‘No.’ Hovard squeezed the forearm he held, stepped away, back to the weapons he’d laid out upon the ground. ‘I will need to be obeyed, instantly. Men and gods do not obey cowards, however wise.’
‘They don’t obey the dead either, husband.’ Freya rose from the corner, came forward, sword at her side. ‘And this is a final death we are talking about. No rebirth this time. If you fall, the monster will cut off your head and—’
‘My love!’ Hovard raised his hands. ‘I know what will happen to my head. I know I will be finally finished and if I am, well, it is my destiny, and I will join my parents and all my friends in the mead hall of the gods.’
Freya laid a hand on his cheek. ‘But I like this head where it is.’
‘As do I. So let me use it while I can.’ He turned back to Stromvar. ‘Did you find out any more about this Peki Asarko?’
‘Not much.’ Stromvar took the sword from Freya, ran his finger along the edge, grunted approval, then licked blood from his fingertip. ‘The painted ones talk in their own tongue and won’t answer questions in ours. Einar says his voice is from the south, close to Einar’s own people. Other than that—’ The god shrugged.
‘And the monster?’
‘Hovard!’
‘Sorry, my love.’ Hovard smiled. ‘Freya thinks if we call him a monster he becomes one, and that makes him harder to kill. He is just a man.’
‘I don’t know. Slaying monsters is in our blood, is it not? Didn’t Haakon the Great slay a giant serpent to become king, and bring his laws?’ Stromvar laid down the sword, picked up a shield. ‘I have not learned anything of use from studying the mon— the man. He sits and stares and the painted ones keep their distance.’
‘Weapons?’
‘None are near him. No armour either. He is huge, of course, so I suspect he will wield weapons that suit his strength. Axe. Club. You? Just this?’
Hovard reached to Freya and took his sword. Unlike Bjorn, he had never named it. He had never thought it magical, with a life of its own. It had been a tool, little more, and it had been twenty years since he’d wielded it in more than play – for as he got older he found he preferred thinking to fighting. Yet as he hefted it through the air now, he remembered how good a tool it was. Forged from finest steel, it was pattern welded, the metal heated and coiled, hammered out and cooled, again and again. It was the length of his arm and half again – shorter than many, lighter than most. Freya had not only honed a fine edge – as Stromvar’s glistening finger testified – but she had rebound the leather grip in alternating bands of green and red leather which swept up to the pommel, a ball of iron that gave the weapon its perfect counterweight and upon which was carved a single eye: the mark of the All-Seeing God. He was ‘the nameless one’, father of all the other gods, who saw everything with his one eye, and ruled all through it. ‘Yes,’ he murmured, raising the blade, kissing it. ‘Just this.’
There was a bray of horn. Three times. ‘The summons,’ Stromvar said, unnecessarily, holding out the oak shield, which Hovard took. It was painted red, rimmed in a metal band with a boss of iron at its centre. Stromvar stooped for the conical steel helmet. Freya came and affixed his cloak with its heavy pewter clasp – a wolf, snarling – at his neck.
As she thrust the holding pin through the wool, Hovard sought her eyes. ‘If this goes against us, leave fast. Do not stay to mourn.’
‘It will not—’
She lowered her hands and he grabbed one. ‘Freya, listen to me. This Peki has a plan, that much we can tell. He seeks to divide gods and men at a time when we must be united. But our people are not so easily swayed, I think. Have them and our ship ready. Flee fast. Get home.’ He looked up. ‘You too, Stromvar. Because, for a while at least, the West – Askaug and the Seven Isles – may be the last refuge of hope in all Midgarth.’
Instead of arguing, Freya raised his hand, and kissed it. ‘There’ll be no fleeing. For you will not lose.’
‘As in all things, my love, you are right.’ Hovard stepped away. ‘But just in case – have the ship ready.’
A man came to the tent’s entrance – Ulrich the smith, whose great-grandfather had forged Hovard’s sword. He glanced at it, then looked up. ‘The men are outside.’
‘Good. We come.’ Hovard nodded at Freya and Stromvar and led them from the tent.
