The Crowded Shadows (54 page)

Wari yawned suddenly, rubbing at his tired face, and dragged his cloak up to his chin, murmuring in the manner of someone complaining about the cold. Soma began to root about in their things. She pulled a blackened pot from their kit and it soon became obvious that she was preparing to make some tea.

Wynter stood uncertainly, her hand still on her weapon, her eyes skipping from one warrior to the next. The Merron seemed to be settling themselves down for a vigil, all their tension gone in the blink of an eye, and she found herself, as usual, thrown by their mercurial twists of mood. Hallvor’s soft voice drew her attention back to Razi. The healer was patting his arm and calling him, trying to wake him from the reverie he seemed to have fallen into.

“There is nothing I can do,” he said. His gaze wandered up to meet Wynter’s. “Sis,” he said. “There is nothing… I have no sulphur. I have no… I have not even a brace of mouldy biscuits to lay against the suppuration.” He looked back down at Sól. “I have left it too late,” he said. “I have left it far too late. I have neglected him and now there is nothing I can do.”

“Did any of the others see the ghost?”

Wynter glanced sideways at Christopher and pulled her cloak tight. “I do not believe so,” she whispered.

“Think,” he hissed. “Think hard. Did they see Ashkr’s ghost?”

Wynter shifted uncomfortably and looked back across the camp to where the Merron sat around the fire, keeping vigil over Sólmundr. “I think that Sól… I am certain that Sól told them of it,” she whispered.

“Oh, God
curse
him,” said Christopher.

Wynter anxiously shushed him, but it was simply a reflex. No one was listening. They may as well have been invisible, sitting there side-by-side on their blanket rolls, dimly lit by the glowing embers of their own fire. Even Razi, alone and brooding in the shadows at the edge of the clearing, paid them no heed.

“What way did they react to the news?” hissed Christopher. “Were they alarmed?”

Wynter scanned the Merrons’ patient, waiting faces and shrugged. “I cannot say that they were alarmed, exactly. Though they seemed to have some differences of opinion on the matter. All in all, they seemed to take it very well.” She gestured to the warriors. “They have been like this ever since.”

Once the warriors had settled down, Hallvor and Razi had wrapped Sólmundr’s wound in clean bindings, changed his sweatsoaked shirt and made him as comfortable as possible. Then Razi had removed himself from the company and retreated away from everyone. He had been silent ever since, seated at the base of a tree, wrapped in his cloak, staring at Sól.

For a while, the Merron had occupied themselves with quiet prayers. Then Úlfnaor and Hallvor had placed a fire-basin of smouldering herbs at Sólmundr’s feet, and taken a seat on either side of their friend. Since then, the Merron had simply sat in calm silence, waiting for their friend to die.

Boro lay with his head on his master’s lap, his eyes fixed on Sól’s face. The warrior was wrapped loosely in his blankets and his cloak, sweating and shivering, glassy-eyed with fever. Thankfully, he seemed to have drifted far from his pain, and as the smoke from the fire-basin twined slowly around his body, Sólmundr lay placidly staring through the gaps in the canopy of the trees, his eyes roaming the stars that trembled overhead.

“I fear that he has not much time left,” murmured Wynter, glancing again at Christopher. He had yet to cross the camp and pay his respects. This surprised Wynter. In the short time they’d known each other, she had thought the two men had become very close, and Christopher’s distanced reaction to Sól’s decline worried her.

Christopher gazed at Sólmundr, then at Úlfnaor, but said nothing.

Frangok crossed from the Merron fire and knelt at Sólmundr’s side, a beaker in her hand. Hallvor tilted his head forward, to make it easier for him to drink, but he did not even try, and the liquid dribbled from his slack lips, running down his neck and staining his shirt. Sighing, Frangok carefully dried his face and returned to the fire with the beaker still full of tea.

“That is the first time I have seen that woman pay any attention to Sólmundr,” observed Wynter. “Until now, she and those brothers have been consistent in their disregard for the poor man.”

