Two Ravens Read Online Free PDF Page B

Bjarni knocked him into the mob. Then a bald man charged him too exuberantly, and Bjarni stepped off at the right moment and tripped him into the fire. Blood was running down Bjarni’s cheek from a cut in his eyebrow; he sobbed for breath. Another man was circling toward him, crouched like a wrestler.
    Bjarni moved away from him, trying to gain his breath. The fire heated his back. He could not escape from this. It was Sigurd who was directing it. He strode into the wrestler, wishing it were Sigurd, and they exchanged some blows and Sigurd’s man fell.
    The yelling of the mob rang in his ears. He pawed at the cut over his eye and the blood got into the eye and half-blinded him. Another man was edging toward him, wary, his arms up over his face.
    “I hope you will not hold this against me,” Bjarni said. He swung at the man’s head and missed.
    The man dodged to the left. He grinned, showing gapped teeth. “I will forgive hundreds of those,” he said.
    “Then you won’t mind this one.” Bjarni wheeled his right arm again at the man’s jaw.
    Sigurd’s man dodged to the left again, and Bjarni met him with his left fist, straight in the pit of his gut. The man sat down hard, his eyes filming over. Already his replacement was elbowing out of the crowd.
    Bjarni swayed on his feet; his fists hurt, and his eye was full of blood. He knew he would go down soon. He hated Sigurd for this; he would never join Sigurd now. The next man came at him all in a rush, shouting, and butted him in the stomach, and Bjarni got him by the belt and threw him back against the hearth.
    He had lost count. His breath sawed in and out of his throat. The man facing him now was as tall as he was, almost as brawny, and fresh as new milk. They stood foot to foot pounding each other on the chest and shoulders. Bjarni slipped and went to one knee and a fist smashed into the side of his head. His eyes lost their power to see. He found himself on his feet again, his arms pumping. Through a red mist he saw the other big man go down.
    Still there was another. He could scarcely lift his arms. He fell again and staggered up and fell without a hand laid on him. The cheers of Sigurd’s men resounded over him. He could not move. A black sleep took him.
     
    WHEN HE CAME BACK to himself he was lying on a bench in the sleeping booth where his crew was quartered. The morning sun shone in the window. Ulf and his brothers were sitting around him. Ulf brought him a bucket of water to wash in.
    “Why didn’t you lie down when you saw what the game was?”
    Bjarni snarled at him. His lip and eye were swollen and when he moved, his muscles ached. He pushed Jon and Andres away from him and bent over the bucket of water.
    “We tried to help you,” Jon said. “Why are you angry with us?
    “Get out of here,” Bjarni said. It hurt to talk. He dipped his hands into the cold water.
    “You sound like Papa,” Andres said. He and Jon left the booth.
    Bjarni washed his face and his filthy hands, scabbed with dirt and blood. Ulf sat watching him in silence. Bjarni could not look at him; the memory of his humiliation burned in him. There was no one else in the booth. He was ashamed to go out, ashamed to see the men who had beaten him, and he prolonged the washing. The door at the other end of the booth opened.
    “Cover yourselves,” a woman called.
    Bjarni straightened; Ulf slid off the bench to his feet. “Gudrun,” he called.
    Sigurd’s blond daughter came down the booth toward them, a basket under her arm. She passed through the slice of daylight under the window and the light shone over her wheaten hair and creamy skin.
    “I have brought you some food,” she said, and set the basket down.
    “Stay,” Ulf said. He caught hold of her hand.
    “I must go,” she said.
    But she sat down willingly enough beside Ulf on the bench. She smiled at Bjarni and said, “You are quite a fighting man. My father is much pleased with you.”
    Bjarni wiped his face on a towel.