Viking Raiders (8 page)

Before long, Tom heard the sound of “HOORAH! HOORAH!” carrying on the wind. He groaned. He was pretty sure he knew whose voice it was.

“Erik!” he and Isis said at the same time.

“Stay here and hide,” Tom whispered to the children.

Tom and Isis walked out of the hut. Magnus came over to them.

“Phew!” said Isis, wiping her brow. “Looting sure is a tiring business.”

Tom played along. “I've never pillaged so much before in my life.”

“I want anything made of metal,” Erik shouted. “Remember! Gold, bronze or iron. It can all be melted down once we're home. Anything shiny - jewels, resin, polished bone.”

Tom scoured the village for another house they could pretend to loot until the horrible business was over.

“Hey! Look at Geir! He's clutching at his stomach,” Tom said, pointing to the grey-haired warrior. The old Viking was bent double over a large, dark-red stain on his clothing.

Geir came stumbling towards them. His face had turned a deathly white. His eyes were scrunched up in pain.

“What happened to you?” Magnus asked, as he ran to meet his crewmate.

Geir collapsed into his arms.

“T-took a pitch fork to the belly,” he stuttered.

Blood seeped from between his fingers as he clutched at his wound.

Magnus turned to Tom with a frightened look in his eyes. “We've got to find somewhere comfortable for him.”

“Take him to the fisherman's hut!” Tom suggested. “Me and Isis can get some water.”

Magnus nodded. As he led Geir into the fisherman's hut, Tom and Isis picked up a bronze bucket that somebody had filled with loot. They emptied the valuables on to the grass and dashed over to a well that was in the middle of the village. When they had filled the bucket, they ran back to Magnus with the sloshing contents.

“Boo!” cried the two toddlers, popping up from under the sheepskin.

“Who are they?” Magnus asked in surprise.

“They're just kids – I told them to hide here,” Tom explained.

“Well, tell them to run away,” warned Magnus. “Erik will be here any minute. He's going round the houses, inspecting them.”

Magnus took the cleanest cloth he could find from the clothes pile and soaked it in water. He squeezed some drops into Geir's mouth.

“I'm going to V-Valhalla, you know,” Geir said in a croaky voice. He grabbed Magnus's arm. “Make sure they give me a good Viking send-off.”

“Don't talk such rubbish. You're going to be fine,” Magnus said, pressing the wet cloth to Geir's wound.

Tom could hear Erik slamming doors as he inspected a nearby house. He knew there was no time to lose.

Tom kneeled down in front of the two little kids. “We're going to play a new game now, OK?”

They looked at him with wide eyes.

“Put these sheepskins over you. Pretend you're lambs. When I say ‘Go!' I want you to run as fast as you can up into the hills so the Big Bad Wolf can't get you. Understand?”

They nodded eagerly. Tom led them to the door and waited.

Moments later, the door was smashed open against the wall.

“What's going on in here?!” Erik stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips.

“Go!” hissed Tom, pushing out the two children.

“What in Thor's name was that?” Erik boomed.

“Just some sheep!” Tom lied. “Those Scots keep their animals in the house with them!”

Erik spat on the floor. “Disgusting!” he said, shaking his head. He looked round the hut. “What are you doing wasting your time in here? There's nothing worth looting in this dump.”

“We're tending to Geir,” Isis explained. “He's badly wounded.”

Erik's red eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “If Geir dies, at least he fought like a warrior.” He pointed a finger at the door. “Get out there and start looting.”

Reluctantly, Tom, Isis and Magnus joined the rest of the Vikings, who were running from house to house, smashing everything in their path, hoping to find more treasure.

“At least most of the villagers managed to get away,” Tom whispered to Isis.

Isis nodded and whispered back, “The Egyptians were strict rulers. My father didn't manage to build pyramids by being a cuddly kitten,” she said. “But he would never let his men run around looting and pillaging. This is just terrible.”

“TERRIBLE? What's terrible?” Erik bellowed suddenly.

Isis jumped. Her eyes darted to and fro, as though she was choosing the right words to say. “I was just saying, er, that the Scots' belongings are a pile of terrible rubbish.” She kicked over a stool for emphasis.

When Erik had stomped off again, Tom said, “We'd better pretend to loot. If we don't, we'll end up salted in a barrel and served up for dinner on their journey home.”

Tom and Isis ran in and out of houses grabbing random items, doing their best to look like they were looting. In fact, what they were really doing was looking for the amulet. But before they had a chance to search every house, Erik appeared in the doorway of the village church.

