‘That’s up to her,’ Einar replied.
Hrolf looked at the ground for a moment.
‘Unless you’re too scared to fight me, of course,’ Einar added. The mocking tone was unmissable now.
Hrolf shot a hasty glance around his men, trying to read their expressions.
‘Lord,’ Bjorn muttered from the side of his mouth, ‘If you fight him you can tell the Jarl Thorfinn that you killed the Icelander bastard with your own hands. I imagine he would be pleased with that?’
Bjorn and Hrolf exchanged evil smiles.
‘Very well,’ Hrolf called back to Einar in the longhouse. ‘I grant you the right of Holmgang. Come out and we shall fight man to man. Tell the Irish woman to put her bow away while we mark out the area.’
He turned to Bjorn. ‘I can beat the farmer boy with ease,’ he muttered. ‘Not that there is any chance of it, but in the unlikely event that perhaps he does actually win, kill him and burn the rest of them inside the longhouse anyway.’
Fifty-Eight
‘You know what you’re doing?’ Skar said. ‘Hrolf is a hardened warrior.’
Einar nodded, then shook his head. ‘It felt like the right thing to do,’ he said. ‘What hope do you all have if I don’t fight him? Do you want to be burned to death in here?’
Skar did not reply but put a hand on his shoulder and guided him towards the door. The Úlfhéðnar had lined up before it. As he walked past some clapped him on the shoulder, some wished him good luck while others just nodded. Even Atli seemed to respect his choice.
When they reached the door Skar said, ‘Try to remember everything I told you about how to fight. Good luck, lad. Until we meet again.’
Einar’s face split into a grin. ‘So you think I have a chance against Hrolf?’
‘No.’ Skar shook his head. ‘He will slaughter you. But I’m a religious man, remember? With balls like you have Odin’s Valkyries will take you straight to the Valour Hall. I truly believe when my own time comes, I will see you again there.’
Einar frowned but Sigurd was already pulling the beam from behind the door to unlock it. He grasped his shield and sword, took a deep breath, then hesitated.
‘What is it, lad?’ Skar sensed his uncertainty.
Einar screwed up his lips, then sheathed his sword and set his shield down. He walked back to where he had set down his axe.
‘I think you were right,’ he said. ‘I’m probably not ready to fight with a sword yet.’
‘Good choice,’ Skar said. ‘But are you sure? Under the rules of Holmgang if you take the sword and axe you aren’t allowed a shield.’
Einar just nodded.
Sigurd opened the door. Outside, Hrolf’s men were busy preparing an area for the duel. They had marked out a square roughly fifteen paces by fifteen using sticks pushed into the ground at regular intervals.
Hrolf stood on the opposite side of the duelling area. He grinned beneath his helmet.
‘Have you fought many duels, Einar?’ he asked.
Einar ignored the question, concentrating instead on preparing to fight.
While the name literally meant ‘island going’, this Holmgang ritual combat was fought on dry land, a figurative island being represented by the area marked out by the sticks. Both combatants had to stay within the area while they did their utmost to kill each other.
Einar rolled his neck, hearing the bones and sinews crack as he gripped his axe in both hands. He tried to go through in his mind all that Skar had taught him. His heart raced and he fought to control his breathing from turning into a frantic pant.
‘I’ve fought quite a few,’ Hrolf went on. ‘Never lost any, needless to say. You have balls to challenge me, I’ll give you that.’
‘I will kill you, today, Hrolf,’ Einar said, with a confidence he did not feel. Where his words came from he had no idea. ‘And someday I will kill Jarl Thorfinn, our father, and take what is mine. And I will free the miserable slaves on Orkney for the sake of my mother.’
Hrolf threw back his head and laughed. ‘You expect men to follow you if you free slaves? What sort of world would it be if there are no thralls?’
‘I’ll work that out when you’re dead,’ Einar said.
Hrolf’s brows knitted in a sour scowl.
Einar walked into the duelling area. He stood, the long shaft of his axe grasped in two hands. Around three of the edges of the fighting square were Thorfinn’s men, watching with eager anticipation. The last edge was before the gable end of the longhouse, with the Wolf Coats and Affreca peering out through the door.
