The Crowded Shadows (28 page)

“Wynter?” he whispered hoarsely.

“I am awake,” she said, watching his dark silhouette bend and stretch, as he gathered up his clothes.

“Get ready,” he said. “It is time.”

With a sigh, she reached for her things and began to dress under the cover of her blankets.

“Where is Christopher?” whispered Razi, pulling on his trousers.

“I’m here,” answered the young man, ducking into the tent. “It’s very early, are you sure you’re ready?”

Razi glanced at him, the firelight catching his profile for a moment before the tent-flap dropped in place and cast its partial shadow. “How is Sólmundr?” he asked.

“Hallvor has been giving him the tincture of opium all night, just as you asked. He’s much calmer.”

Razi sighed and shook his head as he laced his boot. “It will not be enough to dull the pain of what is to come. I wish we could use those herbs she spoke of, and let him sleep through this ordeal.”

“Aye, well. Hallvor is right, Razi, they would kill the poor fellow. Those herbs are too strong for someone as weakened as Sól.”

Wynter looked at Christopher’s profile, outlined against the illuminated side of the tent, and saw a deep weariness in his posture. “You did not come to bed,” she said softly, trying to see his face.

Razi paused in dressing himself and peered at his friend. “Have you slept at all, Christopher?”

“I had a rest.”

“I need you sharp, Chris. You know that.”

“I’m sharp enough,” he said quietly. He put his wrap down on Wynter’s bed and she saw that it was one of the fur blankets that they would have shared. He must have taken it from their bed while she slept. “Everything you asked for has been done,” he said. “Are you ready?”

Razi sat for a moment, looking at Christopher’s indistinct outline. Then he bent to pull on his other boot. “Is it morning?”

“Very near to. You will have plenty of light by the time you are ready to start. They have moved Sólmundr to a narrow pallet, like you said, and opened the top of the tent to let in the light and the air.”

“Very well,” said Razi. He got to his feet and took a deep breath, running his hands over his face and pushing his heavy curls back from his eyes. “Let us go,” he said and stalked out into the camp.

As Razi had requested, Wynter and Christopher bound their hair tightly to their skulls and left off their tops. Wynter felt strange walking through the crowd of silent Merron wearing nothing but her britches and her breast cloth, but when she saw Hallvor waiting by the wash table, similarly attired, she breathed deeply, let it go and concentrated on the daunting task ahead.

Razi immediately began scrubbing himself clean, soaping and rinsing his arms and chest many times before he was satisfied, cleaning his hands and nails with great care. Wynter and Christopher did the same, as did a bemused Hallvor. The Merron stood just outside the ring of bright firelight, watching every move as if it were a magic trick. Above the black shapes of the trees, the sky began to fill with rosy light.

Wynter glanced up as Christopher bent his head to soap the back of his neck. She continued scrubbing her nails, but kept her eyes on him as he worked the soap across his shoulders and down his arms. He was covered in bruises and scrapes, every movement stiff. Wynter knew she must look very similar. Even now her body groaned in protest at every turn. Christopher began to soap his chest and under his arms. As he did so, he lifted his sleepless eyes and inadvertently looked into Wynter’s face. She dropped her gaze, and concentrated on scrubbing her hands. The loose ends of her woollen bracelet came untucked and they waved like seaweed in the soapy water.

When she finally glanced back up, Christopher had turned away from her and was standing looking off into the trees, his dripping hands hanging loosely by his sides. The claw-marks on his back and shoulders were a savage contrast to his pale skin. Wynter stepped to his side, shaking her arms free of water. For a moment the two of them stood looking into the darkness beyond the firelight, saying nothing. Then dawn burst in sudden glory across the tops of the trees, spilling liquid gold against their wet bodies and cancelling the firelight in a mythical flood. Both Christopher and Wynter inhaled as one and closed their eyes, turning their faces instinctively to the sun.

“Are we ready?” asked Razi. Everyone nodded and he jerked his chin at two men who were standing by the fire. At his signal they lifted the cauldron of boiling water that held his instruments and carried it after him into the tent where Sólmundr lay waiting.

Razi knelt down beside Sólmundr’s bed, speaking softly in Hadrish and smiling. “Hello Sól.” Blearily, the poor man opened his eyes and gazed up at him. “I am going to prepare you now, if I may?”

