Viking Gold

Chapter 1

If Redknee had known sword fighting was going to be so important, he would have listened to his uncle’s instructions. As it was, the heat of the afternoon was getting to him. All he wanted was to escape the training yard and shelter in the cool of the forest.

He tugged at his wool tunic. His shield, big as a wagon wheel, weighed heavy on his arm. He rested it on the ground, lowered his wooden sword and wiped the sweat from his brow. What did it matter if he could fight? He was going to be a woodsman, a tracker. The village didn’t need more warriors. His uncle had said it himself many times – the years of raiding were over. The world had changed. Monasteries were no longer the easy pickings they once were.

Come on, Uncle Sven shouted across the yard. You give up, you die.

The men watching from the shade of the village oak laughed. Redknee couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard one of them mutter, Like father, like son.

He’d heard the slur often. Not right to his face, mind. No one would be so brave, with Jarl Sven as his uncle. But he heard the whispers all the same. Redknee did what he always did and turned away.

The skinny youth opposite had sixteen summers – same as Redknee. Harold the Thin was going to be the best warrior in the village. Or so he never tired of telling everyone.

Harold moved his wooden sword from hand to hand.

Taunting him.

Flies buzzed round Redknee’s face. Sighing, he picked up his shield, raised his wooden sword and awaited the blow. Might as well get the farce over with.

Stop there lad.

Redknee glanced up. Uncle Sven was marching across the yard. He pulled Redknee aside and spoke in a voice too low for the jeering onlookers to hear.

Think of your shield like a jug of mead, he said gently. Keep it high. Don’t let your arm drop. If it does …

Sven stared at the disc of leather-covered yew. Redknee thought he saw sadness in the big man’s eyes. But when Sven looked up, he was smiling, the sadness gone. Come on, he said, slapping Redknee on the back. Let’s try again.

Dust sprayed the air as Harold lunged at Redknee’s chest. Redknee heeded his uncle’s words and Harold’s blow thudded uselessly off his shield. Harold’s eyes widened in surprise.

Having the advantage was new to Redknee. Pride flashed through him. Maybe he could be a warrior. Thinking quickly he thrust his sword at Harold’s belly. But Harold was already out of reach, leaving Redknee’s arm floundering at empty air.

Before Redknee could recover, Harold swung his sword low, beneath the protection of Redknee’s shield. Redknee fell to the ground, pain coursing through his ankles. Harold stood over him, the sun at his back casting him in silhouette, as if he were Hela, come to drag Redknee to the underworld.

You’re dead, he said, pressing the tip of his sword into Redknee’s throat.

Stop it boys! Redknee heard his mother call from the door of the longhouse. That’s enough.

Harold sniggered.

Ach, he has to toughen up, Uncle Sven shouted back. You’d have him in a bloody dress.

Harold sneered down at Redknee. It’s called the snake-bite. Oldest move there is. But a sap like you wouldn’t know that. He twisted the wooden blade into Redknee’s throat until he gagged. Leif Redknee, he said with disgust. I claim victory over you - shame of the Vikinger, just like your father.

The men’s laughter rang in Redknee’s ears as he stomped from the yard. He tossed his shield into the long grass. Worthless piece of rubbish – let the dogs sharpen their teeth on the rotten wood. He took the path that climbed the mountainside. He craved to be up in the forest, far above the village. Away from lectures on war-craft and the mind-numbing repetition of military moves. Better to spend a sticky summer day running through the pine-scented darkness. Better to spend it alone.

Things would have been different if his father were still alive. No one would be calling him a coward for a start. He would be the son of the Jarl, a position demanding respect. Oh, Uncle Sven tried his best. But most of the time he was just too busy.

No, Uncle Sven wouldn’t come after him. And Harold the Thin, despite his claims to martial greatness, was too afraid of wolves to venture up the mountain. The only person in the whole village who might care was his mother, but she only left the longhouse to work in the weaving hut or wash clothes in the stream.

No, Redknee was on his own, just the way he liked it.

Redknee stood on the edge of a bluff half way up the mountainside. He’d made good progress. Far below, the straw roofs of the longhouses glinted in the sun, as if on fire. Bounded on one side by the silvery-blue of Oster Fjord and on the other by a patchwork of brown fields, the village looked peaceful. Happy, even.

