“Helga is smart though, I do remember that. You will be careful, husband.”
That night after a feast that lasted until well after the dark hour of midnight, Merrik left the palace, for he’d been given a message from Oleg, spoken softly into his ear by a small boy. He walked beneath an archway and called out, “Oleg, it is I, Merrik. What goes?”
There was no answer, nothing. He heard people speaking, but from a distance, not near here where the boy had told him to meet Oleg. The guards were some distance away. He could hear them wagering on the throw of the dice. He smiled into the still shadows around him. He prepared to wait. He looked relaxed, ill-prepared, mayhap even drunk, but he was not. He began to whistle, a man with no cares to bow his shoulders, a man to whom the world had been freely given.
When the attack came, Merrik dropped gracefully to the ground and rolled. He came up, leaping backward even as he came down solidly on his booted feet.
There were two of them, big men, garbed in coarse bearskins, their faces covered with thick beards, heavy silver bands around their upper arms. He saw the intent in their eyes even in the dim light given off by the distant rush torches and the sliver of moon overhead.
They both had curved knives like the ones Merrik had seen in Kiev, used by the Arabs, sharp knives, the silver gleaming.
He drew his own knife and tossed it from his right hand to his left then back again, his rhythm steady. His legs were planted firmly, spread. He smiled at the men.
They were coming toward him, splitting up now, and they were more silent than starving wolves in the middle of winter, stalking their prey.
He laughed aloud and called out, “You are slow and I grow weary of waiting for you to prove your prowess. Have you any skill, I wonder. You look like savages to me, naught more than slaves released just this night to kill me. You, there on my left, hopping about like a virgin maid on her marriage night, what will you do? Sing me a song? Play the lute for your friend here to chant me a story? You puking coward, come on, cease your dancing!”
The man howled, and rushed at Merrik, the other one just an instant behind in his lunge, but it was enough, and Merrik knew it was enough. He struck the big man’s throat with the flat of his hand, then spun him about. He looked at his face as he eased his knife into his chest. The man dropped without a sound, but Merrik didn’t see him, for the other man was on him, and this one was smarter, perhaps, for he wasn’t rushing in so quickly.
“I’ll see your guts in the dirt,” he said, and leapt, his balance keen, his eyes on Merrik’s eyes and the knife that still Merrik gently tossed back and forth from left hand to right hand, taunting.
Merrik took two quick sideways steps and slashed out with his knife. The other man jumped backward, the tip of Merrik’s knife only slicing through the outer bearskin he wore.
He looked down at the clean knife-cut through the skin, then back up at Merrik. “You’ll not gut me, you bastard. I’ll kick your guts out of your belly and grind them into the dirt for cutting my bearskin.”
Merrik didn’t like the image of that. He skipped sideways until he was standing just behind the fallen body of this man’s friend. Slowly, he kicked the man’s ribs, pushing him forward. Then he spat on his body.
It was enough. The man roared as he leapt forward, screaming curses at Merrik, screaming what he would do to him with his knife. He was fierce and he became a fool only for a moment. When Merrik’s knife came up underhand to his belly, he jerked his entire chest inward, nearly bowing his body. He did a complete turn, then brought down his knife in a swift arc, slicing Merrik’s arm.
Merrik felt the sudden cold of his split flesh, then the blessed numbness that followed. The man wasn’t as careless as his friend had been. He felt the warmth of his own blood, knew the bleeding wouldn’t stop, and in that, he knew he would win. He made a pained sound and staggered, his head down, grabbing his wounded arm in his other hand.
The man rushed in, his knife raised. When Merrik could breathe in the man’s rancid smell, he smashed his bloody arm into his face, rubbing his eyes, the thick warm blood momentarily blinding the man.
The man tried to turn, tried to escape, but Merrik now wrapped his good arm around his throat and spun him about. He pressed until he knew the man could scarcely breathe.
“Who is your master?”
“I have no master. Kill me. I have failed.”
“Aye, you have. Tell me your master and I will let you live.”
Merrik lightly touched his knife tip to the man’s throat. Gently, he shoved the tip inward. “Tell me,” he said.
“It is Rollo, aye, the great Rollo. He wants you dead.”
Merrik was so startled that he loosed his grip. The man lurched forward, ripping himself free. He staggered and ran full tilt into the darkness.
Merrik let him go. He stood there, clutching his arm to his chest, panting. He wanted to chase the man down but he doubted he could catch him anyway. He would probably fall flat on his face. His arm was no longer numb. It was on fire, the pain making him grit his teeth. He ripped off the end of his tunic and wrapped it around the gushing wound.
Oleg was impatiently pacing the length of the sleeping chamber. When Merrik entered, he said quickly, “Don’t worry. Laren is with Rollo and her sisters, telling them a story. Helga and Ferlain didn’t want to hear it, but Uncle Rollo gave them no choice.”
“She’s not here then,” Merrik said. “Good.”
It was then that Oleg saw his arm. “By all the gods, Merrik, you bleed like a stoat! I should have gone with you, dammit! I shouldn’t have listened to you.”
Merrik just smiled wearily at him, not bothering to interrupt his cursing. He unwrapped the wound on his arm and stared down it. It was bleeding only sluggishly, but he knew it needed stitching.
“Get Old Firren. Tell him to bring his needle and some thread.”