The skin on Tyrkir’s freckled face was pale. His heart beat painfully. “By the great Tyr, defeat the braggart! I will kill him myself before I become a slave to that chunk of meat.”
“Don’t worry. You are, and will, remain my slave.” Erik managed a weak smile. “No, you are much more. You are my only friend, and we will remain together for a long time yet. Now, help me prepare.”
Tyrkir hung two spare shields on Erik’s saddle horn and wished him luck and all of Thor’s powers. There was nothing more he could do. Erik jumped on his black-and-white-spotted stallion and trotted ahead to the lakeshore.
Tyrkir wished for lightning as he mounted his horse and pulled the packhorses behind him—a bolt of lightning hurled from Valhalla to burn their enemies. But nothing happened. Scattered clouds drifted above him in the blue sky as the sun glared down.
Beyond the battle turf, Ejolf’s gang had rallied around their leader. Ejolf’s brown horse danced, and he let the spear circle above his helmet like a light walking stick, accompanied by shouts and exuberant laughter. He seemed to be preparing for sport, not a bloody fight, and for his companions, the winner had already been determined.
When Tyrkir reached his lonely position on his side of the field, Erik gave him a silent nod. He rode out into the meadow, his shield covering his chest, his long-stemmed battle-ax shouldered, his lance still stuck in its leather quiver. The sturdy figure seemed clumsy in the saddle, almost too big for his short animal.
Ejolf Dirt spurred on his brown horse with sharp, chopped-off whistles, and shoved his heels into its flanks. Rider and horse merged into one. He set straight at his opponent in a wild gallop, the blinking tip of his lance pointed at the Red’s upper body.
Erik waited calmly, and only at the last moment, pulled his spotted horse aside. The thrust missed him by a hand’s width, and before the enemy could rein in and turn his horse, Erik rode straight south toward the water, turned back, and waited.
Howling, the filthy man charged again, noticing just in time the danger of plunging past his opponent and into the lake, and tore back his horse, its front hooves leaving furrows in the turf. “Come!” he shouted, waving his spear. “Come, red dog! Show what you can do!”
Erik didn’t let his enemy out of his sight but slowly steered his stallion westward along the embankment. Though Ejolf threw mockery and curses at him, only too late did he realize that Erik now had the sun at his back. In wild anger, the boaster hurled his spear.
Erik blocked the projectile with his shield, knocking it aside, but the force of the impact and the violent movement made him stagger in the saddle.
In an instant, Ejolf was up again. He swung his ax, striking Erik, again only hitting the shield and splintering the wood, and the charge was over. Ejolf made an arc and prepared himself for the next attack.
Tyrkir fell to his knees at the edge of the meadow. “You won’t make it fighting that way,” he lamented. “You’re too slow for the man.”
“Come on. Fight like a man,” Ejolf goaded. “Otherwise, I’ll chop you up piece by piece.” Again, he let the reins go, confidently circling his weapon over his head. Erik fended him off with the half-shattered shield; at the same time, he quickly delivered a horizontal blow to his opponent’s side. The chain mail tore, and blood stained Erik’s ax blade. Ejolf briefly curled over, stunned. “A lucky strike, nothing more.”
Erik didn’t respond. Instead, he clicked and let his spotted mount run directly toward the enemy in a restrained tölt.
“Finally. And here I was thinking you were too afraid.” Ejolf lifted his shield slightly. In his right hand, he weighed his weapon. “Come closer. Which arm would you like to lose first? Or should I just cut off your ugly head?”
Erik still didn’t say a word. His lips tense, he watched the eyes of his opponent. Another two horse lengths separated the fighters, and smoothly, without rocking his rider, the steed continued tölting.
Erik reared, hurled his shield to the side, and with his free hand reached for his spear while pushing himself out of the stirrups and jumping back over his stallion’s croup. The horse was startled, leaping toward Ejolf, who shied away.
That moment was enough for Erik. He charged his enemy, his ax whirling around from his right, and hurled it hard from close range. One spin in the air, and the blade hit the enemy’s face with a dry crunch.