The Askaugers were lined up, Ulrich at their head. All had the same look on their faces, a frown of doubt which they all tried and failed to entirely clear as Hovard appeared. He stopped, nodded at them, didn’t speak. There was truly nothing to say now.
They swung about and marched off. Stromvar and Freya followed and Hovard came last. He had a strange sensation, gazing at the backs ahead of him – an urge, while out of anyone’s sight, to just slip off, find a bird, transform, fly away. He’d always loved to be a falcon, to hover over men and gods and watch their doings. But although the desire made his first steps slow, he soon caught up. It was destiny he walked to now, his and Midgarth’s, irretrievably linked in ways he could only partially see. At that moment, he missed Luck keenly, for his little brother god was the seer, able to sift through the workings of the world, and make the patterns clear. ‘Wherever you are, Luck,’ he murmured, ‘spare me a thought and guide me now.’
They climbed the slopes of Galahur. A few stragglers followed, though most had already answered the horn’s call, judging by the buzz of sound ahead. Just below the crest, they swung around to the right, circled. They had been assigned the left end of the valley, the position of the challenged, so they’d been told – since the seventh law of Haakon had never been invoked, even the priests were uncertain as to all of the rules.
They halted just below the ridge crest. ‘Ready?’ asked Freya.
Not really, Hovard thought, but in place of words he nodded.
They climbed into the bowl.
It was different than it had been. The floor of the small valley was empty, though the grass where so many had stood was churned, slick and muddy now. All the slopes had people on them, whereas before the rear was clear, as everyone had faced Haakon’s barrow. On the turf roof atop that the priest now stood alone, clutching Algiz, the talking-staff.
Hovard’s appearance caused a surge of noise. Men and women pointed, commented. And the volume rose even louder when, at the far end of the bowl, the painted ones appeared and formed a funnel over the crest. First Peki Asarko came, still masked, still in his medley of colours. Halting, he turned and flung out an arm – to the monster – Hovard was still failing to see him as a man – who did not enter as slowly as before, just stepped up and over the crest. Yet such was his size people still gasped loudly, and many called upon the gods to protect them.
The priest raised the staff. Gradually, a near hush came. He pointed the eagle first at Hovard then at the painted giant, finally at the earth before the hut. Hovard handed his sword and shield to Stromvar and set off down the slope, needing to pick his way through mortals who stared at him before moving aside – though he noted, in one swift glimpse, how at the valley’s other end a clear path opened rapidly for his opponent.
They stopped before the hut, and turned to face it, ten paces apart. Hovard had watched his opponent approach but it was only when they were still that he could truly appreciate his immensity. He was not small himself – yet the top of his head was level with the lower part of the man’s bulging chest.
‘You are here to face the judgement of the gods in combat,’ the priest called. ‘Yet even now one of you could choose not to submit to their will, choose not to fight. Shame may follow you, but life will not leave you, and life is precious.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘How do you choose?’
Hovard’s throat was suddenly dry. As he went to clear it he heard the other say, ‘I submit my life to the will of the gods.’
The voice was a low rumble, as if it came not from a body but up from the earth. A s
igh followed, as the crowd turned to Hovard, who hummed before he spoke to make certain his voice was steady. ‘I submit my life to the will of the gods,’ he said.
Another sigh, some chatter – ceasing as the priest raised his staff again. ‘Then arm for the fight. And know – when the two of you descend next time, only one will rise.’
Hovard felt the other’s gaze upon him, turned. The monster said nothing. But he opened his lips over a near toothless mouth and smiled.
Hovard took his time climbing back up the slope. People stared but he met no man’s gaze until Stromvar’s. ‘Well?’ he queried.
‘As I thought – no armour. He doesn’t want to hide his size. I’m surprised he hasn’t got his cock out. He’s so muscled he’ll be slow, which should help you. He’s—’ Stromvar broke off, peered. ‘I was right. He lifts a battle axe and a club. That’s it.’
Hovard took back his sword and shield. ‘So your advice, Dragon Lord?’
‘Advice? My advice is don’t get killed.’
