Gamle Eriksson leaned down into the pit and pointed at Yngvar. His smile was white in the darkness.
"You thought I forgot? Never fear. Tonight you will scream like you never have before."
CHAPTER THIRTY
Yngvar's hands went cold. He stared at Alasdair, who stared back with equal shock. Shadowy forms flickered in the thin light from the open grate. The ladder stood before him.
"What do I do?" Yngvar asked, more to himself than anyone else.
"Lord, I don't know. There's no way out of this that I can see. You can fight, but without a weapon I don't see how you can win."
"I can't," Yngvar said. "I didn't really believe this time would come."
Grumbling increased from above, then Gamle poked his head through the opening again. "Hurry up! If I have to send men down there, it will go badly for everyone. I won't ask again."
Tears streaked Alasdair's cheeks, marring the purity of his clear skin. Yngvar patted his shoulder in faraway thought, then turned toward the ladder. He placed his foot on the bottom rung. The pressure against his sole was now an exquisite feeling. He would never again feel anything underfoot.
The Saxons looked on, not knowing his fate but nevertheless saddened. Their short term of imprisonment together had somehow bonded them. Despite their differences, they shared a common enemy and common suffering. The light-haired Saxon gripped Yngvar's shoulder and squeezed it.
"Wodin will see you."
"Yes," Yngvar said. "Yes, he will."
The climb up the ladder went slowly, each rung creaked under his weight. When he reached the top, impatient hands dragged him out of the pit. A ring of spear points was already leveled at his face. He could not even stand without risk of impaling himself. Someone grabbed his arm and guided him to his feet.
Gamle stood smiling before him, a half-dozen men with spears and swords surrounding him. "Enjoying those feet of yours? I'll give them back after they're cut off."
The men laughed, and Yngvar glared at them. He considered whether he could grab a weapon and try to take Gamle hostage. Despite the guards' levity, none of them were underestimating his threat. Their spears remained leveled. Even if he slipped past one, the others would run him through. Would that be so bad? Gamle wanted him alive to send back to his father, Erik. So he would not kill him. That hesitation would give him the opening he needed, since he did not care for life of death at this point.
A spear butted him from behind, nearly forcing him onto the other blades arrayed against him. He had not seen that man, being so fixated on Gamle who remained outside the ring of spearmen.
"Let's get moving. We've got a room prepared for you."
Three spears pressed to his legs as if to threaten to hurt but not kill him, then the man from behind seized Yngvar's arm and hauled it behind his back. If he would fight, now was the time.
But a fourth spear leveled against his neck, and Gamle shook his head. "I see it in your eyes. Don't fight or I will kill you. You think I am eager to see your legs cut off, and that is true. But more important than what I want is my father's command. He wants you dead, and I would be glad to send him your head. It would be easier to carry back to his hall."
Yngvar's mind numbed and his thoughts faded into a confused jumble. His arms were bound and he was dragged out of the small guardhouse to where rows of onlookers lined the dirt streets. The people of Jelling cursed him and threw rotten vegetables as his captors led him. Gamle preceded the chaos. Yngvar noted how his cloak was bright green and spotless. He noted many things that mattered not at all. The sky was full of blazing, rose-colored clouds. Birds chased each other around the rooftops. A young girl with a dirty face and ice blue eyes stared at him amid the raucous crowd. Ruts in some streets were deeper than others. Everything poured into his senses equally. It was as if whatever focused his mind had fled him.
He was dragged toward another hall. People clustered around the door that hung open like a great shark ready to swallow him whole. Their faces were pockmarked and ugly with hatred. Gamle entered the darkness and the men on either side of Yngvar shoved him inside.
The room was hot and glowing red. The hearth was full of hot coals and a bony slave boy pumped a bellows. The glowing bed pulsed bright with every squeeze. Iron rods were in the fire, and their ends were wrapped in thick cloth. A heavy workbench was next to the hearth, and a wood bucket sat beneath it. A rust-stained cloth was set over the packed dirt floor.
A lanky man who was gaunt and pale enough to seem dead stood behind the workbench. He wore an apron like ones farmers wore to a winter slaughter. Beside him was another table where an array of saws and knives were laid out. Gut rope was coiled beside the shining blades.
