Yngvar heard a hiss.
A crack shattered across his back and he felt a cold stripe cross from shoulder to waist. Before he felt anything more, he startled at the snap next to him. A strong man with a bright white shirt and leering face lashed a leather whip across Bregthor's naked back.
Another crack and Yngvar felt a second cold stripe atop the other. Bregthor's tormentor followed on this one as well, though he seemed to withhold his full strength.
A cold, numb sting began to spread across his back. Yngvar gritted his teeth, but was intent on watching Bregthor suffer.
Both sides traded whips back and forth. At first the crowd remained silent, but soon murmuring started again.
As this grew, so did the pain.
The cold numb now dissolved into fire. Yngvar's hard back grew softer with every whistling strike. Each one came faster as well, some cutting into his buttocks or the backs of his legs. His calves took several poorly aimed lashes.
He pushed his face directly into the post and screwed up his eyes against the pain. Fire now poured across his back, running down his legs like hot oil.
The crowds jeering grew louder, and the lashes intensified. The torturers had been pacing themselves, preparing for a long night of dealing torment. Yngvar clenched his teeth, determined to make the torturers tire before he ever let a whimper escape.
Each crack was like thunder. Each lash was like fire. He crushed his face to the post, felt his calves stinging and burning, but he did not let out a sound. Beside him, the same crack and snap surrounded Bregthor.
Finally, he heard a cry. He was so encompassed with pain now he feared it was his own. A second lash broke over his shoulder, splashing a hot drip of blood into his face. But he did not scream. When Bregthor's whip cracked, he let out a yelp.
Yngvar turned his head. Bregthor hung against the post. Blood rolled off his back. When the whip broke over him again, bloody sweat sprayed and he shuddered.
Another lash, and Yngvar's vision turned red. He also pressed to the post, but the sight of Bregthor's collapse buoyed him.
"The gods ... love me," he said, so breathless he wondered if Bregthor could hear.
If he could not, the crowds certainly could. A shout went up at Yngvar's taunt. He thought he heard Bjorn shouting his name. He forced himself to stand, sliding up the post now greased with blood and sweat.
The cracks were swift and clear, each one a bright white stripe of fire on the jelly of what had been Yngvar's back. But he was going to prevail.
Bregthor was now openly screaming with each lash. The crowd cheered in glee at his suffering. Yngvar smiled.
At last, he heard what he had waited so long to hear.
"I did it," Bregthor said. "I planned with Davin to kill him and take the ship. I killed Brandr. Please, stop this."
No more lashes fell, and Yngvar closed his eyes in satisfaction. He wished he could savor the moment, but all he could do was hang against the post in agony and exhaustion.
"Cut them down," Erik shouted over the roaring crowd. Yngvar felt his bonds loosen then snap free, letting him collapse to the dirt. He lay there a moment, unsure if he could hang on to consciousness any longer. He had to witness Bregthor's fate and prove it had all been worth it. He turned his head against the bitter dirt.
Bregthor was in a sobbing, bloodied heap. The sight of him made Yngvar's back burn hotter. Did he look as bloodied and defeated? Erik was now standing over him, holding his hand up for silence. When the cheering diminished, he prodded Bregthor with his foot.
"You killed your oath-holder," he said. "That's a crime I cannot tolerate. Society breaks down when men do not obey their oaths. For you, Bregthor Vandradsson, I pronounce you and all those who supported you outlaws as of this moment. You no longer have my protection, and I cast you out of my lands."
Yngvar smiled, wishing he had the strength to sit upright and laugh in Bregthor's face. This was a better fate than he deserved, but Yngvar could do nothing for it.
Now two muddied deerskin boots filled his vision. His neck and back raged in fiery agony as he twisted to look up. King Erik's impassive face stared down at him. He held out the gold armband as if he intended to drop it on his prone body.
"You have suffered for the truth. There is nobility in that. For your valor I award you this gold armband."
To Yngvar's surprise, the king knelt beside him and gently tucked the warm band under his hand. Yngvar suddenly realized he was shuddering uncontrollably, and his eyes were fluttering open and shut. King Erik then unhitched a baldric at his shoulder and placed a sword next to the armband. It was Gut-Ripper.
