As long as the seconds had usable shields, the fighting could take place in any part of the hazel pole square. Once the shields had been shattered, and it was sword against sword, all the fighting would take place on the cloak itself.
“This looks right,” Thorgrim said to Harald, who was at his side. “Put the shields there,” he added, indicating the corner nearest them. He looked up. The sky was growing lighter and he could see the cloud cover had broken up and the sky was all but clear. It would be a fine morning.
That’s a good omen, he thought, but then he remembered that it would be a fine morning for Ottar as well as himself, and he was not sure how to read the sign.
“You’ll stay mostly to this corner of the square?” Harald asked. He was nervous, Thorgrim could hear it in his voice, but he was not sure if the boy was afraid that his father would be killed or that he himself would do his part poorly and help bring that about. Both, Thorgrim guessed.
“I’ll start out on this side,” Thorgrim said. “It’s where Ottar wants me. When the sun comes over the hill it will be in my eyes. That’s why he laid the hazel poles out as he did. So I’ll work around as we fight.”
Harald opened his mouth to ask another question, but then Ottar’s men began to part and Ottar himself came pushing through the crowd, a couple of men bearing his three shields following behind. He was dressed in a new tunic, a clean garment, and his hair and beard were combed.
“Thorgrim Night Wolf,” he said as he stepped over the hazel pole. “You came. I wasn’t sure you would. Thought I’d have to drag you out of bed, or out of whatever hole you were cowering in.”
Thorgrim regarded the big man as Ottar told his second where to put the shields down. This was not the beaten, cowed, despairing Ottar of yesterday. This was Ottar as Thorgrim had come to know and despise him: arrogant, loud and insufferable.
What has happened with you? Thorgrim wondered. Was yesterday’s attitude a ruse, a trick to get him to fight? No, Thorgrim did not think so. Ottar would know that a ruse was unnecessary, that Thorgrim was unlikely to refuse a challenge to a hólmganga.
And then Thorgrim realized that it was the hólmganga itself that had buoyed Ottar’s spirits, the chance to fight and to end whatever it was that Ottar wished to end. Their rivalry, the rule of Vík-ló, the grudge Ottar had long borne him, Thorgrim did not know what it was, but Ottar was clearly glad for the chance to finish it, one way or another. That was why he had nearly panicked when Thorgrim wavered in his decision to fight this duel.
Thorgrim blinked as the edge of the sun broke free of the hill to the east, sending its brilliant light over the country around them and the hazel pole square at their feet.
“I’m here, Ottar,” Thorgrim said at last. “So let’s get on with it. I’m hungry and I wish to have breakfast in my hall at Vík-ló.”
Ottar laughed at that. “And you’ll die hungry, you pathetic shit! I would say you’ll have your next meal in Odin’s corpse hall, but miserable cowards the likes of you don’t go there. And if they eat in Niflheim, I don’t know. Whatever they feed on there, it will be good enough for such as you!”
Behind him his men laughed, but not all of them, not nearly all of them, and the laugher did not sound as genuine as Ottar might have wished.
“Come along, Ottar,” Thorgrim said, stepping toward the edge of the cloak. “All you’ve ever been able to do is talk, like some old woman. That and watch while your men die. Let’s see if you even know how to do anything else.”
Ottar stepped forward too, and by his side was his second, a big man, nearly as big as Ottar himself.
Good choice for a second… Thorgrim looked the man up and down, taking his measure. He did not look fast and he did not look smart. You’re doing me a favor, Ottar, he thought.
Thorgrim unbuckled his sword belt, drew Iron-tooth, and tossed the scabbard and belt aside. There was no need for that encumbrance during the hólmganga. And when it was over he would have all the time he needed to buckle it on once more, or else he would never have the need to again.
“All right, Harald, you know what you’re about, here?” Thorgrim asked, and Harald nodded. He was standing at Thorgrim’s left side, one of the three shields in hand. The nervousness was still there, Thorgrim could see it, but the boy was calmer now. The waiting was always the worst of it. Once the sword blows began, Thorgrim knew that his son would do what needed doing.
