The old horse thief saw the look on his face and inched away from him, carefully. “Just saying, it’s a shame about the girl.”
Audun turned and looked ahead, at the gritty road, at the setting sun, at the back of the man in front of him. “It always is,” he said quietly.
After a while, Audun struggled to tell the days apart. They blended one into the other, like blood into water.
The farms were big, or they were small. The farmhands could fight, or they couldn’t. Sometimes they met men who’d seen battle before, steady hands holding rusted swords that had rested for too long in an oilcloth somewhere.
They died like the rest.
He could remember one thing, though: the weasel-faced brothers had suffered a bit of bad luck. They’d dragged a girl behind a bush, but she had a knife on her and managed to stab them both. Mouthpiece wanted to ask how they’d both been stabbed in the back, but Audun stopped him.
Thormund had been in a good mood since.
The warband, now down to eighteen men, had sought refuge in the dense oak forest and now trudged along the path leading through the trees. Up ahead, voices rang out.
“. . . just fucking climb, you lard-ass,” Thormund snapped.
“I’ll step to the side, if you don’t mind,” came Olgeir’s terse reply.
“Suit yourself,” Thormund said.
“What’s going on?” Mouthpiece mumbled.
“Trees across the path,” someone said. “Four of them. Weird that they’ve all fallen in the same—”
The forest came alive with war cries and up front, two men leapt out from the cover of the fallen trees, thrusting spears. Thormund disappeared from view. Metal clanged to their left where Olgeir had stepped into the thicket.
Audun whirled on Boy. “Play dead, face down. Now,” he snapped, and Boy fell as if he’d been smacked on the head. He lay on the ground, head buried in his arms.
The moment after the first attacker had burst out from the thicket by the roadside, Audun reached for his hammers and let go of the world.
Somewhere on the edge of his senses, he felt the retreat. There was a difference in the fighters, the shift from killing rage to fighting for your life.
The hammers rose and fell; bones broke, blood gushed. The stench of voided bowels was all around him, but Audun didn’t mind. He liked the feeling of life as he dealt death, the heightened senses, the pulse of the blood coursing through his veins.
Most of all he liked the control. With every fight he felt more in charge of the fire that coursed through his body: he was stronger, quicker, more powerful. He could hit harder and take more punishment than ever before.
He didn’t notice the wound until much later, when the others had all been seen to. Boy came up to him, concern written on his pale face, and pointed at Audun’s left leg. Puzzled, Audun looked down. A gash the width of his thumb gaped back at him, crusted over with blood, dirt, and ripped cloth.
“Well, shit,” he said.
A pinpoint of pain spread and bloomed from the wound, coursing up and down. His thigh muscle cramped, and he reeled from the blood loss. His knee buckled, and a fresh wave of pain shot through his leg as he pushed off it to steady himself.
“Easy there, big man,” Olgeir said. The soldier was covered in blood and gore from head to toe but appeared unharmed. “You come over here and get that looked at.”
Something about Olgeir’s voice . . . but the pain in his leg was too bad. Audun limped along to where Mouthpiece was making himself useful patching people up. Three of the soldiers from the camp were dead, as were seven of the attackers.
“They were waiting for us,” Olgeir muttered.
“Fuckin’ rat bastard Swedes,” someone shouted from the path, and Thormund’s bony hand emerged from underneath a tree, shortly followed by his head. A big, blood-caked lump was prominent in the forest of stray white hairs. “Pulled me down and knocked me on the head. Couldn’t even finish the job. Farmers,” he grumbled as he clambered upright. “We got ambushed by fucking farmers.”
“And if it hadn’t been for my men they’d have farmed your bony ass,” Olgeir shouted back. “Now keep your voice down, old man.”
“That’s what your mother said,” Thormund shot back, shambling toward Mouthpiece.
Olgeir smirked. “I think you mean my grandmother. And if it was her, your dick will have been snapped clean off.”
“Speak from experience, do you?” Thormund said.
Wounds and war were forgotten for the moment as the back-and-forth drew a couple of chuckles from the men.
