Viking Gold (51 page)

Olaf’s eyes bulged in his
fear pinched face. “Not me,” he croaked.

Redknee laughed bitterly.
“It’s all so clear now. Why didn’t I see it before? When my uncle went to
Kaupangen the month before Ragnar’s attack, you and Harold went with him. Sven
went to see if he could find a buyer for the
Codex
– or at least if
anyone there could read it. Harold returned from that trip with a fine
ivory-handled dagger. He boasted you got the dagger from a Frankish merchant. I
now know that to be a lie. For it was Mord who carved the fine decoration on
the handle.
You
met Ragnar when you visited Kaupangen, he gave you the
dagger as a gift for agreeing to be his spy, and you gave it to your son.”

Olaf tried to shake his head
despite the pressure of the spade at his throat. “It’s not true,” he said.
“Harold won the dagger in a game of dice. I didn’t see Ragnar when I went to
Kaupangen. Didn’t even know he was there.”

“You lie. You were against
this voyage from the start. Always telling my uncle to give up, to go back
home. You were working for Ragnar –
tell me the truth
.”

“No – I truly thought the
voyage futile—”

The blow to his head knocked
Redknee sideways. His vision blurred. When he stumbled round, Harold stood
opposite him, sword and shield in hand. Harold stood tall and straight, all
signs of frailty gone.

“
You?”
Redknee said,
more accusation than question.

Harold raised his sword. “My
father was always in your uncle’s shadow. Serving him like a faithful dog. He’s
the one who organised this voyage. He readied the supplies. He oversaw the
building of
Wavedancer
. Hell, he even checked the sea routes. Without my
father, your uncle would have been nothing. And what thanks did he get?”

“Come, son,” Olaf said,
gripping the necklace of blood at his throat. He too was on his feet now, along
with most of the camp. He held out his arms, beseeching Harold to desist. “I
respected Sven. We had our differences, but he treated me well. Like the
brother he’d lost.”

Harold shook his head. “No,
father, Sven didn’t treat you like a brother. Did he reward your service with
land, with power?”

Olaf’s silence was answer
enough for Harold. He jabbed his sword at Redknee. “
And him
– one day
he
would be jarl! Despite being a better warrior, I would never inherit anything.
I
had
to do something.”

“And you thought
Ragnar
would give you what you want?” Redknee asked.

Harold laughed; sparks danced
in the pits of his eyes, the mania had not left him. “It was
Mord
I
found at the Kaupangen docks. Trying to sell a boatload of slaves from the
Rhineland
. He
wasn’t having much luck. Surly bastards, Germans. He was drunk, throwing dice
with some Frankish merchants. Gambled away half his cargo. When I heard who he
was, I told him about the book Sven had come to Kaupangen to sell and how he
could make his money back a hundredfold. Provided he saw me right. The dagger,
however, I won. Always did have a fast hand.”

Ragnar cut in. “Is this
true?” he asked, staring at Mord.

“I told you I had my spies,”
Mord said, stepping closer. He’d been keeping his distance in the shadows, but
came forward to answer his father. The light from the fire danced across his
mailcoat. He still held the bone carving in his hand.

“I meant about losing half
the slaves – you told me they’d died from sea-fever.”

Mord shrugged. “They were
weak and would’ve died anyway.”

Harold banged on his shield.
“Come on, Red-knee,” he said, drawing the name into an insult. “Are you a
coward like your father? Going to run?”

Redknee tilted his head and
smiled. “Only to hunt you down.” He’d learned a lot since that hot day in the
village when Harold had beaten him at sword craft. He shifted his weight.
Tossed the iron tipped spade from hand to hand. This time he would win … and
the outcome would be final.

Harold swung first. The blade
nicked the edge of Redknee’s sleeve. Damn, he thought. Enough talk. He’d have
to be quicker.

The others stopped gawping
and stood back, forming a wide circle round them. Torches flickered between the
faces. Hiawatha’s warriors joined the onlookers. Olaf tried to intervene, but
Ragnar held him back.

