by Kris Tualla
“Stop running, ye lousy bastard!” he bellowed at the man’s decreasingly distant back. “I dinna wish to kill ye, but I will!”
The thief looked back over his shoulder at Drew’s shouted declamation. He turned forward again, but was too late. He tripped headlong over a fallen sapling and disappeared from view.
His shout of pain echoed through the trees.
Drew grabbed the mare’s ears and pulled back. She scrambled to a stop.
He slid from her back and walked toward the moans emanating from somewhere behind the log, his sword at the ready.
The thief lay on the ground about ten yards distant. The dead tree had masked a small but abrupt drop, carved by a stream which had been much larger at some point.
The man’s head was bleeding profusely, presumably because of the nearby rock which now sported a small tuft of blond hair.
Drew climbed down the embankment and approached the sprawled man. He prodded him with the tip of his sword.
The thief spat what seemed to be curses at Drew.
“Get up,” Drew growled.
He poked the man again, hard enough for him to feel the blade’s point, but he didn’t break the man’s skin. Not yet.
“I’ll kill ye without a care, ye thieving bastard. Get up!”
The man rolled to his side and staggered to his feet. Blood streamed down his cheek, unheeded.
Drew gripped the man’s arm and pulled him toward the little cliff. He indicated that the man should climb up.
After a couple aborted attempts, the Swede managed to scramble upward, grabbing the sapling for purchase.
Once they reached the mare, Drew heaved the man onto the horse’s back.
Lacking any sort of rope, Drew grabbed the animal’s halter and headed back toward the croft, disappointed that he hadn’t needed to use his sword.
***
Rydar galloped after the disappearing thief. His stallion knew his touch and followed Rydar’s wishes as if they had the same mind. With a sly grin of satisfaction, he slowed the animal’s pace, deciding to intentionally tire the miscreant.
Rydar knew these woods; he assumed the bolting thief did not. If the man showed any hint of a successful escape, Rydar would stop him. For now, he toyed with the man like a cat with a doomed rodent.
It serves you right for stealing my horse, you lousy Swede.
Drew clearly wasn’t pleased when Rydar said he would send the men to Áslo. The knight didn’t understand the delicate dance between King Magnus of Sweden, his rival son Eric, and his younger son Haakon, the crowned king of Norway.
Rydar had no desire to step into that muddle. He would send the men to Akershus Festning and let them sort it out there. Better that, than to create some sort of incident between the countries.
The fleeing man ahead of him was clearly tiring. Enough so, that the thief stopped and whirled to face Rydar, panting and brandishing a short sword.
“You aren’t going to defeat me,” Rydar said in Norse.
“No. I kill you,” the thief replied in a mix of Norsk and Swedish.
Rydar laughed. “No. You will not. Put your weapon down.”
The man pulled back his arm but Rydar was quicker. He threw his axe at the man’s leg, where it sunk several inches into the Swede’s thigh.
Even so, the other man heaved his sword before falling to the ground. The stallion, alarmed by the flying steel, swiftly sidestepped the missile.
A stream of vile curses flew from the Swede’s mouth as he pulled the axe from his leg. Blood gushed after it, soaking his leggings in mere seconds.
Rydar jumped down from his mount. He angrily grabbed the axe from the stunned man’s hand. “Now you will bleed to death if we don't do something. Give me your shirt!”
The thief looked at him, his stunned expression blank.
Rydar pulled a knife from his boot and moved to cut the man’s shirt from his body. He screamed and cowered, hampering Rydar’s efforts, until he saw that only linen was being rent by the blade.
Once he understood what Rydar’s intention was, he allowed the Norseman to tear the garment into strips and bind his leg.
“You might still die,” Rydar muttered. “But at least I will not be blamed.”
Rydar helped the man onto the stallion, and began the journey back to the croft at a brisk trot.
***
Drew could see Rydar arriving at the croft just before he did—and with a similar burden on his horse. He wondered where the third man was.