Einar concentrated on steadying his pounding heart. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, just as if he was standing before the goal rock on the ice in a ball game, ready to spring left or right depending on the direction attack came from.
Hrolf swiped the air a couple of times with his sword then raised his shield, crouching his body behind its protection.
It was time to begin.
Hrolf attacked first. He lunged forward, sword aimed somewhere around Einar’s throat. Einar, surprised at the speed of the movement just managed to duck backwards. He heard the tip of the sword rattle across the mail that covered the top of his chest. This put him off balance and he had to drop his right foot a step back and steady himself.
He struck back, bringing his axe down with both hands. Hrolf raised his shield and the axe buried its head in the wood. Einar pulled the weapon back but it did not move. Taking advantage, Hrolf jabbed again with his sword, forcing Einar to twist away from the blade. He knew he could not let go of the axe however and yanked as hard as he could at the same time. The blade came free and he leapt clear of Hrolf’s stab.
Einar took a few steps back, shocked by the speed of the fight. He was panting heavily from the sudden explosion of movement. He gasped a few breaths then launched his own attack.
He swung the axe overhead but Hrolf easily blocked it with his shield. Einar swung once more, again overhead but switching to the side in the feinting movement Skar had taught him on the ship. Hrolf again merely batted the blow away with the shield then stabbed with his sword. Einar twisted away but the point caught him on the shoulder as he was turning.
The rings of his mail held but the blow was hard enough to cause Einar to wince. He knew had he not been moving away the iron would have parted and the blade gone through his flesh.
‘Get the shield, lad!’ Skar called out from inside the longhouse doorway. ‘Take that off him and you’ll even things up.’
Einar realised that if he did not do that, the fight would be over very soon and Hrolf the winner. He skipped away, trying to get space between him and his opponent.
‘What’s the matter, farm boy?’ Hrolf growled. ‘Running away already?’
He came at Einar again. Einar flung his axe forwards, letting the shaft slide through his hands then grasping it at the bottom so he could increase its reach. He hooked the blade behind the shield’s rim, intending to haul it out of Hrolf’s grasp. Hrolf immediately tilted his shield forward and hacked into Einar’s exposed left side.
This time the rings of mail parted and Einar felt as though a scorching hot poker was raking across his ribs beneath his left arm. With a cry of pain he stepped back, the axe slid off Hrolf’s shield and Einar clutched at his side with his right hand. The leather jerkin beneath his mail shirt was cut too and his fingers felt the warmth of blood flowing from the sliced flesh beneath.
‘How stupid can you get,’ Hrolf leered. ‘You may as well have shouted to me that you were going to do that. Who taught you how to fight?’
Einar lunged for Hrolf’s shield again but his half-brother simply slid it out of his way, striking at him again with a blow that just missed slicing Einar’s throat wide open.
Einar stepped back, widening the gap between them yet again. He was riding his luck and he knew it. It was only a matter of time before one of Hrolf's strikes hit home. He was breathing heavily both from the exertion and the pain. Sweat dripped i
nto his eyes from his forehead. Hrolf was not even out of breath. He knew then that he had indeed been a fool. How had he ever thought he could match Hrolf, son of Thorfinn the Skull Cleaver, in a fair fight? Now he would pay for his stupidity and arrogance with his life.
Then he remembered that he too was son of the Skull Cleaver.
Hrolf lunged for him and Einar leapt backward, again just missing being skewered on the point of the blade. Over his shoulder he heard Ulrich tut, as if impatient. Skar sighed.
‘I really thought he might have made a bit of a better fight of it,’ he heard the big man say.
Einar felt a stab of shame more painful than the searing cut across his ribs. Resolution blazed anew in his heart. If this was to be his end, then he would go down fighting in a way that would impress these men he owed so much to. He clenched his teeth, baring them in a vicious grin. Ignoring the pain in his side as he grasped his axe with both hands. As he did so he felt blood running under his mail but it seemed like the agony of the cut dissolved into an icy flow that sent a thrill of anger through his chest. His nostrils flared and a sound escaped his lips that was inhuman, feral, like a beast.
