Viking Gold (47 page)

The archer’s arm came away
surprisingly easily. Like removing a chicken leg.
Flame Weaver’s
hunger
was insatiable. It greedily chomped through four fingers, one thigh, two
shoulders and an oak sapling, the latter being an unfortunate mistake that cost
Redknee vital moments. Gorged but not sated, the blade fell to the ground still
cradled in its master’s hand.

Redknee’s
head hurt. He tried to massage his temple, but found his hands bound. Pain shot
through his shoulders and he realised he was slung beneath a sturdy branch
carried by four thickset warriors.

He remembered attacking
the archer… and then, nothing.

Why hadn’t they just
killed him?

He craned his neck to see if
they had Koll and Hawk too. But all he could see in front was a pair of sweaty
buttocks, and behind him, two grinning faces. Then he saw the clumps of hair.
Not on their heads, but on belts round their waists. Hair clogged with blood
and patches of skin.
Scalps.
And among the black tufts was a streak of
yellow.

His head didn’t hurt that much,
did it? Panic rising, he twisted his wrists and ankles until they burned. He
had to get free. The two warriors at his feet sniggered. He was bound
fast. 

Blood trickled down his left
arm, pooled at his throat. He looked up. He had a deep cut just below his
wrist.
Damn
, but he hurt all over.

“You give up, you die,”
 
that’s what Uncle Sven had told
him. So he tried to form a plan. But with no weapon and no idea where he was
going, or why, any attempt at planning seemed futile.

One of the warriors stumbled,
jolting Redknee forwards. Pain shot through his wrist. He glanced at the cut
again. A sliver of white protruded from his skin. He almost passed out with
fright. Then his heart quickened, and he sent up a prayer of thanks to Odin,
for it was then that he realised, the sharp sliver of bone hanging from his arm
… well, it wasn’t his.

The
walls of the Bear People village loomed overhead. The light of bonfires cast
strange shapes on the walls. The sound of drums echoed in Redknee’s chest.
Excitement thrummed through the warriors; some ran ahead, breaking into a war
dance as they reached the open gates.

This was it.

He got ready to act; he would
have only moments to make his escape.

Inside its walls, the Bear
People village looked much the same as the Kanienkehaka one. And, for that
matter, Redknee’s village in the Northlands, only larger. Upwards of ten
bark-covered longhouses surrounded a huge fire. Women holding babies, small
children at their skirts, stared at him with a mixture of fear and confusion.
Scraggy dogs scavenged for scraps in the snow. Old men chewed wads of tobacco,
the years etched on their wary faces like tree rings.

He was dropped
unceremoniously in front of the central bonfire. The heat from the flames
warmed his skin. Curious villagers crowded round. A small boy, no more than
four summers old, ran up and prodded his belly before scurrying away to hide
behind his mother’s legs. The crowd parted and a pole bearing Hawk was brought
into the circle, followed by another bearing a very angry Koll.

“You’re alive!” Redknee said.
“Do you know about Toki and Olvir?”

Koll could only snarl through
gritted teeth. He was in pain from his arrow wound. A little girl followed the
boy in taking a closer look. She approached Koll on tiptoe. Koll opened one eye
and growled and the child screamed and kicked him in the shin.

“What are they going to do
with us?” Redknee asked.

“No idea,” Hawk said.

Redknee’s head still hurt.
“How does my hair look?” he asked.

“By Thor’s hammer,” Koll
roared, “this is no time for vanity!”

The crowd parted suddenly and
Deganawida shuffled forward.

“That old goat gets about,”
Koll said.

But it wasn’t Deganawida who
sent shivers through Redknee’s spine, it was the unnatural creature crawling
behind him. Skoggcat’s orange skin glistened in the firelight, his face a
rictus of unholy pleasure. He slithered up to Redknee, raised a finger in the
air, licked it and slid his sharpened nail across Redknee’s throat.

Redknee gagged. How could he
have let this abomination live? Skoggcat leaned in. Redknee was about to spit
in his face, when a man’s voice boomed from beyond the crowd.