After Drew ran from the croft, Rydar had arrived at his side so quickly and applied himself to cutting the tethers on their two mounts, that Drew assumed the first man might be dead.
Now Drew was surprised to see him waiting in the doorway, standing on one leg while his other foot dangled, bleeding and useless.
“What did ye do, Viking?” Drew called out.
Rydar whirled to face him. The Norseman’s expression declared his relief when he saw Drew walking, and the third man slumped over the mare’s neck.
Drew stopped in front of Rydar and pointed at the man in the door. “How did ye keep him here?”
Rydar grinned. “I—hobble?—him.”
“Hobble?” Drew repeated.
Rydar hefted his axe and mimed cutting the tendon behind his own ankle.
“Aye, Viking!” Drew chuckled. “Hobble is a very good word.”
“We take all horses and men to village,” Rydar declared.
Drew nodded. “And find their ship.”
“And sail men to Áslo.”
The Swedes watched the conversation, their matching expressions a combination of anger, pain, and fear.
One spoke to Rydar, in the sing-song language which Drew could not distinguish from Norsk.
Rydar replied, his tone cold and threatening.
Drew hefted his sword in punctuation of whatever Rydar just said, and went inside the croft to retrieve his jeweled scabbard from the rafters.
When he returned, Rydar had pulled his mounted prisoner’s arms around the stallion’s neck and was tying the man’s hands together.
Drew did the same to the Swede he had run to ground. Rydar loped toward the two remaining horses in the pasture, untied their tethers, and brought them to the small crowd.
Rydar gestured to the third man.
“Kom igjen, jeg skal hjelpe deg opp.”
“Gå till helvetet,” the man sneered.
Drew freed his briefly-sheathed sword, having understood the man’s words. “Aye, and I can see ye there, should ye wish.”
The Swede startled. He made a wise decision, and hopped toward the horse on his one usable leg.
Rydar winked at Drew as he helped the thief mount the filly’s bare back. “I make you a Viking, now.”
Chapter Fourteen
Rydar led the ragged cavalcade into Arendal: himself, the Scottish knight, and the four stolen horses—three of them carrying the bloodied thieves. Word spread through the town quickly, and young boys were sent to summon the owners of the pilfered horses, telling them to come and reclaim their stock.
“Ye stay here. I talk to harbor mester, aye?” Rydar said to Drew.
Drew appeared irritated at taking orders, but the knight didn’t speak Norsk. His presence would simply slow down the exchange.
“Aye,” he grunted.
Rydar turned and strode to the dock. He knocked on the door of the harbor master’s solid hut, and then walked inside.
“Ah, Lord Hansen.” The man touched his forehead in salute. “Your stable master was here earlier, asking about a ship.”
Rydar dipped his chin in acknowledgement. “And do you have any information for me?”
The man nodded. “There was a ship that arrived six days ago, but didn’t remain overnight.”
That was odd. “You mean it docked just for the day?”
“Not even that long. It was only a couple hours.”
Rydar frowned. “What flag?”
The man shook his head. “She
wasn’t flying a flag. I found that to be quite suspicious, but before I received an answer to my inquiry, she rowed back and sailed away.”
Rydar sucked a breath. “She dropped off the thieves, then. She’ll return for them and the horses.”
The harbor master appeared skeptical. “They wouldn’t be so brazen as to dock here again, would they?”
Rydar waved a hand at the uneven coastline with no sloping edges. “This is the only place for a ship large enough to carry horses to dock.”
The other man’s gaze followed Rydar’s gesture. “That is true,” he admitted. “But they would be seen.”
“Not if they came in the middle of the night.” Rydar dragged his fingers through his hair. “There is enough light at this time of year for them to do so safely. They could slip in and slip out while the town sleeps.”
The harbor master returned his regard to Rydar. “So, Lord Hansen, it would seem we must post guards until they return.”
Rydar nodded. “We’ll catch them, commandeer the vessel, and sail them all to Áslo, where they will be given over to Akershus as convicted criminals.”
