Читать книгу The Fire Stallion - Stacy Gregg, Stacy Gregg - Страница 9

My father holds me by the shoulders and lifts me off the ground.

“Where are you running off to then, little one?” he asks. “The entertainments are in the other direction.”

I squirm, trying to relocate my feet back on the earth once more, feeling ridiculous dangling there from his gigantic paws.

In the pit behind me I hear the horses as they clash, their squeals mingling with the cries of excitement from the men gathered round them.

“I feel sick,” I tell him. I don’t say why. He would never understand my revulsion at this theatre of brutality. His life is all about bloodshed. How many thousands of men has he killed in his long boat raids? Their lives mean nothing to him, so how can I possibly explain my floods of tears, my distress over the death of a horse?

My father raises me up even further off the ground, holding me fast so that I’m looking him square in the eyes.

“You’re hungry, I think,” he says as if his proclamation settles the problem. “Never mind. The feast will be soon enough. Until then you will stay with me.”

He puts me back on the ground but he doesn’t remove his hands from my shoulders. He turns me round and shuffles me off to walk ahead of him. When we reach the arena, he puts his arm protectively round me from behind as we push through the throng, back the way I’ve just come, creating a pathway through the crowd-stink of sweat and beer, into the arena seats, where the noise of the people shouting all around is deafening.

An almighty roar rises up as the chestnut stallion, exhausted and lame with open wounds on his shoulder and neck, suddenly summons up the strength to land a glancing blow with his near fore. The grey reacts like a snake, twisting his neck to wrap it round the chestnut’s and bite him back. The chestnut falls back, trying to get away from the grey, and once again he finds himself restrained by the ropes that bind them together, unable to escape.

I’m trapped here too. A prisoner, with my own father as jailer. All I can do to get through it is close my eyes and bite my tongue and wait for this “entertainment” to end.

“Where is your brother?” my father asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. I haven’t seen Steen all day. I’m new to having a brother, but instinctively I know that I do not like him. I’m thinking about last night, and I know it can’t be my memory; it must be Brunhilda’s I suppose. It involves Steen and the dinner feast we had at Thing-Vellir. One of our tribe had just got married and so the bride and groom were guests of honour and there was much celebrating at the main table, and Steen leant across to me and whispered:

“That will be you next, sister.”

He’s so cruel! I don’t want to marry at all but there’s a queue of boys in my tribe lining up in anticipation of standing on the sacred rock and having their hand roped to mine. Not for love, but because of the power it would bring them. My father is the strongest of the chieftains, King of Iceland. Marrying me, Brunhilda, his daughter, gives you a direct line to the throne.

All the same, Steen would be wise not to mock me. “Be careful what you wish for, brother,” I replied. “If I do marry, then my husband could be the next king instead of you.”

I swear he had not even considered this. He turned very pale when I said it. Honestly, my brother is like Thor. Full of power and fury, always ready to swing a hammer, but never once using his brain. He never thinks before he acts, and that is why he should not be king.

The roar of the crowd is growing louder as the horses, entangled in the ropes, stagger about like punch-drunk fighters, weaving and striking. The chestnut stumbles forward and falls to his knees. I think I’m going to throw up.

“Brunhilda, go now and find him for me,” my father says. “I want him at the feast tonight when I address the chieftains at the Law Rock.”

“Yes, Father!”

I don’t wait to be told twice – I move fast, pushing my way out through the crowd. Oh, thank the great, wise Odin! I’m so relieved to have an excuse to leave. I can feel my heart pounding but I try to stay calm as I work my way between the stinking bodies of the men who are shouting at the top of their lungs. Being small has its uses and I weave through the gaps in the throng until I’ve left the noise and the stench behind me and I’m heading down the broad path that leads between the high rock cliffs towards the far end of Thing-Vellir.

I know where Steen likes to hang out and, sure enough, I find him in one of the little clearings, a rocky cul-de-sac where the waterfalls tumble down the cliff face. He’s there with a few boys and girls from our tribe. He has his sword in his hand and he’s fighting with Kari, his best friend. They play with blunted blades, dulled on purpose for sparring so they will not cut, although you can get a nasty bruise through your chain mail if you’re hit hard enough with one.

Steen and Kari are trading blows back and forth in a very choreographed way while the others sit above them on the rocks and watch. I think, as I watch him grunting and thrusting, blocking Kari with his shield and then grinning as he swoops around with his sword to hack at his shoulder, how Steen fights like a poor imitation of our father, his arms windmilling and his chest jutting forward. He is built like my father too, only smaller in height. He’s sixteen, two years older than me, and his beard is not yet grown and is still just a tuft of ginger fluff on his chin.

When he sees me he doesn’t pause, he keeps clashing his sword against Kari’s.

“Why are you here, Bru?”

“Father wanted me to find you,” I tell him. “The feast is soon. He wants to make sure you’ll be there.”

“Of course he does.” Steen thrusts his sword hard at Kari and even though they are just playing he only narrowly misses striking him in the guts. Kari looks nervous.

“Hey! Watch it!”

“He’s going to announce it tonight,” Steen says. “Wait and see.”

“Announce what?” I ask.

“His successor,” Steen says. “He’s an old man now. Time to move aside and let a young man take over.”

“You better not let him hear you say he’s old,” I say, “or the sword he uses on you will be a real one. Anyway, even if he’s announcing his successor, what makes you so certain it will be you?”

Steen stops fighting suddenly and lets his sword drop. He raises a hand to Kari as if to say, “Hold fast and halt a moment?” Then he turns his back on Kari and he glares at me.

“My father is the king,” he says to me. “And his father before him was king.”

I smile at the arrogance of him.

