Dægan took down many men, and from that moment on, his strikes and counter blows gave no mercy to anything in his channeled eyesight. He turned and twisted, punched and kicked, aiming another swipe to the right to make clear his path for a maddened thrust behind him.
Blood covered his weapons now and seeped into the small grooves of the chain mail protecting his arms. Even his helmet spoke of his wrath, spattered with red. But in his violent rage, a fist caught him unawares across his face and then again in his already-broken ribcage.
Dægan slumped to his knees, the pain so excruciating, it took his breath away as well as his sense of reality. He had no thought of danger, no will to fight back or even know from where the blow had come. All he could think and feel were the shards of loose bone piercing his side.
Once more, another fist grazed Dægan’s face, this time knocking him flat on his back, and restoked the burning pain that wrapped around his entire chest. Dægan opened his eyes, just in time to see his attacker looming over him with a lowered sword point at his gut. He sent his foot swiftly in between the man’s legs and gladly watched him fall to his knees, coddling his groin.
Still unable to bring strength to his upper body, Dægan finished him by thrusting a booted heel into the man’s throat, smashing his windpipe. The man collapsed in writhing agony, flipping on the ground like a fish, and gasping for air through the gurgle of blood and splintered cartilage.
Dægan hoped no one else was aiming for him, for he hadn’t the strength or right mind to care. He slowly rolled to all fours and crawled in a meaningless direction, groaning with every painful stride he took to get to safety. Even inhaling just a vital bit of air was like a knife in his ribs.
He wanted to cry out, to yell for Tait to notice him creeping amongst the trampling feet of his enemies, but he thought even the slightest call for help would plague him with a state of unconsciousness or raise an ‘easy kill’ flag above his head.
Instead, he continued his silent worming.
Continued to breathe in tattered breaths.
He was a vulnerable target, he knew, but so far no one realized the compromising condition he was in, and it was only a matter of time before his luck would end.
Dægan was tiring and every effort he made to drag himself just one foot further, took more energy than he had. In fact, the smidgen of ground he had covered was more like an insult to his very being.
He was more than this!
He was more than just another wounded body on the field, withering to defeat. He was Dægan, son of Rælik! A man who doesn’t give up without a fight!
He gritted his teeth and used his sword to slowly push himself to his knees and then to his feet. As if that simple task were colossal, he lightly exhaled a breath of relief in feeling the ground beneath his boots instead of up his nose. His tiny blessing of liberation was short-lived though, for he felt the looming presence of danger behind him.
He turned in an instant, seeing the face of another aggressor running straight for him, a horrifying sight of muscular arms extending a blood-dripping battle-ax over his head. With cat-like instinct, Dægan knelt to avoid the oncoming blade and thrust his sword deep into the man’s gut, twisting as he pulled his weapon free. The man’s pain was great, and Dægan, too, felt as if his own flesh had torn from his bones.
Dægan called out, unable to hold back this time. He leaned over and clutched the grass with his right hand, supporting his shaking body from falling, for he was damn sure he wouldn’t succumb to that lowly fate upon the ground again.
Finally, a familiar voice shouted his name. He looked up and saw Tait galloping toward him, his bow stretched tight in marking a target behind him. Dægan closed his eyes and put total faith in his friend’s ability, holding as still as he could. The arrow sailed from its counterpart, hissing passed Dægan’s ear, and fatally pierced the intended prey just in time.
Dægan listened for the man to fall behind him before opening his eyes again, only to find the fighting around him had come to an end. His hirdmen were raising their swords and chanting their praises to each other and to Thor for his godly assistance.
Tait trotted up toward his exhausted chieftain, and dismounted. “Are you hurt?”
Dægan nodded firmly, his breath still in shambles.
Tait knelt beside his friend, carefully lifting him under his good right shoulder. Despite his care, he still drew a painful moan from Dægan. “Is it your ribs?”
Dægan nodded again, incapable of responding with words.
“Someone help me!” Tait called to the others. “Ottarr!”
Ottarr came running, pulling the helmet from his head. His old grey beard was soiled with blood and dirt, and his face was etched with deep concern. He helped walk Dægan to the edge of the meadow where a large boulder sat waiting. They eased him to the earthly chair and waited for Dægan to settle himself in comfort before looking him over like a hawk.
