The Dark Horse Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part One - THE BOX

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Part Two - THE DARK HORSE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  ALSO AVAILABLE FROM DELL LAUREL-LEAF BOOKS

  Copyright Page

  For my mother

  Part One

  THE BOX

  1

  It was Mouse who found the box. She was trotting along the tide line, running with Sigurd. Looking for sea cabbage washed up in the black sand after last night’s storm, because the fishing had been bad again. They were half a day from home.

  Flicking the hair from her eyes, Mouse tilted her head to one side.

  “Sigurd?”

  Sigurd came over to where Mouse stood. He towered above her.

  “What is it, Mouse?”

  “That.”

  She nodded at the box. It was different. It didn’t belong here. All around them was the coast—rocky outcrops, with the low hills behind—and the sea, the sea, the sea in front of them. Everything was the wildness of Storn. And amongst all this wildness lay the box. A small wooden box—a couple of hands wide but quite slender. There was no metal visible—no hinges or corner braces. No lock. It was a plain wooden box, but somehow it was very beautiful. It was made of a deep and rich red wood, black in places. It had a shine that reflected the light from the sky back onto Mouse’s small, round face.

  It was different. It was from somewhere else.

  Mouse felt her head swim a little. She staggered a few paces away from the box.

  “Mouse?” Sigurd had noticed. “Anything?”

  Sigurd was used to spotting the signs, better than anyone else at knowing when Mouse might “see” something. But she put her hand on Sigurd’s arm.

  “No,” she said. “No, it’s gone now.”

  Mouse drew in a deep, calming breath. They turned their attention back to the box, but Mouse kept her distance. “What do you think it is?”

  Sigurd said nothing. He knelt down to touch it, but gently, as if it were a cornered animal.

  “It’s dry,” he said. “It’s . . . warm.”

  “What is it?” Mouse asked again.

  “Shall I open it?”

  Mouse shook her head.

  “Let’s take it back.”

  Mouse hesitated.

  “It’s getting late,” he reasoned.

  “All right,” she said.

  They started back to the village, Sigurd carrying the box, Mouse with a net half full of cabbage.

  Neither of them had noticed the man lying still amongst the rocks, just twenty paces from where they had found the box. His skin and hair were white, whiter even than Sigurd’s, but the palms of his hands were black.

  2

  I remember better than anyone.

  I remember better than anyone the day we found Mouse.

  It was unusual that we should have been up in the hills in the first place. There were about thirty of us, I think. A huge war party—going to wage war on . . . wolves.

  Father said it was stupid. Just because a lone wolf had attacked Snorri as he came home over the hills was no reason to risk our lives. That’s what my father said, though he didn’t say it to Horn’s face.

  As I remember, it was only a couple of summers after Horn had beaten Father for the title of Lawspeaker of the tribe. Father was licking his wounds then, I suppose. He swore that one day he’d tell Horn to his face what he thought of him, but not then.

  That probably had something to do with it. The fight, I mean. Why we were up in the hills, hunting wolves. That was stupid, too. Wolves live in woods, and there were no trees up there. Horn was showing us all that he was our leader, that we had to do whatever he told us.

  I was the only child there, and I was a child then. It was my eleventh or twelfth summer; I can’t remember. I was a part of the games Horn and Father played.

  “Well, Sigurd,” Father said to me, “if that fool is going to take us on a wild wolf chase, we may as well show him what kind of family we are!”

  What this meant was that he’d take the opportunity to show me, his son, off to everyone. Because Horn, the Lawspeaker, had no son, only a daughter, Sif. There was no one to succeed him as Lawspeaker, and so there would have to be a fight for the job, just as there had been between him and Olaf, my father.

  It was late in the day when we reached the higher slopes of the hills. A couple of the hounds had picked up the scent of something hours ago, and we’d been following the trail ever since. Once or twice they’d lost the scent and we’d hung around while Hemm, a small, clever man who was our best dog handler, made wide circles around us with his hound. Eventually the dog would find a scent and we’d be off again, always higher up into the hills.

  “If that’s still the scent of the wolves,” muttered Father, loud enough for only me to hear, “I’ll wash Horn’s feet before bedtime.”

  On we went, higher and higher, until suddenly we came to the top of a slope, and there in front of us, no more than a spear’s throw away, were the small, dark entrances to a series of caves. The dogs were going crazy, pulling toward them, and suddenly the mood changed. I felt a touch of fear stroke me.

