He rolled a bit more on his stomach and felt something hard dig into his thigh. He thought it was a rock, or a root, but somewhere in the back of his mind was the notion that it was something else, something important that was now lost to memory. He puzzled over it for a minute but he could not make his mind function with enough clarity to remember or understand.
Slowly he reached his hand down, moving with care so that his tunic did not rip at his wounds with any force. His fingers inched along the fabric. Whatever it was was under his tunic and maybe under his leggings as well. He found it with his fingertips and ran them over the length of the object. It was round like a spear shaft but only a foot or so long.
Knife… Odd thought, and the tide of memory began to flood. Knife…
He had been in the back of the cart and they had been bumping and jolting over the battered road to the next farm, two days out from the last. His wounds had stopped bleeding, a hint of strength returning to his body. Life would not leave him, and he would be strong enough to be beaten down again.
He heard a soft thump on the floor of the wagon just a few feet from his head. He twisted his neck so he could see. The knife was lying there, right behind the seat on which the two drivers sat, right next to the box of tools that was shoved in a corner of the wagon’s bed. Odd recalled one of the drivers fishing it out of the box when he was mending a leather strap, part of the oxen’s harness. He must have set it back on top of the box and left it there, and the jarring motion of the wagon had shaken it off.
For a long moment Odd just looked at the knife. What use he might make of it he did not know, but somehow the sight of it gave him more optimism than he had felt since surrendering himself to Halfdan. It was, truly, just the faintest glimmer of hope, but it was hope none the less.
His hands were bound at the wrists but they were not tied to the wagon. Not since the first flogging had the drivers bothered to do that, since from that time on he could barely move, and the idea of his climbing down from the wagon and running was absurd.
He rolled a little more on his back, enough that he could see the drivers on the seat in front of him, taking shallow breaths though clenched teeth against the pain. They were paying no attention to him so he shuffled forward a bit and paused, eyes on their backs. They had not seemed to notice. Again he moved forward and paused, and now he was within reach of the knife.
The wagon rolled over some pothole that made the whole vehicle shudder so the driver and his partner had to grab on to steady themselves. They cursed but still they did not look back. And the knife, Odd saw, had been knocked just a little closer.
He reached up and his fingers found the handle and he snatched it up. He brought the knife down to his waist and curled his body around it to hide it from view. Then he lay still for a moment, in case his movement had attracted attention, and to let the pain subside.
He heard nothing from the men on the seat, and soon the pain had dulled enough for him to think and act.
Now what?
He could do nothing with the knife just then. If it was to be of any use it would have to be used with stealth. In the dark. So he had to hide it until then.
Under my tunic… he thought, but he knew that would not work. There was too much chance of its being seen. So it would have to be hidden in his leggings.
A length of the rope that bound his hands was hanging free, and after some fumbling he managed to use the knife to cut it away. Awkwardly he lifted the hem of his tunic and slipped the knife down his leggings, thankful that the ox cart drivers did not keep their blades as sharp as the warriors did. Once the knife was laid against his thigh he wrapped the length of cordage around his leg as best as he could with wrists bound, pulled it tight and tied it off, so it held the knife in place under the cloth. Then he pulled the hem of his tunic down over the cord.
The task was exhausting in his condition, and he felt drained and sick. He thought he might throw up, though he knew he would bring up bile if he did and nothing more. There was nothing else in his stomach. He lay still and after some time the sick feeling subsided, and after some more time, despite the shaking and jarring of the cart, he passed out again.
All of that all came back to him as he lay in the dim light of the tent, feeling the knife through the cloth of his leggings.
Tonight… he thought. I’ll use it tonight. There was no point in waiting. He had no way of knowing if one moment would be better than another.
He left the rest of the bread on the plate and concentrated on untying the line bound around his thigh, holding the knife in place. It took some effort, fumbling awkwardly with the knot, but at last he felt it fall away. He paused and let his breath settle, and once he had recovered from that effort he worked his hands down his leggings, found the handle of the knife and pulled it out.
It was an ugly affair, a thick iron blade with a patina of rust and a rough wooden handle. But it would do for his purpose. He tucked it under his body, hidden until the time came to use it. He felt his head swimming and he closed his eyes.
When he opened them again it was dark, near absolute blackness in the tent with just a whisper of light coming in from around the flap, the vestiges of a fire somewhere in the camp. Odd’s stomach was twisted with hunger and he reached out carefully and felt the ground in front of him until his hand landed on the bread. He grabbed it up and ate as quickly as he could.
Bread gone, he felt around for the cup and when he found it he brought it to his lips and tipped it back. It was all but empty, though he still managed to get a few drops, enough to cut the terrible thirst he felt.
He let the cup fall with a dull thud on the ground and then he remained completely still, staring into the dark, listening. At first he could hear nothing, but as he concentrated he began to hear the distant sound of insects in the long grass and the occasional pop of a log in a fire or the soft whinny of a horse. But no singing or laughing or even soft talk in muted voices.
It’s late…very late… Odd thought. Past the time where even the hardiest in camp would still be awake, or dare make noise enough to wake Halfdan.
