The Smile of the Wolf

by Tim Leach

  ‘They would murder you with the law, would they not? Why should I not do the same?’

  ‘The feud can end with me. Gunnar—’

  But he spoke past me, shouting towards the brothers. ‘I say again, your family are cowards. And who will answer that?’

  ‘You will be answered! Whoreson! Murderer!’

  And then there were no more words. I fought to hold back Gunnar, and men I did not know restrained Björn.

  I was a fool to believe that it might have gone other than this. For our people, who would rather see their stomachs opened and their guts steaming upon the snow than to see their honour shamed, a word and a blade are one and the same. If a man took a knife to you, you would not rest until you had seen him slain. Why should an insult be any different?

  And so Gunnar looked from one brother to the next, that mad smile on his face, and he said. ‘Which of you will fight me? Will it be you, Björn? I think it must be.’

  ‘No,’ Hakon said. ‘You have insulted a family, not a man. I am the elder.’ He looked at Gunnar for a moment, perhaps hoping for the impossible, that Gunnar might take back his challenge. Then he said: ‘I am the one you will fight in the holmgang.’

  10

  In the height of summer the sun barely sets. It touches the horizon twice each day, like a man bowing before a king. Just as our winter is a time of near endless night, summer is permanent day.

  So when I say that we left at dawn the next day, you must not think of it as some dark awakening, shadowy figures shaking one another awake and setting forth in dim light. We did not sleep, merely sat and stared at the sun until it gave a shy kiss to the edge of the world, the sky never anything less than impossibly bright. Then we gathered our weapons, a little food and water, and we walked to the river.

  They waited for us there. Hakon, Björn, Snorri, Vigdis, and other kinsfolk whose names and fathers I did not know. Ragnar was there, Sigrid and Olaf and some of his men, and standing a little aside from the rest was that unlucky horse-trader, the black horse at his side. The prize for the winner, a mocking reminder of how petty this was.

  We walked with the sun and the river at our right hands, the low valley wall at our left. Travelling as a single company, a strange courtesy persisted between us. I saw Gunnar unthinkingly offer a hand to Hakon to steady him when he tripped upon a jutting stone, and when the heat of the sun began to beat down upon us I found myself offering a waterskin to my neighbour, only to find that it was Vigdis who took it from me. Soon, two of us would be fighting for their lives – perhaps it was that knowledge that kept the peace. When one knows blood will be spilt soon, there is no need to seek out the fight, no need to hurry towards it. There is a feeling that is almost happiness. One who saw our company, ignorant of our quarrel, might have thought us a family travelling to a great feast, or a pious band making for one of the sacred places of the island, where the world of the gods and the hidden folk crosses over into our own. And in a way, we were doing both of these things. For men like us, where the dance of iron is the most treasured art, the holmgang is a festival. The island we were headed towards, that was holy too in its own way. There has been enough blood sacrificed upon it.

  It could not truly be called an island. A little patch of sodden earth in the centre of the river, separated from the bank by a few yards of shallow water. That was enough of a break from the land, for the holmgang must be fought in a different world to our own.

  There are many such places, where one may step out from Iceland and into the duellists’ secret country. The lopsided outcrop in the sea beside Borg, stinking from the seals who lurk there. The turf island in the middle of Hitarvartan, where duellists have fought up to their knees in black mud. And I have heard tell that in the mountains to the east, there is an island in the middle of a lake that is so still and clear that it is as if four men are fighting, two above and two below the water. But this island, being so close to the Althing, has seen more battle than any other. When one stands upon it, one can see the worn ground, the splinters of iron and wood, from the duels that have been fought before. Decades of feuds, begun and settled in that place.

  We gathered at the edge of the water and I spoke to Sigrid. ‘No matter what happens,’ I said, ‘do and say nothing.’

  ‘You are not the duellist.’

  ‘Shield-men have been killed before. I do not know what they will do on that island.’

  She nodded, and when she was quite certain that no man was watching, she put her fingers to her lips and those fingers to my hand. I let them linger for only a moment before I stepped away. I hope that she understood why.