But the summer had been dry. The barley thirsted in the fields, and the mood in the village stank like dung cooking in the midday heat. Redknee turned his back on the view and scrambled on. There was nothing for him there.

After a short while, he heard a soft crunching noise behind him. He ignored it at first, quickening his pace until his deerskin boots skidded on the floury earth.

You’re going too fast!

He turned to see a hood of copper curls bobbing between the trees. He sighed. Why are you following me, Sinead? You will be wanted back at the village.

The girl shrugged. You looked upset.

Slaves are not allowed to leave the village without permission. My uncle will have you whipped.

Bristling, Sinead folded her arms across her chest. Well I thought you might really be running away this time. Are you?

Don’t know. He kicked a loose stone. It skimmed off a tree trunk.

Can I come with you anyway?

Redknee sighed. Sinead had asked him about the mountain before. About where the paths led, how far they were from the next village, the nearest big port. She seemed to think him as keen to escape the village as she was. Look, he said eventually, even if I am running away, and I’m not saying I am, you couldn’t come with me.

Why not?

Because you’ll slow me down. And you don’t know the ways of the forest. You’d end up troll food in no time.

Do trolls really live up here? she asked, her green eyes scanning the tangle of leaves above their heads.

Redknee reached out to a low hanging branch and swung himself up until he was sitting atop it, his legs dangling over the side. He needed to get rid of her to have any chance of tracking the wild deer that roamed the mountain. Her chattering would scare off even the dopiest fawn.

These woods …, he said, weaving between the lacework of branches … are swarming with trolls.

No! Her eyes widened.

He stood, balancing on a stout branch, stretching his arms towards the canopy. They are as tall as an oak and as fierce as a bear, with sharp red teeth and fiery eyes.

Sinead snorted.

It’s true, Redknee continued, pulling himself higher. In fact, they live in tree-trunks, just like this one. He rapped the coarse bark with his knuckles.

Don’t! Sinead gasped.

Redknee smiled. Why ever not?

You’ll wake it—

A sudden crackle of leaves startled Redknee and he lost his footing. He heard Sinead scream as he crashed to the ground like a sack of turnips. His head pounded and his left arm ached along its length.

Don’t move. Sinead’s firestorm hair drifted in and out of focus as she kneeled over him.

Was it a troll? he asked.

Shh, don’t try to speak.

Ignoring her, Redknee dragged himself up with his uninjured arm. The movement made him feel sick. He turned from her quickly, spewing vomit on his breeches.

She handed him her apron. As he took it, he saw her nose wrinkle at the stench and his cheeks burned with shame.

Suddenly her attention was distracted. Redknee stopped dabbing. His ears attuned to the distant whoosh – whoosh of someone, or something, charging through the undergrowth. He listened carefully. Too heavy to be a deer. A bear? No – too fast. Whatever it was, it was coming their way. He turned to Sinead as a spear flashed past her head. Her face went blank and she fell to the ground.

Sinead! He scrambled to where she lay. Sinead, were you hit?

No reply.

He turned her over. Blood trailed from her hairline and spread, like spindly fingers, over her closed lids.

Closer now, he recognised the rhythmic thud of hooves. Horses! Needing no further warning, he lifted Sinead using his good arm and dragged her beneath a big hawthorn bush. He stayed there, hunkered down in the mud for what seemed like ages, listening to the steady approach of the horses.

A hulking warrior with straggly, piss-coloured hair and a cross-shaped scar over his left eye urged a grey stallion into the clearing. The powerful horse rose onto its hind legs as three other riders joined him. The first warrior motioned the other men forward; Redknee took him to be the leader.

One of the men pulled the spear that had struck Sinead from a tree. Redknee glanced down at her; she was still breathing. It was just a graze.

Come out, little mice, the leader shouted in accented Norse. Skoggcat wants to play … Redknee watched as a youth, painted head to toe in orange and black stripes, stepped forward brandishing a ball and chain.

Sinead stirred. Redknee held his hand lightly over her mouth. One false move and their hiding place would be revealed.

Skoggcat and the other four warriors circled the clearing, getting ever closer to the hawthorn bush.

Sinead was awake now, her eyes alert to the danger. Redknee cradled his bruised left arm against his body. There was no way the two of them would be a match for this lot. Redknee’s heart thrummed so loud, he was sure they must be able to hear it.

Skoggcat stopped beside the hawthorn bush, about a man’s length from Redknee, and sniffed the air. A smile spread across his face.