The weapon stuck under the edge of the helmet like a grafted, second nose, right where the right eye had been. Ejolf Dirt was frozen in his saddle. His men cried out. But Erik’s task was not yet complete. He pushed his spear into the dead man’s chest with all his might. The corpse tilted back and hit the ground.
There was not a sound. Breathless silence lay over the battlefield. The victor calmly gathered his weapons, whistled to his pony, and walked beside him to the edge of the meadow.
“My shield was no good,” he growled.
Tyrkir looked into his master’s sweaty face. “We still have four.”
“You’re bleeding, Know-It-All.”
“Don’t. This is no time for joking.”
“No, really. What happened to your lip?”
The skinny man touched his mouth and looked at his bloodstained fingertips. “Fear.” His knees trembled. “I was afraid for you.”
“I don’t understand. Why?”
“Because—” Tyrkir broke off, his rising anger helping him overcome his fear. “Damn you, boasting like that braggart. If Thor hadn’t stood by you, you’d be—oh, never mind. You’ve won.”
“And you expected . . . ?”
Loud shouting interrupted them. Ejolf’s companions kneeled by the dead man. Hravn Holmgang stood beside them, his legs apart, and screamed at Erik: “This fight was not fair!”
“What?” Erik rose. He grabbed his friend by the shoulder and pushed him in front of him. “I’m counting on you to speak for me again.” When they were close enough to not have to shout, Tyrkir said, “You say my master has broken the rules? Only a blind man could make such a claim.”
Hravn’s brow furrowed and he thought for a long time before replying. “We agreed on a fight on horseback. Your master has jumped off.”
Briefly, Tyrkir explained why the giant was wrong. He both posed questions and answered them, deliberately not allowing Hravn to speak. Finally, he concluded: “How could my master have fended off the next attack? With a broken shield? There you are—you understand. He had to fight on foot. Ejolf himself had already come to this conclusion. Or don’t you remember now?”
“I can’t talk to you,” Hravn complained. “I know that you’re twisting everything to the advantage of your master.” He put his fists to his hips. “It’s no matter. I don’t want a duel with that coward. I challenge him to a Holmgang. Then we’ll see if your master can also fight on the leather hide.” He grinned broadly. “Tomorrow at sunrise. I’ll wait for him here. My men will prepare the place.” He turned away without another word and followed the other men who were already carrying Ejolf’s body toward Spiel Farm.
Where to now? The friends exchanged a look. Back to the high valley? They would only find safety on their own land, but Tyrkir calculated that there would be no more than two hours left for rest before they’d have to go back.
“I need sleep,” Erik announced. No long ride, and no hiding, either. He pointed to the hill above the homestead. “We camp there. Everyone will see us, and they’ll also see that we’re not afraid of anyone.”
Tyrkir was not very happy. “I’ll keep watch,” he said. “If we voluntarily offer ourselves on a plate, who knows if those mushbrains won’t get hungry at night?”
“Oh, friend, I’d worry about the dirty one, but Hravn? He’s a killer, but not a sneaky mutt.”
They found a place on the hill and settled down, loosing their horses to graze nearby. The shackles on the front legs gave them enough freedom but prevented them from running away. The sun had long since settled behind the snow-covered mountains, far off on the horizon of the Hvammsfjord. Its ligh
t was a red streak that slowly wandered north. Bread, dried meat, and sour milk were the only provisions the men had taken with them.
“It’s a poor meal for a man who has to fight,” Erik growled as he looked down on the grass roofs of the Spiel Farm. “I can smell the roasted meat up here. I’m sure that giant is filling his belly and topping it off with beer.” He lay back and pulled his coat under his chin. “That’s already unfair. What do you think, Know-It-All?”
“I hope he drinks until he falls over. Then I’d feel better for tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? Tyrkir shivered. His friend had never fought a Holmgang. Back in Norway, they had often watched as spectators, but nothing more. He had seen the fighters on the leather square, ten cubits in size. The judge gave the signal. Strike after strike, the fighters took turns hitting each other. If shields broke, new ones were handed over. How many shields could be used before the fight had to be continued with only a weapon? “Do you know the rules?”
