Stormriders Page 9

  Dúngal grinned too, and then a line was thrust into his hand and he was told to make himself useful. The rope snaked through his fingers and the sail started to unfurl. Blue and yellow stripes rippled into view. Dúngal felt his heart thud with excitement.

  ‘I’m going home!’ he thought. ‘I’m really going home!’

  23

  Unmasked

  Oddo’s benchmate, a young man named Völund, had muscly arms tanned to the colour of acorns, and blond hair bleached almost white. His eyes, crinkled at the edges from squinting out to sea, were alert and watchful. Several times after Oddo had whispered to the wind, he found those eyes gazing at him quizzically.

  All that day and night, Oddo drove Striker to the east. The next morning, there were heavy, grey clouds pressing down from a gloomy sky. The water was dark and choppy, and the wind biting. Oddo was glad of his heavy leather jerkin and the iron helmet, but soon his hands were numb with cold. He glanced sideways and saw Völund watching him intently, an amused expression on his face. Oddo hunched his shoulders and huffed on his fingers.

  The waves rose higher and the longship heaved and fell in sickening lurches. There was a flash of lightning and a grumble of thunder.

  ‘Storm coming,’ warned the Captain. ‘Shorten sail!’

  As everyone scrambled to their feet, Oddo snatched the opportunity to glance up, and whisper to the clouds. A moment later, the sky was clear, the wind eased, and the sun streamed down. The Captain stared about him, with a bewildered expression on his face. Oddo caught Thora’s eye and saw her clap a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles.

  That evening, Völund nudged Oddo and pointed to a spot on the horizon. Oddo could see strange columns of cloud stretching from sea to sky.

  ‘That’ll be the Isles of Faer,’ said Völund. ‘You watch.’

  Sure enough, in the morning Oddo was woken by the screeches of thousands of seabirds, and behind the mist of cloud he could make out the black, craggy cliffs of the Isles. He shivered, remembering his last visit here, trapped in a bird shape.

  ‘Land ahoy!’ squealed the lookout.

  Heads bobbed up between the benches as the men wriggled out of their fur sleeping bags. The carved eagle on the prow seemed to swoop towards the rocks.

  ‘All right, wind, ease off,’ hissed Oddo.

  Sailors tumbled onto rowing benches, oars in hand, and strove to bring the longship safe to shore.

  Oddo glowered at the high, pounding surf. ‘Wish I could tell you to go away.’

  To his astonishment, a huge roller stopped in midair, and slid backwards. Striker’s hectic reeling changed into a gentle glide. Oddo stared, and everyone on board fell into a stunned silence. The only sound was the splish splash of oars, and then the keel grated against the beach. Nobody moved. They sat, gawping at a sea that lay around them as still and unrippling as a puddle.

  ‘What happened?’ whispered the Captain.

  Beside Oddo, Völund stirred and cleared his throat.

  ‘This boy,’ he said, and Oddo felt his belly twist and tighten like a knotted rope, ‘he talks to the wind . . . and the waves.’

  Everyone on board turned to stare.

  ‘Is this true?’ demanded Snari.

  Oddo’s eyes swept down the long rows of benches and found Thora. She shrugged. He lifted his gaze to the bewildered Captain.

  ‘I . . . Yes . . . I have magic powers,’ he croaked.

  ‘He conjured up the wind that brought us here!’ called Thora.

  ‘Well!’ The word was a gush of air, like the blowing of a whale. ‘Seems we’ve got ourselves a perfect crew!’

  On shore, everyone set to work filling water kegs and lighting a fire. But when they gathered to watch the huge cauldron bubbling over the flames, Oddo found himself peppered with questions.

  ‘What other magic can you do?’ one sailor demanded.

  ‘Can you tell my fortune?’

  ‘Can you carve my shield with runes that bring long life?’

  ‘I always thought you looked a bit peculiar’, commented a loud voice.

  ‘Me?!’ Oddo glanced at Thora with her jagged haircut, Father Connlae with his fake beard, and Dúngal with his red hair and freckles. ‘If you only knew!’ he thought.

  Then the food was ready, and everyone turned their attention to the steaming bowls of oatmeal.

