each other in silence. Then the younger inched forward, raising his hands in supplication and gesturing at Thorsteinâs leg with a nod of his head.
Thorstein lowered the axe and placed it on the ground. He was not going to regain his honor by killing an unarmed and beardless youth, and any remaining hope heâd had of reaching Valhalla now fizzled away to nothing. Let the boy approach. Thorstein knew he was dead anyway. Nothing mattered anymore.
The young man knelt beside him, casting a final glance at the bloodied axe before concentrating on Thorsteinâs leg. He prodded around the wound, shrinking back slightly as Thorstein growled. When Thorstein made no move to grab the axe, the man seemed to relax, and produced a small knife from the belt around his waist.
Thorstein waited for the first blow, bracing himself for more pain. There was no way this boy could kill him with one stroke, certainly not with such a puny weapon, and he expected death would not come swiftly.
To his surprise, rather than attacking him, the young man began to cut away the leg of his trousers from the level of the wound. He worked silently and quickly, and soon had a length of material in his hand. This he eased below Thorsteinâs leg, and then tied tightly around the wound.
Thorstein hissed as the cloth pressed into his flesh, but he realized the other man was trying to help him, so he kept his hand in his lap, away from the axe, not wanting to scare the stranger away.
The man was speaking again and, from the pointing and hand signals, Thorstein worked out that they needed to leave. There was no way he could walk on his own, but the young man was already lifting Thorsteinâs arm over his shoulder to help heave him up. With their mismatched sizes, and his rescuerâs lack of upper body strength, it took three excruciating attempts, but finally Thorstein was standing, his weight on one leg as they hobbled through the grass.
Every few steps they had to pause to give Thorstein a moment to recover from the onslaught of pain, but at last Thorstein saw a dwelling in the distance, and his companion managed to convey the fact that this was their destination.
The house was small, made of wooden timbers and a roof of grasses and reeds. It looked solid enough but was uneven, the roof slightly lower on one side than the other, and that more than anything else told Thorstein his host was not a wealthy man.
The young man helped Thorstein to a bench covered with a thin mattress, and he lay down, grateful to take the weight off his leg. He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. For a while, he was aware of his host moving around nearby, but soon exhaustion overtook him and he fell into a deep sleep.
WHEN THORSTEIN woke, it took him a moment to get his bearings. When the battle and the events afterward finally came back to him, he became aware of a heat in his leg, and the smell of herbs and flowers. He looked down the length of his body and saw his wound had been packed with some kind of remedy, and then rebound with a clean strip of cloth, tied tightly and neatly at the side. The leg ached when he shifted it, but the previous sharp pain had been subdued to a dull throbbing. Heâd expected to die from the cut, but it seemed his timely rescue and this aid might still save his life.
Remembering his rescuer, he looked for the young man, but found himself alone. He gazed around, taking in his surroundings. It didnât take long to catalogue the small space. The bench he lay on seemed to double as a seat and a bed. Close by was a table, upon which he saw a bowl, cup, and jug, and across the room sat a small wooden chest. In the centre of the dwelling a fire was burning, and a pot was positioned over it, steam rising gently from its depths and disappearing through the hole in the roof.
Just then the door opened and the young man hurried in. He carried a simple bow over his shoulder, and a bag in his hand. Thorstein watched as he
Thorstein lowered the axe and placed it on the ground. He was not going to regain his honor by killing an unarmed and beardless youth, and any remaining hope heâd had of reaching Valhalla now fizzled away to nothing. Let the boy approach. Thorstein knew he was dead anyway. Nothing mattered anymore.
The young man knelt beside him, casting a final glance at the bloodied axe before concentrating on Thorsteinâs leg. He prodded around the wound, shrinking back slightly as Thorstein growled. When Thorstein made no move to grab the axe, the man seemed to relax, and produced a small knife from the belt around his waist.
Thorstein waited for the first blow, bracing himself for more pain. There was no way this boy could kill him with one stroke, certainly not with such a puny weapon, and he expected death would not come swiftly.
To his surprise, rather than attacking him, the young man began to cut away the leg of his trousers from the level of the wound. He worked silently and quickly, and soon had a length of material in his hand. This he eased below Thorsteinâs leg, and then tied tightly around the wound.
Thorstein hissed as the cloth pressed into his flesh, but he realized the other man was trying to help him, so he kept his hand in his lap, away from the axe, not wanting to scare the stranger away.
The man was speaking again and, from the pointing and hand signals, Thorstein worked out that they needed to leave. There was no way he could walk on his own, but the young man was already lifting Thorsteinâs arm over his shoulder to help heave him up. With their mismatched sizes, and his rescuerâs lack of upper body strength, it took three excruciating attempts, but finally Thorstein was standing, his weight on one leg as they hobbled through the grass.
Every few steps they had to pause to give Thorstein a moment to recover from the onslaught of pain, but at last Thorstein saw a dwelling in the distance, and his companion managed to convey the fact that this was their destination.
The house was small, made of wooden timbers and a roof of grasses and reeds. It looked solid enough but was uneven, the roof slightly lower on one side than the other, and that more than anything else told Thorstein his host was not a wealthy man.
The young man helped Thorstein to a bench covered with a thin mattress, and he lay down, grateful to take the weight off his leg. He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. For a while, he was aware of his host moving around nearby, but soon exhaustion overtook him and he fell into a deep sleep.
WHEN THORSTEIN woke, it took him a moment to get his bearings. When the battle and the events afterward finally came back to him, he became aware of a heat in his leg, and the smell of herbs and flowers. He looked down the length of his body and saw his wound had been packed with some kind of remedy, and then rebound with a clean strip of cloth, tied tightly and neatly at the side. The leg ached when he shifted it, but the previous sharp pain had been subdued to a dull throbbing. Heâd expected to die from the cut, but it seemed his timely rescue and this aid might still save his life.
Remembering his rescuer, he looked for the young man, but found himself alone. He gazed around, taking in his surroundings. It didnât take long to catalogue the small space. The bench he lay on seemed to double as a seat and a bed. Close by was a table, upon which he saw a bowl, cup, and jug, and across the room sat a small wooden chest. In the centre of the dwelling a fire was burning, and a pot was positioned over it, steam rising gently from its depths and disappearing through the hole in the roof.
Just then the door opened and the young man hurried in. He carried a simple bow over his shoulder, and a bag in his hand. Thorstein watched as he
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