“Show me the prisoners,” it
demanded. Skoggcat shrivelled fearfully, then skulked away, between the tan
clad legs of the crowd, but not before giving Redknee a conspiratorial wink.

Redknee was still processing
Skoggcat’s wink as Ragnar, followed by Mord and half a dozen men-at-arms,
marched through the crowd.

“We meet again,” Ragnar said,
removing his leather gloves and kneeling by Redknee’s side. “You seem to be
leaving a trail of destruction in your wake, young Erik-son. Volcanoes in
Iceland
,
cave-ins in
Greenland
. What next, I wonder? If I were the Bear People, I
shouldn’t like to have you here at all. But as it is, I’m rather pleased to see
you again,” he said, placing Redknee’s hard-won ivory-handled dagger against
his throat and leaning in. “For you and I are more alike than you realise.”

“No …” Redknee mouthed. “I am
nothing
like you.”

Ragnar laughed. “We shall
see. Now, tell me, where is the girl with the book?”

Something moved in the maze
of hide-clad legs and snow-soaked moccasins. It wasn’t much, a pair of amber
eyes and a flash of white fur; a glimmer of copper, perhaps, amongst a sea of
jet, but it was enough to catch Redknee’s eye.

Ragnar had seen it too.

Redknee raised his chin in
defiance. “I will never lead you to the book.”

“Pah. You’re as dumb as a
mule.” Ragnar turned to Mord and handed him the ivory-handled dagger. “This is
one of yours, I think. Now search the crowd. I’ve a hunch troll boy has brought
his little friends.”

Eventually
the curious onlookers began to disperse. The night was cold and nothing much
had happened for a while. People drifted off in little groups, some returning
inside the longhouses, others to talk on the sidelines. But it was clear;
interest in the newcomers was waning. Soon, only the chief and a handful of his
men stood round the fire. It was time. Koll let out an enormous cry and began
rolling sideways, quickly gaining speed as he reached a shallow slope. The
chief gave chase, but Koll was quick, and even with his hands and feet tied to
a pole, he made it halfway across the village before anyone caught up with him.

It was all Redknee needed. He
sucked at the cut on his wrist, easing the sharp sliver of bone between his
teeth. Fresh blood oozed down the inside of his arm as he wrenched the sliver
loose. Ignoring the pain, he began sawing the bindings at his wrist. The bone
was sharp, a good tool, and with his hands soon free he quickly untied his
feet.

Koll was standing now, free
of his pole, his snow-daubed body surrounded by Bear People warriors jabbing at
him with spears. But the big Northman wouldn’t stay still long enough for the
Bear People to skewer him. It gave him the bizarre appearance of dancing.
Deciding his friend could survive another moment or two without his help,
Redknee hurried over to Hawk and loosened his bindings.

Hearing the commotion, three
of Ragnar’s men ran, swords drawn, to help the Bear People fight Koll, but
changed course when they realised Redknee and Hawk were free.

Redknee grabbed his discarded
stake. “So thoughtful of the Bear People,” he said, spinning his new
quarterstaff in the air.

“Still think we should have
tried negotiating?” Hawk asked, clobbering the first of Ragnar’s men between the
eyes. The force of the blow sent the attacker flying backwards onto the ground.

“Ever see a lamb talk its way
out the pot?” Redknee said, swinging his staff low and taking out two sets of
legs at once.

Hawk shook his head as, again
and again, oak slammed against steel. “Deganawida is a good man. Most of the
people believe in the peace he is trying to bring. Except my father-in-law. He
thinks prolonging this war keeps him in power.”

“Fancy telling them that?”
Redknee pointed to a new group of approaching Bear People warriors. He glanced
over to where Koll was still fighting off the chief and his men, make-shift
staff in one hand, a flaming torch in the other. “I must find Sinead,” he said,
“before Ragnar does.”

As Hawk nodded, an axe
thundered at Redknee’s head, he ducked and it whizzed past his ear. The warrior
who threw it drew his knife and slashed wildly at Redknee’s chest. He dodged
the flying blade before smashing the man’s hand with his staff. The knife
skittered to the ground.

