Toki was already crossing to Mord's ship. Ulfrik bounded after him. Holding a smoldering strip of the velvety touchwood, he tore off a piece and flung it into the oil. Fire caught in a breathless rush as Ulfrik landed on the deck. Streamers of flame sprouted wherever oil had splashed, running up the mast and rigging. The bridge was still distant, but archers were attempting to fire on them. The wind frustrated their shots, slapping the arrows into the water prematurely. Soon the range would close and the three ships would be strafed stem to stern.
They all backed into Snorri's ship, who had already let himself down into the escape boat. Toki repeated his steps, throwing a bit of smoldering touchwood strip into the oil. The first ship blazed like a god of fire, black smoke flowing off it in wind-flattened clouds.
"The last one and then over the side," Ulfrik said. Through the smoke he saw archers lining up their bows, pointed at the decks. Toki straddled the rail, prepared to start the fire and drop into Snorri's boat. Mord hurried toward him.
Then fire bloomed everywhere.
Toki screamed, ribbons of fire on his arm, and he fell overboard. Mord disappeared behind a wall of flame.
Ulfrik's hands and pants had been splashed with oil.
The world slowed. His thoughts were measured, too calm to be any use. The wind blew a spark to this ship. How could I have been so stupid? And I've made myself a torch with this oil.
As slow as if it were all a dream, black shafts arced down and sank into the burning deck. Flames ringed him, and his pants were on fire. He was alone on the ship. It was as though he had endless time to contemplate the situation. Looking up, the burning sail threatened to enfold him in fire as it sagged and snapped from the spar.
I'd rather drown than burn. I wish I had learned to swim. Though he ran for the bow where no fire had yet bit the wood, it felt as if he walked. The dive into the water took long enough for him to remember Runa, his boys, all of his life. Even his mother, a face long forgotten, came to his thoughts.
As cold and dark water enveloped him, turning the world to blurry darkness and muffled noises of cracking wood, time snapped back to reality. Panic seized him and he nearly opened his mouth to scream.
He scrabbled at the water as if he could climb out of it, but his hands found nothing to grab. He was going to drown, his body drawn down into the river muck to rot at the foot of the walls of Paris.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Thrand's head lolled in the darkness. Weak from scant food and drink, he lacked strength to hold up his head. The cell smelled of his waste, and in the dark he often rolled through it or placed his hand in it. Lice and fleas devoured his flesh. Loneliness and silence devoured his heart. He saw a guard once daily, or so he assumed, but it was only to have food shoved through the bottom of the door. Hard bread and gritty water were all he received, and he supplemented with cockroaches or rats if he could catch them. He feared rats would soon nibble at his feet, and then his face. He often awoke from dreams where rats tore his flesh with sharp yellow teeth.
Kolbyr began to visit him, sitting in the darkness in silence until Thrand begged him to leave. He could not see him, but knew it was him from the ragged gasping and scent of blood. Other times, someone sat beside him in the darkness. Whoever it was listened to Thrand speak until the figure stood and disappeared. These must have been ghosts of former prisoners. At first he complained to the ghosts for his treatment, but their silence defeated him. As weeks passed, he began to explain why he betrayed Ulfrik and even sought to kill him. Yet the spirits reminded him that much of his memories were not true. Ulfrik had not mistreated him, but carried him when others might have let him drown in mead. Many long arguments with the ghosts ended with Thrand unable to remember what had driven his spite. Was it truly drink? The ghosts never answered and Kolbyr only wheezed and bled in the impenetrable dark.
Time meant nothing now. He hung his head and drool seeped onto his chest as he waited for death. Humbert, or whatever his name was, had thrown him into this pit to die by slow starvation.
The heavy sound of a wooden bar being drawn roused him. He thought food had already been delivered, but time made no more sense in the unremitting blackness. Yellow light flickered through the small window, and like a trained dog Thrand crawled forward to the door slot to receive his bread and water.
He heard a strange sound, like metal tumbling, then another bar drawn. The door swept inward, batting Thrand away like a dried husk. The torchlight blazed and he threw his arms over his eyes. Franks began shouting at him, as at least two entered into the room. A sharp point jabbed his thigh and he cried out. Strong hands drew him up and yanked him out of the cell.
A bag of scratchy cloth slipped over his head and his arms were yanked to his back and tied. More Frankish babble followed, and the point at his back prodded him forward. He stumbled until he crashed on a stone step, the pain in his knees jolting through him like darts. The Franks cursed and picked him up, a man on each side guiding him up the stairs.
The air became fresher and cooler. Sounds of a tolling bell reached him as he struggled to keep pace with his captors. More Franks joined them, and they exchanged words before Thrand heard another door open. The light penetrating the sack was bright and yellow. His captors shoved him outside of a building. A bracing cold enveloped him and no air ever smelled or tasted so clean, even inside a dirty cloth bag. The bell tolled like thunder and foreign voices swarmed from all around.
The men hustled him along, and Thrand sensed a crowd forming. Then curses came, followed by objects that struck Thrand by surprise. A woman's voice shouted tearful curses in his face, until his guards shoved her back. He endured the swears and projectiles, smiling. Anything was better than the dark cell of rats and ghosts.
Entering another building, the angry cacophony muted as a door slammed behind. Many more Franks surrounded him, and a strong hand grasped his arm. A short walk delivered him to another room, where the hand forced him to his knees. A spear tip touched the dry skin of his neck.
"I'm not going to move, I swear it." He doubted anyone understood, but hearing his own language, even from his own mouth, calmed him.
The bag ripped away and cool air and strong light dazzled him. His eyes pulsed white, then adjusted. He sat on a floor of flagstone in a room with narrow windows up high, blue daylight pouring down. The place was as large as a hall, but decorated unlike anything he had ever seen. He only had a scant moment to take in the tapestries, candle stands, shields, and furniture lining the walls. The spear tip returned to his neck, and at the end of it was a leering Frank with curling blond hair and only three teeth in his mouth. He was dressed in mail, pierced and stained with blood and rust. He barked at him in his strange language.
"He wants you to know death is only as far away as the point of his spear." The clear Norse echoed around the room, coming from directly ahead.
Thrand peered into the shadows, seeing the forms of several men, one who was seated in a large chair of dark wood. His weak eyes adjusted and the forms became clearer.
"You may stand and approach, but stop on my order." The words repeated in Frankish, and the toothless Frank retracted his spear enough for Thrand to rise. He stepped carefully until the seated man raised his hand to stop him.
"Humbert!" Thrand could scarcely believe the transformation. They had traded bodies, it seemed. Thrand looked at his trembling, wasted arms and then at Humbert. He remained thin, but his face was full of vigor and his posture straight and strong. Dark circles ringed his eyes, but they flashed with intelligence and delight. His gray hair was neatly combed and his beard trimmed. He wore fine linen clothes and a golden cross. Tears welled in Thrand's eyes. "What have you done to me?"