Redknee looked down at his breeches. Curdled lumps of sick still clung to the damp leather. Damn. He tried to scramble to his feet. But Skoggcat was already under the branches, his claw-like hands grabbing at Redknee’s ankles, dragging him out. Redknee wriggled and kicked as hard as he could, aiming for Skoggcat’s hard-set eyes and mouth. But it was no good, Skoggcat was too strong.

As soon as they were in the open Skoggcat swung his iron ball at Redknee’s head. Redknee ducked, raised his arm and the chain twisted round his wrist. Ignoring the vice-like pain of the links biting into his flesh, he tugged hard, pulling an already over extended Skoggcat off his feet. Locked in battle, the pair tumbled down a fern covered slope.

They came to a stop with Redknee on his back. Skoggcat fought like the wildcat he mimicked, scratching at Redknee’s face and baring sharpened teeth. Struggling to hold him off, Redknee tried to use the iron ball still attached to his wrist to smash Skoggcat’s nose. But Skoggcat was as agile as he was strong, dodging every blow with a gleeful sneer.

Redknee changed tack. Rather than trying to fight him off, he seized Skoggcat’s clawed hands and held them. Confusion showed in Skoggcat’s eyes as he tried to twist free. But Redknee held tight, got his foot under Skoggcat’s belly and pushed – sending the screaming youth flying over his head. Seizing the advantage, Redknee leapt to his feet and drew his eating knife.

Redknee!

He turned to see the first warrior hoisting Sinead onto his grey stallion.

Turning from Skoggcat, Redknee scrambled up the embankment and ran headlong at the big warrior. But the warrior just laughed as he turned his stallion and galloped into the forest. Skoggcat jumped up behind one of the other riders and stole a lift. The men were gone just as quickly as they had arrived.

Redknee kept up his pursuit until he could no longer make out the shadows of the trees. Exhausted, he slumped to the ground. Sinead was gone and he was lost.

Redknee forced himself on, crashing into outstretched branches, tripping on exposed roots. He strained to see in the shadowy, moonlit darkness of the night. There had been no sign of Sinead’s abductors since they galloped off that afternoon. Face it, he thought, he was never going to catch them. And even if he did, what, exactly, was he going to do? Attack five warriors with his eating knife?

He rubbed his elbow. He was going to have a bruise the size of an apple. The villagers might as well call him Red-arm as Redknee, for all the difference it made. He was too clumsy to be a warrior. Too clumsy for anything but—

A cry pierced the night.

Redknee’s hand shot to his knife. Wolves. He stopped and listened. The animal’s mate would reply, betraying their location. He waited, but there was no response. Not wolves, he thought. One wolf. A lone hunter. He drew his knife. Wolves, even a lone one, demanded respect. Each step he took seemed to echo through the forest, so he moved forward on tiptoe, every muscle in his body taut as he eased, quiet as he could, through the maze of branches. The wolf was near, but how near?

He knew he should avoid the wolf – his eye was on bigger game tonight. But then, to be able to wear a wolf pelt – that would show Harold the bloody Thin. Harold the Bleeding Scared, more like.

Thorns tore at his arms; his legs ached from keeping on tiptoe. One wrong move would expose him. Eventually he slumped, exhausted, onto a fallen log. And that was when he heard it.

A soft mewling.

He peered through the undergrowth, but all he saw was a dark knot of leaves and twigs. He heard the mewling again; this time he crept towards its source. The earth became soft, like butter, and he trod carefully. There must be water nearby.

A fresh hoof print then another, glistened in the sludge. His first piece of luck! Heart racing, and forgetting his fear of the wolf, he followed the horse trail past a tightly packed copse of ash and elder. Suddenly, the ground slid away and he toppled backwards, arms flailing. He tumbled down a mossy slope, ripping his tunic and dropping his knife as he clutched uselessly at the slick earth.

Something large and hard stopped his fall. Unable to get up, he lay on the ground, blood trickling across his face. He grimaced as the metallic taste reached his mouth. He would probably die here, his broken body picked clean by scavengers. Was this how it had felt for his father? Death. Cold, lonely, slow…

They said his father had surrendered. A coward’s death. Well, Redknee was not a coward. At least he had the satisfaction of knowing he had died trying to save his friend. Of running into battle, not away from it. Would that be enough to get him to Valhalla, he wondered, the final resting place of the great warriors?

