Horg had not touched a drop of strong spirits in fourteen days, and he was in relatively good shape when he woke the morning of the Vutmana. He had shed some of the fat around his belly. His jawline had firmed and tightened. His eyes were clear, keen, focused. He was determined, resolved, and cold sober. He meant to win the Vutmana.
No man—and certainly no god—was going to stop him.
CHAPTER
6
The Vutmana to determine the Chief of Chiefs was held in a place sacred to all the Vindrasi, a small grassy island located in a cove northwest of Vindraholm next to the estuary of Akaraflod. On this piece of ground, Thorgunnd had fought Krega, or so legend told. The island was known to this day as Krega’s Bane.
High cliffs surrounded the island, providing an ideal vantage point for spectators who would line the tops of the cliffs to watch the challenge taking place on the island below. The cliff’s steep rocky walls served to deter any overly enthusiastic supporters who might be tempted to join the fight.
Crowds had been gathering at the site for many days in advance of the event. Some people had walked or ridden miles in order to be present. The Chiefs of all the clans were there, escorted by their household guard, their honored warriors, and their Bone Priestesses. Dragonships and boats lined the beaches for miles. Each clan had established its own campsite, and their colorful banners floated in the strong sea breeze. The fierce Martegnan, Warriors of the Spear Steppes; the proud Svegund, Warriors of the North Shore; the clever Djevakfen, Warriors of the Land; the bold Olfet Margen, Warriors of the North Sea; and the skilled Luknar, comprising two clans who had joined together: Warriors of the South Bay and the Forge Masters.
The Clan Chiefs, as witnesses, were given the best vantage points. They took their places near the cliff’s edge, where they could look down upon the island. The Bone Priestesses gathered nearby, their embroidered robes making a bright splash of color against the gray rock.
The leading warriors of the Heudjun and Torgun Clans were given places of prominence. The two groups stood as far apart as possible, neither acknowledging the presence of the other. Sven Teinar led the Heudjun contingent. Sigurd Adalbrand headed the Torgun.
Bone Priestess of the Heudjun, Fria Teinar, and Bone Priestess of the Torgun, Treia Adalbrand, stood in between the two groups of men. Their presence was indicative of the Kai solidarity. They were also there to stop any trouble that might erupt between the two clans.
The Heudjun were grim and silent, struggling with conflicting feelings. The Heudjun disliked Horg intensely and would have been glad to see him lose, but, at the same time, they did not want the Torgun to win. For their part, the Torgun were in good spirits. Torval was on their side.
There had been some grumbling among the Torgun to the effect that because the Kai Priestess was also Horg’s wife, Draya would be prejudiced in favor of her husband and might give the fight to him. Men brought their complaints to Norgaard. He was angry and denounced those who doubted her.
“I have known the Kai Priestess for many years, and I know Draya to be a woman of honor,” he stated. “Draya is dedicated to the gods. She is Kai Priestess first and Horg’s wife second. She will uphold the judgment of the Torval. She must uphold it, or be god-cursed herself.”
This quieted the talk, if it did not quiet men’s doubts.
The remainder of the Vindrasi people who had come to see the fight found places for themselves wherever they could, crowding the tops of the cliffs, shoving and jostling to get a better view, so that a small boy slipped and nearly fell to certain death on the rocks below. He was saved by a warrior’s quick-thinking grab. The Bone Priestesses, taking heed of this near tragedy, ordered men from each clan to form a cordon along the top of the cliffs, warning everyone away from the edge.
The crowd was in a festive mood, greeting friends and kinsmen from other clans they had not seen in years, relating joyful news of those who had been born and sad news of those who had died. Everyone was dressed in their finest. Weapons were prohibited, but the men wore their silver armbands and golden chains, which spoke to their valor. Women pinned their apron-dresses with their finest brooches. Children ran about underfoot. Dogs barked and chased the children. Ale skins were passed from hand to hand. Then all talking and laughing stopped. The Venjekar, bearing the Kai Priestess, the two combatants, and their shield-bearers, came into view.
