God of Vengeance by Giles Kristian Page B

him in the flesh now, knowing he was against you.
    ‘Ah, he’s only a head taller than Harald,’ someone said. And only a touch broader, Sigurd thought.
    ‘But he’s much uglier,’ Orn Beak-Nose said, which was something coming from him.
    Harald pointed his great spear at Moldof. ‘This ox of yours will low loud enough to wake our grandfathers when I gut him,’ he said. ‘And yet he is much smaller than I remember him. Have you not been feeding him, Gorm?’
    Moldof grinned and it was a gruesome sight. No doubt in his time the man had heard every insult a man could come up with. That he was still alive to enjoy them meant that for plenty of men their insults had been their last words in this life.
    ‘I pissed on your sons’ corpses,’ Moldof said to Harald, his face as straight as its ugliness would allow, and this statement was worse than any insult a tongue could weave.
    ‘When Moldof has killed you, Jarl Harald,’ King Gorm said, spitting the word
jarl
, ‘my men will slaughter yours. And your sons.’ He looked at Sigurd now and Sigurd felt as if his eyes were burning at the sight of the king, as if they had venom in them. ‘You have grown, boy,’ Gorm said. ‘But I see you are not as pretty as your brother there.’
    ‘I will kill you, worm,’ Sigurd said.
    King Gorm smiled at that. ‘I always liked you, boy.’ Then he turned his stare back to Harald. ‘Your bloodline ends today, Harald.’
    Sigurd did not need to see his father’s face to know the wolf grin that parted his beard then. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘And we will wait for you in the Allfather’s hall, oath-breaker.’ Oath-breaker, a good play on the king’s byname Shield-Shaker that, and it was not lost on any man there regardless of which side they were on. Such names stick to a man like shit to sheep, Sigurd thought.
    ‘Do not disappoint me, Moldof,’ the king said through a wall of teeth.
    Moldof thrust his spear stave against the back of his shield and his sword-brothers roared encouragement and he came forward rolling his huge shoulders, the rings of his enormous brynja shifting like the grey sea.
    ‘Open him up, Father!’ Sorli was straining like a wolf on a rope but knew he had no choice but to stand his ground and watch. ‘That ox will tire quickly,’ Sorli told Sigurd, ‘and he will not have the wits to match Father. Men as big as that don’t hone their wits because they don’t normally need them.’
    ‘It’s the same with pretty men,’ Asbjorn put in, grinning at Sorli who called him a crab-clawed son of a mare.
    ‘Gut him!’ Frothi yelled.
    ‘Go for his damned shins,’ Orn Beak-Nose growled. ‘I’d wager he can’t bend down that far to do anything about it.’
    ‘Aye, piss on his roots while he’s not looking,’ Finn said, for the king’s champion stood there like an oak and despite the advice Jarl Harald’s men gave him, it must have been hard for anyone to see how best to tackle the man.
    Keeping his shield up Harald thrust his spear in an attack that would disembowel most men, but Moldof got his shield in the way and jabbed his own spear high and Harald dipped his head so that the blade went wide. Then the two warriors circled each other, eyes searching for weaknesses, muscle and sinew taut as a hauled halyard, both men set to strike.
    Harald lifted his shield and thrust low but Moldof deflected with his own spear and then the two men’s strength and skill bloomed for all to see as they used their heavy spears almost like swords, slashing and cutting, parrying and twirling them to hammer their opponent with the butt ends. Sigurd imagined the fire in their arms and shoulders from using the spears single-handed, yet neither man showed any sign of it.
    Then Harald anticipated a thrust and brought his shield across and it struck Moldof’s spear’s shaft, knocking it aside, as Harald barrelled forward slamming his shield’s rim into Moldof’s face. The giant staggered backwards, spitting teeth and