  The water was cold against my thighs as I waded in, and I held the weight of three shields up high above my head. The others were at my back, Hakon and Björn among them, and it would have been the work of a moment to cut my throat and cast me down into the water, to let me drown in blood and water alike. I would never have shown my back to them at any other time, but in that moment I knew that I was quite safe – even a man like Björn would respect the law of the duel.

  On the island, each man to his task. Hakon and Gunnar each went to opposite corners, weapons in hand – Gunnar with that beautiful sword of his, Hakon with a plain, well-crafted axe, and each with a second weapon beside him if the first one failed. Hakon sat upon the ground, cross-legged and picking at the grass, even as Gunnar paced restlessly, making little cuts at the air as he moved.

  It fell to the rest of us to prepare the ground. Snorri and Rolf, who had carried the oxhide with them, laid it upon the ground as though it were an inlaid cloak or spun from gold. They smoothed it down, leaving no fold that might taint the duel, and we staked it down and marked the borders. This was where they would fight, for it is not enough to duel on the scarce ground of the island, with no hope of retreat. Such a place must be reduced again, and it is only if a man is willing to step into a space that it is quartered, then quartered once more, that he has earned the right to fight in the holmgang.

  Once, the duel could only be settled in death, but it is not so any more. If a man’s foot strays even a finger-length from that hide, or if a single drop of blood falls upon it, the holmgang is ended. I have seen such duels concluded by the smallest of cuts: a splinter that flies from a breaking shield and cuts a man’s face, a chip of iron from a sword giving a tiny wound between finger and thumb. I have heard tell of a holmgang that ended the moment it began, when a berserker’s frenzy gave him a bleeding nose, and a spattering of drops stained the hide at his feet. I have seen the holmgang settled with a drop of a man’s blood, and with all of it. Until the last shield is broken, one does not know what kind of a duel one will see.

  I knelt to examine the three shields I was to carry, testing for some flaw in the wood that I would need to protect. I heard the footsteps behind me and expected it would be Gunnar. I had not been a shield-bearer before, and thought he might have some last words for me, for there are many tricks in the duel that one must be wise to, all the traps a shield-bearer must know.

  Yet when I stood and turned, I found that it was Hakon. His axe was in his hand, but I felt no danger from him.

  ‘You would rather be fighting me, I suppose?’ I said.

  ‘I do not wish to fight either of you.’ He knelt beside me, chopped the axe into the earth and leaned upon it. ‘If I did, it would be Gunnar. For it was not you that killed Erik, was it?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘It matters little to me, Kjaran. I know you are both honourable men, though how you let that witch trick you into this cowardice I do not know.’ He looked towards the sky, as if he thought that he might find his answer there. ‘I am ashamed of what Erik did. I am ashamed of what you both did.’

  ‘As am I.’

  ‘I have seen too many feuds in my life. Winters spent wishing that the spring will not come, and the killing summers that follow them. Waiting and killing, killing and waiting.’ I saw the touch of silver at his temple, almost white unde
r the bright sun. I wondered how many of his years he had spent in one feud or another.

  ‘I have seen feuds myself. I never wish to see another.’

  ‘If only it were up to us. Let us hope this duel is the end of it. Gunnar means to take some blood from me, that is all. He will give me a good scar to satisfy his honour. But I do not think he will kill me.’ He gave the slightest trace of a smile. ‘I hope not. I do not wish to die this day.’

  ‘You might defeat him.’

  ‘Defeat Gunnar? I do not think the gods are feeling so whimsical today. I cannot beat the man and I cannot beat that sword of his.’ He must have seen something in my face, for after a moment he spoke again: ‘But if I do, I will not kill him. I promise you that.’

  ‘I thank you. Fight well, Hakon.’

  ‘I will. There is no honour in this.’

  ‘No. But there is nothing else to do.’

  He nodded to me, took his axe from the ground and wiped the earth from it against his breeches. There was no need to wait any longer. There was nothing left to say, and so Hakon stepped on to the hide and said to Gunnar: ‘Let us see if you are as good as they say.’