“Get yourselves in here, lads!” he shouted. He lifted a beautifully carved Celtic cross above his head and smashed it into smithereens on the ground. “There are statues here that need pounding to rubble.” He started to jump up and down on the broken pieces of cross.

“That's terrible!” gasped Tom. He couldn't believe that the Vikings, who had their own gods, could be so disrespectful of other people's beliefs.

Isis blinked hard and flicked her plaits dramatically. “Are you going to stand up to
that
?” She pointed at Erik.

Tom looked at the giant Viking, who was pounding his axe on the broken stones until they were dust. Erik was in such a bloodthirsty frenzy, Tom felt certain that if he approached him, Erik would crush him to dust too! He swallowed hard. “OK. Maybe not.”

Dusk sucked the light out of the sky and left shadows all about. The village smelled of burned wood, briny sea air, and sorrow. Even the gulls returning to their nests glided along in silence. The Vikings had invaded a lively little fishing village and had left behind a ghost town.

Mercifully, Tom noted that the looting seemed to have come to an end. As the Viking crew gathered round the well and drank from its water, Erik trudged out of the fisherman's hut. All eyes were on him.

“How is he? Does Geir live?” Magnus asked.

Erik turned solemnly to the crew and removed his helmet. “Geir has died. His battle wounds were beyond our healing powers.”

Everybody looked at their boots and muttered words of sadness and grief.

But Erik clambered on top of the well and stood up. “Don't be downhearted, lads! Geir has gone to Valhalla.” He slapped his thighs and shouted, “HOORAH!”

Suddenly, everyone seemed cheered by this. “HOORAH! HOORAH! HOORAH!” they yelled with delight. “Geir is fighting and feasting with the gods!”

“Be on the shore at dawn, lads,” Erik said, tugging at his long red hair. “We'll give Geir a hero's burial!”

Ear-splitting cheering almost knocked Tom off his feet.

He looked at Isis. “Why on earth are they so happy?” he asked. “Aren't funerals supposed to be sad?” Tom felt sorry for Geir – the old man had been kind to him, and he felt sad that the warrior had passed away in such pain.

Isis shrugged. “Not in Egypt. We have the Afterlife to look forward to.”

“So how's that working out for you?” Tom asked.

Isis stuck out her tongue at him.

Magnus beamed at them. “We're pleased because Geir is going to heroes' heaven. He'll be put on a boat loaded with treasure, and then set on fire so he can go to Valhalla. Death doesn't get better than that!”

Amidst the frenzied celebrations, Tom pulled Isis and Cleo aside. “You know what this means, don't you?” he asked Isis.

Isis's eyes shone in the dusky light. “Yes, I remember! The riddle said,
Their souls for Valhalla yearn!
”

“Exactly,” Tom said, clutching his cloak close against the early evening cold – or was it just a chill of excitement? “The riddle mentioned a
flaming arrow
trained on a boat. That must be what Magnus was talking about.”

“And the last line was about being,
sure that jewel won't burn.
”
Isis snatched up Cleo and held her close. “Oh, Fluffpot. We're almost there! We'll be in the Afterlife soon!”

Tom, Isis and Magnus spent the night in a cottage hidden from view. They snuggled into a pile of straw and sheepskins and had a good night's sleep. The sun was just a smudgy streak of pink on the grey horizon when they made their way down to the beach.

The entire crew of the Viking longship was gathered for the funeral. They listened with grave, hard faces to the prayers that Erik said. The waves crashed against the rocks further along the coast, but the bay itself was calm. The sand was covered in a beautiful layer of glittering morning frost.

“
...
And lo! His forefathers are calling Geir to join them, bidding him to take his place in the halls of Valhalla, where forever the brave do live,” Erik said in a serious voice, dipping his chin on to his chest.

Tom and Isis snuck forwards to get a clearer view of Geir's funeral boat. The warrior's body had been laid in the middle and he was dressed in a clean tunic, leather trousers, a beaver-skin cloak and his helmet. In one hand, he held a sword. In the other, over his chest, he held a shield.

“What's all that stuff in the boat with him?” Isis asked.

Tom squinted hard in the gloomy dawn light. He could see daggers in their leather sheaths, an axe, some shining armour and plates of fruit, meat and bread that had been plundered from the Scottish village.

“It's everything he'll need in the next life,” Magnus said.

“Oh, good,” Isis said. “It's important to be prepared for the Afterlife.” She whispered to Tom, “Although I was buried with
much
nicer things than that.”

“Yes, but at least Geir hasn't had his guts removed and shoved into jars,” Tom said.