The derisory expression on Hrolf’s face fell to one of slight apprehension, the sight of which ignited a fire within Einar’s heart. With a guttural roar he sprang forwards. Hrolf flinched into a defensive crouch. Einar brought his axe down in a mighty overhead blow. The fury and speed of the onslaught was such that all Hrolf could do was block it with his shield. The shield stopped the axe but the blow hit with such force that Hrolf’s teeth rattled and his arm was forced back. He tried to stab Einar from under his shield but the weight of the blow had pushed him back and he misjudged the distance.
Einar snatched his axe up again and brought down another mighty blow, all his strength travelling down the shaft of the axe and into the blade. Hrolf again blocked with the shield but the impact on it this time forced him to stagger backwards.
Einar hit him again, and again the shield blocked but the power of his blows was beginning to tell. The linden wood was splintered and the metal boss dislodged from the centre. Hrolf struck back, swiping his sword over his head in a blow aimed at cleaving Einar’s skull in two. Einar raised his axe above his head in both hands, one at the top of the shaft and one at the bottom. He felt it shiver as Hrolf’s blade bit deep into the wood of the shaft but it stopped the blow.
Hrolf yanked his sword back and Einar attacked once more. He swung his axe from his right hip in a great circle over his shoulder and down. Hrolf raised his shield to block once again. This time there was a clang of metal as the axe blade bit into the rim. The metal band that ringed the shield, strengthening it and holding it together, came apart and fell off. Einar smashed his axe down another time. The brightly painted shield shattered.
Hrolf stumbled backwards away from him, a look of panic on his face, the wooden splinters of his disintegrating shield falling from his arm. Then Hrolf regained his balance and some of his composure. Einar glared at him, eyes blazing, his panting breath rising in clouds into the snow-filled air. Hrolf’s expression changed and for the first time Einar saw something near respect in his brother’s eyes.
Hrolf grunted, a reluctant smile stealing onto his lips.
‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘you are worthy of being called my brother after all.’
He thought for a moment, then held out his hand, the one that had been bereft of his shield.
‘Maybe I shouldn’t kill you, after all,’ he said. ‘What do you say to a truce, Einar? For either of us to kill the other would be a waste. I see that now. We should join forces. Together we would be stronger than all the others. Eirik Bloody Axe, Guthfrith, perhaps even our father.’
Einar did not reply.
Hrolf continued. ‘The Wolf Coats can be our Hearth Men. Together we can forge a mighty sea kingdom across the Isles. We’ll call this fight a draw and start again as equals. Come on, Einar. You know it makes sense.’
Einar stood for a moment. His breathing was returning to normal but his heart was in turmoil. This was not something he had foreseen. What Hrolf was offering was a very tempting prospect. Even if he managed to survive this duel, he had no real idea how he could take on a mighty jarl like Thorfinn alone. The Skull Cleaver had many ships, an army and fortresses. Despite all that had happened Einar was still just a poor farm boy from Iceland. Apart from that, an end to the duel meant he would live to see another day dawn.
Then a small chuckle escaped his lips.
‘Hrolf, what you say is appealing,’ he said. ‘But how many times have you switched sides? At one point you are with Thorfinn, then you’re on Guthfrith’s side, another you’re with Eirik. Now you’re talking about fighting them all. How could I ever trust you?’
‘I always stayed true to our father,’ Hrolf said, loudly, as he shot nervous glances at Thorfinn’s men who surrounded the Holmgang area.
‘I don’t wish to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder for you,’ Einar said. ‘We’ll finish this now.’
He charged at Hrolf.
Panic crossed Hrolf’s expression but he recovered in time to block Einar’s axe swing with his sword. The blade bit into the shaft of the axe again, stopping its descent. Einar yanked it back and swung again. Hrolf again countered. There was a crack of splintering wood and the shaft of the axe split asunder. The axe head and its blade spun uselessly into the snow leaving the severed stump in Einar’s grasp.
