The Saxon Spears by James Calbraith

Author:James Calbraith [Calbraith, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Flying Squid
Published: 2019-12-10T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XIII

THE LAY OF WORANGON

I’m tempted to wait until tomorrow, so that I can talk to those Iute “runaways” and maybe find out something new about myself from them… But I can’t delay my escape any longer. I may not ever get another chance.

Just like last night, the guard falls asleep around midnight. I search out the knife, pick it up and saw through the ropes — the blade is so dull it takes me at least half an hour until the final thread snaps. I wait to see if whoever is keeping watch outside has heard anything. I crawl up to the sleeping guard, put a hand to his mouth, and the blade to his jugular, and slice through, making sure his vocal chords are cut first. I hold him down until all the blood leaves him and he stops thrashing under my grasp.

This is my first cold-blooded kill. Bile comes up to my throat and I struggle not to heave. This is different to the bandit I slew at Weland’s village, or the one I hacked at in the battle at the ford; there’s no rush to dull my emotions, no spur-of-the-moment decisions. I had a whole day to think this through. If I could do something to ensure the guard slept through what I was about to do next, I’d do that, but I had no choice. Does it still count as self-defence? Will God forgive me even this transgression? I mark a cross on his forehead and whisper a prayer for his soul; then, just to be sure, I pray to Wodan and Frige to take care of his spirit, even though he died asleep on his watch, and as such is worthy only of going to the frozen depths of Hel, where the damned dwell.

With trembling hands, I take the spear from his still-warm hands, return to the back of the hut and begin cutting a hole in the thatch roof. It’s wearying work. I need to make as little noise as possible, so I unravel the reed blades from the weave almost one by one. The thatch is wet and pliable, the spear blade bends the blades rather than cut through them. I don’t know how many hours pass before the hole is wide enough for me to get through without raising alarm.

The sky in the East is already greying by the time I climb out. I pull the spear after me. It’s not my Anglian blade — that one must lie on the pile of looted weapons in the middle of the camp — but I feel better having it with me than just the dull knife. I duck behind the hut and scan my surroundings. A guard stands some ten feet away, leaning on his spear. I’m curious how he hasn’t managed to notice my escape attempt yet — until I hear him snore.

I crawl away in the damp grass. The rest of the fort is asleep as well, except for the torch-bearing watchmen patrolling the outermost embankment.

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