Free Thunder God by Paul Watkins Page A

high-pitched wail of a wounded horse and turned to see that one of them had been hit by an arrow. There were already two arrows embedded in its saddle, but this third arrow had struck the horse’s neck. The other animals reared up and bolted towards the entrance of the gorge, leaving the Emperor and his servant standing in the open. The horse which had been hit went down on its front legs and then tipped sideways onto the ground.
    Now I watched the tattooed man come scrambling down the slope, sword in hand, heading for the Emperor.
    ‘Go!’ shouted Halfdan, his bright blue eyes piercing the dust. He pointed at the man.
    Obediently, I turned back, the weight of Halfdan’s sword unbalancing me as I sprinted towards the Emperor, who hadbegun to climb the steep slope at the other side of the gorge, along with one of his servants. They moved with unbearable slowness, pawing their way from boulder to boulder, grabbing at tufts of grass which came away in their hands.
    In a few strides, the tattooed man crossed the flat space at the bottom of the gorge. He began climbing up the other side, where the Emperor and his servant were still struggling forward. Sunlight filled the valley now, blinking off the curved blade of his sword.
    Over the swish of air through my burning lungs, I heard the soft swipes of my sandalled feet on the ground. Loose stones and earth tumbled down around me as I climbed after the tattooed man. My eyes filled with grit. The sword clanked awkwardly against stones as I moved, and the pain of climbing washed through my body like a tide.
    The tattooed man caught up with the servant, grabbed him by the collar of his tunic and dragged him down.
    The servant cried out only once, a piercing high-pitched sound like a rabbit makes when it is trapped in a snare.
    Through the dust I saw the servant on his back with his arms raised towards the blade which came down on him again and again.
    The man was lost in the rage of his killing and did not notice my approach until I stood almost beside him. Slowly, he raised his head and stared at me, eyes gone bleary with slaughter.
    I looked down at the servant, an old Greek named Demetrios. He had been a fisherman but was taken as a slave after a storm washed him and his lemon-yellow rowboat out to sea. He said he had drifted for twenty days, mad with thirst and sucking the dew from his clothes, before reaching the shores of the Black Sea. Now I barely recognised him.
    The tattooed man awoke from his frenzy. He bared his teeth and raised his sword to strike me but it clipped against a rockand the blade glanced off his knee, forcing his eyes closed with pain.
    I did not have time to be angry about the dead Greek, or afraid for myself, or aware of anything except the movement of Halfdan’s sword as I swung it up from my left side. Its own weight seemed to carry it forward. By the time the blade reached the man, it was moving so fast that I barely saw it connect with the flesh under his raised right arm, which held his own sword. The polished metal flowed through him as if it held no shape, no solidity. Like water. Like light. His sword flickered through the air. The arm which had held the sword spun in a slow arc, tracing a ragged circle of blood in the air, outstretched fingers turning at the centre of the wheel. When he tumbled to the ground, his body collapsing in upon itself, it gave the impression of two men struggling together inside one set of clothing. For a moment, his fingers twitched madly. Then they were still. The breath trailed from his lungs in one long heavy sigh. His silver armbands rolled down the slope, ringing like tiny bells as they bounced from rock to rock.
    In the silence that followed, I looked out across the valley. Far below, the fight had all but ended. The men who had blocked our way were falling back, dragging their wounded whose heels carved snakes in the dirt. The Varangian let them go. With wounded to care for, they would not come after us again.