The ship used in the ceremony would ordinarily have belonged to a neutral clan, but according to Treia, the Dragon Kahg insisted on being present and, given his anger over the loss of the Vektan Torque, none were inclined to argue with him. The dragon’s eyes, gleaming fire, cast a red pall over the crowd and impressed upon them the serious nature of this contest. Women ceased their gossip and latched on to their children. Men dropped the ale skins to the ground and stood with their arms folded across their chests. Silence fell, tense and uneasy. The scraping of the keel of the dragonship against the rocks could be clearly heard.
Draya stood at the ship’s prow, her hand upon the curved neck of the dragon. The warriors stood behind her. She looked ahead, not behind, careful not to acknowledge any of the combatants. The reason she gave for this was that she did not want to be accused of favoritism. In truth, she could not bear looking at Horg.
The Venjekar made landfall upon the small island, the Dragon Kahg guiding it to a gentle landing. Draya made ready to leave the ship, for she had to prepare and sanctify the ground where the two would fight. The shield-bearers, Garn and one of Horg’s friends named Rulf, lowered the gangplank and stood by, ready to assist Draya to descend.
She stared at the gangplank, which was nothing but a long wooden board, in dismay. She had not sailed with a dragonship for many years. Her stomach was queasy, she was unsteady on her feet, and the gangplank, resting on the rocks, shifted with the motion of the ship. Sea spray blew into Draya’s face and stung her eyes. She would have to walk along the narrow plank, encumbered by her long skirts and the heavy ceremonial surcoat. She pictured herself slipping and falling into the sea, the waves catching hold of her and smashing her body against the sharp rocks. She went cold and sick with dread.
Draya clung to the rail and stared down into the gray-green foam-spattered water. The ship edged back and forth, the keel surging forward, striking the rocks, then receding. Draya placed a foot on the gangplank, which was slick with sea spray. She had to find the courage to do this.
“Vindrash, help me!” Draya prayed, and she was about to fling herself forward when she felt strong hands take hold of her.
“The sea is rough, Kai Priestess,” said a voice. “Allow me to assist you.”
Such was Draya’s confusion that she didn’t know which man had spoken. Whoever it was launched himself over the ship’s side. He landed on the rock island, and then, turning around to face her, he extended his hands.
“Take hold of my hand, Priestess,” Skylan told her. “Do not be afraid. I will not let you fall.”
Draya looked down at him, the young man who had chosen to fight the Law of the Challenge in his father’s stead. She had seen Skylan before, but she had not, until this moment, truly seen him.
Sun-gold hair fell to his shoulders. His chest was broad, his back straight, his body strong and muscular. His eyes were sea blue, his skin burnished bronze. Silver bands glinted on his arms. He was the stuff of legend, the hero of girlhood dreams, the embodiment of all the great Vindrasi warriors celebrated in story and song.
“Some god must love him!” Draya breathed.
Skylan looked up at her and smiled. He braced himself and extended his hand.
Draya caught hold of his hand and was walking down the gangplank when her foot slipped and she lurched into him. Skylan caught her, his hands around her rib cage, his fingers brushing her breasts. He lifted her off the gangplank and lowered her gently to the ground.
“Are you all right, Priestess?” he asked solicitously, keeping hold of her until she found her footing.
She could only gasp in answ
er.
His hands on her were firm and strong, and desire swept over her, its sweet, painful flame melting her heart, burning her blood, consuming her flesh, till there was nothing left of her.
Skylan let go. Inclining his head, he brushed off her confused thanks and left her, running up the gangplank, returning to board the dragonship.
Draya stood on the island alone. No one was allowed on the island until she had prepared for the Vutmana. She was aware of the crowd, tense and hushed, lined up along on the top of the cliff, watching her expectantly.
She was aware of the men in the dragonship, waiting the judgment of Torval.
She was aware of the Dragon Kahg, his red eyes watching.
She was aware of the gods, but only dimly. Whether that was her fault or theirs, she could not say.
She was aware of all of this, yet she was most aware of Skylan’s touch, the sky-blue light in his eyes.
Draya lifted her head and raised her arms, as though she were praying, then turned to the task at hand—preparing for the Vutmana.