“Mouthpiece! Fresh rags for my grandfather here. It’s the least I can do for him after I fucked his wife!”
Thormund’s grin was visible through the winces of pain. “Fun for the whole family,” he said.
“Well, we are in Svealand,” Olgeir said to cheers from the men. “That’s how they do it in the countryside. Go and get yourself patched up. We’ll see if we can fix the big man, too.”
“What’s with him?” Thormund said.
Olgeir answered, but Audun couldn’t make out the words. The colors drained out of the world around him, and he passed out.
Audun blinked. His leg stung and itched, but he was too weak to scratch it.
“. . . can’t have him limping after us,” a voice whispered, five or six yards away.
“If it weren’t for him we’d all be dead,” another voice replied. Older. Thormund.
“How would you know? Thought you were knocked out?” the first man said. Odd accent. Olgeir.
“Been listening to the men,” Thormund shot back.
“Fine. But he’s not coming with us. He can barely move.”
Audun propped himself up on an elbow.
“Audun,” Thormund said. “How’s the leg?”
“Hurts,” Audun said.
“Can you walk?” Olgeir said.
“Don’t know,” Audun said. He gritted his teeth, bent his leg, put weight on it—and hissed as the pain sparked.
Olgeir looked at Thormund and raised an eyebrow. “We’ll have to hide him until he heals and come back for him. They’ll chase us, not him.”
Thormund scowled. “Fine. Audun, we’ll—”
“I know,” Audun said.
Boy emerged out of the half-light and stood by him as he lay there. He stamped and pointed at the injured man.
Olgeir turned to Thormund. “There you go, then. The kid stays with him.”
“The hell he does,” Audun said.
“You don’t have a say,” Thormund said. “You can’t stand, and you won’t be on your feet for any number of days. You’re going to need someone to bring you water, find you something to chew—maybe even distract search parties if needed.”
Boy nodded enthusiastically.
Audun scowled and spat. “Fucking stupid,” he muttered, but the decision had been made. Olgeir walked into the shadows to find his men. Thormund went over to where Mouthpiece sat, and Audun could hear them muttering about supplies, bandages, and other practical things.
Boy sat down beside him, looked at the leg wound and raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah, I know it’s not good,” Audun said. “I fucking know.” Boy shrugged, rubbed his cheeks with the knuckles of both hands, and pulled an exaggerated sad face.
Audun stared, incredulous, for a couple of moments. Then, despite the pain, the wet and the cold, he laughed. It was a sharp, rough sound. “You’re right,” he said. “I shouldn’t cry about it. I’m still alive.”
As the stars twinkled overhead, Boy smiled at him.
Morning crept over them, dull and gray. They’d made their way off the road and found a glade with some shelter. Thormund had forbidden fires, and they’d posted a double watch, but the ambushers had not returned. The fire was lit the moment dawn gave them sight. Soon enough the smell of burning meat made Audun’s stomach rumble.
“Have at it, big man,” Thormund said, passing him a chunk, and Audun wolfed it down, savoring the sharp ta
ng of blood. “We’ll be away soon as the men get a bite each, and then you two are on your own.”
Audun grunted. Boy just sat there, silent and watchful.
Mouthpiece sidled up to them. “I thought being a king’s man would be more . . . honorable,” he mumbled. “No leaving our friends behind.”
“They have to,” Audun said. “I’m no good off my feet.”
“Better than me on mine,” Mouthpiece said.
“Off,” Olgeir snapped, and the men all around them made ready to go, even though they were still tearing at half-cooked meat with bloodstained mouths. They checked weapons, adjusted what armor they had, and shook out the night’s aches.
“That’s it,” Mouthpiece said. “See you in a couple of days.” He stood up and moved over to Thormund.
Before the sun was even properly up, the men were gone. The forest was suddenly very quiet, save the odd bird singing in a tree. Boy busied himself with a small knife he’d taken off a dead man. As he started whittling at a stick Audun leaned back and allowed time to pass. Already the pain in his calf was throbbing less, and the wound felt like it was starting to heal.