A fine mist began to settle over him. He smiled. The village had been waiting for rain now for weeks. He inhaled the vapour and closed his eyes …

The mewling was much closer now. Right beside him, in fact. Redknee opened his eyes. How long had he been asleep? He looked about. It was still dark. Pain shuddered through him. A welcome pain. He was alive.

As he groped for the rock that had broken his fall, his fingers curled round a sharp object. His eating knife. He slid the knife into his belt, and, summoning all his energy, pulled himself to his feet. He leaned on the stone for a long while, absorbing its strength.

Then Redknee saw him. Cowering in the hollow trunk of an old pine tree was a tiny wolf cub. Its white fur stuck out at odd angles and its nose bore a round grey mark the size of the Arab coins his uncle kept locked in a chest. Redknee daren’t move closer. The cub’s mother would be nearby. A she-wolf never left her young for long.

Then he heard it. A ragged howl. Like the rush of wind through a cave.

He spun round, bracing himself for the attack. Long white teeth glimmered against black gums. Redknee spread his arms wide. He’d heard wolves could be scared off if you made yourself look bigger. But the she-wolf kept coming. She was almost on him now, growling and pawing the ground, a demon of spit and fangs and blood. A gash the length of a man’s forearm cleaved her right haunch. Redknee winced. This was not her first fight of the day either. He edged backwards. She tried to leap at him, but her legs quivered and it was more of a shuffle. A moment later she collapsed to the ground.

The pup crawled from its lair and nudged its mother’s nose with its head. A triangle of pink tongue darted over the pup’s ears, but the she-wolf was beaten. Her eyes lolled with exhaustion and her head slumped onto her paws.

As the she-wolf took her last, rasping breath, she looked up at Redknee, with, he imagined, relief in her eyes. And he knew what he should do. He edged over to the pup, who was now trying to wake its mother by patting her face with its paw, and gently scooped it up. Pale amber eyes ringed with black stared warily at Redknee.

Hey, little one, Redknee said, stroking the pup behind its ears. The pup tried to wriggle free. Redknee fished a scrap of bread from his belt-pouch and held it out. After a moment’s pause, the pup gobbled it down greedily.

You’re all alone in the world now. I know what that feels like. But don’t worry, I’ll look after you. We can be a team.

The pup eyed Redknee for a moment then began licking his face. Ergh, Redknee said, holding the pup at arm’s length. I’ll have to teach you to stop that if you’re ever going to make a fierce hunting dog.

He tucked the pup into his tunic and trudged through the wet mud until he came to a wide clearing. A torch flickered a short distance off. He ducked down. The fiery image danced across the ground. He’d reached the banks of a mountain lake – one he didn’t recognise. More lights joined the first – their reflections shimmering on the water.

He crept through the reeds until he was within hearing distance. Fifteen or so men lounged by a campfire, drinking and cutting strips off a deer carcass they’d suspended over the fire on a stout branch. Redknee’s mouth watered. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The men were loud and drunk. Two were arguing over a game of dice. A few took turns goading a brown bear they had tethered to a tree stump. The poor beast was so tired it hardly responded to their bullying.

Redknee crouched in the shadows and looked for Sinead. A group of horses stood to one side. Redknee recognised the grey stallion. Beside the horses was a wooden cage. Their leader, the big warrior with the bad eye, stalked over to the cage, pulled out a girl and dragged her towards the campfire. Redknee wasn’t sure it was Sinead until he heard her squawking on in her usual way. Like a seagull arguing with an ox. Pointless and annoying.

Let me go, you big oaf, she said.

Wish granted, he said, pushing her in front of the fire.

The men looked up from their meal. A raven-haired youth in a fine chainmail coat addressed the big warrior. Ragnar, he asked, when do we attack Sven’s village?

Ragnar smirked. First light, son. If we can get this girl to talk. She knows where it is. I know it. But she says nothing.

The youth jumped up, grabbed Sinead’s hand and thrust it towards the flames. Tell us the way to Sven Kodranson’s village, he demanded.

Sinead jerked her head back and spat in his eye.

You little— The youth brought his palm across her face, knocking her to the ground.

At the sound of the slap, every muscle in Redknee’s body tensed.

Ragnar sighed. Calm down, Mord. You must never let a woman rile you. Besides, the point is to make her talk, not shut her up forever. Now put her back in the cage until she comes round.

