by Swan Road
At last came the day when they sailed past the mouth of the river Stour; and Wulfgar's heart swelled within his breast, for he knew that their journey to the Siren's Song, lying in wait for them at the mouth of the river Blackwater, was nearly at an end. But then, staring off into the distance, at the far point of land that was the Naze, Yelkei said abruptly, "Wulfgar, your eyes are younger and keener than mine, and mine are blinded by the morning sun, besides. See you a white sail there on the horizon, coming hard and fast upon us?" and as he glanced to where she pointed, he spied another vessel bearing swiftly toward them.
" 'Tis only some fisherman, most like, who seeks to net an early catch," Wulfgar said, but with a sinking heart, he realized that it was none other than Ivar the Boneless, and a frisson that had nothing to do with the frigid winter air chased up his spine.
His hand trembled a little on the tiller, with the sudden surge of adrenaline that coursed through him. Somehow, Ivar must have learned the contents of the messages that had passed between Yelkei and Flóki, Wulfgar thought, and upon realizing he, Wulfgar, had fled and discovering he had gone west by boat, along the little river, and not southeast by horse, Ivar had known the route Wulfgar must follow. Taking the shorter, overland route, Ivar had mounted up to ride southeast from Thetford and, in Colchester or some other place, had got a vessel to intercept Wulfgar at the Naze, to cut him off, to drive him into the island-riddled harbor formed by the inward curve of the small peninsula. The islands... At the thought of them, grimly did Wulfgar understand then, down to his very bones, what Ivar intended— the holmganga, the island going, which was the name given to a formal duel between two Víkingr warriors.
Like fathomless, twin abysses in her yellow countenance, Yelkei's black eyes swallowed the wan light of the faded winter sun, while Owain's own green ones glittered with the brilliance of raw green stones; and his indrawn breath was so sharp that Cariad cluttered nervously and hid her pointed face against his neck as the oncoming sail quickened its pace, seeming to shoot forward like some strange and fantastic bird winging its way upon the wind. Steady, Wulfgar held the tiller, so their own sailing boat stuck to its speed and course, he seeing no other choice but to enter the harbor and to hope that they could hide among the islands. For although his vessel leaped valiantly across the waves, it was not so fast as Ivar's own, which, little by little, gained on them, so Wulfgar knew he could not turn and outrun it. Unbidden into his mind came the memory of his hooking Ragnar, his father, and hauling him like a seacow aboard the Siren's Song; and Wulfgar knew that Ivar would not hesitate to bring his sailing boat alongside them and, to prevent them from fleeing, use his own grappling hooks to secure their vessel.
Rapidly, Ivar closed the distance between them, until it seemed to Wulfgar that he could hear his half brother's mocking laughter on the wind, could glimpse the fluid-boned hand that guided the second tiller so skillfully— as it ever had held a tiller in their youth, when they had fished among the fjords along the coast of the Northland. Wulfgar could remember how Ivar had laughed at him then, too, at his own clumsy, inexpert handling of the tiller, in comparison to Ivar's own deftness. The memory was so vivid that although those days were twenty years gone and he could now hold his own against any who sailed the high seas, Wulfgar felt suddenly as awkward as he had then as a lad, the butt of Ivar's malicious jesting; and his hand tightened so hard on the tiller that he fumbled its course, and Ivar's sailing boat drew ominously even nearer.
Hide-and-seek they played then, among the small islands, flitting along the shorelines, Wulfgar's face bleak as he now saw that although he had dared to hope otherwise, Ivar was not alone, but was accompanied by Halfdan. Wulfgar knew that he could not fight them both, that together, they would kill him. Then, afterward perhaps, Ivar would discover that Rhowenna was still alive, had borne her husband a son, and then she and Leik would never be safe so long as Ivar lived. It was this thought that frightened Wulfgar most of all. For Yelkei and Owain the Bard, he had no fear; his half brothers would slay neither, afraid of the spaewife's power, revering the harper's talent. For his own self, Wulfgar feared only for Rhowenna's and Leik's sake. For them, he must prevail!
