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He still saw Orm beating Ingunn, his fists hammering her face. The man was without mercy, without conscience.
“Aye, but then again, perhaps I won’t. Your father should come soon, boy. Then we will see. Don’t look so surprised. I left him messages. He isn’t stupid. He will know and he will follow. And that strip of material from the little girl’s gown. Aye, I left that for Zarabeth so she would know. I wish I could have seen her face. She has a very expressive face, one that gives away all her feelings and thoughts. I do wonder if she cried with hope.
“I have wanted Magnus for a very long time now. For a very long time I’ve wanted to kill him slowly, wanted to hear him scream with pain, beg me to release him from his pathetic life, just like that bitch sister of his did. I wonder if she still clings to life. Perhaps I should go and see. If she does, perhaps she needs another lesson in obedience.”
“Why do you hate my father? He has never done anything to you. Surely it isn’t because my grandfather judged him to be the better husband for my mother.”
Orm raised his arm, then slowly lowered it again. The boy wasn’t being impertinent. Orm pondered the question, his brow furrowing. “Did I say I hated Magnus? Nay, I merely want to kill him because of what he is, how he thinks, how he behaves. He has annoyed me for a long time now, this just and proud sire of yours, boy. As for your mother, Dalla, she was silly and vain, but I had selected her. It wasn’t right that I not have her. It wasn’t right that Magnus be the one to win. I don’t like defeat, boy. I won’t accept it.”
Egill remained silent now. Orm Ottarsson was a frightening man. There was no way to reason with him that Egill could see. No, the only thing to do was to escape. He had to warn his father. He had to save Lotti. He felt very old for his eight years, and very small. But he had to try.
Orm rose then, towering over Egill. The boy didn’t back away or cower. He would bring the boy to heel, but not now. There was time for him to do just as he wished.
“I believe I will see if your aunt still whines and clings to life.”
28
Ingunn knew he was coming. Any moment now he would appear in the doorway of the hut and he would look inside, his eyes accustoming themselves to the darkness, and then he would see her. He would grin, for she wouldn’t be able to hide her pain from him. She wouldn’t be able to get away from him, and he would know it and enjoy it.
He would hit her again and he would laugh, that or he would remain serenely silent, his eyes flat and calm, and he would continue to strike her until she was dead. Then he would leave her, there in the dark chill storage hut with its damp earthen floor, and he would kill the children.
Ingunn dragged herself to the rough wooden door. Slowly, gasping with the pain that each move brought her, she pulled herself up. She was panting, trying to keep the black dizziness at bay. In her hand she held a heavy farm tool, a long piece of wood, indented at the top so a man could grasp it firmly. The base was a curving iron hook for digging up rocks and turning hard soil. To grip it tightly brought shuddering pain. She didn’t know how she would raise it and strike him with it, but she would, she had to. She didn’t want to die.
Orm strode from the longhouse, keeping to the narrow rutted path that led to various huts that surrounded the main structure. It was muddy from a rain from the early morning, strengthening the smell of manure and rotted flesh. He looked at the piles littering the ground. Damned pig Saxons! He had yet to clear away all their filth.
The night was still and black, with but a sliver of moon in the sky. The land was flat before it sloped gently to the banks of the Thurlow River just a hundred yards beyond. How different this alien land was from Norway, with its midnight dim light that cast shadows and hinted of mysteries, and faded slowly, finally, into warm darkness. It was too gentle, too soft, this land, but he would accustom himself to it, as would his men. All the slaves he now owned would accustom themselves to him, their new master. He’d had to flay the back of one surly fellow, a Saxon, who had spit at the ground at his feet. He was probably dead from his wounds by now.
Orm smiled. Soon Magnus should come. He was ready for him. His men were hiding along the paths to the farmstead, ready to send him word when Magnus and his men approached. Orm whistled, slapping his arms, for it was cool now. He looked down at his hands and frowned. He’d broken the flesh over his knuckles from striking Ingunn. His fingers hurt to flex them. He should have finished the job he’d started. He would finish it now. She’d betrayed him; she was of no use to him now.
He pulled the crossbar from the narrow wooden door and shoved the door inward. He stared into the darkness, adjusting his eyes. He saw nothing but the vague outlines of farm tools. He was quick of reflex, but not quick enough. He heard her breathing, heard a whoosh of air, and just as he turned, he felt pain sear through his head. Then he felt nothing.
Ingunn watched him fall to the ground. He was unconscious, not dead, curse the fates. She raised the tool to strike him again, this time with the curved iron hook, but her broken arm wouldn’t stand for it. She watched helplessly as the tool slipped from her fingers. She realized her leg was broken and she stumbled, flailing her good arm frantically, then fell to her knees beside Orm. She lurched onto her side and lay there, breathing hard, trying not to lose consciousness.
It was as she lay there, next to the man who had betrayed her, that she knew what she would do. She pulled herself toward the open doorway. Just a little bit further . . . She could do it.
Orm groaned.
She closed her eyes and prayed to Freya, her goddess. A spurt of strength shot through her. She grabbed at the door grip and pulled herself to her feet.
Orm was shaking his head now. He was trying to sit up.
Quickly she heaved herself outside. She slammed the door and leaned against it, a bent old hag wearing torn rags, her right arm hanging uselessly at her side, weaving about drunkenly on one good leg. She could barely draw a breath for the pain in her chest. She knew she had to lift the crossbar into place. If she didn’t, he would burst through the door and it would be over. Freya, she prayed, her lips moving, saying the name over and over. Help me.
She lifted the heavy crossbar and set it into its iron slots. She’d done it. She couldn’t quite believe she’d done it. Now she needed a torch. She had no idea where Orm had placed his men. Some were surely in the longhouse, guarding Egill and Lotti. Others were doubtless spread about waiting for Magnus. There were at least a dozen small fires dotted around the longhouse, men gathered
about them.
All she needed was a torch. Slowly she staggered forward, her left arm around her ribs.
A man appeared suddenly through the smoky haze of a campfire. “Hold! Who are you? What goes on here?”
Ingunn felt all strength and hope slip away from her. She saw the man, one of Orm’s bullies, striding toward her. Then the man stopped suddenly, like an animal who had heard a strange sound and must place it.
Ingunn heard it then. It was Orm, shouting and banging on the hut. The man ignored her and raced toward the hut.
No, she thought, oh, no. She’d been so close, so very close. She felt tears burn her eyes. She picked up a broken branch from an elm tree and stumbled forward. No one was at the campfire; it had been only the one man. Ingunn pressed the branch into the glowing embers and watched it burst into flame, for the leaves were long dead and dry. She carried the torch forward, not slowly, not weaving, but straight and tall, marching like a soldier toward the hut. The man was there and he was heaving at the crossbar.
It didn’t move.