"This is Thorkel," Gamle said. "He can inflict any kind of pain on a man without killing him. His talent is amazing. He once flayed three men alive, one at a time, just like peeling apples. I could've worn their skins had I wanted. Thorkel won't have any challenges removing your legs. He's done that, oh, how many times has it been?"
"Too many to count, lord." Thorkel's voice was as dry and dead as he seemed to be. His black-ringed eyes seemed to glint with anticipation. "This will not even be a challenge."
"Tie him to the table," Gamle said.
Yngvar tried to bolt. He was struck again in the head, a casual butt from a spear. Hitting the existing wound made him see stars of agony and he collapsed. He had missed his chance to die fighting and now had to endure the shameful agony of torture.
One man unbound his wrists while another held him in place. The room was crowded with warriors. He had no chance to even throw a punch before two men lifted him onto the table and slammed him down. Two others wrapped him with heavy rope until he was pinned to the table like a dead stag is tied to a sled and dragged home from the hunt.
Above him smoke curled and spun around the dark rafters. His head could move freely, but he did not want to look at anyone.
Voices murmured throughout the hall. Outside people called for blood and celebrated his impending torment. He blocked them out. If he survived this, he would have no legs. Gamle would shove him into a barrel and send him north to Erik Blood-Axe. But Yngvar knew his chance of seeing Erik alive would be slim. No matter how talented the ghoulish Thorkel was said to be, he could not prevent infections that would follow such wounds. He would die in agony, packed into a barrel like so many herring.
The voices went quiet, and Yngvar realized someone else had entered the hall. He tilted his head back, seeing the evening light in a rectangle of open door. Gorm the Old stood behind him. His young son, sullen and expressionless, stood at his side.
"Yngvar Hakonsson, you have nothing more to say to me? Your young friend was captured, as you well know. He said you both were here to kill Gamle. But is that all?"
"You see what Gamle intends," Yngvar said. "Would you expect me to do otherwise?"
"No," Gorm said. He smiled like a father putting his son to bed. "But trying to kill him at the heart of my power was beyond foolish. It seems as if you wanted to fail. You are the man who put a sword through my son-in-law's leg. You lured him into a trap, and he is a cunning man. So this act of stupidity seems unlike such a man. But then, you might have just been lucky. The gods sometimes toy with fools, granting their small wishes only to smash flat their biggest dreams. Perhaps that is what I am seeing here."
"What I see is a coward and the dogshit blood he descended from," Yngvar said, gritting his teeth. "If Gamle had any guts and if you had any honor, you'd at least give me a sword and let the gods show who they love more."
Gorm's son looked up at his father, his brows raised. Yngvar expected something for his insolence, but he received only a shake of the head from Gorm. "The gods do not love you, or you would not be tied to this bench with good Thorkel sharpening his saws at your feet. They have already made their decision. Now, this is your last chance to tell me anything else. I could stop all of this with a single word."
By now the others must be safely away. If he
told them about King Hakon's plans and their true mission, they would all be out of Gorm's reach. Or at least they would have a lead on him. But what if Thorfast and Bjorn had not yet met up with the ship? What if they still lingered by the shore, hoping he and Alasdair would show up? Then Gorm would surely catch them. But if he suspected anything, he must be searching now? Why suffer this torment for nothing?
"I've said all I will to the likes of you. When we meet in Valhalla, I will be sure to make you pay."
Gorm laughed. "Of course! But you will not be going to Valhalla. You will die as a coward dies, without a weapon in hand, and Odin will turn you aside from his hall. We shall never meet again after this day."
No one spoke as Gorm and his silent son left the hall. Gamle and the others exited with him. He shouted at the crowds to disperse, and Gorm added his voice to the command.
Yngvar was alone for a moment with Thorkel, who honed his blades with a sharpening stone. The metallic rasp was like the hiss of a demon, long and drawn out as the stone traveled the length of the blade. This seemed to go on for hours, and the bonds around his arms and legs made his flesh go cold.