“What does she wait for? Why doesn’t she get on with it?” Skylan demanded.
Impatient to start the contest, which he was confident he would win, Skylan was frustrated with all the ritual and ceremony. To him, the Vutmana was simplicity itself: Two champions do battle. Give him a sword and a shield, and let him fight.
Skylan had taken part in three Clanmelds. Three times he had listened to the recitation of the Law of the Challenge, but he had paid scant attention. His mind tended to wander, making plans for a future raid or inwardly chuckling at some jest he’d heard the night before. Thus he had been astonished and appalled to hear the rules of the Vutmana, as related to him by his father.
“You mean I have to stand there and let Horg hit me?” Skylan had asked.
“You can defend yourself,” Norgaard had told him. “You cannot strike back. Not until it is your turn.”
If that is true, then even you could fight! Skylan had thought scornfully. He hadn’t said the words aloud, but Norgaard read his son’s mind.
“Standing alone, waiting, unflinching, for your opponent to aim a deadly blow at you takes courage, requires self-control.” Norgaard eyed Skylan grimly. “Qualities people want in a Chief and in a Chief’s son.”
Skylan thought this over. “What you say makes sense, Father,” he had conceded, adding magnanimously, “In that case, I have no objections.”
“I’m sure Torval will be pleased to hear it,” Norgaard had stated dryly.
Skylan had chafed at the fourteen-day delay. He had been ready to fight Horg the day he had challenged him. Though he understood the need for the other Clan Chiefs to be present, he did not see why it should take them a fortnight to assemble. They should drop everything and rush off. And he was highly annoyed at his father, who made him spend the night before the Vutmana in isolation. The other clans had gathered for a feast and a bonfire. Skylan, sitting alone on the beach, could hear the laughter and shouts, and he longed to be among them, listening to the boasts of the other warriors, making his own boasts in turn.
Norgaard had attempted to explain to Skylan how his presence this night would be salt in the wounds of the Heudjun, perhaps end in fighting and bloodshed, the very outcome they were trying to avoid. Skylan supposed his father had a point, but he had gone to bed in an ill humor.
He had been up before the dawn, rousing everyone and hurrying his father and Garn on board the Venjekar. They could have had their sleep after all, for they had been forced to wait for Horg and his shield-bearer, and after that there was another wait for the Kai Priestess.
At last the Kai Priestess had arrived, bringing with her the sacred cloth rolled up and tucked under her arm, as well as a basket containing a wineskin and two drinking mugs made of rams’ horns and decorated in silver. Skylan asked his father what the drinking mugs were for, but Norgaard couldn’t say. The Priestesses always added some touch of their own to the ceremony.
The men had bowed in respect as the Priestess boarded. She had very carefully avoided looking at or speaking to any of them. She made her way forward to take her place near the figurehead, where hung the spiritbone of the Dragon Kahg. She remained there, unmoving, throughout the voyage.
Skylan had found the journey to the island long and tedious. He was not permitted to talk to his opponent, but no one had said anything against making a few cutting remarks, ones Horg would be bound to overhear. Every time Skylan opened his mouth, however, Norgaard frowned fiercely at him. Garn was subdued and had whispered tersely to Skylan that he should take this seriously.
Skylan had been offended. He was taking this seriously. He was the one doing the fighting, after all. Torval was on his side. True, Hevis had been known to play his tricks upon both men and gods, but Skylan was young and strong, courageous and confident. He could overcome anything.
After what seemed an interminable length of time, the dragonship arrived at the island known as Krega’s Bane. Skylan saw the people crowding the cliff, more people gathered in one place than he’d ever seen in his life. He was awed. For the first time, the true import of the Vutmana struck him. Here, on this island, the great Clan Chief Thorgunnd had fought and died. Here Torval had cursed the treacherous Krega. Here countless other men had fought and gone on to glory.
Skylan looked up to see the people—his people—looking down at him, and his heart swelled with pride. He felt himself invincible and he saw himself standing in the center of the sacred cloth, the cheers of the people resounding in his ears. He saw his father, limping into the ring, named Chief of Chiefs.