  Oddo and his companions slipped away to a grassy slope out of sight of the crowd. They were relieved to escape for a short time from the worry of pretence. Oddo lay back, luxuriating in the feel of warm sun on aching muscles. He brushed the hair from his eyes.

  ‘That’s what Arni does,’ said Thora.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pushes his hair up like that.’

  ‘Well, he’s always got a long fringe.’

  ‘Yes, but . . . you look so much like him.’

  ‘Well, I thought you looked like my mother the other day.’

  ‘You did?’ Thora sat up. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, you’ve both got round faces or something.’

  ‘Isn’t it strange,’ said Thora,‘all my family are long and thin like you, and I’ve got chubby cheeks like Sigrid.’

  ‘It’s as if you’re in the wrong families,’ chuckled Dúngal.

  Oddo and Thora didn’t laugh. They stared at each other.

  ‘We were born on the same night,’ said Thora in a small voice.

  ‘You don’t think . . . Gyda the Midwife mixed us up?’

  ‘It would explain why you can do magic and I can’t!’

  ‘It couldn’t happen . . . Two babies in different houses . . .’

  ‘I know, but . . . I’m going to ask Gyda when we see her!’

  It seemed to Oddo as if his life and Thora’s had smashed together, and shattered like two clay pots. And now the fragments were whirling around in his head. He kept seeing his own face, and Thora’s. He heard his mother’s words, ‘Just like a daughter,’ and his father, in a temper, ‘I can’t believe I fathered such a weakling.’ And from the dazed look in Thora’s eyes, he could see that she felt the same.

  When it was time to board again, the men were buzzing with excitement. Their voices had a lighthearted ring and they all clapped him on the back as they passed. Even Captain Snari was chortling and rubbing his hands.

  ‘We’ll row clear of the islands,’ he said, ‘then, Oddo, you can conjure the wind up for us, and we’ll hoist sail.’ Oddo snapped back to the present. He glanced up at the sails. ‘We want to go south now, don’t we?’ he asked. He frowned at the sky. The midday sun gave him little clue which direction was which. He bent towards Hairydog, whose nose was poking out beneath the rowing bench. ‘Hey,’ he whispered, ‘come out and have a scratch.’

  The dog wriggled out and began to scratch vigorously with her hind leg. Oddo squatted next to her and peered at the tiny fleas that dropped from her back and hopped around the deck. From the corner of his eye, he saw Völund watching in bewilderment.

  Oddo took his seat again.

  ‘What were you doing?’ asked Völund.

  Oddo grinned. ‘Just looking which way to go.’ He pointed south, and called the wind.

  ‘But . . .? How?’ Völund stared at the deck, then up to the sky.

  ‘Raise oars!’ bellowed the Captain.

  As the oars clattered around them, Oddo relented. ‘It’s the fleas,’ he explained. ‘They show me where to go. They always hop north!’

  The wind picked up, and they headed for Ireland. But as they sailed on their way, Oddo was still wondering about the night he was born.

  24

  A gift for the King

  Dúngal gazed down the rows of benches. While Oddo kept the longship on a steady course, the crewmen lounged, clicking the little wooden pieces on their board games, or tilting their drinking horns. Even the steersman had tied up his steering oar and was joining in.

  Thora sidled up to Dúngal. ‘We’re nearly there,’ she whispered. ‘If we can make it through just a few more h
ours with no one noticing our disguises, we’ll be safe.’

  Dúngal nodded. He turned back to watch the coast, straining his eyes for the rocky finger of Benn Étair which beckoned wanderers home to Ériu. At last he saw it, a tall crag, standing alone on a long, sandy spit.

  ‘There it is!’ yelled a voice behind him. ‘We’ve reached Dyflinn!’

  ‘Dyflinn?’ muttered Dúngal. ‘It’s called Dublinn, you ignorant Viking.’

  As they entered the bay, he gazed across the silver-blue water to the perfect rolling hills. Somewhere, behind those green slopes, he would find his kinsfolk again. He turned and looked the length of the ship to Oddo, standing proud beside the Captain. Their eyes met.

  ‘Thank you,’ whispered Dúngal, though Oddo couldn’t hear.

  The sail came down and they rowed up the River Liffey towards the centre of town. The market hove into sight and when Dúngal saw the rows of slaves, bound in iron, his hands tightened on the oar.