He closed his eyes. “I’m going to sleep. Watch for bears and wolves,” he muttered. He felt Boy’s gaze on him as he faded into dark dreams of cold iron, high walls, and roaring fires.
The headache woke him some time later. The sun wasn’t quite at its high point, but the birds were prattling up above. Audun shifted so that his back was against a thick tree and sat up, grimacing with pain. There was no sign of Boy anywhere. He groaned and felt for his calf. The wound was still sore, but the skin had almost healed over. He bent his knee and tried to put weight on the leg, but the pain was still too much.
A rustle in the leaves on the other side of the glade made him twitch and reach blindly for his hammers, but when they weren’t where his hands landed, he looked around quickly, his heart beating faster.
He saw the pack with the hammers and his belongings just as the dark shape behind the leaves moved at the far end of the glade. There was no chance he’d get to them in time.
Boy stepped out into the clearing, holding a big mug carefully. Big-eyed, he gestured to the mug.
Audun grinned. “Thank you.” The words had only just escaped his mouth when Boy tripped on a root, sending a big gulp of water flying. The terror on his face forced a loud, barking laugh out of Audun, and the angry scowl set off another burst of laughing. “You are good company, Boy,” he said once he’d recovered.
Boy looked genuinely upset as he handed him the mug, and Audun said, “Calm down. It’s just water. Thank you. Did you have to go far to fetch it?” Boy didn’t appear to understand the question and Audun repeated it, looking intently at his face.
Boy seemed to snap out of some kind of trance state, shook his head, and looked toward the pack. Moving quickly, he walked over to busy himself with what meager supplies they had.
“Suit yourself,” Audun muttered and lifted the mug to his lips. Man, but he was thirsty. The water was cool and refreshing. He downed the remaining contents of the mug in one and burped loudly.
“Thank you again!” he said to Boy, but the kid didn’t seem to hear. A brief spark of annoyance lit. “I said ‘thank you,’” Audun repeated. “And I’m sorry I laughed at you.”
Boy turned then. “That’s okay,” he said in a bright, clear voice.
Audun felt like he’d been slapped. “You can—talk?”
“Of course I can,” Boy said.
Suddenly Audun felt very cold. The lad’s accent was unmistakable. “You’re from—”
“Stenvik. Yes.”
Audun pushed his back against the tree and tried to use his good leg to gain height, but it was hopeless. He felt weak—weak and ill. He slumped back down. “What have you done?”
“You’re ill. You need medicine.”
“You little shit! You’ve poisoned me?”
Boy looked less sure of himself now. He’d taken the pack and retreated across the glade. The words tumbled out: “No, it’s not poison—the master said you were ill, that you were war-crazy, and I should give you the medicine and you’d be all right once he got to see you.”
“Who?” His words slurred, and he felt a growing chest pain, like he was sinking down into the black winter sea. Boy spoke, but Audun could no longer make out the words. Everything was blurry, and the ground suddenly looked warm and inviting. He tried to imagine the forge, but he couldn’t see it clearly.
“Who?” he managed again.
He could only just make out Boy inching closer, looking at him like a hunter studying a dying wolf. Audun could feel his heart slowing down now as the fire within him was snuffed out. “Who said that?” he muttered.
The last word he heard before he died was, “Valgard.”
His nerves were on fire, and his spine felt like it had been raked by a steel claw. Audun’s eyes opened again, and the black, hard core behind his breastbone was a clump of ice. He drew breath again, a man twice drowned. Hot and cold shivers shook his body, and cold sweat poured out of him.
When his vision returned, the first thing he saw was Boy, staring at him in horror. “You . . . died,” he stammered.
“Fuck your medicine,” Audun snarled. He pushed off the tree again and got his one good leg under him. He was almost up when he felt his veins constricting, tightening, pulling his arms in, crushing his body into itself. “And fuck your master,” he hissed between clenched teeth.
The world spun, twirled, and twisted, and he crashed to the ground, gasping for a breath that never came.