“My father is also the king,” I point out. “And where is it written that a woman cannot rule? The strongest warrior is the one who takes charge of our tribe. Father is not handing down the crown to the first boy who happened to be born.”

“The warrior is always a boy,” Steen counters.

I laugh. “I can hunt better than you and ride better than you. I’m smarter than you too.”

From the rocks above us there’s giggling. Steen looks up to see his friends smirking at him being bested in words by his little sister.

“Is that so?” He’s not laughing. He walks over to Kari. “Let me have your sword,” he says. Kari hesitates and Steen loses his temper, shouting at him: “Your sword, Kari! Let me have it now!”

Kari shifts his hand down the hilt and offers it out so that Steen can take it from him.

Steen now has a sword in each hand as he walks to me.

“And can you fight as well as I can?” he asks. He offers me Kari’s sword. “Because if you can beat me right now, then I will go to Father and tell him it should be you and not me who is to take over when he steps aside as king.”

“I will need chain mail or the fight is not fair,” I point out.

“Kari?” My brother treats his friends as if they are servants the way he speaks to them, which is another reason why he should never be king. I stand and wait as Kari wriggles out of his chain mail and hands it to me too. He’s much bigger than me and when I pull it on over my clothes it sags off my shoulders.

I put out my hand to take Kari’s sword from Steen and as I do so I note the slenderness of my own wrist. I am like a sparrow! My bones are so narrow and tiny beside Steen’s heavy hands. When I feel the heft of the sword as I take it from him, my arm starts trembling and I have to hook my elbow in to my hip for support and pretend that I’m holding it naturally so that he doesn’t see this. I step back from him and deliberately let the sword fall down so that the point is lowered to rest on the ground. And then, taking a deep breath, I square off and step my feet into position, my posture erect, and with renewed strength I raise the sword up so that it’s squared to the centre of my body, sticking out directly in front of me. On my left side my shield is so heavy I feel my muscles quivering. Let the fight begin soon please, because my arms already cannot last any longer.

“Let’s do this,” I say.

When we were little, Steen and I would sometimes spend the day together trapping birds beneath a basket using a string and a dowel. Steen would only wait until the birds were barely underneath the basket and eating the breadcrumbs, and then he’d give this warlike roar and throw himself at it to push it down over them. Of course they would hear him coming and be gone long before he could reach the basket. He was always astonished when he looked through the wicker and saw it was empty.

He will be the same today in the fight – impatient and half-witted. To win, all I have to do is use these traits against him.

And so I stand back and let him make the first move and, sure enough, with a growl he lunges right at me, front foot first, hacking and waving his sword theatrically above his head, all bluster and forewarning so that I see him coming in plenty of time – and all it takes is for me to sidestep and I’m clear. I slash crossways and take the first strike against him, whacking my brother hard in the ribs.

“Oww!” Steen is furious as he staggers to one side. He’s still trying to regain his balance when I come at him again, acting fast, my sword in front of me, shield raised to protect my vulnerable neck and shoulder. Hack-hack-hack. I swing and this time I land three successive blows onto his left shoulder until finally he gets his shield up to block me and fights back with a cross-cut which I deftly block with my own weapon and then push his sword out and away from my body with my blade. I twist myself in a knot to slip inside of him, throwing the weight of my shield into his and pushing hard. Caught off-balance, Steen is tipped over on his back like a turtle and, before he knows what’s happening, I’m on top of him and my blade tip is in the soft groove where his throat meets his neck.

I can see his pulse in that groove, the beat of his heart pounding, throbbing through his skin. There’s sweat on his upper lip.

All it would take from me now is one thrust, even with a sword as blunt as this, and there would be no question of succession. I would end his life. Our eyes lock and I give him a knowing raise of my eyebrow. I stay there, sitting on his chest, and wait a heartbeat longer before I lower my sword. I put it back in its sheath and as soon as I do this Steen gives a furious roar and pushes me off him. I fall back on the grass laughing.

“You can stop gloating!” he shouts at me. “You got lucky is all!”

“Well done, Bru!”

I look up and see my friends Astrid and Hannecke. They’re cheering for me from the rocks above. Even the boys, who should be on Steen’s side, are hooting out in glee. But Steen isn’t laughing. He lies on his back in a sulk, refusing my hand when I offer it to help him up. Finally he takes it, but then as soon as he’s on his feet he snatches my sword and throws it up to Kari.

“This changes nothing,” he mutters darkly. “You know that, don’t you?”

I look at him and shake my head with pity. I knew he wouldn’t keep the deal. “See you tonight at dinner,” I say. And then I turn and walk away.

Our journey to reach Thing-Vellir for the great meeting of the tribes has not been long. My father is chieftain in the south, not far from here, and we followed the river, travelling for a day. The men of our tribe and many families have come too, almost a hundred of us, all on horseback. The six other tribes who join us have come from across the country and for many their journey has taken weeks. They all travel by horse as we do, men, women and children riding astride. It’s the only way here because the few tracks that cross the lands are too bumpy and rutted for a carriage to be of any use.

So as well as thousands of people, there are thousands of horses too at the All-Thing, the great conference of all the tribes of Iceland. There has been much trading and selling of stallions, mares and foals between us since we arrived and my father has been asked many times since we got here about my horse, Jotun.

Jotun is the handsomest stallion in the whole of Iceland. I’m not saying this just because he’s mine. It’s the truth.

It wasn’t always the case. As a small foal, Jotun wasn’t good-looking at all. His legs were too long and he had a big head, so that when I chose him my father asked me if I was sure and whether I wouldn’t rather choose another colt with more attractive looks and better conformation.

“He is the one I want,” I had said firmly.