Such was the violence of this thought that his hand tightened once more on the tiller, inadvertently hauling the sailing boat off balance, so that it rocked on its keel, then heeled hard to one side, and he could hear it scrape upon the bottom of the shoals just off shore. Cursing himself vehemently for a fool, he hurriedly steadied the vessel, attempting to turn it back away from the breakers that rushed in upon the snowy island strand. But it was too late. The sailing boat was running up onto the sands; and whipping around a near point of the island, where he must have been lying in wait for them, Ivar was upon them. They would never get the vessel pushed back out into sea fast enough to escape, Wulfgar realized with a sinking heart. Hastily lowering the mast and sail, then leaping out into the icy, frothy combers, he, Owain, and Yelkei dragged the sailing boat inland instead, so it would not be dislodged and carried away on the waves. Once the vessel was secure, Wulfgar hurriedly threw off his cloak and stripped off his tunic, scarcely feeling the chilly wind against his bare skin as he mentally prepared for the fight he knew must come. Then, grabbing his shield from the bottom of the vessel and drawing his battle-ax from its scabbard at his back, Wulfgar stood, waiting for his half brothers to reach him, feeling somehow as though he had been waiting all his life for this moment, as though, at long last, his destiny lay at hand.
Now, Ivar and Halfdan were lowering their own mast and sail, jumping into the breakers to haul their own sailing boat up onto the beach drifted with snow and rimed at its edges. When it was done, they began slowly to walk toward Wulfgar. In that instant, it seemed that his world contracted sharply to that place where they stood upon the island shore, as though the gods or some other unknown force had deliberately woven it into a cocoon of grey silk spun from the leaden winter sky, sealing beyond it the cold breath of the wind, the frosty murmur of the sea, hushing the day, although it was only that his heightened senses shut the sounds out and became so keenly attuned to his half brothers that they all three seemed to breathe as one. Ivar's eyes shone with excitement, triumph, and even a hint of madness in that moment as he came finally to a halt a few feet away, his body as taut and graceful as a wolf poised for attack, and his smile was a wolfish smile, as though he scented victory at hand.
"A good race, Wulfgar. But now 'tis done, and we are come near to the end of our game, I am thinking. You have deceived me once too often for me to let you slip through my fingers yet again. What a pity for you, when you have so much to live for, after all, eh, Wulfgar?" Ivar paused for a moment. Then he continued softly. "For she is alive, your lady wife, is she not?" The question was stated in such a way that it did not demand an answer; so Wulfgar knew that Yelkei had been right that night in the abandoned great hall when he had first learned that Rhowenna lived: His eyes had given away the truth to Ivar. "May I ask how? Nay? Ah, I understand. You think that if you remain silent, Wulfgar, I'll believe that I'm wrong and that, truly, she is dead. But I will not, I assure you." When still he received no response, Ivar shrugged, laughing softly. "No matter. I was merely curious as to how you managed to deceive me. However, perhaps I can guess: 'Twas some dark Eastland potion of Yelkei's, no doubt, which brought on a sleep so deep that it resembled death... ?" He turned to the spaewife, his eyes hard and angry. "By Odinn! If you were not a true spaewife, I'd slay you where you stand, you meddlesome old witch! Still, you will be deservedly punished, I am thinking, when Wulfgar lies dead at my feet; for he has ever been the child of your heart, has he not?"
"I do not want to fight you, Ivar," Wulfgar insisted, his voice low but vibrant with emotion. "I do not want to kill you. Despite everything, we are brothers—"
"You are no brother of mine, you bloody, upstart bastard, but a mockery the gods sent here to earth to plague me! I am Ragnar Lodbrók's greatest son! Yet every time I gaze upon you, 'tis like looking into a polishe
d-bronze mirror and seeing a stranger staring out of my own eyes, a stranger who is somehow even greater than I. The Greeks have a name for what you are to me, Wulfgar: my nemesis. I cannot suffer you to live; I cannot suffer you to die. Still, one way or the other, once and for all, this day will end what is between us! And when you are dead, Wulfgar, I promise you: I will sail my mighty Dragon Ship to Usk; and there, I will take your lady wife for my own, my whore, and I will slay your son— for she did give you a son, did she not, your fair Rhowenna? Aye, a son like his father— ever to haunt me, like a ghost, lest I destroy you both!"
With that, Ivar stripped off his own cloak and tunic, took up his shield, and drew his broadsword from the sheath at his back; and as the pale, harsh winter light caught the blade, it gleamed silvery with menace, its runes writhing in a macabre dance along its deadly length, the zigging and zagging swirls of its pattern-welding shimmering like wraiths kneeling to drink from the blood channel at its heart. Wulfgar shuddered at the sight; and as he remembered the name of the terrible weapon— Soul-Stealer— a chill settled deep in his bones, as though a goose had just walked over his grave. But then he thought of Rhowenna and Leik; and a strength summoned from some deep, inner source welled inside him, and his hands tightened on his battle-ax and his shield; his eyes burned with blue flame.
