They came for Godi next, took his shackle off and bound him to the stake, which looked insubstantial pressed against his massive back. When they were done they removed Thorgrim’s leg iron, the last of the Northmen, and he did not struggle as they led him up to the pole.
Thorgrim’s arms were pulled back around the pole. He felt the leather thong wrap around his wrists and he clenched his fists as the thong was pulled tight. He waited for the men to notice his bunched fingers, to punch him in the gut or the head to make him stop, but they didn’t. If they noticed at all they seemed to think nothing of it — they just tied his wrists and stepped away.
It was only when the guards had reached the ground again, stepping off the pile that was laid down to burn Thorgrim’s body to ash, that Thorgrim relaxed his fists which in turn loosened the bindings. Not much, certainly not enough for him to free himself, but a little. Enough to allow him to flex his hands, and that was good.
He began to thrash, growling, wide-eyed like he was suddenly consumed with fury. He jerked side to side as if trying to break free and felt the knife which was tied loosely to his upper arm under the sleeve of his tunic begin to shift.
He paused, breathing hard, looking side to side like some kind of trapped beast, and he could see the crowd was loving the display. It was, no doubt, confirming everything they believed a Northman to be.
Thorgrim thrashed again, made a growling sound, and he felt the knife slip down his sleeve, handle first. He flexed his fingers around and caught the knife and held it there, the blade still hidden by his tunic sleeve. He looked around. They had only one chance, and it was a small one, and the timing had to be exactly right for there to be any chance at all.
Something was happening now, the crowd parting, making way for one of the Christ priests followed by two lines of boys dressed in white, the two in front swinging golden, lidded cups from which smoke was wafting. Thorgrim had stolen dozens of similar cups from the Christ churches he had plundered, but he still did not know what they did, other than produce smoke.
Some sort of magic, he thought, and he hoped whatever magic it was was not terribly strong.
The Christ priest took a few steps toward the line of stakes. He raised his arms and spoke in a voice that carried over the grounds. He spoke with the cadence of words he had said many times before. Thorgrim looked to his right, toward Harald, to see if Harald was following this, but he could not see his son around Godi’s bulk.
The priest stopped and lowered his arms to his side. He seemed to be waiting for something, but whatever it was it did not happen, apparently. He turned and walked back the way he had come, the white-clad boys following.
Now someone on the stage was speaking and Thorgrim looked in that direction. An old man, wearing a long red robe, trimmed with fur, a tunic white as snow underneath. The king, Thorgrim guessed, ruler of all this land and beyond. A powerful man.
Once again Thorgrim could not understand a word, but in this case he had a pretty good idea of what was being said: some pronouncement about how this was the inevitable fate of the enemies of the king, or something along those lines. The sort of thing they always said in such circumstances. He twisted and looked back over his left shoulder, then his right. As far as he could see there was no one behind him. He eased the knife out of his sleeve, just a few inches.
He heard a collective gasp, a rush of excitement, from the folk watching. He looked to his right. A man was pushing his way through a gap in the press of people. He carried a torch, held high, the flame bright even in the late morning sun. He stopped at the far end of the line, at Gudrid’s post, and touched the torch to the pile at Gudrid’s feet. A ripple of sound ran through the crowd as the first of the flames began to rise up from the dried brush, but Gudrid remained silent.
Now, now, Thorgrim thought. Now was the moment to make his move. If he had tried to free himself and the others any sooner then the spearmen would have killed them all, with little problem. But the distraction and chaos of the flames, he hoped, would help throw things into confusion. And if there was confusion, there was a chance.
He slipped the knife the rest of the way out of his sleeve. He looked over at Godi. Godi was looking down at Thorgrim’s hands, watching him work the blade around. Then he looked up and gave Thorgrim a smile and a nod of the head.
Thorgrim nodded back. Beyond Godi he could see that the brush at Brand’s feet had been set on fire and that at Harald’s as well, and the man with the torch was just getting to Starri. There was not much time left before the flames reached the men at the posts.
