The Eighth Lost Tale of Mercia: Canute the Viking (2 page)

“Oh? So you can hit me in the head
again?”

“Only if you let me get away with it.”

It was a challenge, and for a moment he was
not sure how Tosti would take it. But then his cheeks lifted with a
smile. “Not a chance.”

“We’ll see, then.”

“Yes we will, Sweynsson.”

Canute repressed an “oomph” as Tosti reached
out and jabbed his shoulder; but the gesture was playful. As Tosti
turned and scampered away, he sent a whoop of unrestrained joy into
the darkness. Canute found a smile on his own face.

*

The next day they roamed the land beyond the
fortress together.

The woods were sparse, full of old pines and
white stones. But the dappled shade held golden surprises as Canute
ran through the undergrowth. He felt every rock through the leather
of his shoes, sharp and tingling; his short, thick hair lashed his
face until it stung; his breath began to burn in his chest, and yet
he felt invigorated. Tosti had challenged him to a race, and of
course he could not say no.

Out of the corner of his eyes he could see
Tosti, flitting through the trees like a bird’s flapping wings,
pulling ahead step by step. But this only pushed Canute to run
harder, and a determined sneer went up his face. He drew an
estimate in his head of Tosti’s strengths and weaknesses. Tosti was
faster now, but he would tire soon, and then Canute would pull
ahead.

Tosti did not let it come to that, however.
With a howl of victory, he topped the next rise and stopped there,
as if deciding this was the finish line.

Canute caught up to him soon, glaring. He
struggled to breathe amply through his nose, though his nostrils
flared with the strain, while Tosti gasped freely through his
grinning mouth.

“Did you wake up with stones in your ankles,
Sweynsson?”

Canute ignored him and glanced at the new
landscape beneath them. The water level was high in the land below
the slope; long flat stones stretched over the earth, smoothed by
the shallow streams flowing around them, gleaming as if with a
permanent layer of water. It was difficult to discern what was
solid and what was not. “This is a poor choice for a playing
field.”

“I pick this one, you pick the next one.”

“No.” Tosti looked at Canute with irritation,
his curvy lips drooping with an uncharacteristic frown. Canute did
not like it when Tosti frowned as much as when he smiled. He
lightened his tone. “Let’s do it the other way around. We fight
here first.”

“On this hill?”

“Yes.” Canute was pleased with himself. He
thought this would be another chance to teach Tosti a lesson.

And as soon that they began fighting, he
confirmed his suspicions. Tosti struggled to maintain his unbounded
energy while on either side of him, a slope threatened to drop him.
He hopped and poked at Canute with his wooden sword, but every
large movement made him struggle to regain his balance. Often he
had to look down in order to find stable footing, and at these
moments Canute struck at him, again and again and again.

At last he plunged the blunt tip of his
wooden weapon against Tosti’s midriff, who promptly tipped
backwards.

Tosti dropped his sword, hands lifting and
flapping desperately in a last attempt to right himself. But it was
too late: he was about to fall down the slope.

As he fell, he reached out and grabbed
Canute’s outstretched sword, gripping until he no doubt acquired
several splinters. Stubbornly, Canute refused to let go, even as
all of Tosti’s weight transferred to its tip.

“You—son of a—
bitch!
” cried the Viking
prince, as at last he lost his own balance and plunged headlong
down the slope next to Tosti.

The slope was not particularly steep, but
they rolled in the hopes of slowing their falls to a stop. Worst of
all, sharp stones lay interspersed along the soil, which jabbed and
pulled at their tunics while littering their flesh with bruises. By
the time he came to a stop at the base Canute’s blood roared with
fiery fury; as soon as he made it to his feet he looked over at
Tosti and resisted the urge to kick him while he was down.

Instead, he realized his body ached more than
he first gave it credit for. He wondered if he had twisted
something. Meanwhile, Tosti sat up but didn’t move other than to
struggle to regain his breath.

Canute snorted at him. “Whenever you’re ready
to go again, you let me know.”

He strolled over to the nearest pool of
water, lapping warmly in the dip of a rock, and splashed it on his
face. He hissed as he discovered a raw scrape along his
cheekbone.

