Viking Gold (9 page)

“Who?” Sven’s face was grey
with shock.

“Ragnar.”

“The horses,” Sven mumbled
and shook his head. “He took the horses.”

Redknee looked at the
devastation. Timber skeletons blackened the sky where once longhouses had
stood. Ragnar and his men were gone. A piebald mare rooted in the dirt. It must
have belonged to one of the attackers. Redknee staggered across to the mare, pulled
the reins over her head and leapt onto the saddle.

“Stop!” Sven said. He reached
for the mare’s reins, but Redknee drew the horse away.

 “This is your fault,”
Redknee said. “She was trying to protect you.”

Sven reeled back, horror
plain on his face. “It wasn’t meant to happen like this.”

“You knew Ragnar was coming?”

“No. Of course not. But I
should’ve known he’d never let it rest.”

“Let what rest? A fight over
some stupid book? Is that it, is all this because of a book?”

Sven lowered his gaze. It was
all the answer Redknee needed. He spun the mare towards the path and dug his
heels into her ribs.

“Where are you going?” Sven
called after him.

 “I’m finishing what you
began,” he said, urging the mare into a gallop. “Ragnar lives and so,
apparently, does my father.”

Redknee
took the narrow trail that followed the fjord to the sea. Low branches raked
his face and chest as the piebald thundered along the treacherous path. The
ground fell away steeply to his right. Below him, the water glittered between the
trees.

The outline of the black ship
flickered in the corner of his eye. His heart raced as the snake figurehead
drew level with him, jet eyes glinting in the sun. He heard Mord shout to his
men to row faster and the wooden beast edged ahead.

He had to get to Ragnar
before Mord was able to come ashore and rescue him. They likely had a meeting
point. A big, sandy bay, where their ugly ship wouldn’t be forced to navigate
treacherous rocks.  He dug his heels into the mare and hunkered down. The
sound of the oars cutting the water fused with the thud of the mare’s hooves.
Hull to nose, nose to hull, they went, each tree trunk a marker.

The mare was lazy, trying to
slow, but he pushed her back into a gallop. Her rough gait jarred his bones,
but soon the trees sped past in a blur and it seemed to him like the swish of
the oars began to recede.

Redknee knew this coast
almost as well as he knew the mountain. It wasn’t far until the jumble of
cliffs opened to the chalk-lined safety of
Cave
Bay
. He pressed his heels deeper into the mare’s sides.
He’d played in
Cave
Bay
as a child and an idea was forming in his head.

Only, he had to get there
before Mord and his rescue party.

The path swung away from the
water, rising steeply until Redknee could look down on the heads of Mord and
his men. Steel helmets glittered like silver coins. They were nearing the mouth
of the fjord. As soon as they reached the open sea, Mord would order up the
sail and the black ship would slide through the water faster than Redknee’s
reluctant mount could run. His only chance was to cut across country. Aim for
Cave
Bay
, and pray
he’d guessed their plan right.

Redknee turned the mare from
the path and into the woods. She hesitated at first, slowing to a trot as she
picked her way through the bracken. He shouted at her, dug his heels into her
sides. This was no time to be prissy. Cutting across the headland would only
save time if they kept pace.

◊

They
came out of the woods high above a sandy bay sheltered on three sides by white-faced
cliffs. He’d reached
Cave
Bay
. Redknee peered at the horizon; wind and rain tore at
his hair. The black ship was rounding the headland. It would reach the bay
soon. He’d been right, but he didn’t have long. The mare puffed heavily.

“Well done,” he said, patting
her mane.

He dismounted and stayed low,
using the yellow jewelled gorse that crowned the bluff for cover. He saw the
horses first. Three brown mares and a grey stallion tied to a piece of driftwood
bedded in the sand. The stallion harried one of the mares – biting her neck and
kicking her legs. Ragnar’s horse was vicious as its master.

He couldn’t see Ragnar and
his men, but the presence of the horses told him they must be nearby. As a child,
Redknee had hidden in the maze of caves that pocked the soft rocks. Ragnar must
be sheltering in one of those now.

Redknee crept back from the
cliff edge. He would have to use his plan. He rummaged in the undergrowth. He
needed to be careful; these cliffs were deadly if you didn’t know what you were
doing. If only he could remember—

A hole emerged from between
the leaves. He pulled the grass aside and listened. Nothing but the rumble of
waves.

He looked out to sea. The
black ship turned into the bay; he had four minutes, maybe five. He scavenged
around, tearing at roots; sticking his face into the dirt like a hungry pig.
But the ground was bound tight. There were no more openings. 

Yet he remembered the place
so clearly – a deep chamber in the rock that led to the caves below. Why
couldn’t he find it now? Nettles stung his hands as he wrestled with the
undergrowth. Then, beside an old rowan tree, he found a hole the size of a big
porridge pot. He pressed his ear to the dark.

Laughter echoed off the walls.
He’d found Ragnar. He should have remembered the rowan marker – the tree that
protected against witches. Forgetting had cost vital moments.

He eased into the void. The
shaft was narrower than he remembered. Or maybe he was just bigger. He pressed
his feet against the wall, bracing with his back, and began shuffling down.
Soon the daylight was no more than a pinprick above his head. The dark below
endless. He thought about going back. Returning to his uncle to let him sort
things out. But anger drove him on; his mother’s final words spinning through
his mind:

Find your father
.

The father he’d never known. Been
deprived of these sixteen years past. Murdered by Ragnar – she’d said so
herself.

And now …

Now nothing made sense. His
past was a lie. The only thing he knew for sure was Ragnar
had
killed
his mother. He’d seen that with his own eyes. And he was going to exact
revenge.

Everything he’d worried about
before – Harold’s bullying, his uncle’s expectations, suddenly it all seemed
foolish. Petty. The worries of a boy.