Instead of an answer, Tyrkir heard even snoring. Yes, you just sleep, he thought. Since you must be hungry, you should at least gather strength from your sleep. He looked back up the valley toward the Water Horn. The mountains rose black against the bright sky. Will Thjodhild find peace tonight? Certainly not. She is sitting in her chamber, maybe standing outside and waiting for us. Yes, she keeps watch, just like me. He tried to warm himself with that thought.
Many spectators had come from the neighboring farms. Not just men but women with their children and youths wearing caps and rough capes. Clouds had darkened the valley. Nobody laughed. Nobody shouted. The tension dampened any noise. The sacrificial animal had been brought by two servants a few moments before, so the beginning of the spectacle could not be far off.
The people stood at a respectful distance and watched an old, hunchbacked man who had been entrusted with being the judge. The movements with which he prepared the square for the Holmgang seemed almost cumbersome. He was driving the last peg into the fourth corner of the leather mat. With every blow, he bent farther down, and when only a small stump protruded from the eyelet, he looked up at the sky between his spread legs, grabbed one of his earlobes, and muttered a spell.
Tyrkir did not understand him, nor did he wish to. This strange man was from the enemy’s clan, and who could say if he was invoking a spell for Hravn’s victory? Would he really be just and impartial? Out of caution, the two friends had held intimate conversations with both Thor and the wise Tyr before they rode down from the hill and arrived at their assigned place next to Holmfield.
Erik did not know the rules, except that no battle-axes could be used. Tyrkir closely observed Hravn and his weapon helper on the other side of the floor. Since they were tightening the helmet’s chin strap, Tyrkir immediately checked the leather strap under Erik’s chin, then the fit of his chain mail, his sword belt, and his daggers. The leg splints and the knots of the bootstraps came last.
“There, what’s that for?”
Both stared across the field. Hravn had his sword tied to his right forearm, where it dangled loosely from a loop. As a test, he grabbed his spear with both fists, took a thrust, threw it aside, and had the sword grip in his right hand with just a short flick.
“By Loki, he’s a cunning one,” Erik growled. “It certainly makes things easier.”
“Do you want me to fashion something similar?”
“No, damn it. I didn’t practice the trick. I’ll just end up stumbling over my own blade.”
Tyrkir suppressed a sigh. So now the opponent, apart from his size and experience with the Holmgang, had another advantage Erik couldn’t match.
In the meantime, the judge had checked the battlefield. In awkward hops, he followed the foot-wide corridor marked by four sticks along the edges of the mat. With one last look, and satisfied with his work, he stood next to the sacrificial animal. “Hear me!”
He had to repeat the request before quiet was finally restored. When all eyes were on him, he began in a shrill, nagging voice, “Who’s asked for this divine judgment?”
“I, Hravn Arisson.” Accompanied by his helper, the giant stepped forward.
“Aha. And who have you challenged?”
Hravn’s fist pointed at Erik.
“Aha!” The old man moistened his lips. He seemed to be visibly enjoying the honor of his office. He resumed the prescribed ritual. “If the opponent seeks a judgment, may he give his name and come forward.”
“Erik Thorvaldsson!” The red one approached calmly, Tyrkir following with his master’s shields on his back. Because he didn’t know how many they were allowed to use, he’d brought all the ones they still had.
The judge laid his head back and looked intently from one fighter to the other. “I have nothing to say about the cause of your quarrel. My task is to supervise this Holmgang. Anyone who violates the rules shall be banned. Do you understand me? Ah, good. Then hear and obey.”
He announced the rules in a strident singsong. The fighters were not allowed to leave the leather mat. Anyone who set foot outside the hazel twigs would be warned with a cry of “He’s giving way!” If a combatant crossed the border with both feet, he was judged to have fled. That meant he had sacrificed his honor, and the victor was allowed to kill him when and where he chose.
“You will alternate exchanging blows. Each fighter has three shields. If one breaks—” The referee interrupted himself, barking at Tyrkir, “What’s this I see? Three, not four! Three! Can you not count?”
The steward immediately threw one of the shields aside.
