“I’ll be glad to get out of this,” said Martin as they got everything loaded up and balanced. They were leaving nothing behind.
It was an oddly cheerful procession, although it was so cold and miserable. Ivar could not talk; he was too tired. The others laughed and joked as they squelched along, sticking frequently in mud, cursing and swearing as they dug out the wheels for the third time, stumbling and once losing the kidneys entirely when the nameless lad lost hold of his side of one basket. But Uta groped around in the underbrush and found them both, gleaming wetly, still warm. The carcass steamed in the cold air, its soul dissolving upward, if horses had souls. Had the scholars at Quedlinhame ever discussed such a question? Ivar could not remember. His old life seemed impossibly distant. All he knew now was that his feet were numb and his nose was running and there was an unfathomable amount of debris fallen just within the halo of the lanterns although fortunately no great trunk had fallen across the road.
ugh 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.
“I’ll be glad to get out of this,” said Martin as they got everything loaded up and balanced. They were leaving nothing behind.
It was an oddly cheerful procession, although it was so cold and miserable. Ivar could not talk; he was too tired. The others laughed and joked as they squelched along, sticking frequently in mud, cursing and swearing as they dug out the wheels for the third time, stumbling and once losing the kidneys entirely when the nameless lad lost hold of his side of one basket. But Uta groped around in the underbrush and found them both, gleaming wetly, still warm. The carcass steamed in the cold air, its soul dissolving upward, if horses had souls. Had the scholars at Quedlinhame ever discussed such a question? Ivar could not remember. His old life seemed impossibly distant. All he knew now was that his feet were numb and his nose was running and there was an unfathomable amount of debris fallen just within the halo of the lanterns although fortunately no great trunk had fallen across the road.
A dozen folk waited for them at the gateway of a palisade dimly seen in the murky night. A cluster of buildings huddled within its safety, but it was too dark to note more than shapes scattered across a clearing. He was hustled into the blessed warmth of a long hall while his companions took the carcass elsewhere to hang. Erkanwulf sat on furs beside the hearth fire, talking to a wakeful child crouched beside him.
“Ma!” The child called to a woman who had led Ivar in from the gate. She pushed back her hood to reveal a face more handsome than pretty. She had an infant bundled against her chest in a sling. “He says he was at Gent! Just like Da!”
“You’re out of Gent?” asked the woman in surprise.
“Nay,” replied Erkanwulf, “I was only there one time, when there was a big battle. That was years ago. I was just a lad.”