
this damn thing? My hands are shaking.”

Redknee secured the tapes at
Magnus’s waist.

“How long?” he asked,
glancing across the open ground separating the village from the forest. 
He got his answer before Magnus could reply.

Hooves thudded against dry
earth; the riders emerging from between the trees as one. They sat high on
their mounts, driving them on, their hair and clothes streaming behind them,
their heavy weapons clanking at their sides. Dust enveloped the pack like a shield
wall as it crossed the open ground. Ragnar pulled to the front, the morning
light sparkling on his pointed helmet and breastplate. He held a shield painted
red and blue on one arm, and a spear in the other. And even as his grey
stallion tore across the scrub, his eyes scanned the villagers like a greedy
hawk.

Redknee held his breath – if
only one horse fell into the pits, their order would be broken. But Ragnar led
his warriors along the curve of the road, and they charged into the centre of
the village, beneath the oak, without casualty.

Redknee counted twelve heads.
Skoggcat was at the rear but his brother, Mord, was absent. Redknee caught the
smug look on Skoggcat’s face. He had betrayed them after all.

Ragnar halted his stallion in
front of the feast hall. He stood high in his stirrups, the sun pouring across
his face and Redknee saw the damage the bear had done. Angry furrows scoured
his cheek from brow to chin. Redknee hoped Sinead had the sense to stay hidden.

The villagers stood shoulder
to shoulder, facing Ragnar’s men. None had had the chance to mount, and only
Magnus had donned armour.

Koll stood on Redknee’s left,
a hungry grin on his broad face. “Fun at last!” he said and winked.

Redknee shuddered in horror. He
would rather be anywhere else. He felt
Flame Weaver
in his hand. His
uncle would expect him to use it if things turned bad. Where was his uncle? He
looked round. Sven was nowhere to be seen.

Ragnar shouted, “Sven, Son of
Kodran the Wolf, brother of Erik the Fearful, I call on you to show yourself.”

The villagers waited silently
to see what Sven would do. For a moment, Redknee thought his uncle had run off.
Then he heard the familiar deep voice and the tension in his spine eased.

“Who asks?” Sven boomed from
the far side of the village. He stepped forward slowly, his battleaxe in his
hand.

Ragnar pulled his horse in
tight. “Come, old friend. You know me.”

“I knew a Ragnar Hrolfson
once. I know not this so-called Overlord of the Northlands that stands before
me.”

“I must speak to you, Sven,”
Ragnar said, his voice sweet as willow sap. “In private.”

Sven strode up to Ragnar and
looked him in the eye. “I’ve nothing to say to you.”

“Come friend—”

“We’re not friends. You
killed my brother.”

“A curious thing … such a
shame he died of his wound – most unlucky.”

Sven raised his axe to
strike—

“Come,” Ragnar said, raising
his hand peaceably. “You know it was unavoidable … and very long ago. Now, will
you spare a few moments for one who has travelled far to see you?”

“As I said—”

“I ride under King Hakon’s
colours.” Ragnar pointed to the red and blue stripes on his shield. “It is on
his authority that I seek you.”

At this, Sven’s body seemed
to slacken, and he sighed. “You have ten minutes,” he said. “Tell your men to
dismount and hand over their swords.”

Ragnar waved his arm to
indicate his men should comply. Magnus darted forward to collect their weapons.

Sven led Ragnar to his
longhouse. “Come inside,” he said. “Grown men should not chatter in public like
silly maids.” But when Ragnar’s men made to enter, Sven raised his arm to bar
their way. “Just you,” he said to Ragnar. “Your men can take refreshment
outside.”

Ragnar froze in the doorway.
“My men must accompany me. I’ve nothing to say which they can’t hear.”

“Very well,” Sven said, and
waved to Olaf, who had been watching from the beach. Despite their
disagreement, Olaf ran forward with Karl the Woodcutter and two others. It
seemed Olaf was still Sven’s right hand man.

“These men will join me,”
Sven said. “You may bring three of your men inside. The rest must wait here.”

Ragnar nodded and the group
entered the longhouse. The village breathed a sigh of relief as the door
slammed behind them. Most went back to work, but some, including Koll and
Magnus, stayed to watch the rest of Ragnar’s men. And Redknee too, stayed
close, for he’d seen an uncharacteristic tremble in his uncle’s hand.

Magnus wiped the sweat from
his brow. “That was a close one,” he said.

Koll laughed. “Thought you
were going to faint. You might have a year or two on this little one,” he said,
prodding Redknee in the shoulder, “but he stood fast, didn’t you, lad.”

Redknee said nothing – he’d
been shaking inside.

“What’s happening?” a female
voice asked.

Redknee turned to see Sinead
standing a little way off. He went over to her. “Did you see Ragnar’s face?” he
asked.

She shook her head. “I was
hiding.”

“You’ve got to stay out of
sight … if he sees you—”

“But I want to know what’s
happening.”

Redknee watched as Ragnar’s men
joined some of the villagers drinking mead on the beach. Koll and Magnus
followed them, their weapons drawn and ready. Satisfied the men were well
guarded, Redknee waited until they were settled, then whispered to Sinead,
“Alright, I know how we can find out.”

He led her into the grass at
the back of the longhouse. “There’s a loose board here,” he said, crouching. “I
used it to watch for Ragnar’s men before. When no one believed they were
coming.”

“I believed you,” she said,
kneeling beside him.

 “You don’t count.”

“Why not?”

“You were there, you
knew
they were coming. Besides, you can’t fight.”

“The men don’t think you can
fight either,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “Guess that makes
you no better than me.”

“Shh, they might hear us. Besides,
I have
Flame Weaver
now.” He pulled his sword from its scabbard.

“Where did you get that?” she
asked, quickly adding, “it doesn’t make you a warrior.”

“Maybe not,” he said. “But
you might be glad I have it one day.” He returned the sword
to its scabbard
and eased the board open. A longhorn stuck its nose through. “Away with you,
stupid beast,” he said, pushing it back.