“Ha! There is no cheating with me. I will keep an eye on you and your master.” He moistened his lips again. “If one shield breaks, the weapons helper will pass on the next one. If all the shields are unusable, the fight will continue without them.” The judge faltered; he had forgotten something but could not recall what.
Hravn Holmgang bent his head to him. “The price, you idiot.”
“Ah. I heard that today is not about house or property. If one of you can no longer lift his sword, he must pay three marks of silver to the victor to redeem his life. If he is dead, the winner receives the same sum. Therefore”—he snapped and held out his hand to both armored men—“hand me the treasure to keep!”
The giant had his silver handy. Tyrkir had his friend’s purse. He took a few pieces and handed them over. “That’ll do.”
Because there was no time to use the belt scale, he’d given more than necessary. A judgment of the gods? he wondered. No, the reason why we’re here doesn’t matter. This is a murderer, and Erik wants amends for the crime. But the Holmgang erodes that distinction. Suddenly, each man’s demand for justice is equal. They even fight for the same sum.
The arbitrator threw the silver into a bowl and resumed his place beside the bull. He touched one of the curved horns and looked up at the gray clouds. “After the Holmgang, the victor will sacrifice this animal to honor the gods.”
Finally, all preparations had been completed, and the spectators crowded closer. From the expressions on their faces, there was no doubt as to who would win, only the suspense of how long the stranger could hold out against their hero’s assaults. And after the victory, there would be roast and beer in abundance!
Each fighter grabbed a shield and took his position in the field. Both weighed their spears in their right fists. Since Hravn was the challenger, Erik was allowed to lead the first charge.
The judge slowly stretched his arm. “Victory to the strongest!” And he gave the signal.
Like in a dance, the men simultaneously set one foot on the leather square, followed by the other. Erik stayed close to the edge, shuffling two steps to the right; Hravn followed. Erik took four quick steps to the left, again the same movement mirrored on the other side.
Two predators in a far-too-tight cage, Tyrkir thought. There is no room for dexterity.
From a standing position, Erik jumped forward and hurled his spear. Hravn stepped aside, and the weapon flew past him, over the heads of the sp
ectators, and was lost. The giant yanked his spear back, Erik immediately protected his head and chest, but the opponent dropped the shaft, and the hanging sword jumped into his fist. With a mighty blow, he struck a deep notch into Erik’s shield, the sharpened tip cutting into the Red’s chain mail shirt. Hravn laughed and picked up his spear again.
As Tyrkir handed his friend the second shield, he whispered, “Are you hurt?”
Erik gave a small shake of his head. With a roar, he rushed forward, surprising his opponent, because he didn’t strike at him but hacked through his spear shaft. The lopped-off half with the long spearhead spun, landing on the left edge of the mat. Threatening growls rose from the giant’s chest. He swung out wide, and Erik’s shield splintered. The Red hit Hravn with the same force and achieved the same result.
“We are at a disadvantage,” Tyrkir warned as he handed over the third shield.
And then the last protection was shattered. Erik held only the sharpened metal hood over his left fist. Although he’d managed to penetrate Hravn’s second shield with his next blow, the blade even hitting the underarm of the chain mail, it didn’t wound.
“The shield walk is finished. All weapons may be used,” the arbiter announced, pointing to Hravn. “You have the next strike.”
The giant took his time. Armed with his third shield, he planted himself before Erik with his legs spread apart. “Your cunning won’t help you now.” Hravn’s sword cut through the air. Erik fended off the blow with his blade. Dancing, Hravn expected the counterblow, which did not break through his cover. Blow followed blow after blow, sparks flew, then the giant hit the left upper arm of his opponent. The ruptured iron mesh turned red. Erik’s left arm sank.
Hravn intercepted his next blow with his sword blade. A piercing, sharp noise, and Erik’s sword was broken—only the stump remained in his fist.
A murmur went through the audience. Outside the hazel passage, Tyrkir moaned.
The giant threw his shield aside and grabbed his sword with both hands. Although Erik swerved, the blow hit him on the side of his helmet. Dazed, he stepped to the left. He didn’t fall but managed to stay on the leather mat by a foot’s width. It was his turn. Searching for his opponent, he lifted the stump of his sword.
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