Sulking, Mord lifted Sinead’s limp body, dropped her inside the cage, bound the door shut and rejoined his father by the fire. The rest of the men were happily engrossed in their food and in taunting the poor bear. None, it seemed, were brave enough to tease Mord over Sinead’s outburst. There was no sign of Skoggcat. Staying low in the undergrowth, Redknee edged closer.

Can’t wait to see Sven again, Ragnar said as Mord sat beside him on an upturned log. Bet he’ll squeal like a pig when I run him through. Just like his brother did. Laughing, he drew his knife and jabbed the bear in the gut. The animal moaned. Ragnar’s eyes lit up.

My spies have confirmed Sven still has his brother’s book, said Mord, ignoring his father’s jest with the bear.

What would I do without you, Mord? You know everyone’s secrets.

A smile flashed across the young man’s face, then vanished. They also tell me Sven has finished his longship, he said.

Then this is the perfect time to strike. Nothing like taking advantage of someone else’s hard work, eh? Ragnar said. And it is high time I studied the book for myself – Sven has denied me it long enough. Now, have you seen your useless freak of a brother?

Mord shook his head. What about the boy? The one who was with the girl.

What about him? Ragnar frowned. He’s nothing. We lost him ages ago. Ragnar studied his son for a moment, then said, You worry too much. Relax. We’ll find Sven’s village soon enough. Ragnar slapped Mord on the back and turned to talk with his men, who were rowdily debating whether Thor, the god of thunder, or Odin, the god of war, would win in a fight.

Mord moved to the edge of the camp, away from the men. He took a piece of ivory from his pocket and began working it with his knife.

The pup squirmed inside Redknee’s tunic, Redknee pushed him down, out of sight, his mind spinning as he closed the distance to the cage. He forgot the pain in his arm, the pounding in his head. He’d heard of Ragnar. Uncle Sven had spoken of him. But always in hushed tones. For it was Ragnar who had killed Redknee’s father. Murdered him.

The cage was near where Mord worked on his carving. But the night was dark and he didn’t see Redknee crawl up behind Sinead, reach through the bars and tap her on the shoulder.

No movement. Nothing. He tried again, this time tugging the ends of her long hair. She opened her eyes slowly, saw him, and winked.

Redknee held his fingers to his lips. Lie still. Don’t draw attention. He used his knife to start sawing the rope holding the cage door closed. From the corner of his eye, he saw one of Ragnar’s men approach carrying a bucket.

Hurry! Sinead whispered.

I’m going as fast as I can. Ragnar had used heavy flax and Redknee felt his knife buckle.

Ragnar’s man reached the far side of the cage. Redknee hid in the shadows as the man tossed a bucketful of lake water over Sinead and turned to go. Sinead let out a tiny gasp as the cold water hit her skin.

Ragnar’s man stopped. He turned just as Redknee looked up and their eyes met through the bars of the cage. Sinead stood in an attempt to hide Redknee. But she was too late. Then, just as the warrior drew his sword and bellowed for help, the rope came away in Redknee’s hand. Before Redknee could stand back, Sinead was out of the cage, fleeing for the trees. But Ragnar’s man was quick to block her escape.

Redknee grabbed Sinead’s hand and pulled her the other way. There was a clear route past the campfire and round the far side of the lake. But as they neared the campfire, Ragnar caught up with them, anger burning in his eyes.

You again! he said, drawing his sword and lunging forwards.

Redknee sprang back, just dodging the flames. His knife was no match for Ragnar’s sword. Thinking quickly, he grabbed a branch from the fire and thrust it in Ragnar’s face. The big man flinched, slipped on the ashes, and, twisting to miss the fire, landed at the bear’s feet.

Sinead yanked the tether and a moment later the bear was free.

Redknee and Sinead made for the forest. As they wove through the trees, the pup still tucked safely into Redknee’s tunic, they tried to close their ears to Ragnar’s terrible screams.

They zigzagged through the forest, branches snatching at their faces and legs, the pounding of hooves only a few paces behind. Eventually the sound receded and Redknee felt certain they’d lost Ragnar’s men. But like fleeing deer, the two of them tore blindly on. It was only after a long while that he felt Sinead ease her pace.

Have we lost them? she asked, gasping.

