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Brand collapsed under the weight of the Easterling; the suddenness of the impact causing his blade to go flying from his hand as his outflung arm hit the ground. It skittered along the dirt, well out of his reach, and landing at last against a small rocky outcropping.
The Easterling, now astride him, had already drawn a knife from his belt and rising up was about to drive it deep into Brand’s gut. Brand fumbled quickly for his own knife and pushed it hard into the man’s chest, just below his breastbone. The thrust of the Easterling’s knife went askew. But though it did not pierce his gut, it buried itself deeply in Brand’s left shoulder with the weight of the falling man’s body behind it.
And now Brand was defenseless. His knife buried in the toppled man, his club fallen somewhere in battle. His sword, he remembered, had fallen a number of yards away. And it was with a grim determination that he scrabbled toward it.
The effort of simply moving those few yards nearly did him in. His vision was hazy with pain, and he could feel the sticky wetness of his tunic as blood from his wound seeped out. Pale and sweaty, he sat down, his back against the rocks, legs stretched out before him. He drew his blade onto his thighs, gripping it as best he could with his weakening grip. He was cold to the bone and drew his breath in short ragged gasps. The sound of hooves passed by him, and he could make no effort to rise. But the Easterling horseman passed by, intent on other grim business.
Through clouded eyes Brand could just see some body thrown over the horse, in front of the rider. A thick, honey blond plait swung down from the poor creature’s head. A woman hung there loosely; her eyes closed.
‘Meghan!’ he shouted. A sharp burning pain shot through him as he strove to rise. He fell back against the rock . . .
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