Stars and a Wind- The Complete Trilogy

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  When the strain of audience silence became too intense, the cheering began. Clapping and stamping, shouting advice, directions, derision, appreciation, delight and applause. The two best fighters of all the transanima, a challenge for the realm itself, an entertainment never before seen. A saga in the making and a tale for children not yet born.

  Muttering now, after the relief and the appreciation. “Left, man, turn left but watch your right.”

  “Watch left. Watch right. Watch below.”

  “And above, for that bastard axe.”

  “He’s doing all that. Thoddun doesn’t need any man’s advice.”

  “Both of them. The skill. Just see that skill.”

  “Orm’s a great fighter. But Thoddun’s the master.”

  “There’s skill and there’s luck. In the end every battle relies on Odin’s luck.”

  Kjeld’s huge bulk was a wind break, his breath as hot as a forge’s bellows at her back, but Skarga was freezing. Her hands, though clenched within gloves and wrapped under bear’s fur, were numb. The cold came both from within and without. She disregarded it, seeing only the figures below.

  Orm had slipped, his huge feet sinking into the slush where constant movement had warmed the snow and melted the ice. He rebounded with a vibrating stamp. Thoddun paused, leaning back a moment, breathing, letting his opponent stabilise and balance. Then Thoddun stepped forward once more, both blades held high, knife tip still blood red.

  Wondering, but not looking around, Skarga thought of Mandegga. She could not, nor wished to see her. But she knew she was there, having seen her brought in, and knew that the wolf-woman, almost alone, would be hoping that Orm would claim victory. Even that Thoddun would die. But having been forbidden to feel fear, Skarga concentrated only on hope and hope was, after all, essential, natural and boundless. Thoddun had told her something of the alternative but that was not something she permitted to re-enter her thoughts.

  She had often seen men fight. But they had usually been drunk, cursing and kicking with little ability or aim. She had never witnessed fighting in such style nor a battle which would, assuredly, finish in death.

  Skarga did not want to watch nor could look away.

  Thoddun and Orm both sweated slick over face, chest and forearms. Reflections of torchlight slid across muscles, the grip of bare hands and fingers all knuckle. Ankle deep now in snow sludge, the flattened circle was a ridged melt of dirt, muddied by stamping feet. Orm stepped back to catch breath. Thoddun waited, pacing his own. Then as Orm’s axe swung suddenly, Thoddun stepped neatly back, the edge of the blade a finger’s width from his forehead. He bent both knees, a quick step forwards, and brought his steel up within the wheeling arc of the axe. Orm hurtled back too late, the sword point pricked his chin. The crowd roared.

  “No more’n a tusk sting,” muttered Kjeld. “No bugger surrenders for that.”

  The churned slush beneath the men’s boots slowed them. It was boggy now, like trampling through shallows. They moved outwards, firm again on pristine white over the harder ice. The crowd craned, edging forwards.

  Continuous. Not effortless, but seemingly tireless. No counting unaccountable time. Dodging dancing figures beneath an eternal night; inventing its own metaphor. Sudden stark black shadows racing over ice as the men moved in front of the torches. Then pale shadows again, shortened, flame leaping higher than the men, sweat red.

  Orm’s axe head, constantly spinning, kept him internalised. The stretch of his arm marked safe territory. Upper cut sharp and short, whizzing down into the arc, a high whine into bass. Metal made music. Orm’s left arm remained poised with his short sword in defence, his feet steady, grinning wide, open mouthed. Balancing, left foot to right, right foot to left. Arms wide.

  Now Thoddun did not seem to move at all. He stood tall and still within his own shadow. Beyond the circle of the swinging axe, as if more placidly content than waiting, but watching and focused as an eagle ready for the drop. His knife remained once more wedged into his belt. Both hands to the hilt, his longsword motionless, bathing in starlight.

  Facing each other, more as friends than opponents, Orm’s swaying stance one foot to the other, flat footed, wide legged. Thoddun utterly still. They could, Skarga thought, stay unengaged like that for a very long time.