Redknee burned with anger.
Harold was the traitor; he’d killed Karl and Thora, he was to blame for his
mother’s death. He let out a roar and charged, swinging his spade at Harold’s
head. The crowd gasped, but Harold snapped to, and Redknee’s blow glanced off
Harold’s shield. Before he could pull back, Harold thumped him between the
shoulders with his pommel. He lurched towards the ground, only stopping himself
falling flat at the last moment.

“
Catch
.”

He
chanced a sideways glance. Toki smiled at him from the sidelines then threw a
shield in the air. He caught it, sliding his arm through the metal handle.

Keep your shield high …
like a jug of mead …
Yes, that’s what
Uncle Sven had taught him.
And watch for the snakebite –
that, he had
learned himself.

He spun round and stared into
Harold’s eyes, certain the hatred he saw there was reflected in his own. This
time he met Harold’s blow with his shield, dropped his right knee and swung
low, catching Harold’s ankle with the tip of his spade. He grunted with
pleasure as Harold recoiled. The blow had little power, but it served as a
warning.

“You’ve improved,” Harold
said, lunging forward again, and again, and again, his face set in a wolfish
snarl.

As each blow smashed into
Redknee’s shield, he struggled to catch them with the iron boss and not the fast
disintegrating wood. As he was pushed backwards, sleeping furs snarled his
feet. Seizing on this, Harold attacked harder, his face glistening with sweat.
Redknee didn’t think he could hold out much longer when he saw Sinead push to
the front of the crowd. He wished she’d stay out the way. Didn’t need the
distraction.

They were near the White Pine
now, among the snare of roots. Being backed against it would be suicide.
Redknee faked a stumble. But he’d judged it wrong – fell flat on his back.

Sinead was above him,
pressing something into his hand.
Flame Weaver.
He rolled away as
Harold’s sword whizzed past his ear and twanged against the hard earth.
She
came through for me,
Redknee thought, rounding on Harold with renewed
energy. This was his chance for revenge.

Lead with the sword,
follow with the body.
Sven’s words
echoed in his head as he propelled
Flame Weaver
through the air,
shattering Harold’s shield into splinters. It was a decisive blow. Redknee
moved in for the kill, smashing the iron husk of his own shield under Harold’s
chin. Blood and teeth spewed from Harold’s mouth as he flew back, into the
trunk of the White Pine.

Redknee stood over him,
poised to bring
Flame Weaver
down, to send the traitor to his grave.
Silver must have seen it first. The pup sprung into the air, throwing himself
between Redknee and Harold’s knife.

The scream was no less
terrible for not being human. Silver fell to the ground, blood streaking his
white fur. Redknee crumpled over the pup’s body.
How could this have happened?
He had defeated Harold – hadn’t he?

Harold smirked down at
Redknee, the bloodstained knife still in his hand. “I’ve wanted to do that for
a long time,” he said. “Now, I’m going to have my other wish.” He swung his
sword at Redknee’s neck, but Redknee was already up, moving. The swing missed
Redknee completely; Harold’s sword plunged deep into the trunk of the White
Pine. Harold tugged. It was stuck. Redknee raised
Flame Weaver
—

“Stop!” Olaf demanded. “I
won’t allow my son to be killed.”

Redknee looked round at the
horrified faces staring at him. Suddenly he realised just how outnumbered he
was amongst Ragnar’s men. If he killed Harold, there would be many to exact
revenge.

Olaf stalked over and pulled
Harold’s sword from the tree trunk. Redknee thought Olaf was going to fight in
his son’s stead but he knelt over Silver and bundled him into his arms.

“Sinead,” Olaf asked, “do you
have medicine that can help? I know you worked for the monks in their
infirmary.”

Sinead hurried over and
stroked Silver’s head. The pup whimpered. The wound in his side was large,
ragged; he’d lost a lot of blood. A tear sprung to Sinead’s eye. “I’m afraid I
have nothing here.”

“Wait,” Running Deer said,
stepping forward. “I think I can help.”

