Ofeig Scowler’s men had seen more too, for they did not simply stride in and gut him and neither would any of them risk losing their weapon by throwing it. Instead they spread out in an arc and came slowly, like men closing in on a boar.
Or a wolf.
The young man gripped his spear with two hands, the shaft under his left arm just below chest height, its blade favouring each of his opponents in turn as they edged closer.
‘What are you waiting for? Frigg’s tits, there are four of you!’ Loker barked.
‘Keep your oggles peeled, lad,’ Olaf growled. ‘One of those whoresons will scratch his itch soon enough, won’t be able to help himself. He’ll want the glory of it, even against a chained thrall.’
And then it happened: one of the spearmen to the young man’s right came in fast with a double-handed mid-level thrust, but the thrall had known it was coming and brought his stave across to block, then he thrust with his left hand, slamming his spear’s butt into the man’s temple. The man staggered but the thrall stepped with him, keeping close, and scythed the spear blade up to rip open the man’s groin in a spray of the bright red blood that signals a man’s doom.
Another spearman roared and thrust high and the thrall snapped his head out of the way and brought the butt end up to parry, so knocking the other’s blade skyward. Then almost too fast to see he twirled the spear a half circle and thrust the blade overarm into his enemy’s mouth, hauling it out again before the steel could catch on the jaw bones.
‘Their mail is not doing them much good,’ Hendil observed, as another of Scowler’s men slashed his spear at the thrall’s legs and the thrall jumped the blade neatly, spun the spear and thrust it back under his right arm to impale the man through his neck. But the man clutched at the blood-soaked shaft and with impressive strength pulled himself further onto the spear so that his dead weight ripped the weapon from the thrall’s backwards grip. And this was the chance his companion needed as he struck with a slash and cut that would have ripped the thrall’s chest open had the young man not stepped towards him and caught the stave on his forearm. The young man stepped further in and rammed his forehead into the spearman’s face, bursting his nose with a crack, then he turned his back on the stunned man and slowly walked back to the Weeping Stone.
Only one of the other three was still breathing but he was corpse-pale, as the last of his blood welled up through the hands he had pressed to his groin.
‘We should use your silver to buy this thrall,’ Olaf said to Sigurd.
‘Would you sell him if you were Guthorm?’ Sigurd said.
Olaf did not need to answer that, as the last of Scowler’s men roared his defiance through a mouth full of blood, levelled his spear and charged.
The thrall stood still as the standing stone. Then at the last moment he twisted like smoke, grabbed the chain that hung behind him and brought it up and round the man’s neck. He hauled on the chain, teeth clenched with the strain of it, and Scowler’s man’s face filled with blood, his eyes bulging so they looked as though they would burst. Desperate hands clawed at the chain but the thrall held on and the folk gathered there watched as the doomed man’s tongue swelled and poked from blue lips and a dark piss stain bloomed in his breeks.
‘Never seen the like of it,’ Solveig murmured, which was saying something when you’d lived as long as he.
‘How did a wet behind the ears lad learn to fight like that?’ Loker said.
‘A wolf knows it is a wolf,’ Asgot said.
‘You don’t learn spear-craft like that.’ Olaf had his spear across his shoulders and his brawny arms draped over it. ‘You’re born with it.’
‘Well I would like to know how Guthorm got his hands on the lad in the first place,’ Hendil said, which was a good question given that Guthorm was no longer a raiding man, if he had ever been much of one.
‘Well seeing as Guthorm is not missing an arm or a head I would say that he likely won the lad from some axe-swinger,’ Olaf said.
Which was probably why Guthorm stayed in his longhouse these days rather than taking a crew out on the hunt for plunder. He likely made more silver at the Weeping Stone than he did from his fields and his pigs and sheep.
But the other karls who had brought fighters to the Weeping Stone backed out of the thing now, any confidence they had come with as broken as the bodies which lay in the grass drawing flies. Folk were muttering that Guthorm’s man was Óðin-favoured and that no one could be expected to fight against a god as well as a man. As for Guthorm, his fleshy face was sweat-sheened now and the smile on it had all the substance of steam from a cauldron. He was worried and so he might be, for the way things were going no one would bring their fighters and their silver here again just to see the former slaughtered and the latter go into Guthorm’s purse. And if they did not come, Guthorm would have to get up off his arse and do some proper work.
