Konall emerged from the gloom. ‘The gods save me,’ he gasped. ‘There’s an image that will haunt me to my deathbed. For the love of all that’s dear, please get dressed.’
A guffaw exploded as Hakon followed close behind. ‘Little friend, the weapons in your hands are sufficient. One more would not make a difference.’ He reached down and threw a pair of breeches to Brann. ‘Put these on and stick to the weapons you can do harm with.’
Brann grunted and started to dress. ‘I was a bit distracted by these other three. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have tidied up.’
‘I’d have settled for just getting dressed,’ Konall said drily.
‘Wait,’ said Gerens from behind. ‘Don’t put them on just yet.’
‘Oh, make up your minds!’ Brann objected. ‘First you can’t wait to get me to cover up, now you… argh!’ His yelp turned to spluttering as cold water drenched him from his head down. He whirled to find Gerens solemnly regarding him, a now-empty bucket in his hand.
‘Your dead companions had left this water, and it may rinse some of the worst from you until you can wash properly. I don’t know if you had noticed, C, but you are in a bit of a mess.’
Brann just looked at him.
Gerens’s eyes widened with concern as some of the grime rinsed from his arm. ‘You are wounded!’
The other two stepped forward in concern, but Brann waved them away and ignored the pain to pull the tunic over his head. ‘It’s fine, it can wait. We need to leave.’
‘You are right there,’ Konall said. He found a sack. ‘Fasten your black weapons to your belt and put your many knives in this. You can sort them later.’
Reluctantly, Brann did so. He buckled on his belt and slid the weapons home, sliding the leather hood, dangling from the loop for his axe’s shaft, over the weapon’s head.
Hakon tossed over a pair of boots. ‘These do? They look like they’ll fit your dainty little feet.’
Brann felt a smile pull at the corners of his mouth. ‘So says someone who would need to have his footwear made at the boatyards.’ He looked at them. ‘They’re actually better than the ones I had.’ He tried them on. ‘And comfier.’
‘Good,’ Konall grunted impatiently. ‘Now grab another set of clothing and let’s go.’ Brann wondered why, and it must have shown. The tall blond boy added, ‘The state you are in, all that those clothes you are wearing will be good for when you take them off will be the fire. No use being a change of clothing down when we set off.’
Brann nodded his understanding and quickly gathered what he needed, adding it all to his sack of knives.
Konall turned to go, but Brann hesitated.
‘Wait just a moment.’
Konall threw his hands in the air. ‘Oh for the love of the gods. What now?’
‘It won’t take long.’ Brann crouched by the sergeant’s headless corpse and reached under the man’s tunic until he found what he was looking for: a pouch that had hung on a thong around the man’s neck when there had been a neck fit for that purpose. He pulled out a handful of coins and a set of dice.
‘Brann!’ Hakon was aghast. ‘We needed the clothes, that was fair enough, but this is not you. I’ve never seen you loot the dead before.’
‘And you won’t now.’ He scattered the coins on the ground and dropped the dice among them. ‘If you came across this scene, what would spring to mind? That they had fallen out over dicing or that one of the dead woke up, hauled itself out of the pit and slaughtered them?’
Hakon beamed. ‘Good thinking. Wait, is that what you did? The crawling out the pit and killing thing?’
Gerens cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘You think he stripped naked and smeared himself from top to toe in blood for the fun of it? And that these three committed suicide?’
The large boy grinned and slapped Brann on the back, prompting an un-noticed wince. ‘Good man! This will make an excellent story for the others.’
Brann picked up the sack. ‘You tell it then. There is much in it I’d rather not be reminded of.’
Konall snorted. ‘You and me both. At least you weren’t greeted with the sight that we were. Now can we go?’
Without a further word, they left the light of the fire, Konall leading them unerringly into the gloom. They skirted telltale campfires and their progress proved straightforward. Brann could remember nothing of how he had come to be in the burial pit, but it had been obvious from the start that there had been some sort of battle, although the only men remaining were those tasked with clearing the dead, and paid for their troubles with the loot. Those who had fought would seem to have moved on. He glanced around and counted no more than six or eight campfires, two of them with large pyres burning beside them. He pictured the pit he had been in, suppressing a shudder at the memory of slick bodies moving and sliding beneath him, and estimated the dead within it. Even if the men had doubled the number the following day to complete their pit, and assuming that all of the similar groups around them were allocated similar numbers to deal with, then the dead numbered in the low hundreds rather than the thousands. So not a major battle, then.
It still didn’t explain his involvement, though. Or his failure in combat, which worried him more. It was only luck that had kept him alive, and chance was the most unreliable of all factors, and the one he generally tried to avoid having to consider.
His thoughts were interrupted as he stumbled.
Instantly, Gerens caught him by the elbow, taking the sack from him with his other hand. ‘Steady there, chief.’
‘Thank you. I’m fine now.’
But Gerens maintained his hold on Brann’s arm. And Brann, feeling a weariness, hitherto banished by the energy of combat, creep over him, said nothing to shake off the support.
They left the fires behind without incident and found the horses picketed by the three boys in a copse on the far side of a hillock from the small valley where the conflict had been fought, dark shapes scattered in the gloom below and the noise of scavengers – human and animal – moving among them proving that the work to clear the bodies would continue into the next day. Brann shuddered. Had he not wakened when he did…
Gerens sat Brann in front of him, the wiry strength in his arms providing a calming security. As they moved off, Brann decided they were far enough from danger to be able to gain some idea of how fate had led him to a burial pit. The swaying of the horse, however, the weight removed from his legs, the companionship of his friends… it all felt so welcome that he decided to enjoy it for a few moments before questioning Gerens.
He was woken by a shout of alarm. Breta’s familiar booming tone was not happy as her powerful arms lifted him from the horse. ‘What do you bring me, you fools? You return him to us in such a state? He is barely conscious.’
‘Small wonder,’ said Cannick’s calm growl as his fingers pulled the blood-soaked tunic away from Brann’s side.
The sharp pain as the material pulled away from the wound on his ribs dispelled the torpor of his recent sleep and almost immediately threatened to send him back there as his head swam.
‘That’s an impressive nick you’ve got there, son. Looks like more on your arm, too. Breta, lay him by the fire where I can see better. And cut that tunic from him. Marlo, bring me my pack. We’ll see if we can get him sorted out before the others return. No need for them to get the shock we did when we saw him.’
‘Be grateful,’ Konall’s voice said from behind them, ‘that you did not suffer the shock we endured when we first saw him. I have seen some unpleasant sights in my time, but…’
Brann almost laughed, but the pain