Olaf laid Silver on the ground
beside the White Pine. Running Deer took a sharp blade from her belt and sliced
into the bark, using the cut Harold’s sword had already made. Thick, sticky sap
oozed forth. Running Deer scooped as much of it as she could with the edge of
her blade, and, very carefully pasted the greenish-white paste over the wound
in Silver’s side. The sap soon hardened to form a sticky poultice.

“There,” Running Deer said as
she finished, “that should stop the bleeding. But we’ll have to wait until
morning before we’ll know if he’ll live.”

Redknee
sat with Silver, well away from the others. He kept his sword by his side: no
one would take it from him again while he lived. He nudged the pup gently. Nothing.
No response.

“How is Silver?”

Redknee looked up. Sinead
stood over him, concern in her eyes. Was she really still his friend? “Why do
you care?” he asked.

She knelt and gently traced
the grey circle on Silver’s forehead with her fingertip. Silver’s paws twitched
a fraction.

Redknee felt a sudden pang of
jealousy. “You care more for that pup than you do for me.”

She drew back. “I gave you
Flame
Weaver
, didn’t I? And when you arrived at
Svensbyan
Ragnar was all
for killing you – even told Olaf to do it. But I—”

“Olaf wants to speak to you.”

Redknee looked up to see Toki
standing over him. He glanced back to Silver; a fine mist trailed from the
pup’s nostrils. The paste Running Deer applied had hardened to a crust. He
appeared to be out of immediate danger.

“I’ll watch him,” Sinead
said.

Redknee hesitated then got to
his feet.

“Word of advice,” Toki said
as they approached where Olaf sat near the fire, “don’t lose your temper
again.”

Redknee shook his head in
dismay. If Olaf wanted a fight, he wasn’t going to be the one to back down.

Olaf
motioned for Redknee to sit beside him. Harold was standing a short way off,
talking to Mord and Ragnar. He cast Redknee a defiant look. Before Redknee
could draw his sword, Olaf was on his feet, standing between them.

“Don’t even think about it,”
Olaf said. “Now sit, before I kill you myself.”

Redknee
reluctantly did as he asked, but sat so as he could keep one eye trained on
Harold at all times. Olaf told Redknee he had to stay away from Harold, or
leave the group.

Redknee protested. “Your son
killed good people, murdered them in cold blood. He has to pay.”

Olaf shook his head. “He says
he didn’t kill Karl or poison the stew. And I believe him. Yes, he admits
giving Mord information about the location of our village, about the fact we
had the
Codex
and were going to seek Saint Brendan’s treasure. But
that’s all he did.”

“But even that—”

“Come now,” Olaf said,
placing a hand on Redknee’s shoulder. Redknee guessed it was meant to be
reassuring, but it felt like a threat. “I’m as sorry as you are about what
happened to the village,” Olaf continued. “By Thor’s hammer, I lost my
daughter. I’m sorry Harold had a part in it. But I’m not going to punish my
son. He’s suffered enough. And let me warn you now against seeking your own
revenge, because I don’t believe Harold capable of the terrible crimes you
accuse him of.”

“But he attacked
me
.”

“You forget he was trying to
save me from your temper. Look, Redknee, I never thought it would come to this.
I respected your uncle. Loved him even, like a brother. I always said I’d look
out for you, if anything happened to Sven, but the time has come for us to part
ways.”

“But it is Harold who—”

Olaf raised his hand. “Let me
finish. Ragnar is leaving here now. He doesn’t want to be around when the other
clans arrive. To be honest, you’re lucky Ragnar hasn’t already killed you. You
have the slave girl to thank for that. Now you can do what you like. Stay with
the Flint People, or go your own way. But you can’t come with us. I won’t have
my son’s life endangered.” He sighed, “One day you’ll understand I’ve done you
a favour.”

When Redknee left Olaf, anger
burned in his veins. Whether Harold had actually slit Karl’s throat, or put the
wolfsbane in Thora’s stew was only a detail. Harold was a traitor, and traitors
deserved to die.