Svein gripped his long-axe beneath the head and lifted it in the thrall’s direction. ‘I’ll fight him, Sigurd,’ he said. ‘Put all your money on me and we will empty every purse here.’
‘Have you been rinsing your guts with some stash we don’t know about, lad?’ Olaf asked him. ‘That son of a she-wolf would put a dozen holes in you before you knew you were worm food.’
Svein looked offended. ‘I’d only need to hit him once,’ he said, slapping the axe’s cheek.
‘No, Svein,’ Sigurd said. ‘We have done well enough here today. You carving up Guthorm’s thrall will have our hosts in a poor mood this evening and I am thinking we should stay another night if Guthorm will have us.’
Svein nodded, happy enough with that.
‘Well this is turning sour faster than milk left in the sun,’ Solveig said, watching Ofeig Scowler jabbing his finger into the chest of another karl who had brought a fighter but now refused to let the man get anywhere near Guthorm’s thrall. Sensing that the festivities were over and having doled out what she owed, Fastvi was on her knees behind her husband’s two spearmen squirrelling their shiny winnings and her scales into a nestbaggin as discord spread around her, crackling like fire in dry grass.
‘Maybe we’ll have some more excitement to wash down the bad taste of it all,’ Olaf suggested, nodding at two of Guthorm’s friends who had squared their shoulders to one another, hands on the grips of the scramasaxes sheathed above their crotches. And perhaps they would, Sigurd thought, for Guthorm was losing his grip on the day, much to the black-haired young man’s amusement if the curl of his lip was anything to go by.
But it was Lame-Leg who got everyone’s attention, banging the hilt of his sword against the back of a shield, for he had sniffed out an opportunity to make up for his losses. ‘We have come all this way, myself I have come from Lysebotn,’ he shouted, ‘and it does not seem right that we will not get a fair chance to go home with a little more than we came with.’
‘My man will fight anyone who dares to face him at the stone,’ Guthorm insisted, arms out wide. ‘It is not my fault that there are some pale livers here today.’
That last was not clever but Guthorm could not resist it.
‘You might as well cut your own belly open as fight him!’ a man yelled, pointing at Guthorm’s thrall.
‘There’s some seiðr about the lad,’ another man called. ‘It’s not natural.’
‘So we leave him out of it,’ Lame-Leg said. ‘I have brought another man, as you can all see. Will someone offer to fight him?’ There was a murmur among the crowd as all eyes turned to this warrior, who puffed up his chest and tried to put some granite in his face. ‘I am feeling generous and would let him fight despite my losses here today.’
Lame-Leg’s man seemed to have grown half a foot since Sigurd last looked, his confidence blooming now he knew he would not have to fight the chained thrall. ‘That is what we have come for,’ In-Halti said. ‘My man will fight anyone here, so long as that man does not have a god at his shoulder.’
‘Who here has seen this man fight before?’ Guthorm asked
, throwing his sword arm out wide.
Folk shook their heads or answered that they had never laid eyes on the man.
‘Good,’ Guthorm went on. ‘Then we just need another man whom no one has seen with a sword in his hand and we will have a fair contest with no one whining about it afterwards.’
‘What about you, Olaf?’ Eid called. ‘You look like a man whose ears have rung with the sword song. That is a fine brynja you have been showing off since you came here. Will you fight Lame-Leg’s man?’
Guthorm dismissed Eid’s invitation with a flourish of his arm. ‘Are you mad, Eid?’ he said. ‘Olaf is our guest. Why would he wish to risk his life here today?’
‘Because his young friend from Skudeneshavn there needs silver and Olaf can win some if he is as good a fighter as his war gear would suggest.’
The folk at the Weeping Stone were all murmurs and eyeballs then as they stared at Sigurd.
