Under the watchful glare of every man around him, the wildling proceeded to tear open Rollo’s tunic where the arrow had pierced his shoulder.
Thorson’s face twisted in complete disgust.
The wound was already pulsing with rot.
The injury had barely been a day old.
“The poison does not travel so.
By itself, it would take weeks to kill him.
The fever brought on by the rotting flesh is the greatest threat,” the man said, still scanning the rot.
“But once you combine it with either of those powders, death is immediate….
I will need fire.”
Ragnar turned to his men.
“See to it.”
One of the men nodded and hurried away.
While the fire was being prepared, the wildling pressed carefully around the wound, as though testing for something.
Then he looked at those around him.
“I will need him to stay still.
If he struggles, I might cut wrong and bleed him to death.”
Ragnar reached out, and together they rolled Rollo onto his side.
Torstein held his head while Ragnar, using both his arms and one knee, pinned his brother’s chest.
Thorson and Bjorn supported the man’s back.
Several men held his legs until every part of Rollo was firmly restrained.
Only then did the wildling begin carefully slicing away the flesh around the wound.
The moment the flesh opened, a stench so foul struck them that, for an instant, Thorson nearly threw up.
But there was no letting go now.
Rollo thrashed like a maddened horse.
His groans echoed through the forest as he struggled to throw off the men holding him down.
Veins bulged across his neck and arms, yet the wildling did not stop.
He continued cutting away the rotten flesh.
That was hardly the worst of it.
As soon as he had cut deep enough, thick, foul blood began to bubble out.
Its stench was even worse than the flesh that had been removed.
“Is the fire ready?”
“Here,” someone answered, pushing forward one of the iron braziers the wildlings had been using.
The wildling dipped Ragnar’s knife into the coals and held it there for several moments.
“A cloth.”
Thorson did not even see who handed it over.
Someone had likely torn a strip from their own clothing.
The wildling wrapped it around the hilt before withdrawing Ragnar’s blade from the embers.
The metal glowed red-hot.
Carefully, he pressed the blade against the edges where he had cut away the rotten flesh.
Rollo was now positively screaming.
His eyes had flown open, and the froth that had gathered at the corners of his mouth had disappeared.
Sweat streamed down his face as he fought to rise, but the combined strength of the men held him fast.
Strong as Rollo was, he could not break free.
Thorson watched as the wildling burned every exposed part of the wound.
It would be a fortune if that arm ever fully recovered.
So much flesh had been cut away that, even if it healed, it would take the better part of a moon before Rollo could use it properly again.
The wildling laid the knife aside, where it hissed against the ice.
Looking around, he scooped up a handful of clean snow and pressed it firmly against the wound until Rollo finally slipped into unconsciousness.
He repeated the process several times until the seared flesh had cooled.
“The danger has passed for now, but you should not cover the wound.
It needs to breathe,” he said, rising to his feet.
“Wait a day and watch for signs of infection.
If the wound remains clean and does not produce pus or a foul smell, then he will live.”
“If not…
it was probably already too late.”
The Vikings stared at him.
The word probably was not what any of them had wished to hear.
They had hoped for certainty.
Ragnar stood and offered the wildling his forearm.
“Thank you.”
The man clasped it.
From the look in his eyes, it was clear a measure of respect had grown between them.
“Head north.
You will find your people,” Ragnar said, releasing his arm.
The wildling picked up his bow and cast one last glance at Rollo, then at the pile of bodies of his kin, which they were leaving behind.
“We don’t have the energy to dig graves, but if you love your own, burn him if he doesn’t make it.
Their fate is worse if you don’t.”
Ragnar exchanged a look with Floki before nodding his understanding.
The wildling then turned and walked toward the woods where the others had disappeared.
Only one man still waited for him at the edge of the trees.
The Vikings parted begrudgingly, watching him leave.
“Get some rest,” Ragnar said to Thorson, who was still knelt next to Rollo.
The doubtful looks that had been directed toward Ragnar only moments before had now disappeared.
The men regarded him with newfound respect.
In the short span since his arrival, Ragnar had led them through a crisis that none of them had known how to face.
“I should have realized both powders were poison,” Floki said.
“It is the way of cowards.”
