Authors: Tony Bradman
Viking Boy
F
OR
N
ICK, AND FOR
T
OM,
WHO SHOWED ME THE WAY
Three voices speak in the deep darkness by
the giant roots of Yggdrasil, great
tree of worlds, its colossal bulk rising
high into the sky above.
“Spin and weave…” says the first,
the oldest, voice of that which has been.
“A line of silver thread…” says the
second, voice of that which is now.
“One little snip … and then you’re
dead,” says the third, voice of all that
which is yet to come.
The Three Sisters cackle, and their vast
web trembles. It stands around them,
endlessly tangled and knotted and
pulsing with life.
Sudden light in the darkness, a small
glowing pool like a shimmering mirror.
Three faces leaning over it, reflecting
the gleam, eagerly searching the ripples
for what they might see. Soon an image
appears on the surface.
“Who’s that?” says the oldest, peering.
“Is it the boy, our chosen one?”
“It’s him and no other,” says the second.
“Happy as a dolphin leaping.”
“He’ll suffer before we’re done,” says
the third, and they cackle again. They
join bony hands and dance wildly round
the pool, chanting as they caper, their
hair like nests of snakes, their ragged
black cloaks whirling…
“Men’s fates we weave from birth to death
We number each and every breath
We are the Norns who always win.
Now let this Viking tale begin…”
NE
M
EN’S
W
ORK
G
UNNAR WAS DOWN
by the sheep pens when he heard the rhythmic thumping of hoofbeats and the jingle of harness and weapons sounding distantly through the crisp autumn air. He frowned and looked up, along the track that led from the steading’s gate to the dark forest, then turned and ran to the longhouse.
His parents were sitting together on a bench by the hearth, smoke from the fire rising to the hole in the thatch. A pot hung above the flames, and the smells of woodsmoke and stew wrapped themselves round him like the furs he slept beneath at night. They were laughing, and Mother was ladling stew into bowls.
Everybody said Gunnar and his father were as alike as two ears of corn, although Gunnar couldn’t see it. They both had shaggy brown hair, but Father’s hair and beard were flecked with grey. They both had hazel eyes, but Gunnar’s were darker. And they both had strong features and broad shoulders, but Father was tall, and even at fifteen summers Gunnar was still half a head shorter. Mother’s hair was golden, and Father said her eyes were the colour of the sea, changing from blue to green to grey according to the light, or her mood.
“Ah, here’s our boy, just in time for supper as usual,” said Father, grinning at him. Like Gunnar, he was wearing a tunic and leggings and leather boots. Mother wore a green gown and a silver necklace, and she smiled too.
“I swear you could smell my stew from the other side of the mountains,” she said.
“Riders in the forest,” Gunnar said breathlessly. “Heading this way.”
Father stood up, his smile gone. Mother’s face clouded over.
“How many?” said Father, his voice steady, eyes fixed on his son’s.
“Hard to say,” Gunnar answered. “Six, maybe seven at the most.”
“Who could it be?” said Mother, her hand on her husband’s arm.
“We’ll know when they get here,” said Father. “It’s probably nothing, but we’d better make sure there’s a proper welcome, just in case. Ranulf! Arnor!” he shouted. Two men appeared from the shadows. “Get your hunting spears, and tell the others to do the same. Gunnar, fetch my sword.”
Gunnar ran to his parents’ curtained-off chamber and raised the lid of the chest that stood at the end of their bed. It contained many things – clothes and furs, the best bowls and goblets. But lying on top was the sword Father had used as a young Viking, and in Miklagard as a soldier of the Greek Emperor’s guard. It was in a wooden scabbard lined inside with sheep’s fleece, the oily wool keeping the metal free from rust. An ivory hilt bound with age-darkened leather was topped off by a round pommel inlaid with gold and silver. The blade had a shallow groove running from hilt to tip, and was razor-sharp on both edges.
Now Gunnar lifted sword and scabbard from the chest, partially pulled the blade free, and held it up so the glow from the hearth could fall on it. Faint lines twisted and writhed in the metal, almost as if the sword were alive and the red firelight brought back memories of the day it had been born in some ancient forge’s heat. Runes were carved on the blade, a cluster of spiky letters that spelled the sword’s name – D
EATH
-B
RINGER
.
He pushed the blade back into the scabbard and hurried outside. A crowd had gathered, the people of the farm coming out to see who the visitors might be. Gunnar made his way through them, the men talking in hushed voices, the women clutching their children, everyone uneasy, but curious as well.
Father was waiting with his men in front of the longhouse, Mother by his side. Gunnar handed him the sword and Father buckled it on.
“It’s time you went indoors now, Helga,” Father said softly. “And best take the boy in with you. This will be men’s work.”
“All the more reason for a woman to keep an eye on you,” snapped Mother. “But you’d better do as your father says, Gunnar.”
“No, I won’t,” muttered Gunnar. “If you’re staying, I’m staying too.”
“Would you listen to the pair of them?” said Father, rolling his eyes. “Maybe some day I’ll find out what it’s like to be obeyed by my family.”
The men around him laughed nervously. Ranulf was staring wide-eyed at the gate, holding the shaft of his hunting spear as if he would never let it go, his knuckles white. Stout, balding Arnor stood beside him, chewing his lip.
“Here they come,” Ranulf whispered. “They’re in full war gear.”
“I can see that for myself, Ranulf,” said Father. Gunnar noticed him touching the small amulet of Thor he wore on a leather thong round his neck.
The riders thundered through the gateway and up to the longhouse, seven men on powerful, snorting horses. They seemed enormous in the fading light, the setting sun’s rays glinting off their weapons, their shadows reaching out before them. They wore chainmail and helmets with holes for their eyes, and carried spears and round shields. Swords hung from their studded belts.
“I bid you welcome to my farm, Skuli, son of Eyjolf,” Father said when the riders halted. “But I wonder why you’re so far from home on this chill autumn evening, and why you’re armed for war. If it’s bad news you’ve brought, then I’d rather you stepped into the warmth of my hall and told me over supper.”
“You have a good memory, Bjorn, son of Sigurd,” said the leading warrior, jumping off his horse. He removed his helmet and smiled, his teeth white in a bushy black beard. “We met only once, and that was two years ago.”
“How could I forget a face as ugly as yours?” said Father, smiling too.
“You’re calling
me
ugly?” said Skuli. “I’d like to know how a man as ugly as you could have persuaded such a beauty to be his wife. So this is Helga.”
Skuli cast his eyes over Mother, grinning at her, before turning his gaze back to Father. There was a ripple of muttering in the crowd by the longhouse, but Gunnar knew this was the sort of banter men liked to indulge in.
“I took pity on him, of course, daft girl that I was,” said Mother. “Now if you two boys would care to stop playing games, I’d like to go inside and eat.”
“Wit as well as beauty, eh?” said Skuli, laughing. “As it happens, I do have some news for you, Bjorn. And we’d be happy to accept your hospitality.”
The two men shook hands the Viking way, gripping each other’s forearms, and they went in, much to everyone’s relief, Skuli and his men leaving their weapons stacked in the porch, as guests should. Mother had the long tables put out and food and drink prepared, and soon the hall was filled with voices and laughter, flames leaping in the hearth. Gunnar sat near Father and Skuli and listened as they talked about many things – including, at last, Skuli’s news.