Silver Hammer, Golden Cross

by Octavia Randolph

  “I thank you,” he near-whispered to the three. The man and woman who had brought him into this world would witness his contest, and if he should be called from life to death he would die surrounded by those who he knew loved him.

  He would embrace his mother now; he could not do so once outside, and before so many. He pulled his helmet off. She was wordless as she held him, her slender body like that of an aspen, trembling against the mass of metal which made up his war-kit. He bent his head so she could press her face against his.

  He pulled himself away, her long fingers sliding over the links of the sleeve of his ring-shirt. He too could say nothing, and had kept his eyes closed as he had breathed in her scent.

  He moved to Ashild, for whom he had words. He put his hand on his sword hilt and spoke. “When I chose this sword you took it from me and touched the tip of the blade to my brow. Do you recall? You told me to be worthy of it. Now I ask that I may be.”

  It took every scrap of strength to master her voice and make answer.

  “You are worthy now, brother,” she told him.

  He took them in, his mother silent and white-faced in Burginde’s arms, his warrior-sister acclaiming his merit. He gave himself a long moment, then turned from them.

  The walk through the hall and yard to the gates felt amongst the longest Hrald had ever made. He walked flanked by Gunnulf on his right and Jari on his left, the way they would stand in the contest. Behind him came Asberg and his father and his other witnesses, and then the three women. Every man, woman and child of Four Stones was there to watch them pass. There were murmurs and sighs, and he was sure, whispered prayers. If he fell, these folk would be ruled by Thorfast, and his family cast out of Four Stones. He steadied himself when he remembered Thorfast saying he would wed Ashild. After hearing of her actions outside the gates of Oundle, Hrald had no fear she would submit to a man who had laid her brother in his grave.

  He shook his head slightly to clear it, glad for the sobering weight of the helmet which shielded his eyes, glad for the weight of the ring-shirt and the thought of the man who had given it. He turned his chin left and right, taking in the warriors who would stay behind, and the gathered folk of the yard. There amongst the kitchen-women was Milburga, she who had pulled him into the grain hut. The brief moments spent between her thighs had been the only taste of a woman’s flesh he had known. Now he thought not of the haste and sordidness of those moments, but his gladness that no woman he loved as wife or sweetheart watched him go. He wished to be wed, to sire children, but now he was glad he had yet to do so. Milburga’s hand was to her mouth and she was weeping, just as all the kitchen-women were. Looking at her wet cheeks and running nose he felt pity for her, and her fears.

  The strangeness of it, of seeing this woman, and walking now with Gunnulf at his side, was met with the surety that just now his body was his own, on which no one could lay claim, save death. He could lose his life fighting the man who awaited him at the duelling ground, one older and more skilled than he, a man he had been prepared to welcome as kin. All could shift in a moment. These thoughts came before him and he passed them, like those he passed who stood here, watching him on his way.

  Just outside the gates Wilgot was standing, a shallow bowl in one hand, his other already extended towards them.

  Of course, Hrald thought; he must be blessed. He might die soon, and would have the priest’s benediction on him as he did. Hrald believed in Christ and in life eternal. His own death was one thing, a small matter of one soul, gone home to Heaven, as Wilgot liked to say. It was what his death would mean to so many others that called Four Stones home that made large his death.

  The three of them passed their shields to others so they could lift the helmets from their heads. Wilgot said prayers over each, dividing the air before their faces with his hand as he signed the cross. Then he anointed their brows with a smear of holy oil rubbed from his thumb.

  He blessed Hrald last, and muttered, “May God protect you, my son,” when he was done.

  When he took back his shield he saw the symbol he had inked upon the leathern lining when this shield was given him, one meant to hearten him as his eyes dropped on it before he raised them to the enemy. It was a Christian cross he had painted there, just above the hand-grip in the iron boss which his hand would close over.

  Then they were off. Those who were not chosen to witness fell back, Runulv amongst them. Hrald had seen and acknowledged him; looking on him Hrald felt Runulv carried everything that was out of reach of the island bourne of Gotland with him: his few months at Tyrsborg with Ceric, their time with Tindr in the forest. It felt a lifetime ago.