‘Big-mouthed goat-swiver,’ Solveig muttered, for most of the folk there must have heard of what had befallen Jarl Harald of Skudeneshavn and his people. Furthermore, many would have heard on the wind that the jarl’s youngest son Sigurd had escaped the king’s net and perhaps it might have reached their ears that Harald’s godi had changed himself into a fox and chewed off his own leg to escape a drowning death on the skerry below Avaldsnes.
‘I’ll fight anyone you like,’ Olaf called, stepping forward to draw their eyes to him instead of Sigurd.
‘No, Uncle,’ Sigurd said, gripping his shoulder. ‘Eid has laid us bare here. Look at them wondering what kind of man I am. I will fight Lame-Leg’s man.’
Beneath the beard Olaf’s face was all scowl. ‘Listen to me, lad, I am with you to the end of all this, whatever that may be. But you are not my jarl. Not yet.’
‘I’m sorry, Uncle,’ Svein said, coming to stand in front of Olaf, holding his long-axe across his body. Olaf was a big man but Svein was a mountain even then.
‘You had better either swing that thing or move out of my way before I rip your arms off and ram them down your damn throat,’ Olaf snarled. Svein did not move but Sigurd did and he walked towards the standing stone and the dark-haired thrall sitting at its base.
Then he turned to face the crowd. ‘I am Sigurd son of Jarl Harald of Skudeneshavn who was betrayed by the oath-breaker King Gorm. I will fight In-Halti’s man.’ He saw their eyes light up, none more than Guthorm’s, because the karl knew that his reputation was saved. Whatever happened now his guests would go away with a story worth telling and that was almost as good as a purse full of silver.
‘We are honoured, Sigurd Haraldarson, and we accept your offer,’ Guthorm said. Sigurd nodded and turned to glance at his friends to make sure there was no blood being spilled there, but Olaf and Svein were side by side watching him. Even Olaf knew he must stay out of it now, for this was an issue of pride and Sigurd had no choice but to swim with the current of it.
Not that Sigurd wasn’t cursing himself for a fool. He was still weak from the ordeal of the hanging tree and the thought of a hard fight now greased his palms and loosened his bowels. But the only way he would ever be strong enough to fight Jarl Randver and King Gorm would be if he drew men to him, if Sword-Norse were prepared to follow him into the blood-fray. Which they would never do if he was the kind of man who hides behind others when a challenge is hurled.
He looked at Lame-Leg’s fighter to get his measure. He was not a big man but he had an arrogance about him, a fire in the eyes that made Sigurd wonder why he had not noticed him before. But then, the man had quite literally stepped out of the shadow of In-Halti’s other fighter, the giant who lay all but forgotten out there in the long grass, though at least they had yanked the axe from his head.
‘Sigurd, what weapons will you use?’ Eid asked him. Clearly the man had wanted Olaf to fight but he seemed happy enough now that Sigurd stood in Olaf’s place and that was because he expected Sigurd to lose and he knew that would hurt Olaf more than a blade between the ribs.
‘My sword is all I need,’ Sigurd said. He shrugged. ‘I could use an axe or a spear or even a forge hammer and the end would be the same. I am favoured by the Frenzy God and cannot lose.’
This was some boast but it did the trick, for Lame-Leg’s man forced a grin into his lips even as the colour drained from his face. Those at the Weeping Stone this day had already seen enough to make them suspect that the gods were amongst them. There was a thrall with crow-black hair and not a scratch on him to prove it. Not a scratch, and five fresh corpses buzzing with flies.
I did not hang from that tree in that stinking, wretched place for nothing, Sigurd’s mind growled, his eyes glancing up at the blue sky which was wisped with cloud as thin as bramble-caught wool. Fastvi was busy with her scales again and Guthorm sent a boy running over to her with his purse. Sigurd could not say who the karl was putting his silver on to win. He knew though that Aslak would put at least half of Sigurd’s own wealth on him. Probably more.
‘Do you want a shield, Sigurd?’ Eid asked. Sigurd shrugged as though he did not care either way, though he took the shield which Eid offered and in truth was glad to have it. Without the shield he would have to be as light on his feet as a cat in order to avoid his opponent’s blade, and he was not strong enough for that. Even walking up the hill that morning had made his head spin and his chest tight as the skin of Asgot’s spirit drum. But with the shield he could stand his ground and take some hits. It would give him some time to work out how he was going to beat the man.