“That is because they are superstitious
chards
,” said Christopher. The venom in his voice took Wynter by surprise and she turned to stare at him. “This is all Ashkr’s
fault
!” he cried softly. “What did he expect these people to
do
after he was gone? Did he think that they would forget what Sólmundr
was
? Did he think they would simply throw their arms about the poor fellow and cry, ‘Ah well, come back home!’ Good
Frith
. If Ashkr had only
once
stopped to consider that poor man instead of himself, but no… not the bloody
Caora
. Not the bloody anointed of God!”

Christopher turned to Wynter in wide-eyed frustration, all set to continue his hissing tirade, but at the confusion in her face, he paused. The anger drained from him at the realisation that she did not understand, and he turned wearily back to face the clearing, his voice dull.

“Sólmundr should have died when Ashkr died, lass. Those people don’t care that it was Ashkr’s wish to spare him.” Christopher stared at Frangok, his face dark with bitterness. “
Tá Sólmundr ina ‘Neamh-bheo’ dhóibh anois
,” he sneered, apparently unaware that he had spoken Merron. “Walking Dead. Very bad luck. They will only be truly content once Sól is dead and everything is as it should be. They believe that Ashkr cannot make the journey to
An Domhan
without his
croí-eile
. They believe he has come back to claim Sól and take him with him as his own.” His eyes went to Boro. “No doubt they’ll cut the poor hound’s throat too in the end. He was Ashkr’s property, after all.”

Christopher flicked an anxious glance at Razi, and Wynter’s stomach went cold with horrible understanding. She remembered Christopher standing in the flame-licked shadows as Ashkr burned and Embla lay crushed beneath that tree. She remembered him telling her, his voice choked with tears, how Razi too should have died; how Embla had spared him, just as Ashkr had spared Sólmundr.

“Christopher,” she whispered. “They spoke of Embla. I heard them say her name.” Christopher turned slowly and they looked each other in the eye. “Frangok asked Sól had he seen Embla. I am certain of it
…”

“What did Sólmundr say?” whispered Christopher, his lips almost too numb to form the words.

Wynter shook her head. “He did not answer, he was too far gone… but I think I understand now, why Úlfnaor was so terribly insulting to Razi afterwards. He was sneering, and slyly scornful of him. He called him
…”
she frowned, trying to recall the words.

“
Coimhthíoch?
” whispered Christopher, and Wynter hissed in negation, holding up her hand to shush him, still trying to recall the words.

“Guttah
…”
she tried. “Guttah sport quivheeg
…”
She looked questioningly to him. “Guttah sport quivheeg?”

“
Giota spóirt choimhthígh
,” repeated Christopher softly. “A bit of foreign sport.” He glanced at Razi, sitting all alone by his tree, weaponless and distant. “How did the others take that?”

“It seemed to calm them. What…?”

“Úlfnaor fears for Razi’s life,” murmured Christopher. “He must have been trying to convince them that Razi was naught but a heat to Embla. Naught but a bit of sport. Nothing worth returning for.”

“But, Christopher,” she whispered. “I think Embla
did
return. I think I saw her. I think I heard Razi speak to her.” Christopher jerked, as if to get to his feet, and Wynter clamped down on his arm, holding him in place. “No one else saw,” she hissed. “I think even Razi believes it was a dream.” She dipped her chin, staring into his eyes. “We will say nothing,” she said firmly, “and hope that
…”

There was a flurry of movement on the Merron side of camp. Hallvor called out in alarm, and Úlfnaor echoed her, distressed. Wynter and Christopher leapt to their feet. In the shadows, Razi pushed himself up and stepped forward.

Sólmundr’s breathing had become suddenly laboured, each breath coming in a long, sawing rasp. Boro stood over him, barking, and Hallvor directed Úlfnaor to pull the huge dog away. She began to move Sólmundr down, preparing to lay him flat on his back.

“No,” cried Razi, his hand out. “Don’t lie him down.” The Merron turned as one and glared at him. Razi faltered, then continued softly. “If you prop him up a little more,” he said, “his breathing will come easier and he… his passing will be that much more comfortable.”

Úlfnaor translated, and everyone looked to Hallvor. She stared at Razi for a moment, then nodded. The Merron leapt to comply, and soon Sólmundr was sitting against the tree, a small pile of blankets and saddlebags at his back, his breathing a little easier than before.