  Thorfast’s men were ranged upon the road, and the path the party from the hall took was purposeful in moving past them. It would have been shorter to reach the duelling grounds from the door by the kitchen yard, but it was meet to show themselves in this way to the men who might soon be either taking over Four Stones, or fall under Hrald’s command.

  They left all behind, Hrald and his train skirting the palisade, dropping down with the terrain, passing the stream where it flowed out of the opening now high above, finding level ground, marshy to one side, which they took to the designated place. The Sun had lowered enough that the shadows of the trees they passed stretched far away; good light was still in the sky, but not for long.

  It came into view, a cluster of horses held to one side, a cluster of men awaiting them.

  The duelling ground itself was nothing but a level patch of ground, one which had seen many men fight there, but never to the death. It was a no-man’s land outside of the hall, and outside too the place of Offering, where men came to settle disputes. Hrald had sharp memory of being brought here as a child by his father, the Summer Ceric first came to stay, and of holding onto his father’s leg in fear as two men hacked at each other until one was bloodied and yielded.

  Now his father took the center of that patch of soil, and turned to both groups of warriors. “I will mark the ground,” he told them, “and set the corners with hazel wands, as the Gods demand. All men fighting must stay within the bounds so set. He who is driven out, or steps out, is forfeit to the action, as if he were killed.”

  He looked to his son, who nodded in agreement, and to Thorfast, who did the same.

  Sidroc walked to the hazels hedging one side of the place and drew his seax. He cut eight long wands, and with his seax tip dug holes so that two sprang out into the air at one edge of the duelling ground. Holding the others in his arms he paced out thirty broad paces, stopped, and dug two more marking wands in. He repeated this twice, until he had described a square. Now that it had been made, no one could enter save those who would fight within.

  The two sides approached him. Thorfast had spotted the women as soon as Hrald’s men had fanned out. The females of Four Stones had stopped at least fifteen paces from the duelling field. Sidroc saw him looking. If he were to object, claim that a woman’s gaze would blunt his weapon with her magic, Sidroc would shame him as a gullible fool. But Thorfast did not object. Ashild stood in the middle of her mother and the old nurse, and Thorfast let his eyes fall upon her. He was too cunning to give insult to her now, and before her brother; he did not want some awakened rage to surface in the boy, as he fought to protect her. He merely looked at Ashild, looked and smiled.

  Sidroc stopped him by his words.

  “Give your names so all will hear,” he ordered.

  “Thorfast of Turcesig,” he answered, his voice sounding in the stillness.

  “Gnupa of Turcesig,” said the second who stood with him.

  “Odinkar of Turcesig,” said the third.

  Sidroc turned to his son, gestured he speak.

  “Hrald of Four Stones.”

  “Jari of Four Stones.”

  “Gunnulf of Four Stones.”

  Sidroc drew breath before he went on.

  “You fight for the other’s hall and men. To yield is to lose claim to both, a
s if you had fallen. The victor determines if one who yields may live.”

  He scanned the faces of the six before him, their eyes masked by their helmets, but jaws set.

  “If you have question, ask it now.”

  None spoke.

  He looked beyond them. “You who witness pledge not to interfere, and to abide by the outcome.” Heads nodded in agreement.

  There was nothing more he could say.

  “Ready yourselves,” he finished.

  Thorfast turned back to his men, and moved with them to the far side of the duelling ground. Asberg came forward and with another of his men began at the feet of the three, checking toggles on boots, tucking leg wrappings, tightening weapons belts, making all secure. Asberg was muttering under his breath the whole while, some nameless calling down of protection, or some way to busy his own mind as he readied his nephew and his companions for mortal combat.

  Gunnulf was as cool as if a sparring-match awaited; aided Asberg in his helping work, even cast a grin when the older man over-tightened a belt, and redid it himself. Jari was silent, the heavy jaw clenched. He stood still as an ox as Asberg, his companion in many a battle, went over his war-kit once more. Asberg could not look in the face of his friend, but gave a solid thump on the metalled shoulder when he was done.