He turned his eyes straight ahead, his entire concentration on the knife in his fingers. Quick as he dared he turned the knife around. He felt with his thumb to be certain the blade was facing in the right direction then tilted the knife forward, hoping the blade was pressing against the leather thong.
The man with the torch had reached Godi and was setting the brush at his feet on fire. He was lighting it at the outer edge, not near the center, closest to Godi. The flames would take longer to reach their victims that way, thus prolonging the crowd’s amusement, which Thorgrim guessed was the idea.
He pressed the knife against the thong with all the force he could put into his fingertips and sawed up and down, the length of each stroke greatly limited by his bound hands. The man with the torch approached and set fire to the brush at the edge of the pile, then backed away, his part done.
Smoke rose up at first and then flames began to sputter and Thorgrim could feel the first waves of heat, even though the flames were still feet away from him.
What of the others? Has the fire reached Gudrid? he thought and pushed those thoughts aside. He had only one thing to consider now — getting though the leather thong, cutting the others free as they sheltered behind the wall of flames.
He pressed harder, sawed up and down. He heard the snapping and crackling of the dried wood at his feet, the growing shouts of the watching crowd as the flames approached their victims. He began to cough as his lungs filled with the smoke that engulfed them. He pressed harder with the knife and as he did he felt the handle, slick with sweat, slide from his grasp.
Chapter Forty-Two
The wise two,
in battle line went,
split mails
and shields,
went right through
grey-coated armies.
The Poetic Edda
Over the crackling of the flames and the shouts of the mob Thorgrim heard the crushing sound of the knife hitting the dried brush at his feet. He felt a sickening twist in his stomach. An image of the flames reaching Gudrid, reaching Harald and the others, formed like a flash of lighting in his head.
Pick it up, pick it up, he thought. If he could slide down the pole he might be able to grab the knife again. He twisted around and looked down at the base of the post behind him but he could not see the knife. He turned and looked down the other side. No knife. It had hit the brush and kept on going, sinking out of sight into the kindling.
He looked over at Godi and saw Godi was looking at him, eyes wide, face red, smoke swirling around him. Thorgrim coughed and shook his head. He did not know what else to do. They had had one chance, and it was not much of one, but now even that was gone.
His eyes remained on Godi as his mind tore through one thought after another: not genuine plans or ideas but vague possibilities, hazy visions of what he might do.
Then suddenly those thoughts were gone as he saw a look come over Godi that he had never seen before, not on Godi or on any other man, a frightening and other-worldly look, his bared teeth clenching, his eyes narrowing and his entire body seeming to draw in tight.
Then Godi let out a massive roar, like some beast from an ancient legend, a roar that tore through the royal compound, echoed off the stone walls and came back again. His body, clenched, now seemed to swell up bigger than ever. He heaved his arms aside and snapped the leather thongs binding his hands as if they were silk thread. He was still roaring hi
s terrifying roar as he leaped off the burning pile and with two great strides was up and at Thorgrim’s side.
Thorgrim twisted to see what was happening. Godi plunged his hand down into the brush at Thorgrim’s feet and pulled it out gripping the knife. In his fist it looked like a toy or some delicate lady’s instrument, but with one swipe Godi cut Thorgrim’s bindings away.
Thorgrim felt the amazing sense of relief as the bindings came free, then Godi grabbed his wrist, lifted it and pressed the handle of the knife into Thorgrim’s palm.
“Go!” he shouted, nodding toward the others to their right, the men still tied to the stakes.
“What…” Thorgrim began and stopped. He wanted to know what Godi meant to do but he knew there was no time. He gripped the knife hard and jumped off the pile of brush onto the firm, trampled ground of the yard. He was vaguely aware of the screaming and shouting of the people on the other side of the burning brush, of the crackling of the flames, of the smoke that threatened to choke him as he sprinted down the line of stakes.