  Then too fast for prediction and aiming beneath the rhythmic upwards axe swing, he slashed down. Orm, without time to duck, was thrown. Thoddun’s sword slammed through the front of his face. Orm’s nose split like over-ripe fruit in a gush of black blood. Following through, his chin was crushed by the same blow. His mass of red beard welled a deeper crimson. His axe, dropping uncontrolled, completed its last rise alone. The blade spun across Thoddun’s shoulder. He shrugged it off into the snow. Blood pumped. Both men stepped back, panting. Their breath turned to ice crystals in the dark swelling air.

  Orm wheezed through half a nose. Once fallen, the axe was irretrievable. He had lost his preferred weapon. Orm spread his legs and stabilized the pain. The smashed bone rimmed in ragged splinters, opened to the tunnels of the skull and the brain within. Blood, in black clots and scarlet froth, became speckled slime and oozed from the hole. He blinked back blindness; his sight obscured behind bloody tears. Thoddun waited. Orm took his short sword into his right hand.

  “Don’t be a fool, man,” murmured Thoddun. “Surrender. No shame now.”

  Orm squinted and swallowed bile. Skarga, watching from the distance, thought he would faint. She wished with all her breathless, aching passion, that Orm would lay down his sword and stop the fight.

  The pain and the blood confused him. Orm searched for words.

  Thoddun’s words were too soft for most to hear, but Orm heard. “Surrender,” Thoddun said. “I’ll neither kill nor exile you.”

  Orm stood half bent, gulping and wheezing.

  A third time, Thoddun spoke, very softly and only for Orm to hear. “I claim every point, my friend, and have won each stage. Step by step, you know your claim is lost. Now your wounds are significant, but I’ve no wish to press further. Surrender. There’s no shame to it now.”

  Orm bent lower. It seemed that he bowed. The crowd waited for the inevitable surrender, and once again held their breath.

  Then someone started chanting.

  Only a woman’s voice at first, very brittle in the thin air. And then one man joined in. The transanima chant, words muffled in the cold wind, slithered like snakes from the front of the crowd, quickly strengthening and gaining magic. Orm seemed puzzled, staring at Thoddun, then staring around. He began to smile, but his broken face refused him and the muscles could not spread, mouth cracked, the smile suddenly frozen. His grip on the sword hilt wavered.

  Thoddun turned at once and looked towards the Althing leader in the crowd’s main throng. There were three chanting now, a woman and two men. “Stop them,” Thoddun commanded, calling clear. “Strangle the bitch, and stop them.” The chanting sounded tuneless and now wavered, but echoed in the frost.

  Thoddun’s head was turned. He was staring over his shoulder, looking for Mandegga amongst the squirming throng. Orm brought the weight of his sword blade, flat club style and two handed with all his strength, down against the back of Thoddun’s head. Thoddun stumbled forwards, then to one knee.

  Pulling straight, tall and breathing deep, Orm began to Shift.

  Thoddun staggered up, shaking blood from his hair. There was bloody snow on the knees of his britches, and thick slush on his hands. His long sword lay lawfully uselessly at his feet and he ignored it. Orm loomed over him, already taller as he started the Change. Legs, feet, body steady on the scrolled ice, but above the waist the golden scales shone like the moon’s reflections, and the face pointed into snake eyes, slanted, nostrils bloody and dripping ooze, serpent mouth gaping.

  Abruptly reaching out, Thoddun thrust one ice crusted hand between Orm’s legs. He clenched his fingers and Orm groaned. The serpent’s smashed snout paused on its elongating neck, and lurched. The man reasse
rted, kicking violently. Thoddun grinned and squeezed tighter, then twisted his grip at the wrist. Trapped momentarily as man, Orm doubled over and vomited over his boots and Thoddun’s arm. Thoddun retained his hold. Orm hissed. One leg thrashed out and became a tail. At first short and blunt ended, the tail grew, twined up like some invincible plant, until, much longer than any leg, it coiled, contracting tight around Thoddun’s wrist.

  Thoddun pulled back his hand, releasing him, and Orm Shifted. As he completed the Shift, his body bulged and sped upwards, changing shade from man’s gruff browns to its pale serpent shimmer. The waist thickened, swaying and spinning. The shoulders shrank into the muscled growth as the neck disappeared, the arms strengthened and the legs bent, haunches wide and squat. The tail lashed out into a vast wedge more dangerous than any weapon.