‘Useful.’ Freya had taken the helmet from Stromvar. Now she placed it on her husband’s head, and swiftly tied the chin straps.
‘Yours, my love?’
She finished the knot, met his eyes. ‘My advice is similar, with this addition. Kill him.’
‘I will,’ he replied, trying to sound certain, failing. As she reached to remove his cloak, he caught her hand. ‘No. You wove this for me. It keeps me warm. You keep me warm.’
She nodded. ‘Fortune,’ she said, turning sharply away, just too slow for him not to see the tear that ran from one eye.
He swivelled, glanced up at the sun. It was at its zenith so neither fighter would be dazzled. He blinked, the horn sounded again, and both men set out through the shrieking silence for the valley floor. Both reached it at the same time, came forward at the same pace. The battle axe, Hovard saw, was not the shorter one to be used in one hand. This was huge, and would usually be swung with two.
They were twenty paces apart when the man Stromvar said would be slow proved he wasn’t.
He went from walk to sprint in a heartbeat. Hovard just had time to brace, to lift his shield, draw back his sword before the monster was on him, sweeping both his weapons down. Hovard had his shield for the club, his blade for the axe, instinct making him angle the sword so that the axe blade smashed and slid rather than smashed and snapped his only weapon. The force of the blow carried the axe to the ground, to plunge into the mud. But the club struck the shield rim full on, buckling the metal, the shock splitting the wood and driving him to his knees. Hovard was holding half a shield and through the gap he saw the monster swing the club back and high in a great arc to drive it down … into the place where Hovard had just been.
There was nothing graceful in his slide away. He knew it, the crowd knew it, and their jeers came loud and fast, before they were lost to shrieks as the axe rose and fell again. Hovard’s next roll away might have saved his leg – but he ended up on his back, a crab flipped over. He jabbed his sword desperately up, sensing the onrush rather than seeing it. But it made the giant stop, step back, gave Hovard the moment he needed … to sit up, twist then hurl the remains of his shield into the painted chest. It was an insect bite of a blow but it allowed Hovard one more moment to slide away, stagger up, set himself – before the giant came again.
Which he did – bellowing, windmilling his arms, both weapons lost in a blur of wood and steel. There was no parrying either, for if he tried Hovard knew he’d lose his sword then his life a moment later. So he did the only thing left to him.
He ran.
Jeers came louder, louder than his heaved breaths. When he’d got twenty paces away, he turned, braced. But the giant had not followed, was grinning toothlessly at him, swinging his two weapons alternately through the air. The noise they made was like hornets, mustering for the attack. It was almost mesmerising. Indeed, for the first five steps the giant now took, Hovard did not move, as if held in place by the lulling sound. Then, when he did, it was forward and as fast as he could go. He could not run away again. If he did, he was not sure he would ever stop. Besides, it was likely the monster would run faster. If nothing else, Hovard didn’t want to die with a blade in his back.
Perhaps it was the surprise, the speed of his run matching the monster’s, for suddenly they were together, and Hovard took the axe blade once again on a sloping sword. Steel scraped down steel in a scream that was almost animal, while the club driven down was a gale in his right ear, just passing him by. But as he ran on, he stumbled slightly; enough. Heard the shout of terror, thought it might have been himself, felt the blow coming, didn’t see it, twisted … in time not to die, yet also not to avoid the club which caught him on his flung-up shield arm, and snapped it like kindling.
There were groans from all around – but cheers too, and a cry of agony that could have been him, could have been Freya. Somehow he stumbled on, sank to his knees, turned, lifting his sword before him, knowing how easily the monster would pat it aside. The monster …
… who had not come.
Through blurry eyes, Hovard saw him, twenty paces away. He had both weapons lifted high in the air, shaking them, roaring as more cheers came. It was a moment, and Hovard took it, breathing deep. His one arm was broken, that much he knew. Agony now, it would heal fast, as was the way of the gods. But only if he survived. To do that, before he was put swiftly out of his pain, he had to master it, and learn.