The other man smiled. “This is the most excitement Arendal has seen since before the Death.”
Rydar laughed and clapped his shoulder. “I am only here to serve, my lord Harbor Master.”
***
Drew watched Rydar saunter back toward the crowd gathered around the horses and thieves, and wondered where in the town the three men would be held until their ship came to fetch them. Hansen Hall made the most sense, but his gut told him neither Rydar, nor the other victims of the thievery, would be satisfied with that solution.
Drew sensed a blood-lust in the crowd, but it didn’t touch the murderous glare of the man pushing his way through the bodies. He stepped up to the filly, grabbing her halter.
“Få denne mannen off hesten min!” he shouted.
One of the townspeople pulled out a knife and cut the rope binding the thief’s hands. The man holding the halter gave a shove, and the thief with the axe-wound to his thigh tumbled to the ground, bellowing in pain.
“Johansen!” Rydar called out. He stepped into the circle. “Vi trenger et sted å holde disse mennene.”
“What are ye saying?” Drew asked.
Rydar glanced his way. “Men must be kept.”
Johansen squinted at Rydar. “Hvor lenge?”
Rydar spoke to the man he had hobbled. The thief spat his response on the ground. Rydar grabbed the man’s undamaged foot in one hand, and held his axe in the other. The threat was clear.
Then he repeated his question.
“To dager,” the thief growled.
“Two days,” Rydar translated for Drew.
Johansen’ mouth curled in a menacing smile. “Ja.”
Another man entered the circle, sagging in relief at the sight of the mare.
“Sørensen,” Rydar said to Drew. “Mare is his.”
Two of the townsmen pulled the hobbled thief off the mare, yanking him forward over the horse’s neck so they didn’t have to cut his bonds. When they let go of him, he lost his balance and fell on the cobbled street beside his cohort.
Drew shook his head. “Those two will no’ be running far.”
Rydar barked an order and the third thief, the one who hit his head, was taken off Rydar’s stallion in the same manner with Rydar’s help. The man was woozy, his gaze unfocused.
Drew had seen that sort of look before. The man’s brain was probably bleeding, and that was often fatal. And the gash in the other man’s thigh was soaking through the binding, reddening his leggings afresh. Truth be told, only the man whose ankle was cut had a decent chance of survival, but he’d never walk again.
“No man runs,” Rydar observed. “We wait for ship now.”
A cart was brought forward and the three thieves loaded in. Johansen climbed astride his precious filly and led the way out of the village. The fourth horse was tied to a post while his owner was informed that the mare was stolen—and recovered the same day.
Sørensen faced Rydar. “Jeg skal komme tilbake og kjøpe deg en halvliter. Takk du.”
“Takk du.” Rydar turned to Drew with a grin. “He buys ale.”
Sørensen clapped Drew on the shoulder, beaming. “Tusen takk!”
Drew smiled in return. “Ye are welcome.”
Several men crowded around Drew and Rydar, all babbling words Drew didn’t understand. The camaraderie, however, needed no translation. As they made their way to the tavern, they kept patting both Rydar and himself on the back.
“It is good to be the hero, aye?” Drew said to Rydar.
“Aye.” Rydar gave him a begrudging grin. “I can no’ do this alone.”
Drew shrugged. “I could no’ have done it by myself either.”
He extended his hand. Rydar shook it.
“Now,” Drew grinned. “Let’s go enjoy our fame.”
***
Rydar squinted, but he still saw two Drews. He closed one eye. Better.
For a man who spoke not a single word of Norsk, Lord Andrew told stories with great effect—and the crowd of men in the tavern kept growing as a result.
First he explained how he and Rydar were holed up in the rafters. Rydar guffawed as Drew mimed the close quarters and the bickering between them. The more he and the other men in the tavern laughed, the more the knight exaggerated his actions.
When Drew got to the part about Rydar jumping down from their hiding place, he climbed onto the planked top of the tavern’s long table. He leapt straight up and landed with a loud crash of his boots on the planks, shaking every man’s mug.