"We're ready to begin," Gamle said as he re-entered the hall. Yngvar heard the door shut. He closed his eyes.
"Where shall we cut from, lord?"
"Just above the knees, how is that?"
"A fine choice. I will cut away his pants and we will be ready to start."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Gamle's face filled Yngvar's vision. He was close enough for Yngvar to smell his pungent sweat and feel the damp heat of his breath. His eyes were full of the malice he shared with his mother, Gunnhild. He sneered at Yngvar and pulled his head straight by the beard.
"What happens next is revenge for the wound you gave my father."
"Is he so weak he needs you to take his vengeance?"
Gamle pulled harder on Yngvar's beard, drawing his head off the workbench to which he remained bound. The ropes cut into his arms and legs, but there had been enough slack left in them that he could move. They stared at each other for a heartbeat, then Gamle released his hold.
"You insulted my family and injured my father. You dirtied my mother's bed. I hate you, Yngvar Hakonsson, and torturing you brings me pleasure. I will set your severed legs on your chest and watch you scream in terror. Yes, you will be awake for it. For every draw of the blade through the meat of your leg, for each bone Thorkel's hammer shatters, you will feel all of it. And it will go slowly. We have all night, and I plan to enjoy your screaming while it lasts. For soon you will have no strength to scream. Nor will you have any thoughts but pain. But I will be there to remind you why you are suffering. You will never forget crossing Gamle Eriksson."
The ghoulish Thorkel was winding gut rope around Yngvar's now exposed thighs, just above the knees. His pants had been cut away by a knife so sharp it seemed to glide through the heavy linen like it was air. He tied off the left leg first and his leg instantly began to tingle and grow cold. He started on the right.
Gamle sat back and folded his arms. "Nothing to say now, eh? Going to make a brave showing of it. Well, I admire the attempt. As soon as your first leg falls into that bucket, you will have shit and pissed yourself and will be screaming for your mother. It always happens that way."
"Did you pay my bounty?" Yngvar asked, staring at nothing. Gamle gave a questioning sound. "You didn't catch me. The men who did are owed my bounty. Or are you so empty of honor that you will worm a way out of paying it."
"I'll pay it," Gamle said, irritated. "Why do you even care?"
Gamle stood up and leaned over Yngvar's face. He narrowed his eyes at him. Yngvar whispered to him, and it only aggravated him more. He grabbed Yngvar's beard again, then pulled him close.
Yngvar bit Gamle's nose, hard as a rabid wolf and tenaciously as a badger. He crushed down, trying to chew away the tip if he could, anything to ruin Gamle's beautiful face and let the world see what manner of man he really was. Let his disfigured evil be clear on his flesh.
Gamle screamed and instinctively tried to shove away. Yngvar could see nothing but Gamle's face and taste the salty blood that rolled down his throat and set him coughing. Whatever Thorkel was doing, he apparently did nothing to aid his master.
The doors burst open. Gamle struggled and flailed in pain. But now that his guards were here, Yngvar tried for one last pull before he would be stopped. He yanked back hard, but his teeth slipped off the nose. He had something in his mouth, hard and bloody. He spit it back out with a laugh.
But the chaos did not stop there.
Men screamed and iron clanged. Someone grunted and thumped against the wall. Gamle had fallen away to the corner of the hall, hands cupping his bloodied face. Yngvar looked up. Thorkel was wide-eyed and staring at a spear shaft that had burrowed into his torso just below the sternum. His apron filled with black blood and his hands reached tentatively toward the shaft before he collapsed.
Brandr appeared over Yngvar's face. His brow was furrowed and a spattering of fresh blood clung to his cheek. Alasdair stood at his side as well. Both started working on his bindings.
"Use those knives," Yngvar said, pointing with his chin toward the table Thorkel now lay beside in a widening pool of blood.
More men struggled behind them. Brandr and Alasdair both took Thorkel's tools and cut away Yngvar's binding as if they were slicing rotten thread.
"Are you here to take me to Gorm?" Yngvar asked as Brandr straightened him.
"You should've fled when you had the chance. Now you've made me an oath-breaker."