  There was a chill in the air. We were high above the sea, directly above the village, though you couldn’t see it from there. There really were wolves here, and they had chosen somewhere special to live. I had never heard of wolves living in caves. Forests are their usual home. And I have never heard of another case since. We should have realized then that it was an omen.

  It hadn’t seemed real until that moment, but now Horn’s ridiculous wolf chase was actually happening. It had actually come to something. We avoided one
another’s gaze; no one looked at Horn.

  But he stepped forward, undaunted. He wasn’t about to turn around and go home.

  “This is what we’ve come for,” he said quietly.

  “So what do we do?”

  “You want us to go in there?”

  “They’ll rip us to pieces before we even see them. . . .”

  Horn held up his hand.

  “Let’s lighten their darkness. Let’s get them out here.” He pointed at Grinling. “Grinling! Make fire.”

  So then we understood what he meant to do.

  3

  After they found the box, it took Mouse and Sigurd more than three hours to get home. They were tired and spoke little as they went. They walked up from the shore to the brochs of the village while the sun began to sink into the sea horizon out in the bay.

  Storn, the village, was just a cluster of these brochs— mostly round stone houses with turf roofs that each family lived in, maybe thirty or so in all. The grass of the turf roofs made the houses blend in with the grass and ferns that grew all around the settlement. It seemed as if the brochs grew from the landscape, rather than being built upon it. The edge of the village was marked by no boundary, no fence, not even a ditch, but just ran off into grassland and the fields behind, and the pebbles and black sand of the beach in front.

  More or less in the middle was the great broch—a large meeting hall that dominated the village. It was nearly twice the height of the rest of the brochs.

  There were other buildings, too. Mouse and Sigurd picked their way carefully past the grain barns and smoke-houses, the kennels and the goat huts. They were both exhausted. There didn’t seem to be anyone else around. They could see orange flames from the fire in the great broch through its low, round doorway. They paused. Only now did they consider the box.

  “Where shall we take it?” asked Mouse.

  “What do you think’s in it?” asked Sigurd, grinning. “I bet it’s treasure!”

  He thought it must have come from one of the trading ships that sailed up to them from far away in the south. In a way he was right.

  “Let’s open it!” he said.

  Mouse said nothing. Something worried her, but she did not understand what it was.

  Before they could decide what to do, a huge figure blocked the firelight coming from the great broch and strode toward them.

  “Sigurd! Come here, boy!”

  It was Olaf, and he was cross. He pushed his rough hand through his beard. That meant he was nervous, too.

  “We’ve been waiting for our cabbage! And the Spell-making is about to start!”

  “Coming, Father!” called Sigurd.

  They hurried to the broch, but Mouse stumbled, catching her feet in the cabbage net. Olaf put out a huge hand and caught her and the net together.

  “Is this all?” he asked, looking from the half-empty net to Sigurd.

  Sigurd started to burn with humiliation, but Mouse spoke.

  “Yes,” she said simply.

  Olaf ’s face softened a little.

  “The sea is abandoning us, eh, Mouse? No fish today, either. Go inside, it’s nearly time.”

  They went in. Olaf gave his son a clip round the head as he passed, but it was gentler than it might have been.

  “He thinks I’m useless,” Sigurd said to Mouse.

  “That’s not true. He loves you.”

  “Why’s he always so hard on me? He’s supposed to be your father, too.”

  As soon as he said this, Sigurd regretted it.

  Mouse looked at him. “But he isn’t, is he.”

  They wove their way through the villagers gathered in the great broch. Trying to find a quiet spot to sit in for the Spell-making, trying to sit as far away as possible from Sif, Horn’s daughter. From experience they found it best to avoid her. When they saw her right across the other side of the fire from them, they sat down, at the edge, by the wall. This was where Mouse preferred to sit, and not just because of Sif.

  Sigurd knew why but never spoke to Mouse about it. He knew she was still a little wary of fire.

  The Spell-making was about to begin, as it had done at every quarter of the moon since anyone could remember.

  It was only then that Mouse remembered.

  “The box!” she whispered. “What have you done with the box?”

  Sigurd smiled.

  “I’m cleverer than some people think!”

  But now Gudrun, the Wisewoman, was entering the circle, where she joined Horn, the Lawspeaker. The Spell-making began.

  Mouse was silent.

  Away, far down the sea line, the white man with black hands lay amongst the rocks in the darkness. He lay still. But the tide was returning, and as the first slush of salty foam washed across his face, he stirred. Immediately, even before his eyes had opened, his hands searched for something. Something that was missing.

  4

  What a mess!

  Grinling striking his flint without success. Horn stamping around the place.

