Einar Thorfinnsson never knew what hit him.
He had just closed the door of the ale house and stepped out into the dark street when something smashed into the side of his head. Consciousness dissolved in an eruption of multi-coloured stars that blotted out his vision. As his knees buckled and he dropped to the ground, the last coherent thought that went through his mind was to curse his own stupidity.
He should have known the hooded stranger was trouble. Strangers themselves were not unusual in a city like Jorvik. People came and went all the time, but there was something different about the stranger who wore the dark green hood.
There was little chance of help now. All the drinkers in the ale house had gone home. The thralls who worked in the inn would already be flopping their weary bodies into bed, as would Gorm the innkeeper. The only reason Einar was still up was because he had hung around after the customers had gone. He was waiting to get paid for his performance and Gorm had been busy finishing tallying up the evening’s takings. The wait was long enough for Einar to forget about the stranger he had spotted standing at the back of the room earlier.
Even though inside, the stranger had kept his hood up. This was not that unusual. People with scurvy or those whose heads were covered by sores or vermin often kept their head covered all the time. As Einar sat at his usual spot near the fire, chanting the drápa of Hrolf Kraki to entertain the drinkers, he was sure the stranger was watching him. One of the serving girls had confirmed this, telling him in amused tones that the stranger had asked for Einar’s name.
He should have realised the danger. Now it was too late.
Einar’s vision began to clear. It was gloomy but the full darkness of the night was kept at bay by a few guttering torches mounted on long poles here and there down the street. The first thing he became aware of was the strong stench of shit and piss. He was lying on his left side, one cheek on the cold slimy wood of the planked walkway that made up the street. These walkways ran throughout the city in straight lines between the houses and shops. They were there to keep the feet of the citizens out of the foul ditches and open sewers that ran beneath. Now that Einar’s nose was separated from the filth by just the thickness of the wooden planks the reek was revolting.
He gasped. Pain lanced through the side of his head from the blow. Someone stomped a boot on his right shoulder and shoved, sending him rolling onto his back. Above him he could see the thatch of the long, low buildings that lined the street and beyond them stars sparkled in a sky as black as the sand in the lava fields in Iceland, his home, a place that right now felt just about as far away as those stars.
Three men stood over him. In the scant light he could not make out their features but the glint of their blades was unmistakable.
‘You’re a hard man to find,’ one of the men above him said.
‘Where are the swords?’ one of his companions said. ‘Ricbehrt wants them back.’
Saxons – Einar recognised the tongue. Or Aenglish, as they had started calling themselves.
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know,’ the third one said, prompted by the look of confusion on Einar’s face. This one spoke the Saxon tongue but with a strange accent. A Frank maybe?
‘You better not have hit him too hard, Osric,’ one of his attackers hissed to his companion. ‘Last thing we need is for you to have knocked his brains out before we find out where the swords are.’
Multiple little lights still spun and fizzed before Einar’s vision. He felt sick. With a groan he raised his hands to his head, touching tentative fingers to his throbbing right temple. He felt sticky warmth and he knew it was his blood.
‘My harp,’ he said, realising the leather bag with his instrument was no longer in his hand.
‘Get him up,’ the one called Osric said. ‘Let’s get him indoors so we can question him properly.’
They hauled him to his feet. The world swam before his vision again and Einar’s knees gave way again. The Frank caught him and muttered something in his own language that could only have been swearing.
‘You did hit him too hard, Osric,’ the other Saxon said. ‘We’ll have to carry him now.’
‘Stop whinging,’ Osric said. ‘You two take one of his arms each.’
‘Why do we have to do all the work?’ the Frank said. ‘You’re the one who hit him.’
‘Because I’m in charge,’ Osric said. ‘Right?’
For a moment Osric and the Frank glared at each other, their breath rising in clouds into the cold night air, then the Frank looked away. It seemed Osric was correct.
‘I’ll be behind him,’ Osric said. ‘If he tries anything funny, I’ll gut him.’
The Frank and the other Saxon each took one of Einar’s arms over their shoulders and he slumped between them.
‘Get moving, curse you,’ the Frank, who was under his left arm, said.
Still hanging his head, Einar shot a glance left and right. He needed to know where their knives were. The two men who supported him had their blades in their free hands but they were away from his body. What Osric was up to he had no idea.
Einar did not know who these men were but dazed as he was, he was sure if they got him off the street and completely at their mercy he was in real trouble. This was most likely his last chance to get away.
He gritted his teeth to dispel the dizziness. Then Einar planted his feet flat on the boards. He flexed his thighs, pushing himself upright. This time he was solid as an oak tree. He tightened his arms around the necks of the men on either side of him and drove them together. Too surprised to react, their heads clashed together with a liquid thump like someone cracking two full barrels of ale together.
They cried out, flinging hands to their heads. Einar let go of them and sprinted forwards as hard as he could.
He expected to feel the hot pain of Osric’s knife sliding into his back. Instead, all he heard from behind him was a curse. Einar was free but he had not fully recovered from the blow to his head. As he ran his vision lurched before his eyes. The street seemed to tilt sideways and he staggered. He heard footsteps crashing into the walkway behind him as his left foot skidded on the dank wood.
Then there was a crashing impact and he went flying forwards.
One of the others had tackled him, driving his shoulder into the back of Einar’s legs, wrapping both arms around them. Einar crashed headlong. His teeth rattled and the air burst from his lungs as his face smashed off the walkway.
His assailant held his legs fast. He was still dizzy but Einar knew he had to get away. He wriggled and thrashed his legs. The attacker held on tight but Einar managed to rip his right foot free. His shoe came off in the movement. It spun, end over end, off the walkway and into the mire alongside.
Einar smashed his heel backwards, hard, twice. The man still holding his other leg swore and let go. Einar looked around and saw the other two were almost on him.
He scrambled to his feet and stumbled forwards, arms flailing, desperate to regain his balance. Then he was running again. His unshod foot slipped and slid on the wet wood making it hard for him to get speed.
He could hear the feet of the two men chasing him thundering on the wooden walkway. They were right behind him. He braced himself for another tackle or the blazing stab of a weapon that would bring with it final darkness.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw his pursuers were mere steps away. Further back the man who had tackled him was also back on his feet and coming after him too. Einar looked forward again. The last thing he needed now was to run full speed into a wall or off the walkway.
He skidded to a halt.
A little way ahead was a crossroads. It was lit by four blazing torches on long poles. Standing right in the middle, where the walkways intersected, was the hooded stranger from the inn earlier.
The stranger held a fully drawn bow, the iron head of a notched arrow pointed right at Einar.