  Gunnar came forward without a word and took up his stance. I was at his left, the sun sharp in my eyes until I raised my shield. Björn held the shield for his brother; he looked at me and said, ‘A shameful thing, to have an outlaw carrying your shield.’

  ‘He is no outlaw yet,’ Gunnar replied. He looked at Vigdis – for she was there, silent and watchful at the edge of the hide. ‘A shameful thing to have that woman here.’

  ‘She is of our family now.’

  ‘So I see. Be careful, Björn. She has buried two husbands already. If you could call Erik such a thing.’

  Björn came forward snarling, all teeth and spit like a fighting dog, only to have Hakon once more restrain him. ‘Enough, brother! I am the one who fights today.’ He raised his axe and lowered it once more. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spoke to Gunnar.

  ‘Did you lie in the trial?’

  ‘Lie about what?’

  ‘Did he truly fight well?’ Hakon said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My brother. Did he fight well?’

  Gunnar hesitated. ‘Yes. He fought bravely. He died well.’

  ‘I am glad. Come, let us begin.’

  Gunnar rapped his sword against the shield I carried, Hakon did the same. And then the iron sang.

  I saw only a moment of grey motion and then the wooden shield jumped and snapped at my face like a dog. A ringing close by, like a bell struck once, and then the shield shivered once more. That was all for those first few blows, for I had no time to think or to see, only to hear and to feel. The gasps Hakon made as he swung, Gunnar’s soft exhalations, fighting in near silence. Leather biting into my hand, wood pressing into my arm. And pain.

  It was only after five blows had struck my shield that I began to see – yet still I saw only the weapons, not men who wielded them. The axe that rose and fell in the same way each time against my arm, a clumsy overhand blow more fit for chopping wood. The sword cutting in from a different angle each time, like a snake biting at a man. Hakon swung to break the shield, to force us to yield. Gunnar fought to pass the shield. He fought to kill.

  We did not try to move. Footwork counts for nothing in the holmgang, the tricks of weight and balance rendered worthless. There is only strength and fate, and the courage to stand rooted to the spot, trading blow for blow.

  Then the sun was in my eyes, sudden and blinding, as half of my shield snapped and broke away. The blows stopped falling, Hakon waiting as I picked the second of the three shields, shaking life back into his weary arm. His first shield, chipped and cracked, still stood guard. But already he was tired, gasping hard and leaning on his weapon. Gunnar was breathing easy, patient as a poet with half a hundred lines yet to sing. Soon, he would be singing in earnest. He smiled his murderer’s smile and said: ‘It is early to be so tired.’

  ‘We shall see.’

  There was the rapping of sword against shield, and then we began again.

  But not for long. Hakon’s shield broke in moments and Gunnar cut the air with his sword, impatient, as Björn took up the next shield. It seemed to slip from his fingers, falling back to the ground, and when he picked it up again and dropped it once more, I understood what he was doing.

  ‘You are as slow as you are stupid,’ Gunnar said.

  ‘There is no need for that,’ Hakon said to Björn, for he must have been ashamed of what his brother had done. He looked back on us, a ghost of a smile on his face. ‘I am glad to see that you have decided to fight properly. I had thought your reputation unearned, the way you swung before.’

  Gunnar nodded, as he might acknowledge a good play upon the chessboard, a good strike of the ball in a game upon the ice. The rapping of the shields and, once more, iron played against the wood.

  But something had changed. Before, the blows had fallen on my shield hard enough to shake my teeth and numb my arm. Now it was as if a boy swung that axe, growing weaker with every strike.

  A snapping of wood as Hakon’s second shield broke, and there were no words this time. He simply stood, grey sweat pouring from his skin, his eyes dull with exhaustion. Gunnar was tiring too, but it was to compare the exhaustion of the wolf with that of the deer it is running down. Weak as the men were, it would take much time to break the next shield. Yet both already knew how it must end.