When he came to again, the thin strip of light he could see suggested morning had arrived. His body felt like it had been smashed with a hammer. Everything hurt, from his hair to his toenails. Audun closed his eyes, willing the pain to go away.
It didn’t.
A wracking cough shook him, and the sour taste of bile followed as he threw up the contents of his stomach.
“He’s not so terrifying now, is he?”
Someone at his back.
“Tie him up, sling him on a horse, and home we go,” another said. Familiar voice. Olgeir again.
Audun twisted around.
There were five of them: Olgeir, the big man off the boat, and three wiry sailors.
“Good morning,” Olgeir said. “How are you feeling?” Audun bit back his first response—he didn’t even glare. Instead, he smiled.
In his mind, he could see the forge. “Me?” he asked. “Why don’t you ask your boy instead?” He flooded his body with fire, pushing the hurt away, and propped himself up onto his elbow. “Why don’t you ask your boy,” he continued, “how well he kept his balance when he brought me the mug?” Audun pushed with his arms until he was sitting up. His body throbbed with pain, but he ignored it.
“Why don’t you ask,” he said, taking care to move slowly, as if he were in full control of his movements, “whether he managed to give me the full dose of whatever it was?” Audun pulled himself up to his full height and cricked his neck.
Behind the five men, Boy’s face went ashen, and he slunk off into the forest, his pack in hand.
The sailors exchanged looks.
“If you want to turn around and fuck right off, we can forget about this,” Audun said. “If not—well, we’ve fought together for a week and a bit now. You’ve seen what I can do.”
Olgeir swallowed. “You’re bluffing,” he said with a sneer.
“Am I? Come on, then,” Audun said.
No one moved.
“Bjorn,” Olgeir said. The big man looked at him, then at Audun. “He’s weak. Go on.”
The bearded man stood a head taller than Audun. He grinned. His mouth was a gaping wound of broken and rotten stumps. His calloused hands formed into rock-like fists. “Want me to smash him around?”
“Whatever you like,” Olgeir said.
Audun furtively tested his wounded leg. It supported his weight, but only just.
Bjorn squared up against
him and advanced, his massive fists raised.
Audun took two steps forward and felt a wave of nausea wash over him as the poisoned water sloshed around in his gut.
“This is not right!” a familiar voice shouted. “Shame on you, Audun Arngrimsson!” The sailors turned around as a tall man entered the glade midway between them and Audun. His face was drawn, and his long, black hair hung in limp, wet strands, but he moved with ease. He wielded two blacksmith’s hammers; a pack was slung off his left shoulder. He moved like a man strolling into a friend’s house as he grinned and nodded at Olgeir and the three sailors.
“How so?” Audun said, a grin spreading across his own face.
“There’s one of you,” the man said, throwing first one, then the other hammer toward Audun. “But only five of them.”
The spell was broken the moment Audun plucked the hammers out of the air.
“Go! For fuck’s sake, go!” Olgeir screamed, and Bjorn launched himself toward Audun—and screamed in pain as his right fist smashed straight into a hammer. His left hand did connect, however, sending Audun spinning away.
Three long steps sent Ulfar into the middle of the glade, past the sailors, and the long, thin blade at his hip hissed as it left the scabbard; a single whip-like stroke and it was in front of him, pointing at the sailor in the middle.
To his left, the sailor’s companion collapsed with a wet gurgle as his brain and his breathing caught up with his severed windpipe and a stream of jugular blood welled up from the man’s open throat.
The smell of blood kicked the two remaining sailors into action, and they moved together to advance on Ulfar, sturdy swords drawn.
“Aren’t you boys annoyed that you forgot your shields?” Ulfar said conversationally. A lightning-quick swipe forced one of the sailors into a very clumsy backward hop even as Ulfar twisted back and down to avoid a flying fist-size rock.
Olgeir glared at him, then turned toward Bjorn, who was staring straight ahead in mute horror, his bloodied right hand forgotten.
The giant looked at his left hand, then at Audun. “You can’t do that!” he rumbled.
Blood Will Follow Page 26