  They passed the earthen ramparts that protected the fortress of King Yvar the Viking. They swung into the pool of dark water, stained brown by the peat bog, which gave the town its name: Dub Linn – dark pool.

  Their journey was ended.

  As Dúngal stumbled off the ship onto the wooden dock, Thora rushed to his side.

  ‘We made it! We’re safe!’ she hissed.

  Dúngal grinned back. ‘And wasn’t I telling you I’d get back to Ériu?’ he retorted.

  Yapping excitedly, Hairydog bounded over the side of the ship. A moment later Oddo and Father Connlae joined them.

  ‘This can’t be Ireland,’ said Oddo. ‘It looks like a Viking town!’

  ‘It is a Viking town,’ growled Dúngal. ‘On Irish soil. They’ve even put in a Viking king! Those marauders use Dublinn as their raiding base for the rest of Ireland.’ He scowled at all the longships clustered in the pool, at the Viking encampment, and the huge bulk of the King’s fortress. ‘Tíagam ass. Let’s get out of here!’

  As they turned to go, Captain Snari let out a yell.

  ‘Hey! You!’ Feet pounded towards them. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  The four of them hesitated, glancing at each other. Dúngal felt a warning surge of fear. He saw Father Connlae’s pale, shocked face, and the wisps of hair hanging from his chin, and knew they were about to be unmasked.

  ‘Run!’ he cried.

  He leapt forward, thinking for a fleeting instant they might escape. But it was too late. The crew closed in. They were surrounded by a palisade of spears.

  Snari stepped through, and glared down at them. ‘What do you think you’re up to?’ he demanded. ‘You swore allegiance to my ship! You don’t go traipsing off till I give you permission!’

  Dúngal gaped at him. This pompous oaf was only worried about losing his crew. He hadn’t seen through their disguise at all!

  ‘As it happens,’ continued Snari,‘we’ll be in dock for a while, so you may amuse yourselves for a few hours. Except for that Oddo boy. He’s too valuable to go wandering. Völund, Egil, bring him to me! I intend to present him as a gift to King Yvar!’

  Dúngal saw Oddo stiffen in shock.

  ‘You can’t give me away!’ he protested. ‘I’m not a thrall! I’m a Viking!’

  The Captain snorted. ‘I can do what I like,’ he said. ‘I’m your Captain.’

  The two tallest sailors took hold of Oddo’s arms.

  ‘No!’

  Oddo tried to twist free, and Hairydog leapt forward with a snarl. Two spears clanged in front of her nose.

  ‘Like this in your ribs?’ growled a crewman.

  ‘Thora . . . Thorvald, look after Hairydog!’ cried Oddo.

  They had a glimpse of his white, terrified face.

  ‘This can’t be happening!’ thought Dúngal. ‘Oddo was the only safe one!’ He glanced at Thora clutching Hairydog, at the priest blinking in bemusement. ‘We can’t just stand here. Even Hairydog did more than that!’

  Clenching his fists, he stepped forward.

  ‘Dúnga-al!’ Thora’s voice was urgent and warning, but there was a pounding in Dúngal’s head.

  ‘I’m the thrall,’ he yelled. ‘You blind, stupid Vikings, can’t you see? I’m Irish. Look at me!’ He flung off his helmet and hurled himself at the astonished captors. ‘I’m the one to take, you brainless heaps of dung!’

  25

  Prisoners

  ‘Dúngal, what on earth made you do it?’ Oddo demanded.

  They were both huddled on the floor of a tiny, stone-walled room. Dúngal pressed his head against his knees.

  ‘You’re my friend,’ he mumbled. ‘And . . . I swore the Viking oath. To be your brother without fear or dread.’

  Oddo looked at the bowed head and sighed.

  ‘So now we’re both in trouble.’

  Regretfully, he fingered the goatskin tied around his shoulders. If he’d been on his own, he could have drawn it up over his head, turned invisible, and escaped.

  There was a crunch of feet on the gravel outside. The bolt slid back and the door opened. Oddo shielded his eyes against the glare of daylight flooding the room. Broad-shouldered Egil stood in the doorway.

  ‘Come on, boys,’ he said. ‘On your feet. You’re going to meet the King!’

  The two of them got up stiffly and followed Egil across the yard and into the street.

