Viking Gold (8 page)

They pushed their faces
through the gap and stretched their necks until they could just see the men
moving about the far end of the longhouse.

Ragnar spoke first. “I must raise
the, ahem …
delicate
… matter of an
unpaid debt
.”

“I owe you nothing,” Sven
replied.

“Sit down, old friend,
and
hear me out.” Sven remained standing, but Ragnar continued anyway. “Now, if I
remember rightly, your longship got to that monastery first—”

“First?” Sven sniffed. “I
didn’t know it was a race.”

“
Come,
let’s not fight
over old scores. You won, after all. But I hear you went back this spring –
why?”

“How do you know that?”

“Ah well, nothing, it seems, remains
secret forever,” Ragnar said, a sadness in his voice. “But I would like to know
why you returned.”

“Slaves – it’s an easy
target.”

“Come now, you’re an
experienced raider. You can get slaves anywhere. There must be more to it.”

“What does all this have to
do with King Hakon?” Sven asked. “We’re allowed to raid who we like, so long as
it doesn’t affect him.”

“He’s been baptised.”

“So?”

“The religion of the White
Christ is … different. It frowns, unfortunately
,
on the raiding of
abbeys and monasteries.”

Sven snorted. “My heart
bleeds—”

“Yes, well. He believes the
spoils from any religious institutions should go to a true Christian. This
brings me to the,
ahem
, point of my visit. There are rumours you have …
a
book.
”

“A book?” Sven asked. “What
interest does a book hold, compared to gold and silver?”

“Funny question. This one
tells of a land where the rocks are made of sapphire, the flowers of ruby, and
every raindrop – a pearl! A land promised to the followers of the White
Christ.”

Sven laughed. “Pure fantasy.”

Ragnar slammed his fist on
the table, his tone suddenly changed. “You forget, Sven. I know what you did.
And I want the plunder that’s rightfully mine. I want …
the book
.”

The scrape of swords being
drawn filled Redknee’s ears.

Sinead’s eyes widened.
“They’re going to fight!”

“Shh,” he held a finger to
his lips and listened. Silence. “Something’s wrong.”

“What?”

“Not sure.” He looked to the
treeline. Where was Mord? The question had been gnawing at him since Ragnar
arrived. “Listen.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

Silver bounded round the wall
of the longhouse and began tugging at Redknee’s tunic. “I’m busy,” Redknee
said, gently pushing him away. “Go back to my mother.”

“He wants you to follow him,”
Sinead said.

Reluctantly, Redknee followed
Silver to the front of the longhouse and stopped. Was he imagining things? No.
It was faint, but unmistakeable: the sound of oars rowing across water. His
eyes met Sinead’s as realisation dawned – Ragnar had been
stalling
.

“Stay out of sight,” he said
to Sinead as he raced down to the beach, waving his arms in the air and
shouting “Attack!
Attack!
” as loud as his lungs could bear.

A black warship crept from
behind the headland. The villagers on the beach drew their weapons. But
Ragnar’s men had hidden swords beneath their cloaks and were already bearing
down on their stunned hosts.

Redknee
drew
Flame Weaver
, energy and fear coursing through him.
This is it
,
he thought, as one of Ragnar’s men charged at him with an axe. He ducked to the
left and the blow screamed past his ear. He spun round, ready for the second
blow.

It never came.

Koll was on top of the brute
with his axe. The man’s legs buckled, he stumbled forward, skidded on the wet
pebbles and fell to the ground, dead.

As Redknee stared at his
attacker’s blank and bloodied face, everything slowed. The fury of metal on
metal screeched all around him, but he was frozen in the eye of the storm.
Nearby, Koll dispatched another foe, and another. Redknee shook himself from
his stupor. Amazingly the villagers were winning. They pushed Ragnar’s men back
till the sea suckled their ankles and there was nowhere for them to go but
Valhalla
.

Everything was about to
change.

The black longship cut
through the shallows and rose onto the sand. It was then Redknee realised it
wasn’t painted black at all, but clad in iron. Mord stood at the prow, his
sword aloft as his men leapt ashore.

“Take what you want!” he
yelled, “but bring the book to me.”

A horde numbering more than
twenty swarmed up the beach, hacking at everything that moved. Knowing they
were outnumbered, the villagers ran, sweeping Redknee along with them. But
Mord’s men were quick to the chase, cutting down stragglers as they flooded
into the heart of the village.

Women and children were
running in all directions. Redknee’s heart slammed against his chest. It was
going to be a bloodbath. He had to get to his uncle. Something was keeping him
and he had to find out what. As he sped towards his uncle’s longhouse, he saw
Brynhild the Old felled by a blow to her stomach. The woman clawed the ground
as her body breathed its last, her runestones scattered across the mud. He
hoped his mother had stayed hidden.

Redknee stuck to the sides of
the buildings. He passed Thora in the door of the feast hall, a stone in her
hand. She was  frantically trying to choose a target.

“Forget it,” he said. “Just
stay out of the way.”

She
nodded and slunk inside the building, apparently grateful to be told what to
do. Redknee thought he saw a pair of hard, blue eyes stare at him from the
darkness of the hall. Was Harold, the great warrior in training, hiding with
the old women?

Sven’s longhouse was across
the yard from the feast hall. Redknee spotted a cart piled high with barrels
sitting in front of it and made a dash for its cover.

As he rounded the cart, a
giant with tattooed arms and black teeth blocked his way. “Where do you think
you’re going?” he grinned, pointing his sword at Redknee’s chest.

“Nowhere,” Redknee said. Trying
for distraction, he asked, “What’s this book Mord’s looking for?”

The giant swung his sword. It
just missed Redknee’s face and he fell, dropping
Flame Weaver
. The giant
kept coming. Redknee scrambled backwards, saw an empty barrel and pulled it into
the giant’s path.