Chief of Chiefs. Norgaard, the old man, the cripple, Chief of Chiefs.
The Venjekar had anchored alongside the island, which was too small to permit the ship to land onshore. Skylan had dashed to the side, prepared to jump off, only to be stopped by Garn.
“The Kai Priestess goes first,” Garn had told him.
Skylan had seethed at yet another delay. Garn and Rulf, Horg’s shield-bearer, lowered the gangplank.
Skylan had waited impatiently for the Priestess to descend, but the woman stood at the rail, staring over the side. She looked faintly green, and Skylan had wondered irritably if she was seasick.
Norgaard had hissed in Skylan’s ear, “Draya is afraid, my son. You should assist her.”
“I thought I wasn’t to set foot on the island until the old woman prayed over it,” Skylan had returned.
Norgaard had glowered at him. “You young fool! Draya holds our fate in her hands. Make haste to help her before Horg thinks of it!”
“Torval holds my fate,” Skylan muttered, but he had understood what his father meant. It would do no harm to be of service to the Kai Priestess.
Skylan had vaulted easily over the side of the ship and extended his hand to assist Draya in walking down the slippery and unsteady gangplank.
He had noted that the woman was of slender build, with pale hair, a pale complexion. A worry line creased her forehead. Her lips were thin and compressed, accustomed to keeping secrets. Her eyes were her best feature, being large and luminous, though they were marred by crow’s-feet.
She must be thirty-five if she is a day, Skylan had reflected. If my mother had lived, she would be about the same age.
Remembering that this woman was old, Skylan had caught Draya as gently as he could, so as not to break any bones. He had taken care to lower her easily and respectfully to the ground. She had stood there for some time, staring at him, as if she were in some sort of trance. She had been about to speak, but he had not lingered to hear her thanks. The sooner he was back on board the ship, the sooner she could set to work, and the sooner he would have his chance to fight.
Now Skylan watched impatiently as the Kai Priestess measured out the Holmhring, a square patch of land roughly fifteen feet by fifteen, on which the Vutmana was fought. Inside this square, the priestess laid down the Vutmana cloth, which was nine feet by nine feet. The cloth was sacred, she said, for it had been blesse
d by Vindrash.
When this was finally done, the Kai Priestess summoned Garn and Rulf, the shield-bearers, who were now permitted to come ashore. Under her direction, the two men drove stakes into the ground at each corner of the cloth, anchoring it. The shield-bearers then hammered wooden posts into the ground at the corners of the Holmhring and tied ropes around the posts, defining the outer edge of the field of combat.
The shield-bearers, each with three shields, took their assigned places outside the rope. The shield-bearers were permitted to hand their champions fresh shields as needed, but they were prohibited from taking part in the combat.
At last, Draya indicated that all was in readiness. The snow-white cloth, made of linen, was staked in place. The shield-bearers had taken their positions. Now it was time for Norgaard to come ashore. Proudly refusing help, Norgaard descended the unsteady gangplank. His crutch slipped, his bad leg collapsed, and he fell. His face twisted in pain and anger, he lay floundering in the water at the foot of the gangplank.
Garn and Rulf hastened to assist him, but Norgaard pushed them both away. He managed to stand on his own. Leaning heavily on his crutch, he limped over to take his place alongside Garn. The watching crowd murmured in admiration. Courage of all types was admired.
On board the dragonship, Horg glanced sidelong at Skylan and chuckled. “You really think Torval will make a cripple Chief of Chiefs?”
Skylan flashed Horg a furious look and seemed about to make a scathing retort, when Draya beckoned to both men that it was time to begin. Skylan started to disembark, but Horg roughly shoved him aside.
“The man who is challenged goes first,” Horg stated contemptuously; then he added with a grin, “Or perhaps I should just say the man goes first.”
Skylan went pale with fury at the insult. His sword was halfway out of its sheath and he was going for Horg when both Norgaard and the Kai Priestess called sharply for him to stop. Fuming, Skylan sheathed his sword.
“I will slit your fat belly and feed your entrails to the fish!” he said.
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