  “Hasn’t anyone got any dry tinder?” Horn barked.

  No one spoke.

  “Wait, boy,” my father whispered to me, “wait until he’s really seething.”

  A dangerous game, but Father wanted to make the most of any chance to get at Horn.

  Finally Horn lost his patience and kicked Grinling hard in the backside.

  “Go on, then,” said Father through his teeth. “Now.”

  I stepped forward, a huge rock in my belly. That was fear. I was scared of Horn.

  “Please, Lawspeaker,” I said. “Please, is this any use?”

  I tried to sound innocent of Olaf ’s game, but I think Horn knew what was going on. He stared at the mugwort in my hand. Dry, fluffy, and perfect for catching sparks with.

  “Is this any use?” I said again. I wasn’t really asking. We both knew it was.

  If Horn knew the game we were playing, he didn’t show it. But with everyone staring at him, he couldn’t appear to be bested by a boy. A boy of no more than twelve summers.

  He grunted and waved a paw at Grinling.

  “Let this boy show you how,” he said, shifting the shame onto Grinling.

  So I lit the torches, which we carried to the mouths of the wolves’ caves, while Father was congratulated for having such a clever son.

  “Olaf, you must be so proud!”

  And did they say it within Horn’s earshot?

  No, not then.

  Who was it?

  I can’t think now. How terrible not to remember who it was whose throat was ripped out by a wolf’s fangs.

  Oh. It was Snorri.

  It was as if fate were dealing the blows, because it was in retaliation for the attack on Snorri that Horn had dragged us up into the hills anyway.

  Grinling threw a torch into the darkness of the first cave.

  Then, holding another flare in front of him, Snorri stuck his head into the cave.

  Behind him the sun was starting to set on the sea horizon, flooding the sky with the color of the blood that was about to spill across the rocks around the cave mouth.

  Snorri’s head was followed out of the cave by a surge of fur and claw that raged from the darkness within.

  The wolves poured out. It’s my belief they had smelt us a long while before, and were waiting and brooding in their home. We had lit a match and started a fire.

  So they poured out and away down the hill, and two more of us were dead before the sun had sunk another hairsbreadth.

  And no, I am afraid I cannot remember who they were.

  Then, despite the screaming and the shouting, all noise ceased. At least, it did in my head, for my eyes fell to the front of the cave, where there stood a girl.

  A small girl, naked and dirty, standing quietly in a frame of shadow, with a look on her face . . . of confusion.

  Mouse.

  5

  Smoke curled thickly from the fire pit and twisted around inside the darkness of the broch until it found its
way eventually out of the small hole in the roof of the round house. Somewhere in a dark corner the hounds snored. The Storn sat in small groups, waiting for the Spell-making to begin. Another hard day had ended, and the ceremony at least gave them a break from the usual routine. Everyone was still and quiet. The fire threw a red light onto their faces. They were faces that had been shaped by the wind and the salt and the rain that came with living on the coast.

  In the center of the broch, next to the fire, sat Horn. His own face was deeply lined, worn by the weather and by leadership. It was as rough as the rocks that the broch was built from. At more than forty years, he was amongst the older of the Storn, though nearby sat Longshank, who was the oldest.

  Longshank was the Lawkeeper. He had learned all the history of the tribe, told to him as a young man by the previous Lawkeeper. He was often called on to advise on difficult and serious matters, though he had no power himself. All the power lay with the Lawspeaker.

  With Horn by the fire sat Gudrun, the Wisewoman. She was more than thirty years old and had never taken a husband. She was large, and might have seemed fat but for her height. Long brown hair and the hood of her thick deerskin cloak hid her face. She began to make the spells to keep the Storn safe, to bring them food, to bring them whatever they needed or wanted.

  “Bring us fish, make us warm, lift the sun, stop the snow, sharpen our tools, heat our fires, forge our iron, grow our grain, still the wind. . . .”

  Her voice began its hourlong journey through their fears and desires.

  The faces in the great broch watched intently. Though they had seen it all many times before, they needed the Spell-making, believing fiercely in its power to protect them.

  But at the back of the hall Mouse and Sigurd were thinking about something else.

  “We shouldn’t have brought it here,” Mouse said, whispering quietly to Sigurd, her head bowed.

  “You mean Sif ? She won’t notice, she’s too busy painting her skin these days to—anyway, it’s far too cold outside and there’s nowhere—”

  “No, Siggy. I mean we shouldn’t have brought it, touched it at all.”

  Gudrun’s voice continued to spell out her magic. “Bring the herds, brew our beer, strengthen our babies. . . .”