"This was yours, was it not? I return it to you now. Wield it for glory, young warrior."
Before he could speak, he was swarmed with dark shapes. A face was familiar, lined with worry and wet with tears. He could not think of who this man was, but the near-white hair was the clue that reminded him.
"Thorfast?" he asked, hanging on to the last burning shred of his consciousness. "The gods preserved me. They favored us."
His friend nodded, choking back tears. One landed on Yngvar's chest and it burned like a bee sting.
"Take my armband," he said in a hoarse whisper. "Hack it up into equal bits and give one each to all the men who supported me. And get Alasdair proper clothes. Can't have him looking like a drowned priest."
The words exhausted him and his head flopped back as he lost his grip on the world. Thorfast shook him back to consciousness, making him cry out for the first time since the ordeal had begun.
"You'll want to see this," Thorfast said, then propped up Yngvar's head in the crook of his arm.
Bjorn and Ander Red-Scar held Davin between them, dragging him beside the pile of bloodied flesh that had once been Bregthor. The fish-eyed bastard scrambled against them to no avail, and the crowd was howling with delight.
"Brandr was my cousin," Bjorn said. "And his murderers are outlaws. I want justice for Brandr. Let me take it, King Erik!"
Erik was out of Yngvar's sight, but the impatient, lazy response was clear. "They are as rats to me. Do with them as you will."
The crowd leapt in excitement. Bjorn, his face red and eyes wide with madness, screamed out to the crowd. "An ax! Give me an ax!"
He let Davin fall, and Ander wrestled him still. A half-dozen men produced axes and Bjorn took the one with the longest haft. Wasting no time, he straddled Bregthor's ruined body.
"Eat shit in Niflheim, you gutless bastard! This is for my kin!"
The ax landed with a miserable crack in Bregthor's skull. He was just looking up when the blade shattered his forehead, spraying blood and brains. The roar of the crowd and the gory scene was too much for Yngvar. The pain coursing over his back made his own brain throb with every beat of his heart. He watched a screaming, crying Davin forced onto his hands and knees while Bjorn wrestled the ax from Bregthor's head.
Yngvar smiled with satisfaction. Thank you, Bjorn, for setting our cousin's soul at peace. He will thank you himself when he greets you in Valhalla.
He heard a meaty chop, but then Yngvar's world faded to muddy, cold black.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Yngvar had begun to believe he might never lie face up again. Though a week had passed since his ordeal, his back felt no better than it had on the first day.
"It's healing, lord," Alasdair said. "By God in heaven, your body regrows before my eyes."
"Then why do I wish for death with each breath?" Every time Yngvar's ribs expanded with anything more than a shallow breath, his entire back lit up in flames.
He lay in a room given to his recovery at the front barracks. This had been a place for honored men and visiting jarls. The room was warmed with its own hearth and the floor was smoothly beaten dirt with fresh straw. Soft down-filled mattresses covered his bed. Sometimes the feathers poked his exposed flesh, and even that was painful. The smoke hole was either obstructed or not wide enough, and so a thick haze hung the air. Beyond the wall at his head he he
ard muffled laughter of others passing by the barracks.
He stared at Alasdair for a short time. His elfin slave had not left his side except when called to other duties. Now in fresh clothes of gray and white linen and sporting a brown cloak of good wool held with a wood pin, he seemed like a young Norseman. His coppery hair was an unkempt mess, otherwise he could pass for a noble.
"You said priests kept you prisoner." Yngvar did not remember everything of his ordeal, but the moments before and after were clear. The gods had blessed him with forgetfulness of the horror of the actual whipping. "You didn't seem a prisoner when I found you. In fact, you were ready to die for the priest."
Alasdair's prefect white skin reddened at his cheeks. "He was not as bad as the others. But honestly, if I died for a priest I would go directly to heaven. That would be better than life, lord."
"Better than life?" Yngvar raised his brows. "If being dead is best, then why not fall on a sword or jump from a cliff?"
