‘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 sounded 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.
