God's Hammer

by Eric Schumacher

  With a growl, Udd drove his eating knife deep into the pine table so that it stood quivering before his opponent. “I will carve you like the swine you are!”

  “And I will teach you table manners, for it is obvious you were raised by animals.”

  Jarl Sigurd grabbed Hakon's shoulder and pulled him close. His breath reeked of ale. “Hakon, you do not have to do this. Udd is a dueler. He's dangerous. Find someone to fight in your stead.”

  Hakon could feel the blood thumping at his temples. “Aye, Sigurd, I do have to do this.”

  Sigurd stared into his guest's determined eyes, then nodded slowly. He turned to the assembled guests and raised his hands for attention. “Very well, then. We fill fight this duel after midday. I will mark the dueling field after the midday meal. Two weapons apiece. The winner shall receive all property belonging to the loser.” That said, he turned to Udd. “Leave us in peace, Udd. I do not want to see your face until the duel.”

  Chapter 17

  That afternoon, Hakon rose from his bed in Sigurd's guest hall, having napped only briefly. He washed his face in the water bucket a thrall had left by the door, then dressed himself for the duel: thick leather pants and boots, greaves, shining new byrnie, helm, and shield. Finally he girded himself with the beautiful sword Athelstan had given him.

  Even so armed, Hakon felt as bare and unprotected as a newborn. The thought softened his insides and moistened his palms, and he reconsidered Sigurd's offer to find someone to fight in his stead. The words appealed far more now than they had the night before. Yet he could not. If he did not fight, he would lose any hope of gaining the respect of Sigurd and his men.

  He steeled himself against his fear and walked outside, past the dueling grounds and the ramparts, to a quiet spot under a stand of pines. There he knelt and silently attempted to pray. But the more he tried, the more his mind yielded to an onslaught of images conjured by the impending fight. Muttered words to an invisible God were no match for the vision of Udd's screaming face and swiping sword.

  Something snapped, bringing him back his senses. He looked down and realized he had broken a branch in two with his knee. With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and walked back to the dueling grounds.

  An area about twenty paces across had been marked out with hazel posts between Sigurd's hall and one of his storage sheds. A small mob of people surrounded the field. Many of the spectators had been at the feast the night before; some he did not recognize. On the far side of the field, Udd leaned against a large stone quern, laughing easily with a few other warriors. Jarl Sigurd was also there, talking quietly with Egil Woolsark.

  Hakon stepped into the ring and an uneasy hush fell. He tried to ignore it, but could not. Legs weak, fighting a sudden urge to vomit, Hakon said a silent prayer for strength as he touched the cross that hung around his neck.

  Jarl Sigurd walked over, concern showing in the furrow of his brow. He handed Hakon a sturdy spear. “Use this at the beginning of the duel.”

  Hakon took it and hefted it to measure its balance. “It is well-weighted.”

  Sigurd ignored the compliment. “There is still time to back down, Hakon. Men would think no less of you.”

  As much as he wanted to accept, he could not. Not now. Not with so many of his would-be followers watching. “The offer is a kind one, Sigurd. Let me do what I must.”

  Sigurd nodded, then backed away.

  “Are you ready to die, Hakon Haraldsson? You are certainly dressed for it.” A howl of laughter followed Udd's comment.

  Hakon could feel the heat in his cheeks. “I have no fear of death,” he lied. “But I am not sure it is the same with you.”

  Before Udd could respond, Sigurd held up his hands. “Silence! Everyone!” The crowd turned to face their jarl. “This is a duel between Hakon Haraldsson and Udd Torvilsson, alone. May no man, woman, or child shout advice or throw anything into the ring. And may no one move while the fight is underway.”

  Sigurd's eyes then met those of the contestants. “If either man puts a foot outside the ring, that will be considered retreat, and the fight will stop. If he puts both feet out, that will be considered flight. If he retreats, he can return if he so wills, and the duel will resume. If he does not return, he forfeits half of his possessions. But if he flees, he loses the fight and forfeits all that he owns. If a contestant dies, he forfeits all that he owns. Either man will have the right to buy himself out of the contest at any time, if he so chooses. The price is half that man's possessions to the victor. Are the rules understood?”