  Jari narrowed his eyes at the two young men he would fight with, and for. They were both completely untried in actual battle. Both had sparred endless hours with him and with others, but the only bloodshed they had witnessed were the rare fights between men. Well, he thought, looking at Asberg, and so were we untried, once.

  Hrald was foolishly young for this, but Jari understood why he had offered himself to spare so many more. Hrald, like his lady-mother, followed Christ, and it was the Christian thing to do, to sacrifice oneself. To the Gods war was an act of devotion, almost of prayer, but that was no way to live when one had mostly laid down the sword and taken to raising horses, and had a wife, as Jari did, who listened to Wilgot and believed.

  Hrald’s face was pale, what could be seen of it, but he stood up well, straight and with chin held high, under that bright helmet. Sidroc was come too late to stop this, but was here none the less to look upon the boy, and Jari knew Hrald had much of his father in him. If Sidroc’s skill and boldness flowed in Hrald’s blood, all might come right for the young jarl.

  And Gunnulf, his own brother! Nothing bad could happen to Gunnulf, nothing ever did, his life was charmed, he who should have broken his neck ten times over on his half-wild horses and wilder dares. No, it was he himself, the old man with the marred hand that would fall. But not before he had taken his man out. It would be the greatest battle lesson given of his life, and he would give it before the twenty best men of two halls.

  The three from Four Stones now stood, looking across at the three from Turcesig. Like Hrald, Thorfast stood flanked by his two chosen. They had but these last moments to try and gauge their strength and skill. Hrald had only slight knowledge of Gnupa and Odinkar; they had come from Guthrum when Turcesig was given over, and as Thorfast had picked them to fight at his side, he could wager they were from the late king’s bodyguard. Hrald knew that now he must forget their names, forget even they had names. They were no longer the men of one once friendly to him; they were the enemy.

  Asberg was the last to step away from his nephew. When he did Sidroc came forward to Hrald. His boy was a few breaths away from entering the sacred space of the duelling ground, a place he could not follow. He placed his hands on his son’s shoulders. They were eye to eye. Sidroc’s words were slow and clear.

  “Hrald, listen to me.” Each word sounded in Hrald’s brain, and his father’s eyes bored into his own. “You do not fear them. They fear you.”

  That was all; that was enough.

  He released his son, stepped back.

  “At the fall of my sword,” Sidroc called, drawing his blade and holding it outstretched before him.

  Hrald turned, stepped past the boundary line, his men at his sides. Thorfast did the same. They faced North-South, so the setting Sun would not blind them. Their shadows were now huge on the ground they stood upon.

  Jari saw Gnupa, the man he faced, regard him, and note the shield held in the right hand. He had fought a Tyr-hand before. No matter, Jari thought, I will drop you, before I myself fall.

  Gunnulf made a gesture at Hrald’s side, turned to him. “I thank you,” he told Hrald. The almost ever-present smile was there on his lips. Gunnulf turned back to face the man he would soon draw sword against.

  I thank you, thought Hrald. I thank you for putting my life in such jeopardy. For giving me the chance to prove myself before the best warriors of these halls. I thank you for keeping the silence you promised. He could not guess the meaning, but Gunnulf spoke with honest ease.

  Jari, silent the whole time, had been thinking now on Thorfast. He turned at last to speak to Hrald, a final prompt to all his training. “Use your height, Hrald. Your long reach. Use it.”

  They lined up, strode forward. Fists tightened about sword hilts as blades were drawn. Shields were lifted, elbows braced. Sidroc looked on all. His eyes rose to the sky. Then he dropped his sword, in one swift movement.

  Six mouths opened and gave battle cry, the final release of coiled nerves before metal bit metal. There was a whooping yell from Gunnulf, a mighty oath-warmed grunt from Jari, and from Hrald a piercing call.

  Then they struck.