"Halfdan, do you join Ivar in this madness?" he asked tersely. "Mean you to turn your own blade upon me, also, or to strike me in the back during the battle?"
"Nay, Wulfgar." Halfdan shook his head. "This is Ivar's game, not mine, I swear it!"
Ivar gave a low, scornful snarl at that, his eyes glinting with malice and derision, as though to taunt Halfdan into forswearing his soul; but Wulfgar merely nodded, satisfied that he need not fear to feel from behind the unexpected bite of Halfdan's scramasax or broadsword.
Although by his compelling it to take place upon an island, Ivar had given some semblance of formality to the forthcoming duel, it was not truly a holmganga in a formal sense, Wulfgar knew. There was no ring formed by four posts and a rope to limit the area of combat, beyond which if one of the opponents stepped, he was deemed to have run away from the fight; no white cloth spread upon the ground at the center of the ring, to show when blood had been spilled and so honor satisfied; no seconds to wield the shields of the swordsman, the axman. Instead, this was to be a bloody, no-holds-barred conflict, a duel to the death.
The sun was a flat, glimmering disk in the sullen sky, its edges as cold and sharp as the two blades that glittered in its sickly frosted light. Across its face, grey clouds scudded like billowing mist, as ominous as before a storm, although these were but the snow-thick clouds of winter, dark and dismal. The wind soughed plaintively across the harbor, so the thin layer of snow that blanketed the ground drifted up in streams and swirls, and the sea swelled and surged, white with foam as the combers rolled in to break upon the island strand. Spindrift spewed into the air, damp and tangy with salt. Above the sands, wings outstretched wide, the seabirds soared and called their achingly sweet, forlorn cries, piercing the silence otherwise broken only by the sigh of the wind, the rush of the sea. Nearby, Halfdan, Owain the Bard, and Yelkei stood as still and quiet as a hare whose quivering nose has caught the scent of a predator.
"Ah, 'tis a good day to die, is it not, Wulfgar?" Ivar asked mockingly. He threw his head back and low laughter emanated from his throat until the sound abruptly metamorphosed into a mighty battle cry as, without warning, he moved, his broadsword streaking forth like a flash of lightning, a lethal radiance in the dull-grey light.
But Wulfgar had fully expected some such sudden strike against him, and he was not taken unaware. The blow smashed down upon his swiftly upraised shield, jarring him to the bone, even as his own battle cry issued forth, his hand came up, his battle-ax glinting wickedly in the sun before dealing Ivar's own shield a fearsome whack that staggered both men and sent them reeling. Recovering, shouting to Odinn, they charged forward as, blades clashing, the terrible battle was joined with such ferocity that even Halfdan shuddered. The clang of metal upon metal echoed across the island and the sea, startling the seabirds, so they flapped and shrieked in the wind. Again and again, blade and battle-ax slashed and swung furiously at each other, scraping, clattering, hammering upon lime-wood shields until they cracked and splintered beneath the horrendous blows and were violently flung away as useless.
Equally tall, long of limb, and powerfully muscled, the two men were so evenly matched that neither could gain the advantage as the conflict raged on; Ivar's broadsword thrusting, hacking, and parrying; Wulfgar's battle-ax arcing, swinging, and falling, spinning deftly in his hands as he suddenly employed the long haft as a staff, driving the grip end into Ivar's stomach and beneath his jaw, sending him to stumbling and sprawling back onto the ground. Wulfgar lifted his blade high, then brought it down with all his might, intending to cleave Ivar's head in two. But with the flat of his broadsword, Ivar blocked the fatal blow, using his weapon to shove Wulfgar back so hard that he lost his own footing and fell. Swiftly regaining their balance, however, both men then lunged to their feet, standing motionless for a moment, their breathing so labored that the massive pectorals in their chests heaved and their gasping breaths blew white clouds of frost into the frigid air. Then the two men began to circle each other warily before once more shouting their battle cries and assaulting each other savagely.