A bird call split the air, and he looked up,
glancing around desperately. In reward for his efforts, the sun
half-blinded him.

“What’s with you and birds?”

Canute twisted his head to look back at
Tosti, glaring. This did not daunt the other fellow in the
least.

“You? And birds? One distracted you when we
sparred yesterday, as well.”

Canute looked away and picked at his nails,
as if suddenly this was a task requiring his attention. But Tosti
saw right through him.

“Something to do with Thorkell, eh? Always
going on about eagles—when he talks at all, that is.”

Canute couldn’t help but smile at that. Truly
enough, Thorkell was not a talkative man, but he did like to tell
the story of Thiassi, a giant who took the form of an eagle and
stole Iddun and her apples of youth from the gods. Loki managed to
recapture her, and afterward, Odin took Thiassi’s eyes and placed
them in the sky as stars. It seemed to Canute that his mentor had a
strange sort of affection for the legendary rebel. “I’m not looking
for an eagle,” said Canute. “I’m looking for a raven.”

“Ah, so you can wave a hello to Odin?”

Canute was not sure what to think of Tosti’s
cynical attitude, so he tried to ignore it. “No,” he said, and then
grew silent again.

“What then?” Tosti leaned closer to him,
hands spreading along the grass. The longer the silence, the more
curious he seemed to become.

The Viking prince stopped fidgeting with his
hands and paused to consider the truth. It sounded foolish and weak
when he reflected on it directly. He did not want to embarrass
himself further to someone who had managed to paddle him on the
rump only yesterday. Nonetheless, he felt strangely touched that
Tosti bothered asking such a question.

He must have remained quiet for so long,
however, that Tosti began to give up on him. “How about you tell me
why you care so much about damn birds after I beat your ass to dust
bits,” Tosti suggested.

Spry once more, Tosti hopped to his feet and
brushed off his tunic; then, to Canute’s surprise, he proceeded to
take it off. He had a look on his face of fierce optimism, gray
eyes glittering, white teeth flashing, his cat-like nose pinched by
an unrelenting smile. Canute could not help but pause and watch for
a moment as the young man peeled off his clothes; underneath his
skin was even more golden than Canute remembered, its smoothness
interrupted by nothing but the flow of his rippling muscles. His
body seemed dark against his pale braids swaying in silky
ropes.

In a moment Tosti was nearly finished and
ready to go again, stripped to nothing but his loincloth. Canute
ripped his eyes away and followed his example, flinging off his
fine linens with all the gentility he might show a poison-soaked
rag. The sun bathed his body, soaking into his veins and filling
him with fire. It felt good to bare himself to the sun, and at the
same time he felt insecure. Would Tosti find him scrawny and pale?
Why did he care?

Tosti smirked at him. “My turn now.”

Canute looked back at his wooden sword,
discarded on the hillside. “Weapons?”

“No weapons.” Tosti wriggled his fingers in
the air. “I’ll take you down with my bare hands.”

“Very well. I weary of those toys, anyway.”
Canute spat to the side. He rubbed his hands together, then opened
them wide. “Where shall we do this?”

“Over there.” He pointed to a smooth stone in
the middle of the rocky shallows.

Canute still thought it seemed like a
terrible place for a skirmish—not only would it be slippery, but to
fall one would risk a severe blow to the head. Nonetheless, they
had an agreement.

He made his way out to the stone Tosti
indicated, wondering if he would regret keeping his leather shoes
on. They sopped wet as he walked, and stole from him the sensations
of the stones and soil under his feet. However, they also numbed
him to the occasional sharp edge. At last he found his position and
made his stance.

Tosti had chosen to take off his own shoes.
He strolled along the rocks, his gaze locked on Canute, as if he
did not need to look down to determine his footing. Canute scowled
at him, and shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of impatience.

Tosti pounced without warning, gliding over
the rocks as if they were no more than a slide for his feet. In his
surprise Canute shifted drastically, lifting his arms to block, and
felt his heels slipping downwards. Trying to right himself only
made him slip further, and by then Tosti was upon him, hands
gripping Canute’s wrists and twisting them around.