  Both men nodded. Sigurd lifted his hand.

  Hakon placed his helmet on his head and hefted his spear. His hands shook so badly he feared he might drop it. His bladder felt as if it would let loose at any moment.

  Sigurd dropped his hand. The fight began. Hakon flung his spear at Udd, only to have it bounce off the other man's shield. Udd circled to the left and feigned a throw. Hakon raised his shield, blocking his vision. Realizing his mistake, he dropped his shield just in time to deflect Udd's spear to the left.

  Nerves forgotten, Hakon drew his sword and rushed forward to meet his opponent. Immediately Udd swung for Hakon's legs, narrowly missing, but putting Hakon on the defensive. Hakon took Udd's next stroke on his shield, then ducked a third. A fourth he parried with his sword, and the air rang with the sound of metal kissing metal. For such a large man, Udd's strikes were lightning quick.

  Udd broke off his attack and stepped back, urging his prey to take a stab. Remembering his training, Hakon waited, moving first right, then back to his left. Udd feigned an attack, then another. Hakon retreated both times and continued to circle his opponent, waiting.

  Udd's shield began to drop. Hakon waited. The shield dropped farther. There! Hakon swung, and realized too late that it had been a ploy. The shield came up, knocking his sword arm high. Before he could evade, he felt the bite of steel across his ribs.

  Hakon staggered backward, knowing instantly from the warmth that flowed down his side that the blade had broken through his byrnie and opened a wound.

  Udd took a step back, almost nonchalantly. “You've been cut, fledgling. Do you wish to forfeit?”

  “I'd rather die,” gasped Hakon between breaths.

  “So be it.”

  Udd struck again, this time at his legs. Hakon dodged a bit too late; again he felt the sting of metal on flesh, only this time there was no chain mail to protect him. He gasped, knowing that the wound was deep.

  Udd pressed his advantage. Hakon limped backward as quickly as he could. As he did, he remembered something he had seen long ago. Something … someone had used on the sparring ground. A feint. A flip. His mind struggled to remember exactly. Oh God, please help me remember. And suddenly he had it.

  Hakon staggered back and lowered his shield a bit, favoring his wounded leg, feigning weakness. Udd took the bait. Sensing victory, he swung, eyes flashing. Hakon took the brunt of each swing on his shield, pretending that it was all he could do to stay in the fight. Udd continued to attack, gnashing his teeth like the predator he was. Swing after swing tore at Hakon's wooden shield and rattled his bones from head to toe. His arm throbbed from the pounding blows. His wounds burned. He could not wait much longer for Udd to tire.

  And then it happened. A haphazard swing. A lowered shield. Udd's violent assault was wearing on his energy, making him careless. As he tired, his swings grew wilder and wilder, exposing larger areas of his body. Hakon held to what little ground he had, conserving as much energy as he could.

  Udd's swings slowed. His face reddened with exertion. Sweat trickled down his fat cheeks. A few more strokes. Be patient. A few more. Two more. Now! Hakon summoned his strength and swung at Udd's legs, surprising him. The swipe barely missed as Udd jumped backward. Hakon straightened and swung at Udd's exposed shoulder. At the last instant, Udd managed to parry the blow.

  Hakon now had the advantage and used it, calling on every last bit of energy within his body. Udd parried every blow, bu
t for the first time, he began to back away.

  Hakon's ears rang. His head spun as blood thundered at his temples. He no longer felt the fire in his leg, or his side. All he saw was his opponent. All he knew was that he had to survive. His blade became an extension of his mind and his arm, each blow striking exactly where he aimed.

  Udd staggered backward, his parries slowing. Hakon's sword licked the chain metal of his opponent's byrnie and the wool of his breeches. His relentless thrusts and swings drove his enemy to the edge of the dueling ground with a display of force that struck the crowd silent. Udd's arm gave a little, and Hakon's sword nicked his forehead. Blood streamed into Udd's left eye. The sight of blood only incited Hakon's fervor. Kill him, his mind screamed. Kill him!