“Listen here,” Thorgrim said to Harald, speaking softly, too soft to be heard by any of the others. “I picked you to be my second because there’s none I trust more, and no one who can do this work better than you. If I’m killed, it will be the doing of the gods, not you. You’ll have done your best and no blame should ever fall on you. And by that I mean you should never blame yourself. Do you understand?”
Harald nodded. Thorgrim put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezed it softly. “If I die, I die with honor,” he said, “and I’ll wait for you in the corpse hall.”
Harald nodded again. Thorgrim could see he did not dare speak.
Then Ottar’s voice roared from the other side of the cloak. “If you are done with your goodbyes there, Night Pup, let us get on with it.”
Thorgrim stepped forward, stepped onto the cloak, facing Ottar, Harald at his side. “I challenged you, Night Pup,” Ottar said, “so you may strike first. You had best kill me with this blow. It’s the only chance you’ll get.”
That was how the hólmganga was fought. Blow for blow, with the seconds deflecting the attacks until one man was wounded or dead, or the shields were all shattered. And then it was weapons alone on the confines of the eight-foot square cloak.
Thorgrim stepped forward and to his right, shifting around so the sun was not directly in his eyes, until he was within striking distance of Ottar. Ottar’s second, like Harald, was on his man’s left-hand side where he would not interfere with Ottar’s sword arm. He held the shield partway up, taking a half step closer to Ottar as Thorgrim approached.
Then Thorgrim brought Iron-tooth back over his shoulder and chopped down, an awkward strike at Ottar’s head. The second raised the shield and took the blow on the painted wooden surface, leaving a deep cut in one of the boards. Ottar laughed at the weak effort, but Thorgrim was not bothered by that. He had never intended to strike Ottar. He wanted instead to gauge the speed and skill of the second, to understand how best to get past the shield.
Harald was braced for the return blow, his shield held ready, but the blow did not come, not at first. Instead, Ottar took a step back and he lowered his sword and looked Thorgrim in the eye.
“You know, Night Wolf,” Ottar said, and his tone was more formal, less mocking than it had been. “Before you die, you should know why you’re going to die. So I’ll tell you. And the funny thing is, it’s not even about you. Not really.” He paused, as if getting his thoughts straight in his head, then went on.
“There’s only one man I have ever been frightened of, in all my life. Only one man who scared me so much I shit myself sometimes just to hear him coming. This was years ago, mind you. And that man was my father.
“He was a big bastard. So big he makes me look like a child. And mean. Meanest son of a whore I ever knew. That anyone ever knew. Everyone in our village was scared of him. Terrified, and with good reason. It didn’t seem he could be killed, not ever hurt. But do you know how he died?”
“Did you bore him to death with all your talk?” Thorgrim asked and to his surprise Ottar actually smiled at that.
“No, Night Pup. He was killed by a wolf. Out in the forest. Maybe several wolves, I don’t know. I saw his body. I was…ten years old? They made a mess of him. Ripped him apart. And I always figured that it couldn’t have been a real wolf, not a flesh-and-blood wolf, because no flesh and blood wolf could have killed that bastard. So I reckoned it was something else, something from the gods, some spirit of the forest, maybe. And I figured if this thing came for him, it would come for me, too. All my life I’ve waited for the wo
lf to come for me.
“And then I meet you, and you’re not afraid of me, though you should be. And they call you Night Wolf. And they say…things about you. About what you are. And part of me might have believed it. But no more. I don’t believe it any more. It’s not true, what they say. And so now I must kill you, so I can end these thoughts I have about you and the things they say about you. I have to kill you so I can show everyone that you are just a weak and pitiful man.”
Thorgrim nodded. He could hear the change in Ottar’s voice as the man talked. The more words that came from his mouth, the more he sounded as if he was trying to convince himself that he was speaking the truth.
“You say you want to kill me, Ottar, but still you just talk and talk,” Thorgrim said. “Do you not have the courage to actually fight?”
Those words seemed to have struck their mark. Ottar frowned as he came forward, readjusting the grip on his sword. He shot a quick glance at Harald and a bit of a smile played over his lips.
Thorgrim looked to his left, toward his son, a darting glance. Harald’s eyes were wide in fright and he held the shield awkwardly, as if he was as likely to drop it as hold it up in front of Ottar’s blade.