Smiling, the giant brought
his sword down with dizzying speed, crushing the barrel as if it were made of
straw. “Damned if I know,” he said amiably. “Can’t read.”

“Don’t kill him, Toki.”

Redknee turned to see Mord
striding towards them.

“Why not?” The hulking brute
seemed to deflate.

“He might know about the
book.” Mord’s chainmail glistened with fresh blood. “Tell me,” he said,
grinding his foot into Redknee’s chest, “where Sven keeps the book he stole
from the Irish monastery.”

“I don’t know what you’re
talking about.”

“It would be better for you
if you did,” Mord said.

Redknee tried to think of
something clever to say, but he had nothing. Maybe Sinead had been right. Maybe
they should have looked for the book.

Mord studied him with
unblinking eyes. “Very well,” he said. He drew his knife and pressed it against
Redknee’s cheek. “Have it your way.”

Redknee felt his skin dampen
with blood. “I already told you. I don’t know where it is,” he said, and spat
into Mord’s face.

Mord wiped away the phlegm. “You
little bastard. You’ll pay for—”

“Stop – I know where it is.”
Sinead stood nearby, her face strangely calm.

“It’s that girl again,” Toki
waved his sword in Sinead’s direction.

“Don’t!” Redknee yelled to
her. “They’ll kill you.”

“Shut up!” Mord said, kicking
him in the guts. Then he turned to Sinead. “This better not be a trick.”

She shook her head and
started towards the weaving hut. Mord and Toki followed her.

Redknee lay in the mud,
cradling his belly. He felt a cool hand caress his forehead. It was his mother.
He tried to heave himself upright.

“Shh, don’t move,” she said,
concern in her eyes.

He felt the ground for his
sword.

“Is this what you’re looking
for?” she pushed
Flame Weaver
into his hand.

“I thought I’d lost it,” he
said, lurching to his feet. “I have to stop Mord. He’s got Sinead.” The pain in
his stomach was more bearable when he had a purpose.

His mother shook her head.
She had lost her linen cap and her blonde hair fell untidily round her face.
“You’re in no condition— ” she began, then froze.

Mord had returned. He was
dragging Sinead behind him, a goatskin parcel under his arm.

At that moment, Sven burst
from the longhouse and stumbled into the fray. He had a gash on his left
shoulder but he still looked strong. Redknee felt like punching the air. His
uncle had won through. Olaf and the others followed, their tunics splattered
with blood. There was no sign of Ragnar. Redknee’s spirits soared – his uncle
had killed him. The day would be theirs.

Just then, Ragnar’s
blood-soaked face appeared in the doorway. He leaned against the frame,
gathering his strength while his men joined him. Redknee’s heart sank. Uncle
Sven had failed.

Seeing his father, Mord held
up the goatskin parcel and shouted, “I have served you well, father – I have
the book!”

Ragnar’s eyes flashed. “Do
it,” he called to Mord. “Do it now.”

Mord nodded and turned to his
men. “Burn the village!” he shouted. “Spare no-one.”

A cheer rose from the attackers.
Someone hurled a blazing torch at the feast hall. The straw roof caught fire
immediately. Soon the whole village was alight. Those who had been hiding
staggered out of the burning houses gasping for breath. Redknee gagged as the
smell of cooking flesh, like roasted pig, filled his nostrils. He tore off his
cloak and wrapped it round a girl with flames crawling over her skin. Pushing
her to the ground, he rolled her in the mud. Her skin sizzled like crackling as
the flames died. 

Everything was in chaos.
Through the smoke, he heard Mord shout, “To the longship! The day has been
won!” and, almost as suddenly as they had arrived, the attackers disappeared.
Some villagers chased them – as if vengeance could be exacted by a few lucky
flesh wounds. Others looked to their own, scrabbling about for buckets, pans,
anything to kill the flames.

Bewildered, blackened faces
stared back at Redknee as he searched the smoke. For what, he didn’t know.
His
mother? His uncle?

Suddenly he found himself
beside Ragnar. The surprise on Ragnar’s face quickly changed to scorn as
Redknee levelled
Flame Weaver
at his breastplate.

“Out of my way boy,” he said.
“If you want to live to grow a beard.”

Redknee adjusted his grip and
rooted his feet to the ground. He wasn’t going to let Ragnar pass.

“Stand back, lad.” Sven said,
appearing through the smoke.

Ragnar’s face twitched with
fear.

“Been left behind?” Sven
asked, swinging his battleaxe in a figure of eight.

Before Ragnar could reply,
Redknee’s mother ran forward and grabbed Sven’s arm. “Just let him go, Sven,”
she pleaded. “There’s been enough killing.”

“Away with yourself, woman,”
he said, shaking her off. “This isn’t your concern.”

Seeing Sven distracted,
Ragnar lunged at his belly, but Redknee’s mother had moved between them and the
blade pierced her chest. She slumped forward, surprise and confusion in her
eyes. Ragnar withdrew his sword and she staggered to the ground.

Redknee rushed forward,
“Mother!” he cried, gathering her in his arms.

Blood soaked her dress and her
lips had turned white. “So cold,” she mouthed as her eyes flickered closed.

“Don’t go!” he said, clasping
her hand to his cheek.

Sven knelt beside them, his
face lined with shame. Redknee looked round. Ragnar had gone.

Her eyes opened. “My son,”
she said, her voice cracked. “There is something I must …”

“Yes?” he leaned in, pressing
his brow to hers. Her face took on a calm, serene expression. After a moment,
she whispered:

“Find your father.”

PART II

VOYAGE

Redknee
stood, ankle-deep in mud, his tunic charred with smoke and stained with his
mother’s blood. He turned to his uncle. “Where did he go?”