Boro pulled free of Úlfnaor’s grip and ran once more to Sólmundr’s side. Whining, his tail between his legs, the giant hound nudged at his master’s limp fingers, but the warrior did not respond. Instead, he sank against his support, his head lolling back, his eyes fixed on the stars. His face was slack, and his chest heaved laboriously with every breath.

“It is nearly over,” whispered Razi.

Christopher took a step forward.

“Won’t you go to him, Chris?” asked Wynter gently.

Christopher’s gaze dropped to Boro, and he watched as the warhound snuffled desperately at his master’s unresponsive hands.

“Chris? Won’t you go to him?”

Christopher shook his head. He stepped back and took Wynter’s hand, and together they stood and watched, waiting helplessly as Sólmundr struggled towards his end.

“
Féach…
” Frangok’s soft whisper drew everyone’s attention, and the tall woman got slowly to her feet, her eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the firelight. “
Féach
,” she said again raising her hand to point into the shadows. “Ashkr
…”

T
he roar of flames grew to fill the clearing, and the company rose to their feet and watched as a pale column of flickering light approached through the trees.

“He is here,” whispered Christopher, clenching Wynter’s hand. “Good Frith. He is really here.”

Regal and shimmering, a flaring brightness against the dark, Ashkr’s ghost paused at the edge of the clearing. His handsome face was filled with tenderness as he regarded his dying friend. Úlfnaor whispered something and the Merron stepped away from Sól.

Sólmundr, oblivious to everything, continued to gaze up at the stars, his breath labouring slowly in and out, his body limp. Boro prowled in front of him, whining, his eyes on Ashkr. He barked uncertainly. Ashkr glanced at him, then tilted his head and gestured,
stand down
. The enormous warhound hesitated, then he dropped by Sólmundr and flattened himself into the earth, gazing at Ashkr’s ghost with confusion and dismay. The other hounds had already slunk into the trees, their tails down, and Wynter saw their eyes gleaming in the darkness as they hovered in the shadows.

Hallvor backed slowly to stand with the others. Her eyes switched between Úlfnaor and Ashkr’s ghost. “Aoire,” she urged, her hand out as if to draw Úlfnaor to her side. “Aoire
…”

Úlfnaor stayed crouched by Sólmundr, gazing into his friend’s lax face. “Sól?” he whispered.

Sólmundr did not seem to hear him and, after a moment, Úlfnaor sighed in resignation. He laid his hand on Sól’s labouring chest. “
Slán go fóil, a dhlúthchara
.
Fear maith a bhí ionat i gcónaí. Fear láidir, agus fear saor go deo
…”

Christopher’s breath caught for a moment, then he coughed. “He is saying goodbye
…”
he whispered hoarsely. “He’s telling Sól that he was always a great man, strong and… and forever free.”

Úlfnaor pressed his forehead to Sólmundr’s, then he rose abruptly and crossed to stand with the others, his head down.

Smiling, Ashkr’s ghost drifted forward. His eyes never left Sólmundr’s face, and Wynter understood that no one else here mattered to him, no one else even existed. In death, as in life, Sólmundr was all there was for Ashkr.

Ashkr passed Razi and for a moment the young man was illuminated by spectre-light. His eyes were wide as he watched the spirit pass, his cloak clenched tightly around him, as if to protect himself against the supernatural. Then the ghost moved on, and Razi was thrown into shadow once more.

Ashkr came to a halt at his friend’s side. “Sól,” he whispered. His voice was gentle through the violent roaring of the flames, and it wrung Wynter’s heart to hear the love in it. She moved closer to Christopher, held his hand a little tighter.

Ashkr leant down. “Sólmundr,” he insisted.

Sólmundr tore his attention from the ragged stars above and focused on the face that he had loved so well. He twitched a weary smile and whispered something too dry and low to hear. Ashkr regarded him gravely and sank to his knees by his side. “Sól,” he said. “
Mo mhuirnín bocht
…”

Sól’s lips tugged up at the corners. His eyes slipped shut and struggled opened again as he fought to stay awake. He whispered again, and Ashkr nodded, reaching to almost touch Sól’s hair.