  ‘Look!’ whispered Dúngal.

  ‘Where?’

  Up and down the winding street, there were crowds of bustling people, and the tiny houses and workshops lining the roadway seemed to press forward, the weavers, carvers, blacksmiths and leatherworkers spilling outwards.

  Oddo heard a stifled bark and saw, in the shadow of an oak tree, a dog and two watching figures.

  ‘Thora and Hairydog and Father Connlae!’ he breathed. As he and Dúngal were hustled down the street, he sensed the others leaving the shadows to follow behind. He cast a glance over his shoulder, and tried to smile.

  The rampart of the King’s fortress rose before them. The high bank of earth was topped by a palisade of hazel and blackthorn, and guarded by wooden watchtowers. Many eyes in iron helmets watched them approach. They rounded the wall and saw Captain Snari waiting beside the entrance. He rubbed his hands and beamed.

  ‘Ready to meet the King?’

  Oddo saw Dúngal’s eyes dart about, as if he was looking for a way to escape. But the Captain kept a firm grip on their arms, and when the guards opened the wooden gates, they were hustled down the long tunnel into the fortress.

  Inside, there was a scatter of buildings, small and thatched, like the ones in the street. Snari marched them past a blacksmith hammering at an anvil, a potter slapping his clay, a milking shed, a pigsty, and up to the longhouse in the centre. Hangings of exotic yellow fur, dappled with rings of black, covered the doorway. A guard swept the draperies aside and, prodded by the Captain, Oddo and Dúngal stepped forward.

  The vast hall shimmered with colours, lights and sound. Music poured from the fingers of a man who crouched on a cushion, his pointed fingernails rippling across the brass strings of the instrument he held to his shoulder. All around the room, scores of oil lamps flickered and glowed. Steaming copper pots glinted above the leaping flames in the central hearth. Richly clad people feasted at a long table that stretched all the way along the wide platform at the side of the room. The white tablecloth was almost hidden under the dishes and spillages of their meal. Coloured tapestries hung on the wall behind them, and high carved seat pillars marked the place of honour. Oddo’s eyes were drawn to the man seated between the pillars.

  ‘That must be the King,’ he whispered.

  The man had a fringe of dark hair hanging over eyes that were sunk deep in a gaunt face. A black beard reached halfway down his chest. His plum-coloured cloak was embroidered with silver and pinned with a huge gold clasp. In place of a drinking horn, he held a jewelled goblet and when he tilted it, a gold ring glinted on his finger.

  ‘Come.’ Captain Snari so
unded nervous as he tugged the boys towards the table.

  A skald performing for the guests ended his ballad, and the people seated along the table cheered and clapped. Serving girls hurried forward, bringing more courses for the banquet – shining haunches of pork, whole roasted birds, and strange dishes fragrant with herbs and spices. Oddo gave a longing sniff.

  ‘Why am I always hungry?’ he thought.

  The applause faded, and the Captain seized his chance.

  ‘Your Majesty!’ he called.

  The King was tearing strips off a long, meaty bone with his teeth, but he raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

  ‘Your Majesty, I am Captain Snari of the longship Striker. I have travelled from the new settlement in Iceland to trade here. I have great pleasure in presenting you with a gift as a gesture of my loyalty. This is Oddo the Wind Master – a boy with magic powers! And,’ he jerked his head at Dúngal, ‘his humble companion.’

  The King chewed in silence, his eyes on the two captives. When the bone was picked clean, he lifted the tablecloth to wipe his beard, toppling drinks and scattering dishes.

  ‘What magic powers?’ he demanded.

  ‘Why . . . he can command the wind and the waves!’

  ‘You ignorant fool,’ snapped the King. ‘I can do that myself. It is a simple matter for a king to bend the weather to his will!’

  Face flaming with embarrassment, Captain Snari began to back out of the room.

  ‘I can speak to birds, I can read the runes!’ King Yvar continued.

  ‘Then please . . .’ Snari paused and spread out his arms. ‘Please keep them as your thralls. They can harvest your corn and milk your cows. They will make good thralls. They are strong, young . . .’ He was still speaking as he slipped from the room.

  Thralls? Oddo gaped in disbelief as the draperies swung back over an empty doorway.