A grin of fierce triumph lit up Hrolf’s face. He swept his left leg round, taking Einar’s extended right leg from under him, spinning him off balance and onto the ground. Einar landed with a spray of snow, flat on his back, the impact driving the breath from his lungs.
Hrolf cried out with delight. He grabbed his sword in both hands and reversed the blade so the point was aimed downwards at the centre of Einar’s chest. He raised the blade, preparing to bring it down with all his might, splintering the mail and impaling Einar’s heart.
Einar, lying on his back, dropped the useless axe shaft. His right hand went to the hilt of the sheathed sword at his belt. In one movement he ripped it out and swept it in an arc that sliced deep into the side of Hrolf’s right knee. Warm blood splatted across Einar’s face. Hrolf cried out in surprise and pain. His sword wavered in the air. Einar grabbed his sword in both hands and repeated his attack, this time chopping with all his strength. The Ulfbehrt blade bit deep into the side of Hrolf’s knee, splitting flesh, parting bones and severing tendons.
Now Hrolf screamed. The round bone at the front of his kneecap popped out from his wound to dangle, still attached to the tendon, from the front of his leg. Unable to support his weight, the knee buckled and Hrolf crumpled backwards into the mud, falling flat on his back just as Einar had.
Einar rolled over and got up onto his knees. He reversed his sword and, grasping the hilt in both hands, drove it downwards into his brother’s throat.
Hrolf’s eyes bulged. Blood welled up around the blade and poured into the snow. His lips moved as he tried to speak but the sword had severed his windpipe. Breath wheezed from the gaping wound as Einar wrenched the blade free then plunged it down again, forcing it right through Hrolf’s neck. He felt the crunch as its tip ground into the bones of Hrolf’s spine, parting them from each other. Hrolf’s rolling eyes became fixed and staring and his mouth stopped its frantic moving. A welter of blood filled it and gushed out round his chin and cheeks. With a snarl, Einar wrenched the sword free once more then with a couple of vicious saws severed Hrolf’s head from his body.
Einar rose to his feet. His breath coming in snorts from his nose, he knocked the helmet off Hrolf’s head. Grasping it by a fistful of hair he turned to those watching in the longhouse and held Hrolf’s head aloft for them to see. Then he dropped it.
The head landed with a thump in the snow. Einar spat at it.
Intense weariness descended on him and his shoulders sagged. His head spun and he felt as though he might collapse. Around him there was s
tunned silence, made somehow more intense by the falling snow.
‘So now we can go?’ Einar said, looking round, not sure who was in command now.
‘No,’ Bjorn stepped forward. ‘Hrolf left clear orders. Now you die!’
Einar’s eyes widened. Two of Thorfinn’s warriors ran at him, swords drawn.
A blur of movement told him something had flown past his head, one on the left then one on the right. The two warriors running at him were falling backwards, transfixed by arrows. Einar looked over his shoulder and saw Affreca standing in the doorway of the longhouse, another arrow already notched to her bow.
‘Get back in here,’ Ulrich shouted.
Affreca felled a third warrior with her bow and the rest began scattering, raising shields or seeking other cover from her deadly rain.
Einar turned and staggered back into the longhouse. Sigurd slotted the beam back in place to secure the door.
‘Very well done, lad,’ Skar said to Einar, as the younger man slumped to the floor.
‘Aye,’ Affreca said. ‘I was sure you were going to lose but you beat him. We’re still stuck in here, though.’
‘Look out,’ Bodvar called from above. He had replaced Affreca at the ‘Wind’s eye’ at the top of the gable wall. ‘They’re lighting fires, outside.’
Fifty-Nine
‘Are you planning on cooking something, lads?’ Ulrich shouted through the longhouse door. Outside, Thorfinn’s men were piling up brushwood, gorse, anything they could find that would burn. Some of them had found heaps of straw, winter fodder for the animals, in the outhouses. Further away others were working with kindling to get a fire going.
‘Aye, we are,’ Bjorn shouted back from outside the door. ‘Prime Norwegian beef. How do you like yours done?’
‘As rare as I can get it,’ Ulrich said. ‘Preferably raw.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ Bjorn replied. ‘We will only be doing well done today. In fact burned to a crisp.’
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