For a moment the scene was still, without movement or sound. Then a burly freeman from Olofsson’s retinue stepped into the firelight. Bending, he took Olof Three-Fingers’ body under the arms, lifted, and began pulling it away. Almost at once, other men stepped up and dragged the others after him. Without a word that Baver could hear, the entire group of Gluttons began to leave, and within a minute or so he could see none of them.
Of the three victors, only Sten Vannaren had been wounded. He stripped off shirt and breeches, and the others bound his wounds with strips cut from them. Bound them tightly, that the scars might not be wide. On the left side, the Northman’s chest was discolored and bloody; Baver wondered if any ribs had been cracked. The man must have a high pain threshold, he thought, or perhaps adrenaline made the difference. Surely he’d be sore in the morning.
Soon the three warriors rolled up in their sleeping robes and lay talking not far from the fire, their voices a murmur. No one had bedded in the lean-to, which had only room for one, or two lying close. Hans and the two sword apprentices lay somewhat apart from them on the other side, also murmuring. Baver, unwilling to intrude
38
on the warriors but wanting the security of the fire, unrolled his sleeping bag near Hans. And found it wet! It had been tied behind the saddle, and must have gotten wet when he’d crossed the stream below the ting ground; being wrapped in his poncho hadn’t protected it. His saddle bags were wet too.
Dismayed, he opened the sleeping bag and crawled in. It felt cold; cold and wretched. As usual the mosquitoes were numerous and hungry, and there was little smoke to drive them off; from time to time he mashed some of them bloody on his face. He eavesdropped on the boys’ conversation to take his mind off his discomfort somewhat.
After a bit, their conversation died, and Baver spoke quietly. “Hans, what will the others, the Glutton clansmen, do with the bodies of their dead? They’ll bloat and stink before they can get them home.”
“Get them home? What good would there be in that? They will burn them. Tonight. Talk to their souls, then burn their bodies.”
Talk to the killed? Baver thought. Barbarians indeed! At least they’ll get no argument from them.
Getting an arm out of his sleeping bag, Baver felt through a wet saddlebag for his radio, and working one-handed, tried to contact Matthew. Perhaps they’d returned; perhaps they could still come out and rescue him from the mosquitoes tonight, and the wet sleeping bag.
But no one answered. Swearing silently, he returned the radio, drew his arm back in, and set his mind grimly to getting through the night. When he got back to New Home, he’d look up the fool who’d failed to provide waterproof bags with mosquito hoods.
FOUR
Mild though the night was, Baver had been cold and miserable, and as soon as it was light, he got up and spread his bag on some bushes to dry a bit.
When the sun was well up and they’d eaten, he rode out with Leif Trollsverd to see what Jäävklo’s kin were doing. They didn’t ride down to them, only as close as the top of the rise which overlooked their camp. The Gluttons were preparing to leave, moving sluggishly. They’d been up much of the night, he supposed, reeding the fire, ashing the bodies. And talking to burning corpses. Smoke still rose from what Baver assumed was the site of the funeral pyre.
I should have been there, he thought, recording it. But I’d hardly have been accepted; they’d probably have killed me.
The Northmen had consistently been at least neutral toward him, often friendly, but they were barbarians, and dangerous, and Jäävklo’s family had been heavily stressed. Even though none of the survivors were warriors, any of the freemen could have been dangerous to him. None of the Northmen that he knew—men, women, or children—
39
40
seemed to fear injury much, or even death. And growing up as they did, in the strenuous life, they were invariably strong. Even Mager Hans was strong, for all his thinness.