Viking Gold by V. Campbell Page A

tapes at
Magnus’s waist.
    “How long?” he asked,
glancing across the open ground separating the village from the forest. 
He got his answer before Magnus could reply.
    Hooves thudded against dry
earth; the riders emerging from between the trees as one. They sat high on
their mounts, driving them on, their hair and clothes streaming behind them,
their heavy weapons clanking at their sides. Dust enveloped the pack like a shield
wall as it crossed the open ground. Ragnar pulled to the front, the morning
light sparkling on his pointed helmet and breastplate. He held a shield painted
red and blue on one arm, and a spear in the other. And even as his grey
stallion tore across the scrub, his eyes scanned the villagers like a greedy
hawk.
    Redknee held his breath – if
only one horse fell into the pits, their order would be broken. But Ragnar led
his warriors along the curve of the road, and they charged into the centre of
the village, beneath the oak, without casualty.
    Redknee counted twelve heads.
Skoggcat was at the rear but his brother, Mord, was absent. Redknee caught the
smug look on Skoggcat’s face. He had betrayed them after all.
    Ragnar halted his stallion in
front of the feast hall. He stood high in his stirrups, the sun pouring across
his face and Redknee saw the damage the bear had done. Angry furrows scoured
his cheek from brow to chin. Redknee hoped Sinead had the sense to stay hidden.
    The villagers stood shoulder
to shoulder, facing Ragnar’s men. None had had the chance to mount, and only
Magnus had donned armour.
    Koll stood on Redknee’s left,
a hungry grin on his broad face. “Fun at last!” he said and winked.
    Redknee shuddered in horror. He
would rather be anywhere else. He felt Flame Weaver in his hand. His
uncle would expect him to use it if things turned bad. Where was his uncle? He
looked round. Sven was nowhere to be seen.
    Ragnar shouted, “Sven, Son of
Kodran the Wolf, brother of Erik the Fearful, I call on you to show yourself.”
    The villagers waited silently
to see what Sven would do. For a moment, Redknee thought his uncle had run off.
Then he heard the familiar deep voice and the tension in his spine eased.
    “Who asks?” Sven boomed from
the far side of the village. He stepped forward slowly, his battleaxe in his
hand.
    Ragnar pulled his horse in
tight. “Come, old friend. You know me.”
    “I knew a Ragnar Hrolfson
once. I know not this so-called Overlord of the Northlands that stands before
me.”
    “I must speak to you, Sven,”
Ragnar said, his voice sweet as willow sap. “In private.”
    Sven strode up to Ragnar and
looked him in the eye. “I’ve nothing to say to you.”
    “Come friend—”
    “We’re not friends. You
killed my brother.”
    “A curious thing … such a
shame he died of his wound – most unlucky.”
    Sven raised his axe to
strike—
    “Come,” Ragnar said, raising
his hand peaceably. “You know it was unavoidable … and very long ago. Now, will
you spare a few moments for one who has travelled far to see you?”
    “As I said—”
    “I ride under King Hakon’s
colours.” Ragnar pointed to the red and blue stripes on his shield. “It is on
his authority that I seek you.”
    At this, Sven’s body seemed
to slacken, and he sighed. “You have ten minutes,” he said. “Tell your men to
dismount and hand over their swords.”
    Ragnar waved his arm to
indicate his men should comply. Magnus darted forward to collect their weapons.
    Sven led Ragnar to his
longhouse. “Come inside,” he said. “Grown men should not chatter in public like
silly maids.” But when Ragnar’s men made to enter, Sven raised his arm to bar
their way. “Just you,” he said to Ragnar. “Your men can take refreshment
outside.”
    Ragnar froze in the doorway.
“My men must accompany me. I’ve nothing to say which they can’t hear.”
    “Very well,” Sven said, and
waved to Olaf, who had been watching from the beach. Despite their
disagreement, Olaf ran forward