Viking Boy by Tony Bradman Page A

because I believed his lies.” Gunnar pulled down the neck of his tunic to show the boy his thrall ring, the skin rubbed raw beneath it. “So you’d better get as far away as you can unless you want to end up wearing one of these.”
    “Now you really are being a nuisance,” Gauk hissed. “Ivar! Njal!”
    Gauk stepped aside and Ivar and Njal emerged from the shadows behind him. The red-haired boy took one look at them and turned to run. Ivar made a grab for his arm, but Gunnar shoved Gauk, sending him crashing into his henchmen. The three of them fell in a tangle of arms and legs and the boy got away.
    “You’ll pay for that, slave…” Gauk snarled, pushing Ivar and Njal off and struggling to his feet. “Well, go on, you idiots. Kill him!”
    Any fear Gunnar might have felt was overcome by his hatred of the alley rats who had sold him for a few gold coins, trapping him in Kaupang when he should have been on his quest. Njal was on all fours groping for his club in the mud. Gunnar stamped on his hand, grinding into it with his heel and feeling the knuckle-bones crack. Njal howled, and Gunnar picked up the club to deal with Ivar, smashing it into his knee. Ivar went down like a tree felled by an axe.
    Then Gauk came at him with a knife, and Gunnar whipped round, barely noticing the slim blade slicing into his sleeve. He smashed the club into Gauk’s elbow and his enemy sank to his knees, the colour draining from his face.
    Gunnar stood over him, ready to strike again. Gauk flinched, his eyes wide with fear. But Gunnar lowered the club. “Just get out of my sight,” he said.
    Gauk scuttled away. The other two stumbled after him, Njal clutching his fingers, Ivar limping. Gunnar threw the club aside then turned to go, only to stop in his tracks once more. Rurik was leaning against a nearby hut.
    “You look pleased with yourself,” said Rurik. “That must have felt good. Although I see Gauk has left his mark.” Rurik nodded at Gunnar’s arm, where blood was staining the cloth.
    “It’s nothing,” said Gunnar, not wanting to make any fuss.
    Rurik frowned. “It will still need cleaning.”
    Back at the hut, Rurik quickly built up the fire and heated some water in a silver bowl. He added a sprinkle of aromatic dried herbs from a little bag he took out of the chest, then dampened a fine cloth in the fragrant water and gently cleaned Gunnar’s wound, a shallow cut the length of a little finger. He carefully patted Gunnar’s arm dry and tied another cloth round it.
    “You’ll live,” said Rurik, ruffling the boy’s hair. He went over to the door and emptied the bowl, chucking the water out into the alley. “At least till the next time you get into a fight. Although you weren’t at all bad.”
    “You’re good at this,” said Gunnar, nodding at the neat bandage round his arm. He pulled on his tunic, making sure not to spoil Rurik’s handiwork.
    “You get to see a lot of wounds in my trade,” said Rurik. “And you learn to take care of your comrades, as they take care of you.”
    Gunnar studied the big man, and thought of the way Rurik had just salved his wound and ruffled his hair and practically called him a comrade. He hadn’t seen any other slaves in Kaupang being treated like that by their masters. It seemed more the kind of thing a brother might do for a brother. Or a father for a son.
    “Did you learn that when you were in Miklagard?” he said quietly.
    Rurik glanced at him, surprised. “Who told you I’ve been to Miklagard?”
    “Thorkel. I was talking to him earlier and it … just sort of came up.”
    “Huh, I’ll bet,” snorted Rurik. “Thorkel gossips like an old woman.”
    “But is it true? Were you in the Greek Emperor’s guard?”
    “Why do you want to know?” Rurik threw a log on the fire. Sparks flew, the flames leaped higher. Shadows danced around them like ghosts.
    “Because if it is, we have something in common. My father went to Miklagard, and he served in the Greek