Raven: Sons of Thunder (12 page)

I looked at Sigurd, my eyes boring into him for some explanation or reprieve. It was one thing to hold Mauger’s shields, but defend him? How was I supposed to defend Mauger? Against Sigurd! I would sooner sink my knife into Mauger’s rancid guts.

‘As the representative of the man who has been challenged, Mauger may strike the first blow. After that the fight must rage unfettered and no man here may play a part.’ Now Asgot turned to Mauger and his face was a twisted knot of ancient hatred. ‘When my jarl has killed you,’ he hissed, ‘I will cut your limbs from your corpse. I will peel the skin from your
flesh. Your soul will go screaming to the afterlife and for all eternity no other soul shall ever recognize you for a man.’

The words chilled my blood and I could not see Mauger’s face, but I did see him spit at the godi’s feet and I admired him for it. Olaf gestured to me to climb into the square and I did, my heart hammering like a banner in the wind. Silence reigned for three heartbeats, then Mauger drew his great sword and roared like the opening of Hel’s gates. He leapt forward and smashed his sword into Sigurd’s shield, hoping to split it, but it was a good shield, as was the arm behind it, and Sigurd took the blow, though it must have shaken the marrow from his arm. Now the jarl lifted his father’s sword up and over his head and crashed it into Mauger’s shield, but Mauger angled the shield well, catching the weight of the sword on the iron rim. The onlookers yelled with a storm’s fury as the combatants swung their swords. The shields were battered and neither Olaf nor I could get close, not that I dared to even try.

Sigurd was taller but Mauger was broader and heavier. He slammed his right shoulder into Sigurd’s shield, forcing the jarl back so that the heel of his right foot was over the edge of the cloak. Sigurd leant into his shield and heaved, the corded veins in his neck fit to burst as he drove Mauger back, growling like an animal. Then Mauger dropped his shoulder, rolling left and throwing Sigurd off balance. The Wessexman scythed his blade full circle and Sigurd raised his shield just in time but the limewood split with a loud crack. Both men jumped back, breathing heavily, their faces sweat-soaked. Sigurd did not have to look at his shield to know it was damaged and he must have known he was taking a risk by using it still. But it was too early in the fight to be down to two shields. I suddenly realized why each man got three. It was so they would exhaust themselves smashing each other’s shields to kindling, and not have the strength left for a killing blow. But this was no
ordinary hólmgang, and it would not end with the first spilled blood.

Sigurd dragged his forearm across his head and spat saliva thick as frogspawn. The two men circled, their eyes locked. Sigurd slashed high, fast as lightning, but Mauger was already moving and the sword’s point passed a breath away from his face as he swung for Sigurd’s shield, cutting the thing clean in half. Sigurd gripped the lower half, kicking the other part away. At least the iron boss still held, though he would not have long. So he attacked, launching a series of hammer blows which Mauger took on his own shield, and I cursed because I had chosen that shield and it was harder than a wheel from Thór’s chariot.

Now Mauger attacked, no grace, just swinging his sword like a man hacking through brambles, battering what remained of Sigurd’s shield and lopping another quarter from it, leaving the jarl with the iron boss, two mangled strips of metal and a sliver of wood. Blood dripped rhythmically from the inside of the shield boss.

‘They said you were a great warrior, Mauger,’ Sigurd said, giving his wolf’s grin, ‘but I can see that you are an old dog whose best days are long gone. Come. I will end your shame.’

‘This dog still has teeth, heathen,’ Mauger said, raising cheers from the Wessexmen. I glanced at Ealdred and saw that his eyes were gleaming with pride, or hope, or both.

Olaf handed Sigurd a new shield and Mauger waited until Sigurd had set himself, then the English warrior attacked again. Sigurd stood his ground and when Mauger stepped back to suck air into his belly, the jarl thrust for his neck. Mauger caught the point with his shield and drove it up and away, but Sigurd’s lunge was a feint and he thumped his shield into Mauger’s face, sending the big man reeling. Sigurd stepped up and slammed his foot into Mauger’s thigh, almost taking him down. Mauger staggered and yelled and planted himself again, dipping his
head and bringing his shield and sword up. Sigurd hacked at the man’s shield. Splinters flew as he kept up the vicious assault and it was all Mauger could do to catch each blow, though each must have felt like Ragnarök, the end of the world. The Wessexman edged around the cloak, his shoulders bouncing with ragged breaths. He yelled and threw his right foot forward, swinging his sword from left to right, attacking Sigurd’s unshielded side, but Sigurd hefted his sword. The blades bit and a shard of steel flew, slicing Sigurd’s cheek. Sigurd punched his sword’s pommel into Mauger’s teeth, breaking them, and I heard Mauger’s deep grunt as blood spilled from his chin like water down a mountain. The Wessexman was dazed. He stumbled, his thighs straining to keep his knees locked, and Sigurd sensed victory. He came on, his sword thundering down like a god’s vengeance, and I threw myself forward, catching the sword on a shield, that one blow hammering me into the earth like a tent peg. Sigurd stepped back, wide eyes shining like silver coins. Around me the Norsemen clamoured. I cringed, expecting cold steel to tear my flesh.