Time to go.
Odd pulled the knife from under him and laid it aside, then rolled partway onto his stomach. Every move brought a tearing, cutting stab of pain. He could feel warm blood running down his back where the pull of his tunic had opened half-healed wounds. He clenched his teeth hard. He could not make a sound now, for reasons greater than simply denying his enemies the satisfaction of hearing his pain.
He pushed himself up on his knees and picked up the knife. He rested for a moment as he considered his next move. The tent was not tall enough for him to stand upright, and if he did stand there was every chance his legs would buckle under him. Very well, he would remain on his knees for now.
He took a step forward and then another. With his left hand he reached out and grabbed the pole that supported the front end of the tent. He took another step and reached out with the knife and with the blade eased the tent flap back.
There was the last of a fire burning in a fire pit some ways off, casting the light that had crept into his tent. That same light was falling on the guard standing just a few feet to Odd’s right. Odd could see the back of his legs and the bottom edge of his mail shirt. The butt end of a spear shaft rested on the ground next to him, like a spindly third leg. Odd looked to his left. A second guard was there, but a little farther away. He, too, wore mail and leaned on his spear, enduring the dullest duty a man could pull.
Odd looked back at the man on his right, the one who was within reach of his knife. He had not moved in the slightest, was still unaware of Odd’s presence. He was the one Odd would have to take out first, and since Odd could not possibly get to his feet in time, he would have to bring the guard down.
He took another shuffling step forward, drew the knife back and lunged, driving the point into the back of the man’s thigh. Odd let out a stifled cry of pain as the impact of the knife against the guard’s leg sent a shudder thr
ough his body. He could feel how utterly weak and ineffectual the thrust had been.
His hope had been to bring the guard down so he could kill him on the ground, but he did not even come close. Instead the guard let out a cry of surprise and spun around, bringing his spear up as he did. Odd gripped the tent pole and pulled himself to his feet, holding the knife in front of him. He had had one chance at this, and he had failed completely.
But it didn’t matter. Odd had never honestly believed he would escape. His primary hope, he knew, was to die with a weapon in his hand, to go down fighting.
“What…?” the guard said as he leveled the point of his spear at Odd’s chest. Odd could see the look of surprise on his face change to something more like amusement and it made him furious. He wanted to drive the knife through his heart, but he had not even had the strength to drive it into his leg hard enough to slow him down.
Even as Odd was considering his move — knock the spear point aside, lunge for the man’s throat — a hand came down from his left and clapped on his arm just above the wrist. Odd tried to fight against it but he could not move his arm in the slightest. He felt like a child as the second guard plucked the knife effortlessly from his hand, then jerked him off balance and kicked him to the ground.
Odd fell in a heap and the pain shot through him from a hundred places. He gasped and rolled on his side and looked up at the men standing over him. The first guard, the one he had stabbed, was drawing his spear back so he could drive it right through Odd’s heart, and there was nothing that Odd could do but watch.
The spear paused in the instant before the thrust, but before it could reverse direction a voice called out from the dark, close by, harsh but quiet.
“Hold there! Hold!”
The guard stopped and looked over in the direction from which the words had come. Odd pushed himself to a kneeling position. He thought it was the second guard who had spoken, but as he looked to his left he saw it was someone else, coming toward them with hurried steps. Odd heard the soft rustle of the man’s mail shirt as he came to a stop five feet away.
“What by all the gods do you idiots think you’re doing?” the man demanded. Odd could barely see him in the weak light but his voice was familiar, a voice he had heard very recently, but his head was swimming and he could not put a face to it.
“He was trying to escape,” the guard said. He reached down and touched the wound on his leg, held his bloody fingers up for the man to inspect.
The man glanced at the bloody fingers. “Where’d he get the knife?” he demanded.
“Don’t know,” the second guard said. “But you see, he was ready to kill us to get away.”
“Kill you?” the man said. “He can hardly stand up. And you thought you had to kill him to save yourselves?”
The guards had no answer to that because there was no answer. They had nearly killed Odd because they wanted to, not because he was a threat.
The man took a step closer. “You can thank the gods I showed up before you killed him. What Halfdan would have done to you if you had…it would make what he’s done to this man look like a spanking.”
Then Odd recognized the voice. Onund Jonsson, captain of Halfdan’s hird. Which was why the guards showed him so much deference.
“It was Halfdan sent me here now. Get him to his feet,” Onund said, nodding toward Odd. The two guards said nothing as they set their spears down, stepped quickly up to Odd’s side and lifted him up under his arms. Odd gasped in pain but said nothing beyond that.
“Bring him along and come with me,” Onund said next. “Halfdan has something special in mind for this one.”
“What, now?” one of the guards ventured.
“Don’t you dare question!” Onund said in his harsh whisper, then seemed to relent a bit. “Yes, now. Something that just came to him, apparently. Something that can’t wait.”
Onund headed off and the guards followed, with Odd half walking, half being carried between them.
Something special… Odd thought. He knew whatever it was would not be good, but he was beyond the point where he could manage to care.
