wyrd to die here,’ a bull of a man named Orlyg muttered. ‘I’ll die at sea in a ship fight or not at all.’
‘That old priest who came to Skudeneshavn last winter told him that,’ Finn remarked, ‘and you are a fool if you believe him, Orlyg, for he also said that I would be rich by the time the red hordes turned up, yet I have seen more curlew, sandpipers and red knots than any summer I can remember and I am still silver-light.’
‘That old piss stain told me my toothache would be gone by the time he reached Kopervik and the folk there were pouring him his first ale,’ Orn said. ‘I have heard better foretelling in a dog’s fart.’
‘Well why do you think he wanders from village to village and is not kept by a jarl or a king? You fools,’ Sorli said.
‘Still, I won’t die here. You can be sure of that,’ Orlyg said.
‘Here they come!’ Sorli cried.
‘Gorm!’ Harald yelled as the king’s men came on through the trees, no more than a spear-throw away now. ‘You can hear me, oath-breaker! Let us settle this the old way. My champion against yours!’
There was a shout and the shieldwall coming from the front left halted, its men planting their spear butts on the ground. Then it parted and a huge warrior rode through the breach on a pony, his mail and helmet, belts and scabbard glinting with gold fittings. Sigurd could not help but be impressed by the king who had come to kill them.
‘Your champion was Slagfid and he is lying on a bench in my hall so that my people can see him, though you would not recognize him now,’ King Gorm said. ‘My godi wanted to take his eyes so that he would never see the hall of the slain but I did not let him. He was a great warrior.’ The king leant over and spat onto the forest floor. ‘I afforded your sons no such respect.’
‘You prickless nithing!’ Sorli yelled, the fury coming off him like smoke from a pyre. Sigurd’s belly soured at the thought of some godi prising out Thorvard’s and Sigmund’s eyes and the sudden craving to kill King Gorm engulfed him like a wave so that he could barely breathe.
But Jarl Harald was as a rock, unmoved and unwilling to give his enemy the satisfaction.
‘My champion against yours, oath-breaker,’ he said again.
King Gorm patted his pony’s neck with ringed fingers as he considered this and Sigurd realized that he had some gold rings sewn amongst the grey ones of his brynja.
‘Why not!’ the king announced. ‘My father always said it was a bad thing to rush a good feast. Send forward your champion and I will send mine.’
‘Father,’ Sorli said. ‘I claim the right as your eldest son.’
Jarl Harald turned to Sorli and the smile in his beard reminded Sigurd of past times. ‘No, my son. You are a great fighter but you can still learn a few things from your father, hey.’ And with that Harald drew the pin from the great silver brooch at his right shoulder and took off his blue cloak, letting it fall to the ground. He gave the heavy brooch to Sigurd, winked at him then turned, hefting his spear and shield. He strode forward. ‘Who am I to kill then?’ he roared, and his men cheered their jarl and hurled curses at those facing them.
This was a good insult from Harald for every man in Skudeneshavn knew who King Gorm’s champion was but the jarl had in those six words pissed on the man’s reputation.
King Gorm’s thegns began to thump their spears, swords and axes against their shields and chant ‘Moldof! Moldof!’ as their champion left the line and walked towards Jarl Harald, bending his neck from side to side to loosen it as he came.
‘Frigg’s tits, I wouldn’t ask that ugly fuck to my house to share my night-meal,’ Asbjorn said, and men muttered in agreement with that for the man was huge, as big as Svein’s father Styrbiorn had been. It was one thing to know the man’s reputation as a killer, even to have the memories of him smiting their common enemies. It was another thing to see
‘That old priest who came to Skudeneshavn last winter told him that,’ Finn remarked, ‘and you are a fool if you believe him, Orlyg, for he also said that I would be rich by the time the red hordes turned up, yet I have seen more curlew, sandpipers and red knots than any summer I can remember and I am still silver-light.’
‘That old piss stain told me my toothache would be gone by the time he reached Kopervik and the folk there were pouring him his first ale,’ Orn said. ‘I have heard better foretelling in a dog’s fart.’
‘Well why do you think he wanders from village to village and is not kept by a jarl or a king? You fools,’ Sorli said.
‘Still, I won’t die here. You can be sure of that,’ Orlyg said.
‘Here they come!’ Sorli cried.
‘Gorm!’ Harald yelled as the king’s men came on through the trees, no more than a spear-throw away now. ‘You can hear me, oath-breaker! Let us settle this the old way. My champion against yours!’
There was a shout and the shieldwall coming from the front left halted, its men planting their spear butts on the ground. Then it parted and a huge warrior rode through the breach on a pony, his mail and helmet, belts and scabbard glinting with gold fittings. Sigurd could not help but be impressed by the king who had come to kill them.
‘Your champion was Slagfid and he is lying on a bench in my hall so that my people can see him, though you would not recognize him now,’ King Gorm said. ‘My godi wanted to take his eyes so that he would never see the hall of the slain but I did not let him. He was a great warrior.’ The king leant over and spat onto the forest floor. ‘I afforded your sons no such respect.’
‘You prickless nithing!’ Sorli yelled, the fury coming off him like smoke from a pyre. Sigurd’s belly soured at the thought of some godi prising out Thorvard’s and Sigmund’s eyes and the sudden craving to kill King Gorm engulfed him like a wave so that he could barely breathe.
But Jarl Harald was as a rock, unmoved and unwilling to give his enemy the satisfaction.
‘My champion against yours, oath-breaker,’ he said again.
King Gorm patted his pony’s neck with ringed fingers as he considered this and Sigurd realized that he had some gold rings sewn amongst the grey ones of his brynja.
‘Why not!’ the king announced. ‘My father always said it was a bad thing to rush a good feast. Send forward your champion and I will send mine.’
‘Father,’ Sorli said. ‘I claim the right as your eldest son.’
Jarl Harald turned to Sorli and the smile in his beard reminded Sigurd of past times. ‘No, my son. You are a great fighter but you can still learn a few things from your father, hey.’ And with that Harald drew the pin from the great silver brooch at his right shoulder and took off his blue cloak, letting it fall to the ground. He gave the heavy brooch to Sigurd, winked at him then turned, hefting his spear and shield. He strode forward. ‘Who am I to kill then?’ he roared, and his men cheered their jarl and hurled curses at those facing them.
This was a good insult from Harald for every man in Skudeneshavn knew who King Gorm’s champion was but the jarl had in those six words pissed on the man’s reputation.
King Gorm’s thegns began to thump their spears, swords and axes against their shields and chant ‘Moldof! Moldof!’ as their champion left the line and walked towards Jarl Harald, bending his neck from side to side to loosen it as he came.
‘Frigg’s tits, I wouldn’t ask that ugly fuck to my house to share my night-meal,’ Asbjorn said, and men muttered in agreement with that for the man was huge, as big as Svein’s father Styrbiorn had been. It was one thing to know the man’s reputation as a killer, even to have the memories of him smiting their common enemies. It was another thing to see
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