Ragnar looked at his friend and then toward the direction the wildlings had disappeared.
“No, my friend, it is the way of survival.
Once you have lived in these mountains long enough, virtues cease to mean anything.
Only survival remains.”
“What now?” Floki asked.
Ragnar turned toward the men.
“The ship…
Did you take her apart?”
Floki exchanged glances with the others before shaking his head.
“No, Ragnar.
We were waiting for you to find another way.”
Ragnar smiled as though he had expected that answer.
“There is no other way, Floki.
Tear her apart.”
“So you are determined?
Ragnar…
this is a death journey.
You saw those mountains yourself.”
“I did…
The boy and I explored even farther than you.
We have a better chance once we are beyond them.”
“And him?”
Torstein glanced toward Rollo.
“Should we not wait until he is back on his feet?”
Ragnar shook his head.
“We don’t have time for that.
If we must, we carry him up the mountain,” Ragnar said, pacing among his men.
“The crows are occupied hunting this Mance…
The longer we wait, the greater the chance they return and start hunting us.”
Floki nodded slowly.
“The tale you told the wildlings about this Mance and the crows riding north.”
“What of it?” Ragnar asked impatiently.
“Was it to trick him to help Rollo?”
Ragnar looked at Floki as though the question itself were insulting.
“I told the man the truth.”
“How would you know that?” Floki asked.
“Did you capture a crow?”
Ragnar and Thorson exchanged a glance before Ragnar looked back at Floki.
“That is not my tale to tell.”
Thorson could see the expectation among the Vikings…
To fully command trust and respect among the Vikings, a leader was required to be honest and genuine with his men.
Otherwise, seeds of distrust would begin to grow among the men.
Thorson knew Ragnar was protecting his privacy, especially since he had told him how he felt about the gift.
“It is mine,” he said, stepping forward.
Every eye turned toward him.
If there was one thing he had learned, it was that this secret was safer among these men than buried inside his own mind.
He had never been good at carrying such heavy burdens alone.
Besides, he had already seen what happened when he entered an animal’s mind.
If such a thing happened in battle, these men would be the ones he trusted to guard his body.
“I heard it myself.”
The men waited silently.
“I can see through animals…
I can become them,” Thorson said after a brief hesitation.
Whispers immediately burst across the camp.
Several men stared at him in astonishment.
Just as he had expected, more than one pair of eyes now regarded him with open fear.
“You…
You’re a skinchanger?” Floki asked, slowly circling the boy as though seeing him for the first time.
“Yes….
Skinchanger.
Skinwalker.
Whatever name you give it.
I heard two crow watchmen atop the Wall speak about the Halfhand and his rangers going north after Mance.”
Torstein looked toward Ragnar.
“We had one man who claimed that gift…
Didn’t amount to much…
Almost led us to death several times.”
Ragnar grinned.
“The boy speaks true.
He is nothing like his master’s brother.”
“Ragnar, I vouched for Olfey,” Floki said.
“He used to make his turning look real…
White eyes, shaking body…
I am afraid without proof, we shouldn’t stake our lives on just the boy’s words.”
“Aye, aye!” Several men gave support to Floki’s words.
Thorson was out of words…
What more could he tell them?…
This was exactly the kind of suspicion and distrust he had feared.
Ragnar stood up and looked at the protesting men.
“This boy knew about the Wall long before any of us laid eyes upon it.
Don’t forget that.”
He paused and looked at Floki and Torstein, who had been present when Thorson had objected to their raid north.
“He told me what he had seen, and I believed him.
I watched him take over an owl and scout the river.”
“It is how I know that once we reach the Milkwater, our voyage south will have little to hinder it.”
He looked at Floki.
“Now get the ship taken apart…
That is, if you are done questioning the boy.”
Floki looked between Ragnar and the boy as if debating whether to still press on with his distrust.
Eventually, he seemed to decide not to.
“Then I shall need fresh timber and extra planks, in case some parts of the ship are damaged on the mountain,” he said to Ragnar.
“They were never built for such a journey.”
Grabbing the axe at his waist, Ragnar turned to the men.
“Then you shall have all the timber you need.”
“The sooner we finish this, the sooner we find better land to the south.”