  Hakon sobbed with effort as he swung, and he seemed to find some last remnant of strength. He knew he had no chance to win the duel. To lose by a single shield, that was all the ambition he had left, and I thought that I saw Gunnar, even in his cold rage, soften his blows a little. One cannot help but admire a hopeless bravery.

  But though the man might have felt pity, that flawless sword of his did not. The last shield fell to pieces and Björn stood there, staring without comprehension at the broken wood that hung from his arm. Hakon took one last, hopeless swing at my shield, but it did nothing. Now was the time for him to take one step back to signal his retreat and end the fight, to buy back his life and honour in silver. But he did not. He lowered his axe and shifted out of his fighting stance, both legs side by side. He waited.

  Gunnar checked the blow he was about to give.

  ‘Step away,’ Gunnar said. ‘One foot from the hide will be enough. I will not strike a helpless man.’

  ‘No,’ Hakon said slowly, gulping for his breath like a drowning man, ‘I will not yield. Take what you think is your due in blood. A drop, or all that I have.’

  Gunnar did not strike. He understood what to do in the holmgang if a man ran or if he fought. He did not know what to do if he stood and spoke.

  ‘Or if you will not,’ Hakon said, ‘perhaps there is another way.’

  Björn whispered to his brother and I only heard one word of what he said: ‘…shameful…’ And at this, Hakon lifted his chin proudly, shook his head, spoke again to Gunnar. ‘There is no shame in this. Let us put our weapons down together. We will clasp our hands and swear a brotherhood. You have taken a brother from us. Let yourself replace him. And what need is there then, to make an outlaw of your friend?’ He waited for a moment, the only sound the wind echoing across the plain. He shifted his axe to his left hand, offered an open right hand to Gunnar. Then he said: ‘Would that not be beautiful?’

  And there it was, something that few men live to see. The end of a feud, there so close and powerful that it feels like a living thing, rare as catching sight of some beast of legend. For so long will a feud seem as unalterable as fate, as inevitable as the rise and fall of the sun. And yet after months or years of blood and hate, the knots of the feud drawing ever tighter like the winding loop of a snare, a gift is offered; gold, a cup of mead, a promise. If the gift is taken, it is the end of the killing.

  ‘I want no blood from you,’ Gunnar said. He levelled the blade towards Vigdis. ‘I would have fought her, if I could. But I cannot.’ Slowly,
his sword dipped towards the ground.

  Vigdis looked on those brothers, Björn and Hakon, shield and sword. And she said a single word.

  ‘Cowards.’

  It was Björn who moved first. The broken shield cast to the ground, the knife in his hand. And Gunnar did not raise his sword – a warrior of so many battles, and for once he was caught defenceless, and I did not raise my shield in time. But I saw Hakon move, his axe falling to the ground, hands reaching up to delay his brother. And then, as if suddenly awoken, Gunnar struck.

  There was an instant of movement, so fast that I saw nothing but the light of the sun on a blade. A red rain falling upon the ground.

  I have never seen a faster move with a blade.

  11

  I have heard some bards describe the dead as if they are sleeping. Still, at peace, gone to the gods. Perhaps in older times that might have been true, for I have never seen it. Old men deformed by the plague, women killed in childbirth lying in a sea of blood, desiccated infants that weigh less than a loaf of bread, men torn open by axe and dagger – the dead I have seen have always seemed more like monsters than men.

  Hakon was no different. His eyes rolled back in his head until only a sliver of black remained to discolour the white, mouth impossibly wide open and teeth bared in an endless scream. And a second mouth in his throat, the sharp white of bone within giving him a second set of teeth, his spine smiling through his neck.

  I could taste his blood in my mouth, feel it dripping from my face. My feet were wet with it, my clothes hot with it.

  Björn was on his knees before us, one hand against his brother’s forehead, as though he were feeling for the heat of fever. As if this were a sickness that could be cured.

  For a time he seemed to forget we were there. He simply knelt there, feeling his brother’s skin turning cold beneath his hand, his lips moving soundlessly, his face like that of a man trying to answer a riddle.

  ‘You meant to strike me, didn’t you? he said at last. ‘Not him.’