Canute cried out, struggling to regain power
over his arms while Tosti shifted to kick at him. He blocked
himself with his own leg, though as a result Tosti’s shin struck
his knee at a sharp angle, and he yelled again.

The burst of pain fed him strength. He pushed
back against Tosti, bending the youth’s arms until his grip folded
and Canute burst through, jabbing his elbow into Tosti’s sternum.
Tosti gasped for breath and fell back.

Seeing his chance, Canute pushed forward,
aiming another blow that would drop his opponent into the stones.
But at the last moment Tosti wriggled about, regaining his balance
somehow, and slipped to the side like a snake. Canute’s fist
swished through empty air and disrupted his own balance; his feet
came loose again and he stumbled about, hearing his leather shoes
snag against a sharp stone.

In such a manner the two fought for an
indefinite amount of time; Canute lost track of the number of times
he thought he would throw Tosti for good, only to find himself
scrambling and waving his arms like a fool as Tosti slithered about
him. They exchanged one blow after another, until Canute’s stomach
ached from so many punches, and a number of spots along Tosti’s
gleaming torso swelled from the impact of Canute’s knuckles. Canute
felt dizzy from all the twisting and turning, and the longer he
fought the less he tried to stable himself, kicking and swinging
desperately at Tosti’s slippery form.

At one point he threw all of his strength
into a punch, but again Tosti slipped out of reach, and as Canute
lunged forward with his own momentum he knew he would not be able
to recover balance. He would fall on a particularly sharp pile of
rocks, maiming himself and ending this match in a humiliating
defeat. But all of a sudden Tosti grabbed him from behind, his
smooth arms slipping around Canute’s back, one arm locking his
shoulders in place while the other pressed tight against his
throat. Canute wriggled a moment, testing his confines and
preparing his limbs for their escape.

Then he heard Tosti’s breath against his
ears, and felt Tosti’s soft lips press against his cheek. Canute
froze. What had seemed like a chokehold suddenly seemed like an
embrace. Tosti’s arms held him tight while he brushed his smirking
mouth against Canute’s skin. There was nothing to call the gesture
other than a kiss.

And just as suddenly, Tosti drew away
again.

He released Canute, moved around him, and
ducked. With a single deft movement, he kicked Canute’s feet out
from under him, and the Viking prince went hurtling to the
ground.

Water splashed all around him; the breath
puffed out of his chest as his back struck the earth. But it could
have been much worse: Tosti could have pushed him against the
rocks. Even once he had physically recovered he remained still a
while, staring vacantly up at the sky, confused and
disoriented.

Tosti leaned over him, grinning.

“What ... what in Thor’s name was that?”
Canute gasped.

“I don’t know.” Tosti shrugged. “But it
worked.”

He reached down, gripped Canute’s hand, and
pulled him to his feet.

*

The walk back to Jom seemed much longer when
their muscles ached, their bodies were slick with sweat, and they
both suffered scrapes on their feet. Canute noticed some blood in
Tosti’s footsteps, but Tosti did not even seem to care, so he said
nothing.

In fact, they were both in unexpectedly
jovial moods.

Canute felt elated by the day’s events, which
were a bright and colorful blur in his mind—all but for the sharp
moment still hanging in his memory when Tosti had kissed him. Had
he only done it to distract Canute? He had not done anything like
it since, even though they had continued to explore the land
together and develop their fighting skills. They had even paused to
give each other tips and suggestions. Canute flushed with anger the
first time Tosti critiqued his methods for swinging a punch, but he
swallowed his pride and found that when he allowed Tosti to help
him, he did in fact improve. Never in his advice to Canute did
Tosti suggest a tactic so strange as the one he had used to win
their match.

A long silence hung over them as they walked,
and the sun’s waning light surprised Canute, for he felt as if the
day had passed in a matter of hours. For the most part he felt more
peaceful and fulfilled than he had for a long time, and it calmed
him the way he and Tosti never struggled to stay in stride with
each other, but walked together with a synchronized rhythm.

At long last, however, Tosti broke the
silence. “So tell me about the birds.”