Twice he passed out for short periods. After the last he cursed himself for a fool and rolled to his back, ripping two strips of cloth from his ragged tunic. These he pressed into the wounds on his hip, grunting as the pain tore into him. They should slow the bleeding, he thought. He crawled on. The journey, begun in pain and weakness, became a torment. Delirious, Gaelen lived again the horror of the attack. He had stolen a chicken from Leon and was racing through the market when the sound of screaming women and pounding hooves made him forget the burly butcher. Hundreds of horsemen came in sight, slashing at the crowd with long swords and plunging lances.
All was chaos and the boy had been petrified. He had hidden in a barn for several hours, but then had been discovered by three Aenir soldiers. Gaelen had run through the alleys, outpacing them, but had emerged into the city square where a rider looped a rope over his shoulders, dragging him out through the broken gates. All around him were fierce-eyed warriors with horned helms, screaming and chanting, their faces bestial.
The rider with the rope hailed two others at the city gates.
‘Sport, Father!’ yelled the man, his voice muffled by his helm.
‘From that wretch?’ answered the other contemptuously, leaning across the neck of his horse. The helm he wore carried curved horns, and a face-mask in bronze fashioned into a leering demon. Through the upper slits Gaelen could see a glint of ice-blue eyes, and fear turned to terror within him.
The rider who had roped Gaelen laughed. ‘I saw this boy on my last scouting visit. He was running from a crowd. He’s fast. I’ll wager I land him before you.’
‘You couldn’t land a fish from a bowl,’ said the third rider, a tall wide-shouldered warrior with an open helm. His face was broad and flat, the eyes small and glittering like blue beads. His beard was yellow and grimy, his teeth crooked and broken. ‘But I’ll get him, by Vatan!’
‘Always the first to boast and the last to do, Tostig,” sneered the first rider.
‘Be silent, Ongist,’ ordered the older man in the horned helm. ‘All right, I’ll wager ten gold pieces I gut him.’
‘Done!’ The rider leaned over towards the boy, slicing the dagger through the rope. ‘Go on, boy, run.’
Gaelen heard the horse start after him and, throwing himself to the ground, he grabbed a rock and hurled it. The yellow-bearded warrior – Tostig? – pitched from his rearing mount.
Then the lance struck him. He tried to rise, only to see a sword-blade flash down.
‘Well ridden, Father!’ were the last words he heard before the darkness engulfed him.
Now as he crawled all sense of time and place deserted him. He was a turtle on a beach of hot coals, slowing burning; a spider within an enamel bowl of pain, circling; a lobster within a pan as the heat rose.
But still he crawled.
Behind him walked the yellow-bearded warrior he had pitched to the ground. In his hand was a sword and upon his lips a smile.
Tostig was growing bored now. At first he had been intrigued by the wounded boy, wondering how far he could crawl, and imagining the horror and despair when he discovered the effort was for nothing. But now the boy was obviously delirious, and there was little point in wasting time. He raised the sword, pointing downward above the boy’s back.
‘Kill him, my bonny, and you will follow him.’
Tostig leapt back a pace, his sword flashing up to point towards the shadow-haunted trees as a figure stepped out into the fading light. He was tall, wearing a leather cloak and carrying an iron-tipped quarterstaff. Two daggers hung from a black leather baldrick across his chest, and a long hunting-knife dangled by his hip. He was green-eyed, and a dark trident beard gave him a sardonic appearance.
Tostig looked beyond the man, straining to pierce the gathering darkness of the undergrowth. The warrior seemed to be alone.
The clansman stepped forward and stopped just out of reach of the Aenir’s sword. Then he leaned on his staff and smiled. ‘You’re on Farlain land,’ he said.