His imitation of the tipping table and sprawling thieves had the townsmen doubled over in hilarity. They clapped Rydar’s shoulders anew and wiped tears from their eyes.
Drew turned to Rydar. “I need to go outside. Tell them about my chase and the man who tripped over the tree, aye?”
With a sigh, Rydar reluctantly obliged.
“The knight slowed his mare enough so he didn’t catch up to the man right away,” Rydar explained. “He wanted to tire him out, to make him sweat.”
The butcher grinned. “And then?”
Rydar looked at Andrew’s disappearing back, wondering how best to proceed with the other man’s tale.
The men in the tavern expected to be entertained, and that was not a skill Rydar possessed. Raised in Norway’s stark Grønnland settlement, his upbringing had been isolated and depressing.
Lord Andrew, on the other hand, spent most of his life in the company of men. Boisterous, strong, rough and refined, the knights played as hard as they fought.
Rydar made a decision to mimic Drew; a decision bolstered by the several large mugs of beer he had already finished. He rose to his feet and stepped away from the table.
He spread his legs, bent his knees, and held imaginary reins. “So he is riding along, taking his time. Looking at the birds… scratching his arse.”
Laughter rippled through the beaming crowd.
“Our thief, however, is scrambling.” Rydar pretended to run, glancing over his shoulder with a frantic expression. “And he is not looking where he is going.”
Rydar faced forward again. He dropped his jaw, widened his eyes, put his hands in front of his chest, and fell forward to the floor with a cry of dismay.
The room exploded.
Hands gripped his arms and tugged him back to his feet. His mug was refilled—again. Drew had returned and was laughing so hard that he looked like he might piss again. Rydar waved at the knight to continue and sat back, smiling broadly, to drink his beer.
The room was spinning later, when the crowd began to thin. With one eye closed to shut out Drew’s annoying twin image, Rydar noticed that the knight’s stance wavered like wildflowers in a gentle breeze.
“Ye’re drunk, Scot,” Rydar accused.
Drew huffed a laugh. “No’ more’n ye!”
Rydar stood quickly and lifted his mug—but he lost his balance and
sat down hard.
Drew hooted. “Ye canna even stand, Viking.”
Rydar set down his mug and gained his feet more slowly this time. He walked toward Drew. With one stiff finger, he pushed against Drew’s chest.
The knight resisted too strongly and tumbled forward, gripping Rydar’s shoulders to catch himself.
“And ye canna,” Rydar declared. “I take ye home now.”
The men said farewell to the remaining group of revelers and stumbled outside into the dusky summer night.
After they passed the last building in the village, Drew stopped walking. “I have t’ piss.”
“Again?” Rydar halted and turned to face him. He shook his head and snickered. “Big knight canna hold it.
“I bet I’ve more’n ye have!” Drew challenged.
Rydar scoffed and began to untie his braies, hoping his own urge to piss didn’t begin prematurely. “We see.”
The men stood beside each other, about six feet distant, and lifted their tunics out of the way.
“One—” Rydar said.
“Two—” Drew continued.
“Three!”
Rydar closed his eyes and groaned his relief as his bladder began to empty. The men’s pungent sprays scented the air with a mix of beer and sausage. Their twin streams disappeared into the grasses which lined their path
Drew grunted when he finished.
Rydar turned toward him. “Who wins?”
Drew chuckled. “Who cares?”
The men looked at each other. They were stopped beside the road to Hansen Hall. It was quite late in the evening. Their pricks were still in their hands, and their pissing contest was completed.
Rydar started laughing.
Drew matched him howl for howl.
Rydar retied his braies, his belly aching from so much laughter.
“I say now,” he gasped between gleeful outbursts. “You no’ an ass.”
“But ye,” Drew wagged a finger at him. “Ye’re a true Viking warrior. An tha’ is a bonny thing.”
“Aye. ‘Tis.” Rydar admitted.
He threw his arm over Drew’s shoulder. Drew did the same to him.