He raced past Godi’s stake, now empty, and came to the next one, the one to which Hall was tied. Just as he was ready to leap up onto the brush pile and cut Hall free he realized that he had to get Gudrid first, that the flames at Gudrid’s feet had been burning the longest. He did not break stride as he raced past the other pyres and came to the last in the line, where Gudrid was tied fast.
Thorgrim thought at first that he might be too late. The flames were like a wall in front of Gudrid, and Gudrid in turn was thrashing and pressing himself back and kicking uselessly at the fire creeping toward him. Thorgrim took two quick steps up the pile of brush and wood and slashed down with his knife, cutting Gudrid’s bonds away, probably cutting Gudrid as well, but he gave that no thought.
He grabbed Gudrid’s tunic and pulled him away from the flames. Gudrid’s face was red, his skin blackened by the smoke. There were dozens of small holes burned in his tunic but he seemed otherwise untouched by the fire.
Thorgrim gave him a push to get him further from the flames then leaped back to the ground and with four strides he came up behind Brand, next in line, the flames a foot or so from reaching him as he twisted away as much as he could. The heat was blistering, all but unbearable, as Thorgrim slashed the leather bindings. He pulled Brand back and pushed him off the pile and followed behind. He clambered onto the next where Harald was struggling against his bonds, and Thorgrim cut him free.
“Godi’s gone, probably fighting!” Thorgrim shouted. He had expected the guards to come rushing in, spears leveled, but they had not, and he guessed that Godi was holding them off.
“Go fight with him!” Thorgrim shouted, pointing out toward the rest of the yard which was obscured by the smoke. “Get the others!”
Harald nodded and he and Thorgrim jumped down off the pile. Harald waved to the other men and raced forward between the two stacks of burning brush as Thorgrim charged up the last of the piles. Starri was there, thrashing and screaming and kicking. Not out of fear, Thorgrim knew, but out of a raging desire to get at his enemies, to kill them even as they killed him.
Once again Thorgrim slashed at the thongs and they parted under the edge of the blade. He reached for Starri’s arm to pull him back as he had the others, but Starri was not there. In the instant that he was cut free, Starri launched himself forward, flung himself right through the wall of flames rising in front of him. He was screaming his berserker battle cry as he burst out of the fire and Thorgrim could hear the note of terror and panic rise from the people on the far side.
Now what? Thorgrim thought. All his men were free, and that might have bought them another few minutes of life, but probably no more. They were, after all, seven unarmed men against all of the king’s soldiers and guards.
Thorgrim jumped to the ground and pushed through the wall of smoke and flames and into the clear air on the other side of the burning brush, and he could see right off what was happening. It was chaos.
Godi and Harald and the others were a dozen yards away and charging toward the crowd. They had burning branches in their hands, like great arms of flame, and they were swinging them as they ran because they understood, as Thorgrim did, that chaos was their comrade in arms.
But of course there was nothing they could do to create more panic and confusion than Starri could. He had apparently raced straight at the guards, the spearmen, who formed in a semicircle between the folk watching and the line of stakes. Thorgrim could see two guards on the ground already. Starri had grabbed up a spear and now he was jabbing and flailing at the others who tried to get at him, dancing, sidestepping, thrusting with the spearhead and the butt of the shaft.
The people who had been watching — and there were hundreds of them — were in a mindless panic now, and it was a wonderful thing to see. They were pushing and shoving and running in a hundred different directions, swarming over and around the men-at-arms who were trying to get at Thorgrim and the others. The captain of the guard who had taken them from the prison was shouting orders. His mouth was open and his arms were waving but it was impossible to hear him over the noise of the mob.
Weapons, Thorgrim thought. They needed weapons, and the most likely source were the spearmen with their long polearms and their shields. He tossed the knife aside and grabbed up one of the flaming branches at his feet and charged toward the crowd, toward where Godi and Harald and the others were fighting.
