“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 conies 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.