‘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 Bait 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.”