  Hakon lifted his sword high to strike again. Udd mirrored the move, bringing his own sword up to defend himself. As he did so, Hakon shifted his body to the right, dropped his hip, and extended his leg. Then, at the last second, he twisted his wrist and brought the sword down so that he swung backhanded into Udd's shield. Udd brought his shield across his body and stepped backward, as Hakon had hoped he would. He tripped over Hakon's extended leg and fell in a clatter onto his back, head resting against the base of the quern.

  Eyes wide with panic, the scoundrel fumbled to bring his sword up. But it was too late. The point of Hakon's blade had already found his chest.

  “Forfeit!” Hakon commanded.

  Udd's eyes blazed. “Never!” He swung pathetically at Hakon.

  Hakon parried easily, though he underestimated the blade's edge. His blow knocked Udd's sword away, and sliced clean through the man's index and middle fingers. They flew away in a blur of shining steel and crimson blood. Udd screamed and grabbed his hand as it spurted blood to the rhythm of his pounding heart.

  Hakon was too battle-crazed to sympathize. He leveled his blade at Udd's chest once again. “Forfeit!”

  Udd lifted his deformed hand to Hakon, his eyes wild. “Kill me, boy!” he shouted. “Kill me!”

  Hakon lifted the sword above his head to strike. Killing is easy. His hands shook with the rage that burned within his heart. It takes strength to forgive. Around him, the hazy shadows of men and women urged him to attack. In his throat he felt the vibration of a scream, yet could not hear it through the thundering rush of blood in his temples. It takes strength to forgive. He tried to bring the sword down on Udd's thick skull, but could not. It was as if something, or someone, would not allow him to swing.

  With a scream that echoed to the far reaches of Sigurd's estate, Hakon brought his blade down onto the quern behind Udd's head. Sparks flew as steel bit stone. The blade lodged in the quern.

  Hakon stood gasping over his maimed opponent, half dazed from loss of blood and shaking with exertion and rage. Through the pounding in his skull, he grew faintly aware of the cheers and calls from the onlookers, and wondered briefly why he did not share their enthusiasm, why he felt no emotion at all—no happiness, no sorrow, only excruciating pain that sent stabs of agony through every muscle and every bone. The world spun about him, slowly at first, then so violently that everything blurred. He felt his legs give. Then all light vanished.

  Chapter 18

  A tingle of cold air. A soft voice somewhere in the distance. Warmth, then heat, then chill. The sound of scuffling feet, doors opening and closing. A shock of pain, followed by a deep burning in the limbs.

  Hakon felt as if he were swimming under ice, searching for the opening that would free him from his limbo. He could hear the voices overhead, could almost see the faces and the amorphous outlines of bodies, but he could not quite reach them, could not quite release himself from his murky prison.

  Suddenly the ice melted, and the shapes took form around him. Women. Two women—one old, one young. A room. A fur blanket. Two small flames burning in their metal sconces. Hakon tried to move. A sharp pain prevented it. He submitted with a gasp. He tried to speak, but his mouth and throat felt as if he had swallowed dirt. He tried again, but only croaked.

  The women turned to the sound. “Make haste,” commanded the older one as she nudged her companion. “Get the jarl.”

  The younger woman hurried from the room. The crone grinned modestly as she brought a small cup of water to Hakon and tipped it to his lips. He sucked thirstily at the fluid.

  “Not too much now, Prince Hakon. You will cramp.”

  He did not hear her. His attention was on the cool liquid pouring down his parched throat. He felt as if he could drink a lake's worth of the crisp nectar.

  Seeing what he was about, the woman jerked the cup away. “Careful now,” she warned. “You've had a grievous fever. Too much liquid, and your body will reject it. Your body needs time to recover.”

  He was about to respond when the jarl appeared by his bed. Sigurd's blue eyes shone above his enormous smile. “We almost lost you, you lout. Almost lost you before you'd been in this country a full day.” He chuckled and shook his head. “How do you feel?”

  “Like a boar that's been speared and trampled underfoot. How do I look?”

  “About the same as you feel.”

  The two laughed until spears of pain punctured Hakon's merriment. He gasped.

  The crone came immediately to his side, checking the bandages for signs of rupture. “You must try not to move too much. The wounds are healing, but too much activity may reopen them.”