Mauger had stumbled over to the far edge of the arena and was shaking some sense back into his head, spitting cracked teeth and great gobs of thick blood on to the cloaks. Sigurd had his back to the Wessexman. He was staring at me and I thought I had ruined everything. I had done my duty as a shield-bearer when I should have let Sigurd cleave Mauger in two. But then Sigurd’s eyes flashed. He grimaced and turned back to Mauger, and the fight rolled on like a storm. The shields crashed, their bosses crumpling. Mauger swept his sword low and Sigurd blocked with his own blade but then the Wessexman slammed his shield’s rim into Sigurd’s temple, sending the jarl’s helmet bouncing. Mauger frenzied like a bear stuck with arrows, chopping his opponent’s second shield to a splintered mess. But Olaf was suddenly there, the last shield raised before his jarl, taking Mauger’s blows. Olaf might have been older than the
other Norsemen but he was an oak of a man. Try as Mauger might, there was no way through to Sigurd, though I did not know how a man could have such strength as to maintain an assault like that – or resist it. And this is how it went. Into the night. Each warrior taking his turn to attack, then defend, and breathing with an ocean’s appetite at any moment in between. I have never known shields to take such punishment and yet hold so long, for all they could not possibly last.

Sigurd’s golden hair had fallen loose and now hung soaking across his face, one half of which was sheeted in blood that glistened in the torchlight. He snatched the last shield from Olaf and banged his sword against it, beckoning Mauger to come again. Mauger’s mouth was a gory, blood-filled hole. He was on his second shield now and he was limping. He was too exhausted to speak. He nodded at the Norseman, raised his shield and hitched across the space to the cheers of his countrymen. I moved too, staying behind and to Mauger’s left, watching both men and hoping I would be quick enough to dodge or defend any wild sword swing from either of them. Olaf had no more shields for Sigurd and so he stood helpless now on the lines etched in the earth beyond the cloaks. His fists were balled like knotted rope, his brow was heavy, and he was growling under his breath, ‘Finish it, Sigurd, finish it.’

The two warriors slammed shields, stepped back and swung their swords, Mauger high and Sigurd low. The Norseman was faster and his blade hacked into Mauger’s hip, shattering the rings of his brynja, but Mauger’s sword sliced through the mail on Sigurd’s shoulder, carving a chunk of flesh from it. Sigurd yelled in pain and fury and slammed his sword against Mauger’s shield and Mauger staggered backwards, cleaving Sigurd’s shield in two with a mighty swing. Sigurd cast the broken remains aside and prepared for Mauger’s attack. The Wessexman grinned savagely, limped forward and swung his sword to take off his enemy’s head, but Sigurd dropped,
spinning, and came round from the left, thumping his blade into Mauger’s right thigh with a sound like a log being split. It must have broken the man’s leg bone for he cried out and fell to his knees. The wound at Sigurd’s shoulder was spilling blood, and the whole of his left side was drenched and shining slickly as he came at Mauger again. His father’s sword hung for a moment, flamelight riding its length, then it fell, but Mauger caught it on his shield and Sigurd swung again. This time Mauger’s shield split with an echoing crack. I ran forward with the last shield and Sigurd snarled but stepped back, allowing me to slip the leather straps over Mauger’s forearm. Mauger grunted thanks and tried to stand but he could not. I jumped clear as he deflected another blow and then somehow Ealdred’s man hacked into Sigurd’s lower leg so that the jarl collapsed to his knees. The combatants stared at each other, their faces clenched in pain and their battered bodies heaving and shuddering with exhaustion. Norse and Englishmen hollered at their champions, willing them to rise and end the thing, but Mauger and Sigurd were in their own agony-filled worlds and seemed deaf to the noise.