  The rising gleam of scales rushed ever upwards, pivoting on its stretched and pulsing tail. The fat golden tip twitched, slapped back against the partial melt below, splashing ice into a spray of cold grit and water. The serpent peered down, its malice confused by pain. It swayed as it began wrapping its huge muscular length around its own bulk, balancing and shaking blood from its head.

  Thoddun faced the dragon. It glared down with emerald eyes from an impossible height, hissed, spitting phlegm, the tongue pushing forward, unwinding and darting between its jaws to taste the air; tasted its own blood and recoiled. The hiss turned to snarl through crushed bone as its eyes dripped blood. Dizzy and unable to focus, the beast swayed. Its tail lashed out again, feeling for the man, to enclose, constrict and crush. But Thoddun stepped away, watching and waiting. Orm’s mouth, open and the jaw reached forward, a hundred serrated teeth and a gaping throat.

  The back of Thoddun’s head seeped dark blood. His shoulder bled and the trickles slithered down the track lines of old scars on his back. The rising serpent’s head was already gouged, its face split as Orm’s had been, the nostrils lying open and the mouth and jaw ravaged. The long tongue flicked out once more, searching for the scent of warm breath against the freeze. Flicking the air, it stretched towards Thoddun, the fork a double lash. Orm was lost within the Shift, too spoiled by pain, too bewitched by the chanting. Thoddun kept his distance and stared up as the worm grew. “Remember yourself,” he shouted. “Turn back if you can. Complete the Shift now you fool, and I have to kill you.”

  The serpent hovered high and motionless, peering down. Then, finding balance and cohesion and concentrating thought, it reared, spat, blowing blood bubbles as its breath condensed as pink as a rosy new dawn. As it struck, plunging downwards, Thoddun bent, retrieved and swung his sword. His other hand wrenched the knife from his belt. Both blades pierced the serpent’s belly. The sword cut deep through scales and flesh, opening to a mess of dark stench. The knife plunged point to breast. Its blood rushed over Thoddun’s head, merging with his own.

  Thoddun stepped away, breathing heavily, boots slipping.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The chanting had stopped abruptly. Several men were shouting, there was a distraction of scuffling in the crowd, first yelling, then someone screaming. The sounds swelled and the crowd swayed, cursing and kicking at something unseen.

  Thoddun listened for one moment, but shook his head. His blood sprayed into tiny globules, then in streamers.

  The serpent came again, but there was nothing left of Orm for his Switch, uncontrolled while weakened by severe injury, had been too swift. The head was smashed partially apart but the coils thickened and summoned power. The tail lashed out making deep ridges in the snow, but then slithered, coiling unseen, and caught Thoddun’s foot. He kicked it off and darted backwards. The tail swept behind him, twisting around the other ankle. As Thoddun hacked at its heaving flesh, sword through sinews, the mid coils rushed in from both sides.

  Caught in winding loops, Thoddun first stood his ground, heels grinding into the ice. The serpent’s muscles contracted, tightening around him; a slow rattling of scales as it squeezed inwards. Thoddun smiled and again dug in his knife. The steel cut deep through the snake’s pale skin. Thoddun twisted the blade. The coils flew open and flung wide in uncontrolled spasms.

  Thoddun stepped free. Immediately he began to Shift.

  The crowd stopped moving. Everyone stared, sharp inhaling, holding breath. No one shouted anymore. No one had attempted to stop the fight. Rules were made to be broken, and anyway, there had been the chanting. That had stopped, but it had sealed the charm. The chanting could not be ignored. But who had started the chanting would not be ignored either.

  Unblinking, gripping her fingers so tight entwined that she was hurting herself, Skarga watched. Kjeld was panting and wheezing behind her, his breath as dense as the fog. He hopped with barely contained excitement and his vast bulk cracked the ice beneath him. Skarga was aware of nothing but the two figures below. She had seen Thoddun come back from the eagle but that had seemed all shadow. This was different. She had seen the bear and had loved the bear, but she had never seen the Change.

  As Thoddun Shifted, the serpent waited, gathering its force for a final attack. Thoddun stood uninterrupted against the stark white, topped with the world’s vast winter blackness. The first fingers of fog had arrived at his feet, creeping and curling around the soles of his boots, tiny white toothless snakes of mist.