Guthorm came over to Sigurd and for a moment he just stood there, the eyes beneath those heavy lids on Sigurd like fingers amongst a knotted rope. ‘If you are alive at the end of this you will be my guest again this evening. It may be that we have things to talk about after all.’
Sigurd nodded and walked past him to where his opponent, whose name was Hagberth, waited, spear and shield gripped and ready. Sigurd did not blame him for having a spear as well as a sword, but Sigurd had claimed the Allfather’s favour and so what need had he of a spear? That would have to go for his armour too, seeing as he wore none apart from the greaves on his shins whose iron strips were dark now against the leather they were fixed to.
A helmet would have been good, he thought.
Folk were cheering now, rousing themselves for what they hoped would be a proper fight.
‘Cut him a new arsehole, Sigurd!’ Svein bellowed.
Sigurd turned and saw Asgot sitting on the ground casting his runes as though he could tell more from them than he could from watching the fight itself. And perhaps he could. Olaf nodded and Aslak pointed to the ground meaning that Sigurd should put his opponent down as quickly as possible. Hendil stood twisting his finger ring, Loker was chewing his thumbnail and Solveig was holding his belly as though he needed to empty his bowels. The muscles in Svein’s jaws were pulsing beneath his red beard and his hands were great white knots on his long-axe’s haft and Sigurd knew his friend would swap places with him in a sparrow’s fart if he could.
And then Hagberth was coming for him, his leather skull cap and eyes the only things Sigurd could see above the iron-rimmed shield.
Hagberth struck first, his spear blade streaking for Sigurd’s face, but Sigurd knocked it away with his shield at the same time as swinging his sword which would have opened Hagberth’s throat had he not been quick to yank his head back. The spear came again and this time Sigurd blocked with his sword but then Hagberth crouched and the blade would have cut open Sigurd’s right shin had it not turned off his greave. Sigurd hacked down into the stave, cutting it clean in half, and Hagberth leapt back then hurled what was left at Sigurd to buy the time to draw his sword.
He came again. Hacking at Sigurd’s shield, three great blows to test his enemy’s strength and the quality of the limewood. Sigurd’s shield held and he loosened his shoulders as they circled each other. Then Hagberth struck again and this time Sigurd aligned his shield so that the blow glanced off downward and towards his opponent’s left and
might have allowed Sigurd an opportunity for a counter strike had Hagberth not been as experienced a fighter as he clearly was. Hagberth had his shield across in time to catch the blow and they parted again already sweating and breathing hard.
‘I thought you would be better,’ Sigurd said. ‘But now I can see why Lame-Leg kept you at the back. Like the runt of the litter.’ He went in with a downward strike to Hagberth’s shoulder but the man got his shield in the way and then they traded blows and slivers of limewood flew.
When they parted again Sigurd’s vision was blurring. There were dark spots moving through his sight like the shadows of birds across the surface of a wind-rippled pool, and he knew he did not have the strength yet for this fight. And yet he could not let anyone see that and so he went in with a low-level strike to Hagberth’s leg which missed and Hagberth stepped in and slammed his sword’s hilt against Sigurd’s head, filling his skull with lightning.
He heard the crowd roar and felt his legs moving beneath him.
‘Stay on your feet, Haraldarson!’ someone roared. Olaf.
Sigurd staggered out of Hagberth’s reach and did not fall but neither had he time to gather his wits as the man was on him again, the thunder of his sword against Sigurd’s shield pulling Sigurd back to the present, like a drowning man hauled from beneath the fjord’s surface.
Sigurd put his shoulder into his shield and drove it into his opponent, who stumbled backwards and fell on his backside, which brought more cheers and a wave of laughter that had his face flushing crimson as he climbed to his feet. Sigurd armed the sweat from his eyes and tried to blink away the dark motes that were storming his vision.
‘What is the matter, Hagberth?’ he called. ‘Are you tired? You must be older than you look.’ He shot the man a grin and held his sword and shield out wide inviting Hagberth to come at him again.
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