He must have shuffled down
twenty feet, maybe more. His thighs ached, his back felt raw. It had been
easier when he was a boy hunting gull eggs. The chalk down here was damp and
pulpy, and as he moved lower, it started to crumble beneath his toes. He
scrambled against the tunnel sides with his hands, tried to dig his elbows, his
knees, anything into the soft walls. But still he slipped into the darkness,
his cloak twisting round his shoulders, over his head. He kicked out, fought
with the wool, clawed at the walls.
Flame Weaver
got caught between his
legs, he kicked it away, wedging it in the wall and gradually his fall slowed.

When he came to a stop, he
had no idea how far he’d fallen. The tunnel opened above a cavern and it had
been his plan to jump the last ten feet to the floor. But he needed to judge it
right. Too soon, and he’d break his legs. He unclipped his cloak pin and tossed
it into the void, counting
one, two, three
, in his head before he heard
the telltale rattle. He gulped.
Three.
He reckoned ten feet for every
number. Jumping thirty feet onto hard rock was madness. Suicide in the pitch
black.

He looked at the pinprick of
light above. Maybe he could climb back up. But by the time he got to the top
Ragnar would have escaped. Above him, something moved across the tunnel
entrance. He froze. Had one of Ragnar’s men spotted him? There was no going
back now. He peered into the darkness.

That meant only one thing …

Light
from above pierced the tunnel, bleaching the rocks white. The flash stunned
Redknee, sending him flailing blindly downwards. He reached out with his hands,
grabbed at
Flame Weaver
, and was left dangling in mid-air. He heard a
deep rumble. Thor was charging across the sky, wielding his hammer in anger.

Moments later, the next flash
lit the tunnel. Redknee heard whinnying and looked up to see the old mare
peering down. He laughed. It hadn’t been Ragnar’s man at all. Fear played
tricks on you. Had to be conquered. Stay calm. That’s what he had to do. He
stuck out his left foot, there was no more rock, just air. He’d reached the end
of the tunnel. Time to jump.

When the next flash of
lightning came, he loosened his muscles and slid, blind, into the gloom. It was
hard to land safely when you couldn’t see. But he kept his knees bent and hit
the floor on all fours, like a frog, tumbling into a forward roll, then the
floor disappeared and he was spinning out of control through the blackness,
towards the bowels of the earth, head first into hell. He braced for the impact
that never came …

The water welcomed him,
streaming into his nose, his mouth, his eyes. Still he fell, but slower now and
he fought it. He kicked, stretched out and now he was going upwards, slowly at
first, then he broke the surface, gasping for breath. Air had never tasted so
good.

He bobbed in the waves,
struggling to get a sense of things. He’d forgotten at high tide the sea filled
the cavern almost to the brim. But it wasn’t quite high tide yet – there should
still be a dry ledge – leading to a way out, and, hopefully, to Ragnar.

He pulled himself from the
water and felt his way in the darkness. Relief filled him as he realised he’d
found a big, flat platform with a passage heading off it. He listened at the
entrance and heard laughter. Ragnar was still here.

Just as he’d remembered, the
walls and floor were thick with seaweed. Quickly, he gathered up armfuls of the
stuff, teasing the oily yarns through his fingers, separating and flattening
each strand. All the while, the storm roiled overhead, lighting the cavern as
he worked. Finally, he wound the seaweed about his head and body until he was
unrecognisable.

He
found his sword lying on the ledge, and followed the laughter till the passage
became so narrow he had to hold his breath to squeeze through. It was quieter
here. The howl of the sea was far away, replaced by the tinkling of water
through a thousand unseen cracks.

A flash of lightening showed
Ragnar and four men sitting round a campfire in a cave beyond the passage. Redknee
shuffled forward and crouched behind a rock.

“Three cheers for Ragnar!”
one of the men shouted, raising his drinking horn and glugging the contents.

Redknee saw Toki, the giant
with black teeth, raise his horn for a moment, before stumbling backwards and
collapsing in a drunken heap. The others laughed.

Ragnar stood. “Thank you, but
you brave men must take your share of the credit. And so must my fine son,
Mord.” The men nodded and raised their horns to this toast, while Ragnar
continued. “It’s true I’ve promised you great riches. But there’s still much to
do. King Hakon has charged us with unravelling the secrets of the
Codex
Hibernia
and the treasure of which it speaks
.
We must go to a place
the Christians call the Promised Land, which lies many days voyage to the west.
There will be danger. But we are Northmen, and we do not shirk at the prospect
of a little sea spray.”

The men roared at this. As
they raised their horns again, lightning struck, ripping apart the darkness.
Without thinking, Redknee leapt into the light and snarled, “I am the cave
troll. Thor is my master.”

The men gaped in horror.

Redknee went on. “You have
wronged Thor by attacking a village under his protection. He demands
satisfaction.”

“We’re done for!” one of the
men shouted, throwing down his horn and running away. As the others fell about
in confusion, Redknee ploughed into the mêlée, swinging
Flame Weaver
before him. Lightning flashed off the blade, chased by the ever-gaining
thunder.

“There’s no such thing as a
troll,” Ragnar called. But his men ignored him, their terrified shouts filling
the cave. One ran straight into the wall, knocking himself out cold. Another
burned himself tripping over the fire. Redknee caught the edge of a man’s cloak
with his sword, scratched another’s arm. One by one, the men fled, leaving him
alone with Ragnar. 

“Such brave warriors,”
Redknee said. “So skilled at butchering women and children.”

A bolt of lightning lit
Ragnar’s mangled face. “You’re not a troll,” he said, shielding his good eye from
the glare.

Darkness fell again and
Redknee skirted past him. “How can you be sure?”

“I met one once.”

“Really?”

Thunder shook the stone
rafters.