“Go!” Hawk said, stepping
between him and four more warriors, each armed with stone axes. Hawk swung his
staff in a wide circle in an attempt to keep them at bay, but he couldn’t fend
them off forever. Suddenly he had a partner; Koll had broken through the
circling warriors and was swinging his staff as if Ragnarok, the battle at the
end of days, had come and Odin himself was calling for men to fight by his
side. One by one, their attackers fell back.

“We’ll keep them busy,” Koll
said, grinning.

Redknee took his cue, slipping
into the darkness between the longhouses. After several paces, he looked to see
if he’d been followed. But it appeared Hawk and Koll were keeping the Bear
People warriors occupied. His heart slammed against his rib cage. He didn’t
have long.

He crept along the back of
the longhouse beside the waste pits. A groan came from the shadows. Judging by
the stink, someone was having an argument with their bowels. Redknee tried to
edge past unseen, but the man turned. It was one of Ragnar’s men, his face the
colour of a ripe plum. Without thinking twice, Redknee jabbed his staff into
the man’s jaw and he slumped to the ground, breeches still round his ankles.

Redknee
took the man’s sword, slid deeper into the shadows and waited; making sure no
one had heard the man fall. He felt a tug on his tunic. Thinking it was
Ragnar’s man recovered, he raised his staff, ready to …

He stopped. It was the young
boy who’d prodded his stomach earlier. Wide eyes gazed up, his thumb stuffed
into his mouth. Redknee didn’t want to hurt a child. Thankfully, the boy
remained silent. He tugged on Redknee’s sleeve then vanished into the darkness.

Redknee hesitated. Did the
boy want him to follow? What if it was a trap? He decided to take the risk.
What choice did he have? He could hardly go round asking if anyone had seen an
annoying redhead. He chased the boy to the end of the longhouse and down a
narrow alley under the village wall, when suddenly the boy disappeared into the
ground. Redknee thought the boy had fallen. Then his head popped up and Redknee
realised he’d climbed down a hole.

The boy beckoned Redknee to
follow. Redknee shook his head. He would never fit into a child’s den. But the
boy persisted, and Redknee downed his staff and burrowed, head first, into the
frozen earth.

The den was surprisingly
roomy. Redknee was able to sit up and look round. The boy pointed to a sheet of
bark over one of the walls. Redknee went to remove it, but the boy’s hand shot
out, stopping him. The boy slid the bark aside with care.

Redknee gawped. They were
right beneath the longhouse. He could see Ragnar and Mord: they were standing
in the middle of the floor having a conversation. A girl’s voice joined them.
She spoke Norse. Redknee strained to see who it was, but she was just out of
sight. He had to get closer.

He eased his head through the
hole, trying to keep hidden behind a stack of baskets. Mord’s foot was only
inches away. The girl started talking. It sounded like she was reading. Redknee
looked round, searching for the source of the voice. Then he saw her. Happily
ensconced on a thick bear fur, the book open in her lap and a cup of something
hot at her feet, Sinead looked like queen of all she surveyed.

Silver sat a short way off on
a multi-coloured rug. He growled every time Ragnar or Mord came close.  

“
Beyond the great sea, go
west to where the mountains bow to the trees…”
Sinead said, her voice calm
and clear. “
where the jaws of two great serpents lock, and between their
teeth, an apple of the greenest hue. Beneath the Great White Pine you will find
treasures enough to bring peace to all the earth …
”

Redknee sat back, stunned.
She was telling Ragnar the location of Saint Brendan’s treasure, and without
him so much as laying a finger on her. Astrid was right, slaves weren’t to be
trusted.

Mord spun round, nearly
kicking Redknee in the head. Just then, Silver rose and trotted over. Redknee
raised a finger to his lips, but the pup kept coming, tongue lolling, pleased
to see his master. The boy tugged on Redknee’s tunic and he slid back into the
safety of the burrow. He’d heard all he needed to hear. He had to get the
Codex
from Sinead.