Despite the cold, they were sweating profusely, so their bronze flesh glistened over their hard, rippling muscles— biceps that bulged and forearms taut and sinewy, corded thighs and calves that strained and quivered beneath leather breeches. Long, thin wounds now crisscrossed their naked torsos, weals that dripped blood, staining the snow as red as the crimson sail of a longship— so perhaps there was no need of the traditional white cloth on the ground, after all, Wulfgar thought dimly, experiencing a sudden, wild urge to throw back his head and to roar with laughter at the bitter irony of it. He did not want to slay Ivar, yet he knew that if he did not, Ivar would surely kill him. It was as Yelkei had said long ago: His and Ivar's destinies were inextricably intertwined; somehow, this was their fate, immutable, inevitable, written in the stars by the gods— as their duel appeared to those watching like a clash between titanic young pagan gods, each man proud, golden, handsome, not one to suffer defeat.
Time turned— and kept on turning. Wulfgar did not know how long they fought, although it seemed to him like hours, days. Every muscle in his body hurt. His limbs ached, had grown leaden from the unrelenting battle; he moved ever more slowly, staggering. But then, so did Ivar, seeming for the first time in his life to have grown clumsy, to have lost the fluidity, the grace of movement that had earned him his sobriquet, the Boneless. His hand came up and around in a particularly awkward, hacking slash of his broadsword; and Wulfgar, who had already begun an equally wild and ungainly swing of his battle-ax, could not halt its impetus as he realized to his horror what was about to occur. In that moment, time seemed to move in slow motion, to last an eternity as, powerless to stop it, he watched his weapon collide with Ivar's outstretched wrist, felt the sickening thud of the blade connecting with flesh, with bone, cutting clean through it.
Ivar himself felt nothing for an instant; the shock and agony of the devastating blow were so horrendous, so incredible that his brain initially rejected them, refused to absorb them, told him that they were unreal, even as his gut understood that they were not. Then, as he watched his broadsword go spinning and flashing through the air, he at last dimly grasped that his hand was still attached to its hilt, had been severed from his wrist; and he started to howl, unable to stifle the terrible screams that erupted from his throat as waves of excruciating pain stabbed like a thousand piercing barbs through him, and blood began to spew in sickening spurts from the stump that was his wrist. Crumpling to his knees, he intuitively, frenziedly, snatched up his nearby tunic and wrapped it tightly about his injury, while Wulfgar stood rooted to the ground, helpless to move, utterly stricken, not wantin
g to believe what he had done, praying to the gods that this was no more than a horrible nightmare. Nor did Halfdan, Owain, or Yelkei move, as though they, too, were petrified by what had happened, unable to accept, to believe that the great King Ivar the Boneless should be brought down in such a manner, when they, all of them, had secretly thought and feared that he was invincible, a demon, a god.
The leather of Ivar's tunic had grown dark and wet, and still, the blood poured from his wrist, flowing into a scarlet puddle upon the snowy ground. Ivar was silent now, his madman's shrieks stilled, although his bearded visage was contorted with deep torment at the affliction he had suffered. But terrifyingly, as he gazed at his severed hand lying on the ground, his mouth was twisted in a ghastly caricature of a smile, and his eyes gleamed morbidly with a strange, unnerving satisfaction, almost triumph, Wulfgar thought as he stared at his half brother. Surely shock and pain must have unhinged Ivar's mind.
"By the gods, man! Do you not bind that wound tighter, you're going to die!" Wulfgar cried, somehow gathering his wits and finding his tongue at last, starting toward his half brother. "Halfdan! Build a fire, to sear the flesh shut, ere Ivar bleeds to death!"
"What is... the point?" Ivar gasped out softly, mockingly, his face ashen but his eyes blazing feverishly with a terrible flame. " 'Twas my— 'twas my... sword hand, you... bloody, accursed... bastard! I always— I always knew that you'd... have it somehow... in the end. 'Twas my fate, you see. Loki's wolf told me so... that day of the— of the deer hunt. When I looked into his eyes... I knew— I knew that he was your... brother spirit, and that you were... his, and that he had come because— because Ragnar and we had made of you a bóndi; we had... chained you, so to speak... just as, with Gleipnir, the gods chained Fenrir, so he bit off Týr's hand at the— at the wrist as punishment for the— for the gods' arrogance, for their deceit, for their fear of the— of the wolf Fenrir, who might... bring about their downfall. Thus Týr paid, Týr, the god of battles, who lost his... sword hand and so could... fight no more." Ivar paused, gathering his breath. Then he spat, "Damn you to Hel, Wulfgar! Why do you just stand there? Why do you not end my life now?"