Redknee motioned for her to stop, as his own heart hammered in his chest. He listened to the darkness. To the sounds of his mountain. The shadows heightened every whisper. Sinead stood rigid beside him. He reached out and took her hand in his. Her skin felt hot despite her soaking.

It’s alright, he said. I can’t hear the horses. The fear in her muscles eased. But we have to get back to the village. Ragnar and his men plan to attack at first light. And he’ll want revenge after your trick.

Sinead snatched her hand away. You mean untying the bear? What else was I to do? We were trapped.

All I’m saying is, if Ragnar survived being mauled, he’ll be looking for us.

Oh, Sinead gulped. We should hide, then. No point heading to the village when we know that’s where Ragnar’s going.

What? And leave my mother and uncle to die? Ragnar said he wanted to kill Uncle Sven. Just like he killed my father.

Well they’re not my family. I’m just a slave. I don’t owe my captors loyalty.

He grabbed her by the elbow. You owe them your keep and protection—

Look, I held my tongue, didn’t I? I didn’t tell them the way to the village. That ought to buy your precious family some time.

They’ll find the place soon enough – they’ve got this far, Redknee said, letting her go. "But that was loyal of you."

I was afraid, she said, rubbing her elbow. I thought Ragnar would kill me if I told him. Once he had no need of me.

Typical, Redknee said. A slave thinking of herself first. Especially a Christian one. He sighed. Look, we’re wasting time. You do what you like. He stomped off but paused after a few strides. He had no idea where he was, or even if he was going the right way.

You’ve no clue where you’re going. Do you? Sinead called. Ooh, the great Redknee – jarl of the mountain – totally lost.

Be quiet! Redknee spun round. You might not care about raising the alarm, but I do. The night had already faded to a smoky grey and he could see the outline of individual trees. He ran his hand over the trunk of a tall pine. A fleece of moss shrouded its north side. He turned to Sinead.

Oster-Fjord lies west; if we go …, he calculated west from the position of the moss, … that way, he said, pointing towards a bracken-covered escarpment, we should reach its shores. We can follow the water to the village. Are you coming?

The pup slid from Redknee’s tunic and stretched on the ground.

What’s that? Sinead asked.

What does it look like?

Sinead glowered. A skinny little wolf cub.

The pup yawned, baring every one of its sharp teeth and its long stretch of pink tongue. Then it sauntered over to Sinead and nuzzled the hem of her dress.

Hey, Redknee said. Don’t be a traitor!

Aw, he likes me. She scooped him up and the pup obliged by licking her chin. Don’t be jealous. He just has good taste. She set the pup on the ground. Where did you get him?

Rescued him.

Really? Her eyes widened. Quite the hero tonight.

Yeah, well, Redknee muttered. No point wasting more time.

Does he have a name? she asked.

He shook his head.

What about Silver?

What about it?

Because of the mark on his forehead, and he might bring you luck.

Redknee shrugged. Hunting dogs didn’t have names. Come on, he said, following the command with a low whistle. The pup trotted over. Good boy, he said, bundling it into his arms and starting to walk. He called over his shoulder to Sinead. If we make good time, we can still reach the village before sunrise.

Wait, what am I to do? she asked.

What do you mean?

I don’t want to return to the village.

Why not? Isn’t my mother kind to you? You’re her favourite slave.

"Yes … she is kind … for a pagan. But I … I don’t want to be a slave anymore. I thought we were running away. I want to go home."

Had he been running away? He wasn’t even sure himself. He sighed. "Look, I have to go back. Besides, isn’t this your home now?"

Wait! Her voice sounded strangled.

He shook his head and kept walking. I don’t have time to waste. It’s nearly light.

She scuttled after him, falling into step at his side.

He grinned. So, you decided to come with me after all?

She glowered at him. Not much choice.

He stopped and looked her in the eye. She was still breathless from their run and her skin was flushed the pale pink of the river salmon. You’re wrong, Sinead, he said. There’s always a choice.

Redknee stood on the cliff and stared at the huddle of longhouses below. They’d reached the village at last. Purple light stretched across Oster Fjord, turning the beach a pale lilac. Dawn came early this time of year. Wavedancer stood, tall and proud against the gleaming water. A fine oak ship. A fine prize. Finished, save for the dragon figurehead Uncle Sven would attach at the launch ceremony, her curved silhouette contrasted with the squat bulkiness of the longhouses.