Thorgrim forced himself to look grim, despite his wanting to smile. Harald might have been nervous before, but now he was perfectly calm. The look of terror on his face was a sham, designed to lure Ottar into thinking this would be easy. And it worked.
Ottar lifted his sword, cutting straight down as Thorgrim had done. Then, with the blade in motion, he twisted his arm to send the attack in low, to get under Harald’s shield, to slash Thorgrim’s belly or his legs. And Harald followed the move with ease, slamming the shield down on Ottar’s blade and knocking it nearly to the ground as Thorgrim leapt forward, thrusting too fast for Ottar’s second to react.
The tip of the blade ripped through Ottar’s tunic and Thorgrim felt it bite flesh. Ottar bellowed and leapt back as his second brought the shield up in time to knock Iron-tooth aside, but too late to stop it from delivering a shallow but painful wound.
“Idiot!” Ottar yelled and cuffed his second on the side of the head, hard enough to knock the man nearly off balance. Thorgrim and Harald took a step back, watching and waiting. Thorgrim had struck the last blow. Now it was Ottar’s turn and there was nothing Thorgrim could do but brace for it.
Ottar stepped to his left, hoping to bring Thorgrim around so the sun was once again in his eyes, but Thorgrim did not move, so Ottar stepped up quick and brought his sword down hard, no subtlety this time, just a powerful blow at Thorgrim’s head.
Harald raised the shield and caught the blow, but the force of it jarred his arms and the sound of steel hitting wood was mixed with the sound of wood splintering under the impact. Ottar stepped back, his second close by in case Thorgrim tried his fast reposte once more, but Thorgrim remained where he was. He and Harald looked at the shield. The center board was buckled and cracked.
“That will be good for one more blow,” Thorgrim said. When it came to shattering shields, Ottar with his great strength would have an advantage. But Thorgrim knew he would have to match Ottar shield for shield if he hoped to live through the morning.
“Come on,” he said and they stepped back onto the cloak. Thorgrim had a pretty good idea that once he struck at Ottar, Ottar would try a fast counterstrike, and he hoped Harald was ready for it.
Let’s be rid of that shield, Ottar, Thorgrim thought. He slashed down hard, hitting Ottar’s shield with a powerful blow, nearly as powerful as Ottar’s had been. He saw the wood on the face of the shield crack and then, as he had guessed, Ottar was on them, clubbing down with his sword, striking the face of the shield Harald held aloft and shattering it.
But Thorgrim did not hesitate. He darted forward, leading with Iron-tooth. Ottar’s second was there, shield in front. Thorgrim drove Iron-tooth’s tip into the broken board and levered it sideways, praying to the gods that the blade did not break. But Iron-tooth was a well forged weapon, blessed by the gods, and rather than breaking the blade, the leverage tore Ottar’s shield apart.
The four men stood on the cloak, breathing hard, the shields in the hands of the seconds no more than shattered wrecks. The blood from Ottar’s wound was spreading over his tunic. Thorgrim looked down. There were splatters of blood on the cloak on which they stood. That, according to the law, meant that the duel could have ended there. But no one suggested they end it, and no one would.
Harald and Ottar’s second tossed the ruined shields away and took up fresh ones and returned to the combatants’ sides. Thorgrim pointed to Ottar with the tip of his sword.
“Your stroke, Ottar, if your wound isn’t hurting you too much,” he said. Ottar did not smile, did not respond to the ribbing. The wound was no doubt causing considerable pain, but more than that, it would have shaken Ottar’s confidence, an even greater advantage. He stepped up and swung his sword hard, a sideways blow that Harald deflected. Thorgrim went next, stepping forward with two quick steps before Ottar had even brought his sword arm back, striking Ottar’s shield, knocking the second off balance.
But Ottar was there again, just as fast, and Harald barely had time to get the shield in front of Ottar’s weapon. Bang, bang, bang. Six blows in quick succession, the shields suffering from the impact of strong blades wielded by strong arms. Ottar and Thorgrim stepped back at the same time, heaving for breath, their seconds doing the same.
