The Children of Urdis (Grimwold and Lethos Book 2) by Jerry Autieri

The bird song in the distance mocked him as he followed the ruination back to the hall. He kept expecting someone to emerge from the sparse trees scattered along the fields that led home. Yet he knew no one would come. At best he spotted a squirrel leaping from one branch to another. Instead he focused on the grass ahead of him. It would be his luck for him to arrive in town heroically carrying the war chief and then trip over a lost sword. Not that he anticipated a merry gathering, but he still had his pride.
    What had once been known as Sigurdsvik--and now simply as Greenvik--emerged out of the gathering darkness. Lethos was disheartened to see so few lights in the clusters of A-frame homes. At least the main long house had its front doors opened and golden light flickering within. All surviving warriors would have retreated there, for either rest or aid. He saw no movement anywhere, despite the signs of inhabitants.
    "You could hear an ant die," Lethos said, ostensibly to Grimwold. He did not like talking to himself, though he found it a habit.
    He turned sideways to fit Grimwold feet first through the front doors of the hall. A blazing hearth fire bathed him in warmth and the pungent scent of sweat and blood filled the room. He stood in the doorway, looking down on the gathered warriors who stared back in white-eyed silence. Nearly two dozen men had piled into the hall, and half as many women accompanied them. The warriors either clustered together on benches or lay on the hard-packed dirt floor. They were in various stages of health. The best among them appeared hale, while others clung to life while wrapped in blood-stained bandages.
    Lethos stood with Grimwold in his arms, scanning the room for a friendly face and finding none. Only this morning these same men had greeted him as an old friend. He had been a hero of the battle of trolls, after all. Now, despite the snapping hearth fire, the room had grown cold. Lethos cleared his throat.
    "He is not dead." He proffered Grimwold as if he weighed no more than a bundle of sticks. "This arrow has to be removed, but I fear I cannot risk it myself. I need help."
    The words took a moment to bring a stir back to the room. Lethos carried Grimwold to a table and laid him on it. He carefully pulled away Grimwold's cloak and brushed his dark, sweaty hair from his friend's face. Then he glanced expectantly for someone to aid him. His eyes fell on an older man with a face and shirt both splattered with blood. His eyes were ringed with dark circles and his face sagged with the burdens of his years. His mouth was lost behind a thick gray beard, equally blood speckled. Lethos recognized him as Magnor, who was what he would call a surgeon. Of course, barbarian surgery was limited to limb removal and crude stitches, but Lethos had no other word for the profession. When their eyes met, Magnor reluctantly came forward.
    "He's still your war chief," Lethos said. He spoke as if he were revealing a secret to a friend. The old man simply nodded and leaned over the arrow protruding from Grimwold's chest. It was like a signal for the others to relax. Men lay back down or eased back on their benches. Two of the healthier men wandered over, one with a bloody wrap around his forehead.
    "This is in deep, very close to the heart," Magnor said. "He should be dead even if it did not strike his heart. Plenty else in there to cut open and bleed a man to death from the inside."
    Lethos touched the dull ache in his own chest. "But he lives and the arrow must come out. Can you do it?"
    Magnor forgot his hesitation with Lethos as he considered the arrow wound. He prodded the shaft and gaged Grimwold's reactions, which were nothing. Magnor grunted.
    "It is odd that he be so deeply asleep when he has taken no blows to the head. I would have to dig out the arrow. There is no chance of pushing it through the body, as that would kill him."
    "Actually," Lethos said then paused, touching his finger to his lips.