Already, plumes of smoke twisted into the early morning sky. Redknee felt his stomach grumble. His mother would have her porridge pot over the fire. He could dry his wet feet. He started to run.

Come on, he called to Sinead.

She had taken the pup from him, and held it tight as she tried to keep up with his new, faster pace. He tore down the path, skidding on loose stones and half-tripping on exposed roots. But he didn’t care. He just wanted to get home. Trees sped past in a blur. Green, brown, orange.

Orange?

He was being followed, and one name flashed through his mind.Before he could do anything, Skoggcat ripped through the trees and knocked him flat. But he had misjudged the distance and kept going, past Redknee, until he dropped over the edge.

Redknee scrambled to his feet and ran to where Skoggcat had disappeared. Sinead was already peering over. About half a man’s length below where they stood, Skoggcat gripped a naked root with one hand, his feet dangling in the air. They were still far above the village. A fall from this height would kill a man instantly.

He must have been following us all along, Sinead said.

Redknee nodded. How could he have missed the signs? Ragnar’s threat – fear for his family – had distracted him. That was the only explanation. Even so, Skoggcat must have been quiet as the dead.

What should we do? Sinead asked.

Skoggcat stared up at them, terror pinching his tattooed face. He reached for the root with his free hand, but the movement loosened the earth and he slid lower. A tiny noise, barely a whisper, came from the back of his throat.

He’s trying to speak, Sinead said.

Redknee pulled her from the edge. We should go. He’s seen the village. If we help him, he’ll only tell Ragnar the way.

Sinead’s face turned white. But—

Oh, so this is different to running off without telling my family about Ragnar’s attack?

"No… I mean—"

He was trying to kill me, Sinead. It’s not my fault he fell.

But it’s so cruel.

Life’s cruel, he said, walking away.

Sinead caught up with him and placed her hand on his elbow. Life might be cruel, she said. But you’re not.

"Please help me …," came the disembodied plea.

I’m going back, she said, gathering her skirts and turning round.

He sighed. She might see rescuing Skoggcat as an act of mercy, but her charity would only bring death to those Redknee cared about. And yet …

To slay a man in battle was honourable. To leave him to die slowly—

That wasn’t the Viking way.

He turned on his heels and went to where Sinead lay on the ground with her arms stretched over edge of the cliff. The pup sat beside her, watching her every move.

I can’t reach, she gasped.

He leaned over. Skoggcat’s hand strained to meet Sinead’s smaller one. He’ll attack us as soon as he’s up, Redknee said.

Skoggcat shook his head. I promise I won’t.

How do we know you won’t lead Ragnar to our village? he asked.

My father thinks I’m useless. He’ll believe I didn’t find anything.

The root Skoggcat clung to began to give way. Sinead screamed.

Reluctantly, Redknee lay on the ground and lowered himself, face first, until he was hanging down the rock face from his waist. He felt the blood rush to his head and closed his eyes while he regained his balance. When he opened them again, he immediately wished he hadn’t. The village looked nothing more than a tiny speck, hundreds of feet below. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to focus instead on Skoggcat.

The youth stretched for Redknee’s arm, but he was still too far away.

This was a bad idea. He couldn’t help Skoggcat, and now he was going to die trying. He glanced over his shoulder at Sinead’s expectant face and sighed.

Grab my feet, he said. He felt her sit on his ankles. He wriggled further out, over the edge, until he felt his feet lifting off the ground. Hold on! he called over his shoulder.

I am, she replied. There’s nothing else I can do. You’re going to have to grab him quickly.

Redknee felt a tug at the hem of his trousers and realised the pup was holding on too. He grinned to himself.

Skoggcat was closer now. Redknee could just brush his fingertips. If he could only reach a bit—

The cliff splintered beneath Redknee’s chest, spraying shingle over Skoggcat’s head; plunging Redknee lower. Once Redknee steadied himself, he realised it was the boost they needed. He reached for Skoggcat; grasping his hand just as the root came apart and tumbled to the valley floor.

His arm creaked as Skoggcat’s full weight swung from his wrist. The youth was heavier than he’d expected. He felt sharp rocks scour his chest. His heart raced; Skoggcat’s weight was pulling him over the edge. Redknee tensed his stomach and arms.

I can’t pull you back up, he said to Skoggcat. You’re going to have to climb over me.

Skoggcat nodded and Redknee braced himself as he felt the youth’s hands, knees, then feet,