The Rule. Jack Colman

back to Kelda.

      ‘Who is it?’ she whispered. He could hear the breath rushing in and out of her chest.

      ‘A thieving band from the uplands, most like,’ he replied grimly. ‘Could be as many as twenty of them, waiting until nightfall to snatch any beast we don’t bring inside the walls.’

      Kelda drew a sharp intake of breath. ‘What should we do?’

      Gunnarr gave her a reckless look and patted the short skinning knife that hung at his waist. ‘If I have to fight them, their numbers will tell eventually. They’ll be starving, just like everyone else, so if I’m caught they’ll likely roast me over their fire. You they’ll carry off to bear their children.’

      Kelda caught his hand. ‘Let’s go back.’

      Gunnarr shook his head.

      ‘What then?’

      ‘Egil would want us to ambush them and drive them off.’ He reached across into the nearest bush and handed Kelda a stick about the length of her arm. ‘When I give the signal, you come out waving your sword and screaming as loud as you can. They’ll think us an army, and flee.’

      Taking the stick, Kelda looked down at it in her hand and nodded hesitantly. Her eyes flashed a sparkle of enjoyment. Gunnarr smiled at her and fell forward onto his front to crawl off again.

      Within a few yards he heard the low voice talking once more, and this time he could make out words.

      ‘Stupid, stupid …’ the voice was saying, over and over again. The words were punctuated by the sound of splashing footsteps as the man stamped about in the water somewhere below Gunnarr’s line of sight.

      Gunnarr slowed his pace, his heart beating solidly against the ground beneath him. The undergrowth was thinning, but the sound of his limbs as he dragged them through the foliage seemed to be louder than ever. He realised that he could not hear Kelda. For once she had stayed back, watching as he pressed forward.

      Within two more yards he breached the cover of the last bush. Once he did the long grass died away into tough, cropped shoots. His head and shoulders had emerged on an elevated ridge that overlooked the water, although from how high up he could not say. The men were still hidden from view somewhere beneath him, but the low voice continued to talk, almost incessantly.

      ‘Look at this, stupid, stupid …’

      It was only when his face was barely inches from the edge of the bank that Gunnarr for the first time felt a stab of unease. He glanced backwards. Kelda was watching him from the bushes, her face frozen with anticipation. He shook away his thoughts and went on. Pushing with his toes, he eased himself forward until the grass parted from his vision and the bright water flashed up at him from below. His eyes swallowed in the scene, and his breath died upon his lips.

      A man was standing below him at the edge of the water. He was facing the opposite direction, hands on his hips, as if deep in thought. Gunnarr was so close that he could see grains of dirt in the man’s scalp where his hair thinned at the back of his head. Though he was clad in a brown woollen tunic, the man’s shoulders were shaking as if through cold, and at intervals he would place his hands into his hair and clutch at it as if intending to pull it free.

      It was not to him that Gunnarr’s eyes were drawn, though. Instead, he found himself looking in the same direction that the man was staring. There his gaze fell upon the second man, the high-voiced one, and the sight caused Gunnarr’s hands to clench involuntarily around fistfuls of grass.

      The second man was nearer to being a boy. He could not have been much older than Gunnarr. He was lying on his back in a shallow point in the middle of the stream, naked, his pale skin very bright amidst the greyness of the river rocks. He could almost have been bathing, but the rushing water was surging against the crown of his head and pouring over into his open eyes and mouth, and the boy was not in the least bit conscious of it.

      A splash of movement sounded from below, and Gunnarr almost jolted with shock as the man began to stride across to where the boy lay. For once the man’s lips had fallen silent, and the sound of the water sloshing around his feet was the only noise to mask that of Gunnarr’s heartbeat. The man came to stand over the boy’s body and stooped to peer down at it, like a hunter studying a paw print. He gazed at the corpse for a long while, his lips pursed questioningly, and then Gunnarr realised that a knife was in the man’s hand. With a sudden movement, he dropped to a knee in the water and began jerking his arm back and forth in a swift cutting motion.

      The sight caused Gunnarr to lock rigid with shock. He clamped shut his jaw and tried to avert his eyes. And as soon as he did, he knew immediately that he had been found.

      He must have made a sound. Some rustle of grass, or snap of a twig. With dread, he rolled his eyes back towards the scene, and found the man crouched frozen over the body, his head up and alert and his eyes roving slowly across the river bank directly below where Gunnarr lay. Gunnarr could see the man’s face for the first time. It was not one he recognised. It was the kind of drained, hollow face that displayed every bone, every muscle that moved beneath the skin. His complexion was the colour of week-old bruises, and his thin brown hair hung so closely to his face that his ears protruded through it. His eyes were creeping steadily upwards, seeking someone out. For a heartbeat Gunnarr was trapped with indecision. Then his muscles twitched and came alive again, and with a burst of sound he found himself bolting from his hiding place and scrambling back towards the bushes.

      He found Kelda blocking his path, waiting for him, her face barely inches from his own.

      ‘Kelda, go back,’ he urged.

      For a moment he saw a flicker of confusion pass across her face, the shadow of an uncertain smile giving way to a crease of concern.

      Footsteps started splashing through the water down below.

      ‘Run back!’ he told her again, his voice almost a shout this time, and finally her eyes flicked past him and back again and she seemed to understand.

      She clasped his hand. ‘Come on!’

      But Gunnarr hesitated. The ground around them shook as a weight leapt against the bank beneath their feet. Kelda screamed and skittered backwards. She grabbed for Gunnarr’s arm again, but he shook free of her grasp and fixed his eyes on the edge of the bank.

      With a thud, a hand snapped up over the side and clutched hold of the grass. It was trembling with effort, the nails clawing down into the soft earth. With a crack of broken branches, Kelda was gone, vanished into the undergrowth, but Gunnarr realised that he was not going to follow. Thoughts, or memories, were racing through his mind so fast that he did not know what they were, but he knew that he had to stay. He rose to his feet and stepped forward towards the river.

      The man was halfway through hauling himself up over the bank, the top of his head cresting the side, but he must have heard Gunnarr’s movement and feared an attack raining down from above while he was helpless, for his hands pushed free of the bank and he crashed back down into the water.

      Slowly, Gunnarr continued forward. As he leaned out cautiously over the side he found the man staring up at him from below, his body tensed, ready to spring forward or dart backwards at the slightest flinch. They studied each other’s eyes for a moment, and then the man’s features stretched into a twitching grin.

      ‘Greetings, little friend. What are you doing up there?’ His voice was speaking different words to his eyes.

      Gunnarr placed a hand on the ground and came warily down the slope to the stream floor. The man watched every step, twisting his neck to follow the movement. Behind him, the body still lay in the water like a log. Gunnarr’s eyes must have flicked towards it, for the man also glanced quickly around at the sight, and then turned back to Gunnarr with a short awkward laugh.

      ‘I know you, I think,’ the man said, as Gunnarr reached the fine shale gravel that bordered the stream. ‘You’re an Egilsson.’

      ‘Folkvarr was my father,’ Gunnarr corrected instinctively, with such conviction that the man shrank