His eyes cleared, and he looked at the man receiving the acclaim. Only a man. A big man, sure. But not a monster. And all Hovard had done so far was fear, and react. Now he needed to act.
His enemy lowered his arms, as the cheers faded. Turned, grinned again, came slowly, yelling taunts in the guttural language of the Lake of Souls. And Hovard noticed something he hadn’t before: that the man was so huge, so bloated with muscle, he held himself tall, high, and swirled his axe and club at shoulder height. The lower plane, Hovard suddenly realised, is mine.
That was when he remembered that he had another weapon, though no one would ever have considered it so; and jamming his sword point into the mud, he reached to his neck, pulled the brooch pin free, dropped the pin, and twisted the heavy brooch itself deep into a swirl of fabric. Then, as the giant gave a great bellow and ran at him, Hovard leapt up, leaned back – and hurled the balled end of the cloak. The weight of the brooch carried the cloak for a distance before it fell out, while the material flew on, far enough, like a fisherman’s net hurled for herring, floating into that whirl of weapons.
It was enough to tangle them – for the moment Hovard needed. Snatching up his sword, he ran three paces, then launched himself feet first and arse down on the wet mud, swinging his sword back, around. Kept sliding and, as he passed his adversary, he put his broken arm behind his sound one, levelled the blade that Freya had honed to such sharpness and sliced into the huge leg, just below the knee. He knew it hadn’t gone all the way through, felt it but he didn’t stop to watch, just used the momentum of the slide, twisting his wrist, wrenching the blade out and sliding past the falling, flailing, yelling man. Still sliding, he came up on one knee, cocking his wrist, then jammed both heels into the mud, using the sudden stop, and the velocity of that, to spin him around … and slammed the blade into, and through, the heavily muscled neck.
The head hit the ground three heartbeats before the body.
The force of his cut had carried Hovard through the complete circle. He came to a halt facing away from the dead monster, looking up the hill to the place he’d come from. Sound, which had seemed to vanish in the slowness of his never-ending slide, returned now in people cheering, beginning to rush towards him. He ignored them. There was only one person he needed to see, and he looked for her beside the Lord of the Isles.
Stromvar’s face was split by a huge grin, and he was striding down the slope. She wasn’t beside him. Neither were the men of Askaug.
Where are you, Freya? Hovard cried, soundlessly.
Running. As soon as her husband’s sword sliced into the knee of the giant she knew it was over. But she didn’t wait to see more, though the shouts of acclaim and the cries of ‘Hovard!’ told her as she ran what must have happened. She just shouted, ‘With me!’ and trusted the men of her town would follow, as she had warned them they might need to do. She needed the extra moments because they had further to run if what she thought was going to happen, did.
It did. From the moment she cleared the bowl and ran down its far slope, she could see the painted ones, their black and white stripes vivid against the greens of early spring foliage. They were moving a little more slowly than they might have – if they hadn’t had to half-carry the large multi-hued figure in their midst.
Freya sped up. Her men followed fast. Those they pursued were not far from their boat, one of the few drawn up at Galahur’s small dock. When they reached the jetty’s end, some aboard cast off lines. Some of the striped ones, hearing pursuit in the slap of feet on beach pebbles, turned. Their leader was not one. ‘Stop them,’ screamed Peki Asarko, as he ran on.
They could not. Weapons were not allowed at the Moot, but weapons were in hand nonetheless, the small knives that were allowed for food, curved and straight. The painted ones were split between carrying their leader aboard and defending him while the men of Askaug just followed Freya’s run straight into the enemy’s midst. Blades rose and fell, parried, cut. It was over fast. Blood flowed and blended black, white and red into the colour of death.
The last man between Freya and her quarry lunged too early. She slipped her body to the side, sliced down; the man dropped his knife and fell, screaming, after his three fingers. Only the last man remained, the one she’d come for. He had one leg over the gunwale of his boat, and one still on the dock.
Freya sheathed her dagger, and grabbed the neck of his robes. ‘Who are you under there, Peki Asarko?’ she said, and ripped off his mask. But as she did he wrenched away from her, fell onto the deck, looked up.
Smoke in the Glass Page 23