Ashkr released Sólmundr’s hand and gently took the covers from his body, leaving him naked and exposed. Sól was lying on a narrow pallet of pine boughs and hide, his body still curled around his fist, as he had been the night before. He was sweating and shaking, though the opium seemed to have dulled much of his pain.

Razi spoke to him again, leaning forward so that he could easily make eye contact. “You understand now, Sól, what we are about to do? You remember all we spoke about last night?” Christopher translated all this into Merron, as he, Wynter and Hallvor took their appointed places around the pallet.

Sólmundr nodded once, his eyes full of fear and pain. The men set the cauldron of instruments down by Razi’s side, and Sólmundr’s eyes drifted to it, his breath quickening. “Do not look there, Sól,” said Razi, gently turning Sólmundr’s head. “Just look at Ashkr. That is it. You keep looking at him.” Razi’s soothing voice went on, as another bowl was laid beside him, this one filled with hot water and soap. Christopher went on translating, his voice just as calm, just as soothing as Razi’s. “We are going to roll you onto your back now, Sól. Just let us do everything for you, don’t you try… that’s it… good. Good fellow. That’s good.”

Razi nodded to Embla and Úlfnaor and they sprang forward to join the others kneeling around the bed. Gently, all six of them pressed down on Sólmundr’s shoulders, knees and ankles. Sólmundr cried out and his body tried to curl back into a ball, his sinewy muscles trembling with the strain. At his voice, the warhounds, chained on the far side of the camp, began to howl and bay.

Wynter fought hard to keep her hold on the poor man’s sweat-soaked ankle.

“Sól,” murmured Razi. “Do not be afraid to cry out. There is not a man alive who would not do so under this torment. You cry out, if that is your wish.” He nodded to the men and women who were waiting at the door, and they hurried forward with the thick leather straps that were going to hold Sólmundr down. “Keep looking at Ashkr, Sól,” he crooned. “Keep looking at him.”

Sólmundr had a tremendous grip on Ashkr’s hand. Wynter was sure that Ashkr’s fingers must simply burst under the pressure, but the blond man just kept smiling down into his friend’s face, running his hand through Sólmundr’s hair. “
Beidh chuile rud go maith, a chroí
,” he murmured.

The leather straps were pulled tight across Sólmundr’s chest, thighs and ankles, and fixed in place by the hammering of long wooden tent pegs into the ground. Finally Ashkr had to unpeel Sólmundr’s grip from his hand so that Sólmundr’s wrists could be similarly restrained. Sólmundr was clearly terrified now, his mouth compressed into an unsteady line, his breath coming in long, shaky sighs. Ashkr leant over him, keeping eye contact and smiling. He stroked the poor man’s hair, murmuring all the time.

“Now, Sól,” said Razi, taking a cloth from the bowl of hot water and lathering it with soap. “I must ask Úlfnaor and Embla to leave.” He began to wash Sólmundr’s torso, cleaning him of sweat and dirt. He crooned sympathetically as Sólmundr tried to curl against the pain. “I know, I know. I am so sorry. Have you anything you wish to do before Úlfnaor leaves? Any prayers or such things you need to complete before I begin? Sólmundr? Have you anything that you wish your Shepherd to do before he leaves?”

Sólmundr, still staring into Ashkr’s eyes, tightly shook his head.

Razi nodded and tipped his head to Úlfnaor and Embla. They leant, one at a time, and kissed their friend on his lips and stroked his face. Embla whispered what sounded like a blessing. She hugged her brother. Then they left and it was only the six of them remaining in the tent.

They each took their appointed positions, Wynter and Christopher on Sólmundr’s left, a copper bowl of small, silver implements that Razi called “retractors,” between them, and a slate and charcoal by Wynter’s side. Razi and Hallvor knelt on Sólmundr’s right, Hallvor poised with a wicker basket of freshly laundered squares of cloth.

Razi uncorked a little brown bottle and rubbed his hands with a few drops of the contents. The tent filled with the familiar scent of alcohol and lemons. He swabbed Sólmundr’s stomach with some of the precious liquid and put the bottle away, then he sat back on his heels and took a deep breath. He looked up through the open top of the tent. New-born sunlight was flooding the fresh sky, and there was plenty of illumination. “And so,” he murmured, blinking up into the virgin blue.