Mauger laid down his sword, removed his helmet, shook off his shield, and threw out his arms, enticing Sigurd on with a bloody, hateful smile. Sigurd spat, then with a grunt thrust his father’s sword through the cloaks into the earth. The crowd fell silent as the grave for a heartbeat, then Sigurd and Mauger slammed into each other like reindeer bulls and I cringed, hoping Olaf would stop the fight but knowing that he could not. They were punching and clawing wildly and then they were rolling, each straining to get the advantage, and then the air was rent by a blood-curdling scream. The sound was terrifying. It was Mauger. Sigurd had torn out his eye and it dangled on its bloody string, bouncing on the man’s cheek. Mauger was screeching horribly but somehow he clubbed a fist into Sigurd’s chin. His fingers found the slice in the jarl’s
cheek and those fingers dug and gouged, and a low moan came from the watching Norsemen. Sigurd slammed his forehead into Mauger’s face, bursting his nose, then wrapped one of the warrior’s brawny arms between his own and slammed himself down to the right, snapping Mauger’s arm with a hollow crack. Then Sigurd roared, and taking the dangling eye in his fist he ripped the bloody strings out of the socket and threw it at Ealdred’s feet.

Mauger’s face and beard were all gore as he swung blindly with a fist, his left arm dangling uselessly. Sigurd grimaced and with awesome, unimaginable strength climbed back to his feet. Mauger was striking at him but the jarl took no heed as he stepped up and cradled the Wessexman’s head in his arms.

‘Óðin!’ he cried, then he wrenched Mauger’s head almost full circle. Another crack split the night. Mauger’s right hand flapped like a bird’s broken wing, then went still. Sigurd pushed his knee into the man’s shoulder and the corpse pitched on to its side without a sound. It was over. And Sigurd had won.

OLAF AND BLACK FLOKI RAN TO THEIR JARL, WEDGING THEIR
shoulders beneath his arms just as his knees buckled. Sigurd’s face and brynja were blood-soaked and glistening. His beard and hair were dark, matted clumps, and he sagged between his men like an animal carcass. They bore him out of the arena as Ealdred and his Wessexmen crowded round Mauger, unable to accept that their champion was dead. Asgot barked at a knot of Norsemen, demanding that they prevent the English from disturbing Mauger’s corpse, then he shuffled after Sigurd, wringing his hands and chanting to the gods as he went. I stood stunned. Despite all I had seen and done, the brutality of the fight both appalled and excited me. I was awestruck by the warriors who had fought, by their strength and skill and their refusal to yield, and yet it was a terrible thing to see a warrior of Mauger’s stature ruined so, carved up like soulless meat. Before the fight both men had looked like gods of battle, lords of war. Now one was food for the worms and the other was a broken bloody mess. My lord and jarl was now so many splintered timbers from a storm-wrecked ship and we would have to wait and see whither the tides of his wyrd carried him.

Some of the Norsemen used their spear staves to push the Wessexmen back from Mauger’s tortured corpse whilst others began to dismantle the stakes and ropes of the arena. Sigurd’s sword still pinned the cloaks to the ground like some final judgement. Part of me, the part within which the blood yet bubbled, causing my muscles to tremble and twitch, wanted desperately to grip that sword’s hilt, as though by touching the thing I could somehow imbibe more deeply of the event’s terrible glory.

‘You’d better pray that he lives, lad,’ Bram Bear growled beside me. He gestured to the stained cloaks. Bjorn and Bjarni were pulling the wooden pegs from their edges. ‘A skin full of that blood down there would still be warming Sigurd’s innards if not for you. What in Óðin’s hairy arse were you thinking? Mauger . . .’ he spat, ‘that treacherous dog was done for, lad. Sigurd had him beaten. But when you took that blow? You could have smacked my face with a fucking fish. I thought I was dreaming.’ He stared at me, a deep crease across his brow, then shook his head and walked away. I saw that other Norsemen were looking at me too, their eyes questioning, and why wouldn’t they? After all, Bram was right. I had played no small part in the hólmgang. The fight would have been over much sooner had I not thrown a shield between Mauger and Sigurd’s blade. Because of that one inexplicable act, our jarl had taken several wounds, some serious enough to see him a corpse, and if he died from them there was every chance that I would be blamed. And yet it was not the vengeance of some Norsemen that chilled my heart. Rather I was terrified that by saving Mauger with that shield I had unpicked some thread from Sigurd’s wyrd, undone what the Norns had woven. If I had done that, a blade in the gut would be a small thing, because those who dwelt in Asgard loved Sigurd – I still believed that, even if others had begun to doubt – and so I would have to face the wrath of the gods.