Thorgrim shouted as he came charging in, adding his part to the wild confusion, the burning branch held horizontally. A knot of guards were working their way around Godi’s flank, and they did not see Thorgrim coming until he was nearly on them. They looked up suddenly, mouths open in surprise, and Thorgrim drove the burning branch right into their faces.
Two of the men took a direct hit. They screamed and spun away, clapping their hands to their cheeks, slapping at flaming beards. They dropped their spears and Thorgrim snatched them up.
“Godi! Harald!” he shouted and tossed a spear to each. Godi and Harald caught the weapons in their left hands. They flung their burning branches at the men coming at them, then took up the spear shafts with both hands and began driving them at the men-at-arms trying to encircle them.
Thorgrim had caught the guards’ attention now. He could see a dozen armed men trying to get at him, but the panicked crowd were swarming around them, blocking their way, buffeting them like a fierce wind. As one of the men stumbled, just feet away, Thorgrim reached out and grabbed his spear and jerked it from his hand.
“Gudrid!” he shouted. Gudrid turned and Thorgrim tossed the weapon to him. He could see Hall and Brand had spears now as well, and they were fighting on all sides. He turned back just as another spear tip was thrust at him, chest high. He spun sideways and knocked the spear out of line with his right arm, and as the man wielding it took another step closer Thorgrim drove his left elbow into the man’s jaw.
The spear wavered and nearly slipped from the guard’s hands as the man went reeling back, but Thorgrim grabbed the weapon before it fell and pulled it clear. The folk in the crowd were mostly rushing for the main gate, trying to get away from the wild fight, mindless of the soldiers trying to get at the escaped prisoners.
But still the English soldiers were trying to get through the mob. Thorgrim could see swords raised, mail shirts on the men trying to push their way through, and he guessed they were the noblemen who had been standing with the king on the raised platform, eager to show they, too, were willing to jump into the battle.
Thorgrim took a step back and held the spear horizontally and waited for the men coming at him to break through the crowd. The first to push his way through was one of the guards, spear in hand, held vertically so as not to impale the people he did not wish to impale. The panicked, fleeing people parted before him and he seemed surprised to be suddenly in the open, and even more surprised to see Thorgrim five feet in front of him.
Surprised though he was, the guard brought his spear down quick, just not quick e
nough. Thorgrim stepped forward and held his own spear up in both hands, using the weapon as a staff. He caught the shaft of the guard’s spear on his own and twisted it aside, swinging the butt of his own spear around and catching the man on the side of the head.
The shaft hit the rim of the man’s helmet, striking with enough force to toss him sideways, right into the next man coming through the crowd. This one was not a guard but one of the nobles, one of the men fitted out in mail and holding a sword and shield. He stumbled as the stunned guard fell into him, but he recovered in time to get his shield up to stop the thrust from Thorgrim’s spear.
Thorgrim’s spear point ripped into the wood face of the shield and he felt the solid impact. His eyes moved from the shield to the man holding it and he was struck with a sense of unreality — he knew the man, recognized him, but he did not know from where.
And then he remembered. The prisoner! It was the man who had led the fight at the inn, the one they had forced to lead them into the king’s compound. He had a crazed look on his face, a wild, heedless look, as if he cared nothing for his own life as long as he could take another. Thorgrim had seen that look on other men, but rarely, and those men generally did not live long.
Poor, stupid bastard, Thorgrim thought next. The man might be hungry to bring death, but he did not have the skill to do it, at least not when facing someone like Thorgrim Night Wolf.
Thorgrim pulled back hard on the shaft of the spear, pulling it free from the face of the shield as the man came at him, shield first, sword raised, screaming some incomprehensible thing.
Too close, too close, Thorgrim thought. The man had stepped up to sword distance, too close for Thorgrim to use his spear, no time for Thorgrim to take a step back. So instead he stepped forward, stepped right into the man, pressed his chest against the man’s shield, felt his hot breath on his face. He was too near now for the Englishman to strike with his sword.
The Midgard Serpent Page 47