  Thorfast lunged hard at Hrald, his sword laying the first blow on Hrald’s shield. As quickly as it had hit, the blade was withdrawn and with shortened swing came again, as Thorfast jumped at him. The shield Hrald used was painted in two wedges of opposed black, on a red face, and the blows Thorfast had placed almost followed the line of black leading up to Hrald’s left shoulder. He drove at him with such energy and speed that Hrald found himself giving and giving ground. Thorfast’s eyes glared from through the eyeholes of his helmet, intent on finishing his task as quickly as possible. Hrald was pushed relentlessly back. He saw Jari and Gunnulf many paces ahead of him, standing much where they had drawn their swords, hacking away at their men. He had already vanished from their view as Thorfast drove him near the hazel boundary.

  He could hear men shouting, confused cries and oaths, coming from those who watched. Each time he gave ground, Thorfast redoubled the speed with which he leapt and swung. Hrald must break this onslaught. He had scarce brought his own weapon into play, and his shield had taken several solid hits, one which gave the crack of alder being rent. It had a fault, somewhere. As Thorfast levelled his sword again, Hrald leapt to one side. Thorfast tried to twist to meet his mark, but missed, his blade catching nothing but air. It gave Hrald time to turn. Now it was Thorfast’s back against the hazel boundary.

  It changed a great deal. Thorfast was winded from the force with which he had pursued Hrald, and now angered that he had lost the chance to push him out of bounds and win the forfeit.

  Hrald attacked. He did not yet have the strength that Thorfast possessed in his arm and shoulder, but he had his reach, and he too was quick with his wrist. Fighting starts with the feet, his father had taught him as a boy, and he stayed light upon his heels, ready to pivot and spring. One, two, three solid blows he landed on the face of Thorfast’s blue and black shield. His blows were aimed high, high, and low, so that Thorfast was kept moving the wooden disc, unable to guess where the next strike would fall. As they swung and blocked they moved together, coming a little away from the boundary line, with first Hrald and then Thorfast looking back to the centre of the duelling ground.

  A loud cry. Hrald was facing in and saw Jari had lunged forward on one powerful knee, saw the man Gnupa he was facing standing unnaturally still before him. Jari’s sword had found home in the man’s bowels. Jari reared back, withdrawing the blade, and Gnupa pitched forward, sword dropping from hand.

  Jari had no sooner straightened himself than a second roaring cry rose from those outside the p
itch. Gunnulf had found ample challenge in attempting to best Odinkar, and it was only Gunnulf’s speed that kept the more powerful man’s blows from hitting more than wood. Odinkar had shattered Gunnulf’s shield in the last strike, and he was left holding little more than the boss and the quarter-piece of wood that still hung to it. Gunnulf had never stopped grinning at his opponent, and had several times laughed in taunt when Odinkar had missed or shown effort. The loss of his shield made him laugh again, a hearty laugh at himself. Then he flung the crippled thing at Odinkar’s head.

  It was so bold a move that those watching gave a yell of astonishment. Odinkar staggered back, and Gunnulf had his chance. He drove for the man’s torso, now unprotected by his lowered shield.

  But Odinkar had not been one of Guthrum’s own bodyguard for nought. As he fell back he kicked his right leg out and forward. It caught Gunnulf on his own right leg, and tripped him. Gunnulf fell before him, and it was the act of an instant for Odinkar to drive his sword into Gunnulf’s back.

  Jari, heavily winded from his own contest, had watched all, standing with lowered sword and shield as the enemy sword tip plunged into his younger brother. He gave a howl so deep that all other cries were silenced under it. He lifted his blade and shield and ran the few paces to where Odinkar stood over Gunnulf’s body.

  A rage overtook Jari, his disbelief that he lived and Gunnulf had been felled. His anger was fuelled by the manner of Gunnulf’s death. All was fair in battle: tripping, grappling, hidden weapons, but to be tripped and run through in the back seemed a Fate bitterly unworthy one who was known in life for his deft grace.

  He came at Odinkar like two men, he himself, and his brother’s vengeful shade. There was no display of especial skill in the way in which he wielded his sword, just the immense and raw power of his anger. He swung, hacking at Odinkar’s raised shield, and howling like a blood-hungry hound. It was a strength that could not long be withstood, and Odinkar found his knees buckling under the rain of blows. Another hack and his shield had splintered into yellow and green fragments, from which he shook his left hand free. It left him, two handed on his sword hilt, blocking Jari’s blows with his blade.