  Thoddun was glowing, tinged in a white gleam. Then, gradually he seemed more naked than clothed. The folds of his britches faded, the muscled width of his shoulders spread, attracting shadows amongst the dancing flickers of torch flame. His neck swelled, widening into the shoulders’ growth. His smile was translucent, a secretive smile, a solitary yearning realised in deepest private pleasure. His face elongated, the arrogance of a longer nose, flared nostrils, and the swept thickening of his golden hair. He stood very still as his body changed. He did not drop down. It was more that his body swept up around him as his fingers curled into fists. The bear, as it grew out from him, was upright, and huge, and furious.

  Clothes swirled into a mass of white. He seemed, for a moment, to become snow. A tall man, he was now much taller. The hands reached, each finger stretching into the massive paws, clawed and padded in black leather behind the fur. Cascades of fur, flounced skirts in billowing white; the bear rocked back, dropped briefly to all four feet in elegant ferocity, then bounded again, one paw hooked into a crushing swing.

  The serpent was hurled backwards. Four black strips bled along its belly. It convulsed, thrown sideways. Its heaving coils, helplessly misdirected, collapsed in spasm. The great bear walked slowly forwards, turned, circled, and approached again. Each foot, carefully placed, the sweep of its massive body rolling as it walked.

  In battle the man had thought of many things. He had fought to plan, each step bringing its intentional result, either feint or blow. But the bear was simply absorbed with the impulse to attack, and to kill.

  As the serpent stretched back its gums and widened gaping jaws, its two front fangs sprang forwards, jutting out and down. The strength of wounded muscles fading, the body resolved itself into one ultimate coil. The bear looked up as the worm descended. It swept out one front paw, and with one giant swipe, crushed the serpent’s bleeding, damaged skull. Brain seeped softly out through the bone splinters. Steam rose into thin cloudy vapour of surrounding mist. The warmth of the dragon body condensed, turning to droplets as the dying transanima writhed on the ice. The bear loomed over it, head down, mouth open and teeth bared, watching.

  The crowd rose ecstatic. Volcanic eruption, released from a breathless concentration and with suspense finally shattered, the people roared, clapping and cheering. They stamped, those behind jumping and pushing to see each moment of the ultimate end. The appreciation and churning excitement devoured all more furtive sounds.

  The bear, ignoring the tumult, bent down and took the serpent’s neck in its jaws. The snake skull crunched and blood welled onto the bear’s teeth. The blood of its own wounds had dried though stained the purity of its fur, a slash across the shoulder and d
eep dark grazing on the back of its head. Now its muzzle was vivid with dragon’s blood. It lifted its head. Victorious but puzzled, it seemed to sense something. Carefully clearing mind and memory, it shook its head. Snow crystals and blood drops danced in the frost. Left torn on the ice below, the remnants of serpent coils still writhed, brief spasmic jerks from a body in pieces and a man already utterly gone.

  Then the bear turned away abruptly, looking from the torn and oozing golden scales. It lifted its head suddenly, and sniffed the air. Then it began to run.

  Even Kjeld, too excited by the fight, had not noticed as Mandegga crept closer. Too absorbed in the spectacle, her guards had released all hold on her. Forgetting their prisoner, who was now more surely beaten as her champion lay dead, they pushed forwards, yelling clapping and clasping each other’s back. But when Mandegga had begun the chanting they had knocked her to the ground, silencing her. Those wolf-men who had sung with her were beaten senseless. Now the battle was over and won and it was the moment for celebration, not anger.

  Curled, barely noticed, at her guards’ feet, Mandegga had quickly used the heir heavy toed boots to cut through her rope bindings, for her metal chains had been left in the dungeons. Then the wold-bitch started to crawl. She was small and she took the time not to nudge, nor to sway, so her departure was noticed by no one. All eyes remained on the arena, except for Mandegga’s. Her eyes, very steady, stayed carefully on the ice and the legs of those she passed. She knew exactly where Skarga sat.

  Covered by the wild stamping of the elated crowd, she moved always slowly, always careful, knees to the snow, fingers and toes curled. Having seen the destruction of the dragon, Mandegga had no doubt of the end. Now she heard the final cheering. The crowd backed Thoddun so she knew Thoddun now stood victorious and the battle was over. It had always been expected. She had known Orm could not kill Thoddun in lawful fight, and had feared only his surrender. She herself had ensured that the surrender failed. But now Orm was assuredly dead. She did not stop crawling.