"God forbids it. A man who takes his own life will be denied heaven." Alasdair's eyes were wide and clear with sincerity. Yngvar could not understand that logic, and was glad he was not troubled by such a contrary god. Odin and Thor demanded sacrifice, boldness, and glory. Their laws were simple enough for anyone to understand and follow.
"What about for me?" Yngvar asked. "Would dying for me send you directly to your god?"
"I can't say, lord." Alasdair studied his hands. "You spared my life when all the others were killed. I feel a great debt to you."
They sat in silence while Yngvar considered the boy. He knew little of this bold child. But was he a child when men twice his age had none of his guts? He could not be much younger than Yngvar himself.
"I will give you freedom," Yngvar said. Alasdair looked up, eyes wide with surprise.
"Where would I go, lord? My father sent me away to the priests. I can't go back to either."
"I would be glad for your company, but as a free man." Yngvar managed a smile. "I only claimed you as a slave because I had no other way to spare your life. You are worth more as a friend than a servant."
Alasdair's smile took over his young face. "Thank you, lord. I will not forget this."
The door creaked open and two women entered, one old woman and her young attendant. The old woman had a bent back and a nose like a gnarled root. She at least smiled and hummed as she attended Yngvar, even if she hardly spoke. The other girl was one of Gunnhild's maids and carried a wood basin of water and white cloth bandages over her arm. She had a cute, upturned nose that made Yngvar think of Kadlin. Kadlin made him think of home, and that saddened him.
"I will wait outside," Alasdair said. Yngvar did not enjoy anyone seeing him cry with agony as the old woman worked her magic and medicine.
Yngvar turned his head aside to face the opposite wall. He could see light between the planks that blinked out as someone passed by. He wondered when he could walk again.
The old woman's voice matched her gnarled face with its labored and raspy tone. "You will have to be carried to the hall today. King Erik wishes to address all of you."
Yngvar snapped his head around, letting it drop half-buried into the soft mattress. The old woman's red-rimmed eyes were bright with anticipation. Did she enjoy his pain while she worked?
"The king wants to see me and the others? Do you know what for?"
If she replied, he did not hear it. When she tore away the first bandage, his back blossomed with fire and he screamed. Pressing his face into the mattress to muffle his shouts, he endured what felt like hours of torment as bandages were changed, wounds cleaned, and salves applied. Everything was fire. She could have piled snow from the top of the world onto his back and he would swear it was flames.
When she finished, Yngvar remained heaving and sobbing with his face in the pillow. He heard the gentle trickle of water as old bandages were dipped and wrung out.
"You are doing fine," she said in her frail voice. "But I wish the king would not move you. A few of these cuts are deep but healing nicely. I'd hate for them to open again."
"We agree on that," Yngvar said, keeping his face buried. He heard other voices and sensed others had joined. Turning aside, he saw the old woman hobbling out with her assistant and both Bjorn and Thorfast standing in the doorway.
Bjorn entered first. "Erik called us back. Says he's got news for us."
Thorfast entered and sat on the bed beside Yngvar. He was eating an apple, its snap and crunch making Yngvar's mouth water despite the burning residue on his back.
"Your back looks like a shark puked on it," Thorfast said. "But at least it's a match for your face."
"How does it look? All Alasdair says is God is being kind to me."
Thorfast glanced at Bjorn, who shrugged. Thorfast crunched his apple and held out the eaten side that had browned. "It looks like this only with more yellow and black mixed in with red lines. If this is God being good, then someone needs to tell God what a man's back looks like. He's not doing a good job with yours."
They all laughed, even Yngvar though it hurt his sides. When they settled again, Yngvar became more thoughtful. "My mother would weep to see me now."
"Whose mother wouldn't?" Thorfast asked.
"Not mine," Bjorn said. "Anyway, now that your back's a mess maybe you'd be a better match for Jarl Flosi's daughter. Your back'd match her face."
"Don't make me laugh anymore," Yngvar pleaded. "Say, do you think Erik wants to ransom us at last?"