Then Ottar, still winded, came at Thorgrim again, taking Thorgrim and Harald by surprise, a fast, bold move. He slashed low and Harald brought the shield down quick but not quick or low enough. The tip of Ottar’s blade scythed under the edge of the shield and Thorgrim felt it rip across his shins, a dull pain, like being hit with a club. And then an instant later came the sharp agony of rent flesh, the warm spurt of blood.
Ottar had moved so fast his second failed to keep at his side. Thorgrim lunged and his sword found Ottar’s left shoulder, the tip sinking an inch deep. Ottar bellowed and swung his arm around and knocked the blade free. If it had been Ottar’s right shoulder, and if Thorgrim had not been slowed by his own wound, the hólmganga might have ended there. But in truth the wound to Ottar’s shoulder was a minor thing. The wounds to Thorgrim’s legs were not.
Thorgrim staggered back. He could feel the blood running down his shins and soaking into his leggings. He looked at Harald and Harald was looking at him with horror and shame and anger and Thorgrim shook his head, hoping to convey what he was thinking. Not your fault, not your fault.
He took a step forward, gritting his teeth, trying not to show the pain because he did not want Harald or Ottar to see it. Ottar was gasping for breath now, head back. It was his turn to strike a blow and he was drawing it out, using the moment to suck air into his lungs. Then a growl built in his throat and as it lifted in volume he came forward, sword up, and his second was at his side.
Ottar was shouting in rage when he reached Thorgrim and Thorgrim was shouting as well and once again the blows hammered down, sword, shield, sword, shield, all nuance abandoned in their mutual fury. And then they staggered apart once more, and the shields, which had borne the brunt of the attacks, were no more than ruins in the seconds’ hands.
Both Harald and Ottar’s man took their time in discarding the broken shields and taking up the last of the three. They were sweating, red-faced and breathing hard, but the men for whom they held the shields were in worse shape yet.
Thorgrim was grateful for the brief chance to breathe and let his arms fall at his sides. He could feel the blood running into his shoes now, and the pain was like a burning brand pressed to his legs. But the blood on Ottar’s tunic, at his side and shoulder, was spreading. Thorgrim could see that Ottar, too, was fighting to not show pain, which meant he must have pain in abundance.
I need to end this soon, Thorgrim thought. It would come down to which of them had greater endurance, which was least wounded, and he did not know the answer.
Then Harald was at his sid
e once more, the last shield in his hand, and Ottar’s second was also in place. The next strike was Ottar’s and he circled in, moving forward and sideways, trying to work Thorgrim around so the sun was in his eyes. And this time Thorgrim obliged him, turning as Ottar turned until the sun was full in his face.
Ottar stepped up and made a powerful stroke, right at Thorgrim’s head, coming in high and sideways. Harald raised the shield up to catch the sword, but Thorgrim was moving even before Harald had the shield in place. He ducked low, under Ottar’s sword, under the edge of the shield, and launched himself forward. He came down, shoulder on the cloak, rolled, and used the momentum to his regain his feet, now at Ottar’s back.
Thorgrim shouted in pain as the weight came on his wounded legs. He heard Ottar bellow with rage as he spun around, too fast for his second to follow, and the brilliant sun hit him in the face like a solid thing. Ottar squinted and threw up his arm to shield his eyes and Thorgrim thrust. Iron-tooth caught Ottar’s neck just as Ottar realized his mistake and tried to jump clear.
The blood was bright welling up from the wound, and it stood out dark against Ottar’s blonde beard. But Thorgrim had not killed him; he had done no more than goad the bull. Ottar shouted again and slashed at Thorgrim, but the sun was still in his eyes. Thorgrim turned the weapon aside and thrust again, and with his left arm Ottar managed to knock the blade out of line.
Harald rushed up to take his place, having recovered from the quick shift in the men’s positions, and Ottar’s second did the same. Then Ottar stepped up and raised his sword over his head, holding it in a two-handed grip, and brought it smashing down on the shield Harald held aloft.
There was only one purpose to such a blow, and that was to shatter Thorgrim’s one remaining shield, and in that Ottar was utterly effective. The power on his striking sword forced Harald halfway to his knees, and with a rending sound the shield burst into its component boards, leaving Harald gripping the iron boss to which clung a few broken bits of wood.
Night Wolf: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 5) Page 39
