Choice of the Slain 1: The Long Wait

Gunnar anxiously watched the sun as it slid down the flushed sky toward jagged peaks. Scarcely an hour of light left--and with the darkness, came the wolves. Men he could evade, for darkness would cover his trail and he was hidden well enough, wedged between these hoary stones. Wolves, though, would smell the hot blood, and his gashed thigh robbed him of speed. But--he smiled ruefully to himself--he probably wouldn't live long enough to see any of the Hanged God's hounds. He'd staunched the wound on his leg long ago, and it was only a bit of carved meat, anyhow; however, the arrow in his side was another matter. Again he laid two fingers on the arrow's shaft, feeling it tremble with his pulse. He was no leech, but Gunnar knew this was no good sign: the arrow was in his vitals, bleeding beyond the reach of bandage or cauterizing iron. And even if he lived through the night, he was leagues beyond a friendly stead or burg.

Such a fool, Earl Thorkel. But it's ill luck to curse the dead, Gunnar reminded himself. And no-one could truly blame the young earl. King Olaf had set a fire in his mind, half of heaven and half of hell: holy zeal and proud ambition. Yes, beardless Thorkel was pitiable, setting forth with only his own house guard and a levied muster of farmers to attack Steinvor, that old reaver. Steinvor kept a priest of the old gods in defiance of royal edict, reason enough for a crown-sanctioned raid; but he also kept a retinue of hardened berserks like a king out of an old saga. The battle was short and ugly: Earl Thorkel had trusted the blessing of king and bishop to be his byrnie, and hard-edged iron had sent his shriven soul to the bosom of Jesu Krist. The earl's thanes warded his corpse until Steinvor's howling wolf-jackets swept them away in one brutal charge. Only then--when a foam-mouthed berserk spitted Thorkel's head on a lance and brandished it like a banner--had Gunnar permitted himself flee. There was no victory left to be won on that field, not even honor, but only an unremembered death.

But now, as the sun disappeared behind the mountains, an unremembered death still seemed Gunnar's likely end. How long before lean, shaggy grey shapes would slink from the woodline, eyes glittering in the moon? Well, he still had his handaxe: good for close work if not a pitched fight. Again Gunnar smiled ruefully. Funny that it should be this axe, his uncle's gift: simply a tool, with a good heft and an unassuming black iron head. Why not the sword, the heirloom of three generations? It had been his grandfather's, his father's, and his--and now lost, dropped carelessly on a nameless battlefield. Too bad the sword had not carried with it the courage of his sires; but iron in hand can't put iron in heart. The axe was all that remained to him now--at least until the slow bleed inside sapped his strength and left him helpless.

Gunnar's leg burned now, but the arrow was merely uncomfortable, though he knew it would begin to hurt him soon enough. His back and knees were a different matter, however, hunched as he was between the boulders like an outsized infant in a stone womb. But he hadn't the leisure of a good stretch, which he knew would noisily stir the dry leaves under him. He leaned his head against the boulder, trying to ignore the pain and discomfort. The stone was cold against his cheek, papery lichen rasping his skin gently. In the stillness, he could feel clearly his pulse's throb in the arrow wound, and hear it thud dully, lullingly in his ear. Then, startlingly, silver light spilled into Gunnar's refuge; he gasped, gripping his axe, and looked painfully upward. He laughed: it was the moon.