He refused to refer to him as King Erik whenever he could. Erik was no king or jarl to Yngvar's mind.
Ander Red-Scar ducked his head into the room. "Hey, we're summoned to see King Erik. I'm here to help carry Yngvar."
Yngvar dreaded being moved. The old woman had him sit upright at least once a day to avoid sores forming on his stomach and chest. The pain of those brief vertical forays had been unforgettable. To remain upright now while in the king's presence made his guts turn to water.
Ander and Thorfast both positioned themselves at either side of Yngvar, both unsure of how to grab him. Alasdair showed them how the old woman raised him by reaching beneath his arms. They did the same, hauling him upright. Yngvar grimaced and clenched his teeth. It was like a sheet of burning oil had slid down his back. He had a few stripes on the backs of his thighs, but that pain was nothing in comparison to his back.
Once they got him upright, Yngvar realized no one could move him without touching his wounds.
"I'll walk," he said through his clenched teeth.
"That's right," Bjorn said. "He's as tough as boar hide. Besides, the bottoms of your feet weren't whipped. You can do this, cousin."
Ander and Thorfast had him supported beneath his arms. Even still, they still rubbed up against him to his increased agony. By the time he had entered the main barracks, sweat was forming on his brow.
All of the men who had supported Yngvar now occupied this single barracks. Yngvar had noted how Erik had built more buildings than he had people to house. He either once had more followers or expected an increase. The men offered encouragement, forming a pack around him as they exited the hall. Erik's messenger was one of his hirdmen, who waited with hands on his hips. He squinted at Yngvar, then turned toward the slope that led toward the main hall.
The walk was tortuously slow, and Yngvar had to stop to gird himself for more. Alasdair stood by with a cloth to wipe his brow at these pauses. Erik's guard would turn around and demand they all move faster. Yngvar took heart that all his companions walked behind him. After what seemed like hours, they arrived in the hall.
Erik again sat still and emotionless on his chair. For a moment Yngvar imagined that Erik was not alive at all, but only moved and spoke when someone was there to see him. It was a strange thought, likely induced by the fiery pain broiling his back from neck to heel. Erik's hulking bodyguards flanked him. Yngvar stopped wondering why they wore chain shirts like other men wore linen ones. He guessed these two enjoyed getting their hair and beards tangled
in the chain links. For any man wearing chain all day would be bound to tear out most of his hair. Yet these cold-eyed, immobile giants were plainly uncaring.
"Yngvar," Erik said, finally animating. "I had forgotten you are still suffering. How cruel of me to make you walk here."
Forgot? You were nearly drooling as you watched the flesh being whipped off my back. Bastard.
"I am here now, lord. I am glad to hear what you have to say." This was the extent Yngvar could speak without his voice cracking. He gave a Thorfast a pleading look, and his white-haired friend nodded. He would speak for him now.
"You're all here?" Erik sat up straight as if to count their number. His cold eyes ran over the gathered crew. "Well, a lot less of you now that Bregthor's dogs have fled. Though we might see them again, as slaves for sure this time."
Yngvar and the others exchanged concerned glances. King Erik leaned back with a sly smile, idly twisting the gold rings on his fingers.
"You must wonder at why I've gathered you. Well, you are all my hostages and I've got information on that worth sharing."
The burn in Yngvar's stomach equaled that of his back. He had managed to keep himself and the others out of slavery through this pretense of becoming hostages. Now he would find out if this was the passage home he hoped it would be.
Erik stopped fidgeting with his rings and leaned forward on his chair. "I've learned about Jarl Hakon Ulfriksson and Aren Ulfriksson. Your fathers enjoy quite a reputation, particularly yours, Yngvar."
Yngvar inclined his head. Could Erik be leading up to the ransom he would request? His father would pay anything, he knew it.
"I imagine your generosity with your gold must run in your family's blood. Your father has squandered his on his men too liberally. So he has nothing to offer me that I can't earn selling you all off at the slave market. No need for a long, fruitless trip to Frankia."
Descendants of the Wolf (Descendants Saga Book 1) Page 18