Then he calmly began.

He lifted a small sharp knife from the cauldron, raised his eyes to Christopher and nodded. Christopher splayed his left hand against Sólmundr’s stomach. The man flinched and gasped with fear, and Razi leant over him, looking into his face. “Sólmundr,” he said. “You keep looking at Ashkr, keep looking at him and everything will be over as quickly as I can make it so.”

Razi looked down at Christopher’s hand. The young man had his thumb pressed against Sólmundr’s hip bone, his little finger just tipping the man’s navel. His scarred fingers were spread against the poor man’s stomach, pointing straight down towards his groin. Calmly, Razi brought the point of his knife to where the tip of Christopher’s index finger rested low on the right side of Sólmundr’s stomach. This, he had explained earlier, was the best way of locating the canker that might lurk within Sólmundr’s body. Christopher lifted his hand away. Razi wet his lips, released a long, slow breath, and pressed the blade into Sólmundr’s quivering flesh.

Blood welled up immediately, and Hallvor mopped at it as Razi made a long, deep incision. His knife was exceptionally sharp, and to Wynter’s amazement, Sólmundr had very little reaction to this first cut. Razi laid his knife back into the cauldron with a clink.

“Now Christopher,” he murmured. “I am going to pull back this first layer. I would like to you insert the retractors as we discussed and hold the wound open.”

Christopher took two of the metal right angles and held them poised. Razi slid his fingers into the wound, gently pushing the edges apart, and Christopher slipped the silver implements into place. Sólmundr immediately went rigid and began to moan, low and continuous, in the back of his throat. It was a horrible sound, and Wynter couldn’t help but glance up at his face. He was bug-eyed and straining, his teeth bared to the gum.

“
Wynter!
” Razi’s sharp voice snapped her eyes back to the job. “Pay
attention
.”

She fixed her gaze on the awful gaping mouth of the wound and nodded compulsively, her mind blank. Christopher was translating something for Hallvor who was swabbing blood away from the incision, while Razi put a quick stitch into some area of flesh. Sólmundr was trembling, the blood that ran in bright trails down his stomach shivering with the tremors of his body. Razi’s hands were already scarlet to the wrist. Wynter stared without moving.

“Two retractors,” said Christopher, his voice coming through faintly, and from a great distance. “Two retractors,” he repeated. “Three swabs.”

Razi took his knife from the cauldron and cut once more into Sólmundr’s body. He sliced down along the same path again, opening another layer of flesh that seemed to lie beneath the first.
My God
, thought Wynter,
we are just like books. Razi is peeling him open one layer at a time, like cutting into the pages of a book
. She watched from miles away as Christopher slid more silver retractors into place.

“Two more retractors. Four swabs.”

Hallvor swabbed away the blood again, trying to keep the area clear enough for Razi to see what he was doing. Razi frantically inserted yet more single stitches, and Wynter distantly realised that he was tying off the areas that were bleeding most profusely into the cavity of the wound.

“Iseult!” snapped Christopher suddenly. She jumped and looked up at him, blinking. “Wake
up
!” he said. He was glaring angrily at her, his red hands poised in front of him, his grey eyes spitting fire. Suddenly, the tent snapped back into focus.

Sólmundr was panting in the background,
huh-huh-huh-huh
. Ashkr was crooning to him in soft Merron. Razi’s low, deep voice was speaking, murmuring apologies and explanations. Wynter realised she had been sitting there like a stone, doing nothing.

“Do your bloody
job
,” snapped Christopher, “or get out!”

She blinked at him, then scrabbled for the slate and charcoal. “Tuh… two retractors!” she said, making two marks beneath the R on the slate. “Three, um, three
…”

“It’s
four
retractors. Four retractors, seven swabs.” Christopher’s voice was softer now. He ducked to catch her eye. “All right?” he said. “
Four
retractors…
seven
swabs.”

She glanced up at Razi and Hallvor as she made the marks. They were poised over their work, watching her. She forced herself not to look at Sólmundr’s tormented face.