The Fighting Man. Adrian Deans

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СКАЧАТЬ heard the canvas snatched back and the sound of swords and screaming was loud. My mind was strangely cleared of its ale fog and I moved not an inch, but the pit was not deep. If they were looking for fugitives I would surely be found.

      Suddenly, my world darkened and, to my profound disgust, I realised what was about to happen.

      Even warriors in the midst of battle need to shit.

      ∞ ∞ ∞

      Victory was always sweet reflected Ulrik Dragontooth. Even victories won cheaply by sudden ambush over drunken warriors were a matter for celebration and song. It was a victory of cunning and strategy, which although more pleasing to Loki than to Thor, would still be accounted to his credit in Valhalla. He would drink there, perhaps, with Holgar who had been a mighty warrior until the day of his doom when he had been confused at the sudden appearance of Danes among the wedding party, then infuriated, then terrified as he realised that his weaponless men, drunk and helpless were being methodically cut down by the invaders.

      Holgar had died badly. Armed only with a ceremonial sword – jewelled, light and useless – he’d stood shoulder to shoulder with Gram and Malgard until Malgard jumped out of the line to pursue the lightly armed and terrified Irish slave prodded into his path. Then Holgar was surrounded by Ulrik’s men and cut down with his son, confronted at the last with Malgard’s silver dagger. But doubtless Holgar would laugh about it with Ulrik when they met in Valhalla.

      Ulrik shifted his buttocks on the uncomfortable log. His guts were churning and he suspected the pig meat he’d eaten in the morning had not been properly cooked. The fight had lasted only minutes and already the men were slaking their various thirsts and hungers while he had raced for the nearest latrine. The women, mostly, had survived. The bride, as Malgard had promised, was indeed beautiful in her terror and on the day of her wedding would have some twenty husbands, lucky girl.

      Finally the turd erupted from Ulrik’s arse and he grunted with satisfaction, immediately feeling a lot better. He squeezed out another couple of gushers of brown water but failed to notice the muffled exclamation of disgust that came from the pit below him.

      ‘Ulrik!’

      The voice was Malgard’s.

      ‘Leave me in peace you treacherous Saxon turd!’ he shouted, knowing that Malgard would not understand him, but would recognise his voice. Seconds later, the canvas flap was torn back and Malgard entered with Carl Two-tongues.

      ‘It is over,’ said Malgard. ‘All the men are dead, save a few scattered townsfolk, whom I will need for rebuilding. I have ordered an end to the killing.’

      Ulrik laughed in response to Carl’s simultaneous translation.

      ‘And my men … they took heed of your order?’

      ‘Of course,’ said Malgard.

      ‘I rather doubt it,’ replied Ulrik, straining to squeeze the last of the poisonous turd from his guts. ‘My men all know I would rip the balls from anyone who obeyed another man’s order. I’m guessing your order simply coincided with the end of the warriors and the beginning of the women. Am I right?’

      ‘It is of no importance,’ said Malgard, irritated and impatient. ‘What is important is that one of the sons is missing.’

      ‘So?’ sneered Ulrik, climbing to his feet and fastening the two layers of heavy woollen breeches. ‘Is not the victory complete? My men are already celebrating and I make it a rule not to stand between Vikings and plunder … especially of the female kind. I advise you to follow that same rule.’

      ‘The only rule that matters,’ said Malgard, ‘is the rule of inheritance. Brand is the thegn’s son. His claim is greater than mine if he lives to stand before Edward. He must be hiding and he must be found before he gets away.’

      ‘That’s your problem Malgard,’ said Ulrik, stumping down the slippery log stairs. ‘It is time for play.’

      ‘I will pay extra!’ shouted Malgard in his wake.

      ‘What did I tell you?’ laughed Ulrik, waving a hand in dismissal as he walked into the midst of his celebrating men. ‘Never get between a Viking and his plunder. I am a Viking.’

      ∞ ∞ ∞

      It was dark and getting cold.

      There was a constant stream of men using the pit, which had perceptibly filled, since my descent, but I hardly noticed the stench any more.

      I am not ashamed to say that I was confused and utterly terrified. I hadn’t understood all that I’d heard but it was clear my uncle Malgard was allied with the Danes and had arranged a surprise attack on the town. My family were dead or despoiled and I was being hunted so that Malgard could take the posts of reeve and thegn, which had been my father’s and would have been Gram’s. So fixed in my mind was that certainty that I had never even idly entertained the possibility that the titles could be mine. Now my heart flared with a cold fury at the treachery of Malgard and my own impotence. I was now the rightful thegn – the king’s representative charged with keeping his peace and doing his justice – but instead of marching into the Viking camp and seizing Malgard, I was cowering in a shit hole, accepting all the turd, piss and vomit like a king collecting tribute.

      But the one thing I knew I wanted was revenge. And to get revenge, I had to stay alive. That meant getting out of the pit before dawn because I would surely be discovered when light came and men were face down vomiting.

      The Danish celebrations went on for some time, but eventually the laughing and singing and occasional screaming of women subsided to a murmur and then silence. It had been a while since I was last shat, pissed or spewed upon and the common sounds of a summer’s night – insects, frogs and owls – caused me to conclude that all were asleep.

      Except the sentries.

      I knew for certainty there would be sentries. Even drunken, pillaging Vikings remember to set sentries in an enemy’s land, but there was a greater threat.

      Malgard.

      Malgard would be sober and would certainly be hunting me. And while the loss of my family was like a dull ache in my heart, my terror at the prospect of capture meant I had no time for the luxury of grief. I waited, scarcely breathing, for the sound of another soul.

      I counted two hundred seconds.

      Then another two hundred – the counting warding off the need for action. But at last I stood, the shit stench foul around me as my painful unfolding from the cess pit disturbed the turds and set them stinking again.

      My fine clothes I simply abandoned. It was better by far to emerge naked from the hole and would be easier to clean myself. New clothes could be found later. I kept only my shoes as I clambered dripping from the pit – a thing of slime – and peered out from behind the canvas into the moonlit nightmare. Bodies lay upon the ground in poses that could only mean death. Perhaps thirty yards away still glowed the embers of a bonfire but no shadows passed in front of it. I needed to skirt the green and get through the town to the stream that fed into the Arwan.

      The moon was high and two days from full. Its light was enough to present a danger if the sentries were alert, but it passed behind cloud and I took the opportunity to creep across the green through a field of cold and clammy corpses – ever ready to assume a similar pose. Then I heard a low growl СКАЧАТЬ