They walked past rows of tents, just visible like dark shadows in the dark night. Now Odd could hear the sound of men snoring and rustling about, but there seemed to be no one awake save for the four of them.
They were heading for the edge of the camp when the guard on Odd’s left said, “Halfdan’s tent, sir, is over there.” He nodded to a spot over his left shoulder.
“I know where Halfdan’s tent is,” Onund snapped. “What Halfdan intends, he does not intend to do in camp. Not in front of all the others.”
The guard grunted but said nothing more. Odd’s head was swimming and he could not make any sense out of what he was hearing, beyond a feeling of mortal threat.
Soon they had left even the tiny bit of light from the camp behind and they walked out across the dark field, lit only by the impressive spread of stars overhead. Odd felt his weak legs growing weaker still and knew he would collapse if the guards were not holding him up.
A few feet ahead of them, Onund raised a hand and said, “Hold, a minute.” He stopped and the guards stopped as well. It was quiet, save for the sound of the insects. Then Odd heard a rustling of grass from in front and behind, men closing in on them.
Dark shapes loomed up on either side of Onund and Onund turned toward Odd, drawing his sword as he did, and Odd wondered if this was it, if it would end here, and what would come next if Onund cut his throat. But Onund held the tip of his sword under the chin of the guard holding his right side, and the man to Onund’s right held the tip of his sword under the chin of the other guard.
Behind him Odd felt two other men taking him under the shoulders as Halfdan’s men were pulled aside, the sword tips never leaving their necks. The man on Onund’s right, who held his sword to the guard’s neck, looked very much like Amundi Thorsteinsson, though Odd no longer trusted anything that he saw or heard or thought. The whole scene had the unreal quality that had marked all of Odd’s life for the past weeks, but threefold.
More men appeared out of the dark, stepping up on either side of Halfdan’s guards and snatching the helmets from the men’s heads. Odd could see the uncertainty, even fear, on the men’s faces. He saw movement in the dark, the hum of something coming through the air, and each of the guards, at the same instant, took the blow of a club on the side of their heads. They were knocked sideways into each other, an almost comical move, and then they went straight down like sacks of grain dropped from a wagon.
Odd felt hands on his face and he turned and looked down. In the starlight he saw a face looking up at him. The face was crying, tears coming down cheeks, and it looked very much like the face of Signy, his wife, and it made Odd wonder if he was in fact dead, and if not, what all this could mean.
Chapter Twenty-Four
High state and place, kindred, a wealthy crown,
Triumphs, and spoils in glorious battles won,
Nobles, and cities walled, to guard his state,
High palaces, and his familiar seat,
Whatever honors his own virtue won,
For love of heaven hath left, and here retir'd…
Epitaph for Caedwal,
King of the Saxons
The fighting was still going on, the battle fully involved: men shouting, screaming, killing and dying, weapons clashing, the splash of men and gear falling into the brackish water; but all of Felix’s world had closed down to the twenty square feet around the king.
“Lift him, lift him! Careful there, you clumsy imbécile!” he shouted, directing the house guards in how to lift the old man by shoulders and legs. In the intensity of the moment he had to remind himself to speak English, not Frankish. “Bring him back to the afterdeck, quickly now! But be careful, damn you!”
Æthelwulf gasped in pain as the men lifted him, and then, to Felix’s relief, he began to curse and protest in a strong voice as he was carried aft over the blood-slick deck. At the
break of the afterdeck they laid him down. Felix knelt beside him and leaned close to examine the wound that the spear had left.
“Get me some water!” Felix snapped. “And see if that priest is still alive, the one who knows the practice of medicine!”
The king’s mail shirt was torn in the wake of the spear point, a mess of silver links and bright red blood, and through all that chaotic damage Felix could not really see what sort of hurt had been done. He gently lifted the edges of the torn mail and pulled them aside, but there was nothing to see but blood-soaked cloth and flesh and more glints of silver. Blood still pulsed from the wound, but slowly. It was not spurting out in great bursts and Felix knew enough about medicine to know that was a good thing.
“Water, lord,” one of the soldiers said, holding out a bucket.
“Pour some, there, over the wound, gently now,” Felix said and the man did so, washing the blood away and revealing the torn flesh below. And something else. A heavy silver cross the king generally wore around his neck, and apparently had been wearing between his mail and his padded tunic. Felix could see where one of the arms was bent, where, he suspected, the point of the spear had hit and deflected off, much reducing the power of the thrust.
Thank you, Dear God, Felix thought, and he made the sign of the cross.
“What the hell are you doing, Felix?” Æthelwulf said, and his voice was strong, though Felix could hear the pain in it. “Are you administering extreme unction? Get a priest for that! But I reckon you’re a little early.” He tried to sit up and grunted in pain and the men at his shoulders eased him down again.
Someone knelt at Felix’s side, a young man in mail and a helmet, which he removed and set on the deck. Felix recognized him as Father Aelfgar, who had a reputation as a skilled hand in healing, so Felix stood and stepped away to give the priest room to work.
The Midgard Serpent Page 26
