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“Aye, Martin,” interjected one of his companions. “And no better to be standing out here in this rain and storm, you lackwit! What if that wind comes howling back and kills the rest of us like it killed that horse? This rain and storm are bad enough, but that gale was something out of the Abyss! I’m not waiting out here any longer! If there’s just two of them, they’re scarcely that mob of bandits what set on those merchant wagons, can they be?”
It was a woman who spoke, and a woman who set down her lantern with a grunt of disgust and walked over to the fallen horse’s head and knelt beside it, pulling back one eye. “It’s dead. Here, you!” She gestured impatiently to Ivar. “Come help me get your friend loose.”
She was strong. Together, they shifted the shoulders of the horse enough for Erkanwulf to scoot free. When her hood fell back, Ivar saw she was young, with old scars on her face suffered in a battle or a burning.
“Ahow!” yelped Erkanwulf, but although bruised and in a great deal of pain he stood on his right leg and gingerly moved all the joints in his left one by one—hip, knee, ankle—even though his ankle hurt so badly he couldn’t stand on it. The curve of the ground had kept the horse’s full weight off him, and the dense cover of leaf litter and debris had offered enough cushion that he evidently hadn’t broken anything.
The horse, however, was quite dead.
“If we leave it out here,” said the one called Martin, “the wolves will eat it before we can get back to butcher it. There’s a fair bit of riches in that horse!”
“It’s my horse!” said Erkanwulf. “Given me by Princess Theophanu’s steward!”
Martin had the confident bearing of a young man accustomed to working all day at things he was good at. “A princess’ steward, eh? Is she one of King Henry’s children? I can’t recall them all. We’ll put you up until your leg is better, and make a decent trade to you for what we take of it. We could use horsehair. No one in the village owns a horse. The froth meat’ll go bad if it isn’t used at once. And the wolves’ll take it all if we don’t get moving. We’ll have to cut it up and hang it after.”
Although he, too, was no older than Ivar, he acted as the leader, gesturing toward his other two companions. “Bruno, you take the injured one, put him on the horse, and lead them back to the village. Tell Nan we’re coming, and then come back yourself with sacks or netting, whatever you can find. The cart. I’m sure Ulf and Balt will help you.”
“I don’t like to be separated from my comrade,” said Ivar.
Martin shrugged. There wasn’t threat in the gesture, just reality. The light on his face showed good health and clear eyes, and he had a way of examining Ivar that made Ivar want to grin, although he wasn’t sure why. “We’ll need your help here. Two to hold the lanterns and keep their eyes open for wolves, and two to cut. Uta and I will do the cutting, unless you’ve skill in that direction.”
“I’m better with a sword.”
“That’s how it looks to me,” agreed Martin. “It’s why we approached you so cautiously. You’re noble born, I’d wager, but I don’t think this fellow is.”
“Oof!” swore Erkanwulf, accidentally putting weight onto his left foot. “Ai! That hurts.”
Ivar’s mount had to be led aside and calmed, and when he was ready, Erkanwulf got a heave up into the saddle.
Bruno shied away from leading the horse. “It’s so big! What if it steps on me?”
“I can ride this fellow well enough,” said Erkanwulf to Ivar, although it was clear that pain was biting deep. “He and I get along just fine, you know. Let’s go, I pray you.”
Bruno led them away, a single lantern swinging to and fro in rain and darkness.
“You’re not feared of bandits attacking them?” Ivar asked as they faded into the stormy night.
“Not in that direction. It’s past here to the east where there’s been trouble. Anyway, I don’t know what to think. I’ve never stood a storm like this one. It’s not natural. Only a fool would stay out in weather like this.”
Ivar laughed, and Martin grinned, handing him the lantern.
The fourth in their group was a speechless lad whom Uta and Martin never referred to by name. While Ivar held the light as steady as he could, the others got to work, with the lad alternating between working and holding a light.
“Think we can hang it?” Uta asked.
“Don’t trust those branches,” said Martin, looking upward at the rattling mass of oak boughs. The wind kept steady and strong, and the rain beat over them. “Can we shift it up on its back?”
In the end they used rope to tie up its hindquarters a bit. Uta cut the hide from anus to throat, the insides of the legs and a circle above the fetlock, all done with surprising speed and gentleness. No intestines spilled. With Martin’s help she peeled the hide off and finished the cut at the neck. The nameless lad set down his lantern and rolled the bloody hide up so it would be easy to carry.
“There!” said Uta, pointing down the road with her dripping knife.
A trio of lanterns approached, resolving into the youth called Bruno and three men, one trundling a handcart, one carrying a pair of baskets lined with canvas, and the third hauling a net and a handsaw.
“What damage at home?” Martin asked.
“Roof tore off the new weaving shed,” said one of the older men, “but all else held. Still, it’ll be the Enemy’s own work to clear up when it comes light again.”
They looked Ivar over as if they thought he might have had a hand in the destruction, and then got to work. Blood melded with rain on the ground. The hot smell of intestines, finally freed by a deeper incision, cut through the chill night air and the scent of rain as they captured them in one of the baskets. They pulled out the precious inner meats. Working quick and dirty as the rain continued to fall, they dismantled the horse into manageable pieces.
