held up her shoulder and the blow landed there. Nevertheless, it struck her far back, all the way to the tamped ground floor of the house. Her shoulder burned and tingled. She shook her head, dazed, her eyes frantically searching for the master.
Her gaze found him standing immobile like a black colossus, the blade still protruding out of his chest. Vierra crawled away, a primal panic washing over her. The master should be dead, anyone should be dead after that kind of stab. The red spot on the chest of the master’s handsome linen suit grew, until it filled almost all of the front of the garb. The racket had finally wakened up Ambjorn, who got up clumsily and noisily, with no idea of what was happening.
The master did not see Ambjorn, he had eyes only for Vierra. For Vierra, and for the blade still sticking out of his chest. He yelled with a terrible voice.
“Why! Now I will go to the gray land of the shadows. Even though I waged war for all my life in strange lands, and I deserve to go the Halls of Heroes.” He let out a maniacal laughter. “Do you think you can leave? The Oak will not let you, the forest will not let you. We will meet in the gray halls.”
Ambjorn stepped from the back of the room and finally mastered himself. The master fell to his knees as streams of blood trickled from his clothes and to the floor. His fading eyes noticed Ambjorn.
“Strike me down, man, give me a sword and strike, so I won’t go to the eternity of women and perjurers.”
Ambjorn did not move.
“I cannot. I have never killed a helpless man, nor a hospitable host. That would surely bring ill luck.”
The master fell on his stomach and the knife sank up to the hilt into him and the red tip of the blade erupted through his back. Despite this, he was talking.
“Helpless, huh. I will kill all of you with my bare hands.”
He started dragging himself forward on the floor with his arms, leaving a wide trail of blood behind. Even his warrior’s strength had its limits, though. He trembled and, his advance came to a halt. He exhaled once and went silent.
Vierra looked at her dead master, and the feeling of emptiness inside her did not change. Somewhere in the past she would have felt relief for the death of this tyrant, but now when it happened, she could feel nothing.
“We have to get out of here,” Ambjorn yelled and opened the door. He gasped the cool night air as if there was smoke inside.
The evening had turned into a grim night, and in the gloom of the house, the open door was like a window to the impenetrable darkness. A chilly night wind carried with it an invasive feeling. It was as if someone was watching them through the darkness, seeing them in the glow of the embers and feeling their movement on the hard tamped floor of the house. Shivers ran through Vierra.
“Close the door fast,” she said and wrapped her arms around herself. Ambjorn did not need telling twice. “The Oak and the forest won’t let us go,” Vierra continued ominously, peeking involuntarily at the body which lay on the floor.
“Let’s feed the fire,” Ambjorn said curtly. He dug up large firewood from a box and threw them to the embers of the fireplace.
“Do not put too much or we will smoke to death.”
“I will rather die in light than in darkness. Where are the other slaves? We cannot leave them there, not now.”
“In the summer hut I think, but we cannot go out there.”
Ambjorn took a large branch from the box and wrapped some dirty linen rags he had found hung from the edge of the box around it.
“Is there grease in here?” he asked.
Vierra fetched what the man asked for, and soon he had made a primitive torch out of the branch, linen and grease. He lit it up from the fire that rose from the fireplace. It burned smoking and unevenly, but it burned.
“Show me the way.”
They stepped out of the door. Darkness attacked them and the little fire of the branch felt insignificant against its intrusive clutches. On the
Her gaze found him standing immobile like a black colossus, the blade still protruding out of his chest. Vierra crawled away, a primal panic washing over her. The master should be dead, anyone should be dead after that kind of stab. The red spot on the chest of the master’s handsome linen suit grew, until it filled almost all of the front of the garb. The racket had finally wakened up Ambjorn, who got up clumsily and noisily, with no idea of what was happening.
The master did not see Ambjorn, he had eyes only for Vierra. For Vierra, and for the blade still sticking out of his chest. He yelled with a terrible voice.
“Why! Now I will go to the gray land of the shadows. Even though I waged war for all my life in strange lands, and I deserve to go the Halls of Heroes.” He let out a maniacal laughter. “Do you think you can leave? The Oak will not let you, the forest will not let you. We will meet in the gray halls.”
Ambjorn stepped from the back of the room and finally mastered himself. The master fell to his knees as streams of blood trickled from his clothes and to the floor. His fading eyes noticed Ambjorn.
“Strike me down, man, give me a sword and strike, so I won’t go to the eternity of women and perjurers.”
Ambjorn did not move.
“I cannot. I have never killed a helpless man, nor a hospitable host. That would surely bring ill luck.”
The master fell on his stomach and the knife sank up to the hilt into him and the red tip of the blade erupted through his back. Despite this, he was talking.
“Helpless, huh. I will kill all of you with my bare hands.”
He started dragging himself forward on the floor with his arms, leaving a wide trail of blood behind. Even his warrior’s strength had its limits, though. He trembled and, his advance came to a halt. He exhaled once and went silent.
Vierra looked at her dead master, and the feeling of emptiness inside her did not change. Somewhere in the past she would have felt relief for the death of this tyrant, but now when it happened, she could feel nothing.
“We have to get out of here,” Ambjorn yelled and opened the door. He gasped the cool night air as if there was smoke inside.
The evening had turned into a grim night, and in the gloom of the house, the open door was like a window to the impenetrable darkness. A chilly night wind carried with it an invasive feeling. It was as if someone was watching them through the darkness, seeing them in the glow of the embers and feeling their movement on the hard tamped floor of the house. Shivers ran through Vierra.
“Close the door fast,” she said and wrapped her arms around herself. Ambjorn did not need telling twice. “The Oak and the forest won’t let us go,” Vierra continued ominously, peeking involuntarily at the body which lay on the floor.
“Let’s feed the fire,” Ambjorn said curtly. He dug up large firewood from a box and threw them to the embers of the fireplace.
“Do not put too much or we will smoke to death.”
“I will rather die in light than in darkness. Where are the other slaves? We cannot leave them there, not now.”
“In the summer hut I think, but we cannot go out there.”
Ambjorn took a large branch from the box and wrapped some dirty linen rags he had found hung from the edge of the box around it.
“Is there grease in here?” he asked.
Vierra fetched what the man asked for, and soon he had made a primitive torch out of the branch, linen and grease. He lit it up from the fire that rose from the fireplace. It burned smoking and unevenly, but it burned.
“Show me the way.”
They stepped out of the door. Darkness attacked them and the little fire of the branch felt insignificant against its intrusive clutches. On the
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