  Sigurd's smile broadened again. “Ragna has been diligent in her nursing. In fact, she has rarely left your side. Like a mother hen, she is.”

  The crone blushed and shot Sigurd an angry look, then she turned and left the room.

  Sigurd just laughed and shook his head. “You must forgive her. She's a bit sensitive.”

  Hakon switched the subject, feeling somewhat uncomfortable himself. “What happened to me?”

  “After the fight, you lost consciousness. You were wounded across your ribs and your right thigh. The cut on your thigh was deep. We were worried it might fester. You've been feverish for nearly four days, now.” Sigurd held up a hand when he saw Hakon's unease. “Don't worry. My nurses are highly capable in the healing arts. They cared for your wounds well. You should be on your feet in no time.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sigurd held up his hand. “No thanks are necessary. Just apologies.”

  “I do not understand.”

  Sigurd stared down into Hakon's face. “I know why you went through with the duel, but why did you spare him? Freya's tit, Hakon, if you are going to fight, make sure you end it. Maybe you are too young to understand this, or maybe you are just unaccustomed to our ways, but all you have done is made matters worse. You have dishonored Udd with your mercy and robbed him of his dignity. He will not give up until he regains that honor from you, or dies in the attempt.”

  “I—I am truly sorry. I could not control myself—”

  Sigurd's dismissive wave cut short Hakon's apology. “Forget it. Udd is gone from here, and if he is smart, he will never return.”

  “Where did he go?”

  Sigurd shrugged his massive shoulders. “What does it matter? He is gone. Be content with that.”

  Hakon frowned, but he supposed Sigurd was right. In the grand scheme of things, it mattered little.

  Sigurd's eyebrows suddenly shot upward. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He turned to the doorway. “Egil. Bring the sword.”

  Egil carried into the room a sword wrapped in a covering of soft leather. He winked at Hakon as he undid the ties and let the covering fall to the floor. He then held the shining sword out to Hakon, point downward.

  It was his sword. He looked from Egil's smiling face to Sigurd's. “I don't understand. This is my sword.”

  “Aye, Hakon. Our smith has restored your blade's edge, and polished it.” He chuckled. “You may not have killed Udd, but you sure finished off my quern. Nearly sliced it in two. The stone nicked your blade.”

  “The sword served you well, Hakon,” added Egil. “You should name it.”

 
Hakon brought the blade up so that it glinted in the light of the flickering sconces. He gazed proudly at the weapon. “I have never owned a weapon worth naming. What should I call it?”

  “What about Quern-biter?” offered Sigurd, half joking.

  Hakon chuckled, then twirled the sword before him. “Quern-biter,” he repeated dreamily. “It fits well.”

  Egil pulled the sword gently from Hakon's grip and rewrapped it, then leaned it against the wall beside Hakon's bed. Sigurd patted Hakon's shoulder. “It has been a turbulent few days. Rest yourself and enjoy the ministrations of my nurses. We will talk again when you are feeling better.” With that, he winked and departed.

  Under the watchful eye of the crone and her young apprentice, Hakon recovered quickly. The thrall-women insisted on making Hakon his favorite meals—fried salmon and venison stew—to hasten the healing process. These, coupled with broths of healing herbs and plenty of rest, renewed Hakon's strength. Before a week had passed, Hakon could rise from bed, although feebly, and lean on the cane that Sigurd's master carpenter have carefully carved for him.

  Walking was an altogether different problem. Since his wounds were still capable of tearing, the old nurse did not allow him to move too far or too quickly. It didn't matter—he couldn't move quickly if he wanted to. His weakened legs forced him to stop frequently, and stumble often. Day by day, however, his strength returned until, after nearly two weeks, Hakon could limp his way around Sigurd's hall, a feat that left him exhausted, but encouraged.

  One morning, Hakon arose and stood, measuring the balance in his body and the strength in his legs. Though the pain in his thigh persisted, it no longer burned as it had. He reached for his cane, then drew back. No. Today he would walk without it. He drew in a breath and took his first step. A dull throb, but nothing else. His next steps went smoothly. Gaining confidence, he grabbed his clothing, dressed slowly, stepped outside, and limped his way to Sigurd's main hall.