The Saxons battled in the doorway. They had dragged down a man between them and hacked him like children at sword practice.
"They helped me use the key, lord," Alasdair said. "And Brandr had already come to aid us. God wants us to escape."
"I'm glad for any god's help," Yngvar said. Blood rushed back into his limbs, and he leapt away from the table as if from a sinking ship.
Gamle roared with fury, charging out of the dark corner of the hall. His eyes were bright with rage and his face smeared with blood. He had no weapon at hand, but he struck so fast it mattered not.
Yngvar and Brandr both collapsed against the workbench, Gamle taking them both into his arms.
"You bastard," he screamed, landing atop Yngvar and pressing him into the bench. "I'll tear out your eyes!"
Yngvar shoved him back with Brandr's aid, and Gamle collapsed by the hearth.
"Leave now!" The light-haired Saxon in the doorway stood over a pile of bloodied bodies. He pointed out the door and Yngvar knew more enemies were arriving.
"Lord!"
Yngvar whirled in time to dodge Gamle's strike. He wielded one of Thorkel's sharp blades. It nicked a lock of his beard from his chin.
Yngvar had no weapons at hand. The rest of the blades had been scattered in the fight. The iron rods jutted from the red coals of the hearth. He seized one by the cloth wrapping.
He whirled around with the iron as if he were throwing it to the top of the world. Gamle's backstroke aimed straight at his neck.
The hot iron cracked the air then slammed into Gamle's shoulder. The heavy smack led into a cruel sizzling of flesh. Gamle toppled back, dropping his knife and screaming in terror and pain.
Brandr's hand stayed Yngvar from a finishing blow to Gamle's exposed head.
"We run now or all die! Forget him!"
He left Gamle crumpled beside the bucket intended to hold his blood and severed legs. He flung the rod at Gamle, his flesh still spitting and burning where it had branded him. It landed across his body and he screamed again.
Outside, the Saxons had killed two more men. A line of bodies littered the tracks. The light-haired Saxon gave a grim smile. "Waldhar's best."
"No weapon for me?" Yngvar asked. Alasdair handed him a short sword as they ran. Its blade was slathered with blood.
Brandr led the way. The setting sun had chased people off the streets and no alarm had yet been sounded. But that would ne
ver last, not with a half-dozen dead guards and Gamle screaming from inside the hall. Perhaps people thought the screams were Yngvar's, and that thought brought a tight smile to his lips.
Brandr cut down an alleyway. A dog barked at them from inside one of the buildings, but they shot through the darkness toward the light beyond. Yngvar and Alasdair were at his heels and the Saxons trailed behind.
They spilled out of the street into three guards. They were yet unaware of the killing, but the third man reacted with enviable speed. He blew his horn, even as Brandr's sword took the first man in the gut.
Yngvar tumbled through the madness. He was still dizzy and weak, but his battle madness kept him swinging. Before he realized it, he was tumbling to the ground, crashing to his knees as a show of hot blood sprayed over his back. He hadn't even realized what had happened. Men screamed. Alasdair dragged at his arms.
"Up, lord," he said. "We have one chance."
He must have blacked out for he had no recollection of the fight. There were now three guards and what seemed two freemen in a pile. The light-haired Saxon was on his side, holding his calf which had been cut.
"Get him," Yngvar said, then staggered over to help the warrior to his feet. The two others lifted him by his shoulders, and Yngvar had him by his feet.
"We'll never make it carrying him," Brandr said. But he did not argue. He must have read the resolve in Yngvar's face.
They dashed across the street. Another horn sounded and doors were opening. Brandr ushered them down another alley. The injured Saxon grunted as he was jostled between his bearers but did not cry out. Brandr paused at the end of the alley and raised his hand for them to stop.
"There it is," he said. "The driver knows what to do. Just get into the cart."
Alasdair's face was bloodless as he looked up at Yngvar. "Hold on, lord. Just a short way now."
"Do I look that bad? I'm fine!"
They raced across the street to where a wagon of barrels sat. The driver ignored him, and the horse swished its tail as if to emphasize its boredom.
Odin's Ravens (Descendants Saga Book 2) Page 21