Ottarr touched the left side of Dægan’s mailed chest just underneath his leather armor, feeling a slippery wetness on his fingertips. In hoping it was the splatter of someone else’s blood, he slid his hand under the riveted rings, but regrettably felt the damp warmth saturating through Dægan’s clothes and a strange sharpness beneath. “M’lord, ‘tis you. Your ribs have come through.”
“Enough about me!” Dægan growled. “Where is Domaldr? Did you find him?”
Tait hesitated to answer and looked to Ottarr to avoid his chieftain’s crippling stare. Ottarr obliged, “Just say the word and ‘twill all be over.”
Dægan perused through the expressions on Ottarr and Tait’s faces. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you are in no condition to fight him,” Ottarr explained, “and there are plenty of men here who would gladly see to it for you.”
“Where is he!” Dægan shouted forcefully, and then shook in body and voice to hold back the stabbing pain that rippled through him.
“Dægan,” Tait prompted. “There is no way I am going to let you do this.”
“Where is he?” Dægan carefully whispered, his scanty voice not matching the stark contrast of his glaring eyes peering through his helmet. “Tell me now!”
Tait sighed. “He is tied to a tree. Ready to hang.”
“Nay!” Dægan protested, trying to stand. “He is mine!”
“Dægan sit down!” Tait insisted, pushing him to the rock.
But Dægan twisted the hand from his chest, bending Tait’s palm up to the sky until he fell to his knees and gave in to the pressure on his wrist. Dægan looked Tait in the eyes. “Do that not again!”
Tait held very still, his wrist stretched beyond its limits. “If you think tearing my hand from my arm will make a difference, then you had better have the heart to do more than that. I will not let you kill yourself just because you cannot let down your pride. In the end, all that matters is that Domaldr is dead. Say the word and he hangs. You can still have your bloody revenge if it means that much to you. Let him see your face as he takes his last breaths, whilst you live to fight another day.”
Live to fight another day—
Dægan heard those words as distinctly as a slap across his face. And had it been a fortnight ago, he would have gladly glorified the chance to prove himself to Thor on future battlefields. But today was different. He detested the notion of existing in this world just so he could draw his sword yet one more time—one more opportunity to die valiantly for a non-existent god. After dealing with his brother, Dægan swore he’d hang up his sword and fight no more. He released Tait’s hand and stubbornly stood without assistance. “Ottarr, place your helmet back on your head!”
“Dægan, is this really necessary?” Ottarr responded with reproach. “You have had your enjoyment and there comes a time when all games must end.”
Dægan spun around, holding tightly to his ribs. “Enjoyment? You think I am enjoying this? That I will take pleasure in killing my own brother? How dare you? How dare you think that little of me, O
ttarr? I have battled with this, day after day, night after night, moment after cursed moment, and do you know what I see in my thoughts and in my dreams? I see the men I called my brothers, unselfishly devoted kinsmen whom I grew up with—Steinar, Vegard, Sveir, all slain by his hand—like they were nothing! Domaldr grew up with them just as I did! He shared their homes, their food, their love, and their loyalty! But yet, he spat on them, not once, but twice! He has been the reason for so many of our people’s deaths! My father’s people! And for that, he deserves naught less than death! But not by a rope,” Dægan said, shaking his head. “Nay. Not by a rope. By the very remnants of the family who brought him into this world. By the same flesh and blood he so despises! ‘Twill be my hand, Ottarr, and no other! Now hide your face and show me where the bastard is!”
Ottarr picked up his helmet, replaced it on his head, and led his chieftain to the distant tree where Domaldr was tied, many of the others following closely behind, including Tait, who lugged himself from the ground in a hurry. No one was going to miss this epic clash between the brothers.
Havelock met Dægan and his crew halfway into the woods and handed all of Domaldr’s weapons to Dægan, including the beautiful sword that was once his father’s. “He is all yours.”
Dægan said not a word. With the sentimental sword in his hands once again, he thought of his father and the pain he must have felt, years ago, in realizing his own son had betrayed him. How difficult it must have been for his father to look his kinsmen in the eyes and see their sorrow, their disappointment, their anguish. To hear through rumors and whispered scorns that some had put the blame on him. Dægan recalled those spineless men who’d gossiped in the dark corners of the mead hall about his father—how they still had enough gall to disparage Rælik while drinking his mead. Although, Dægan was unsure of how many tables he, himself, overturned that night in anger, he knew well he had put an end to the disgraceful criticism of their great chieftain. He only wished he could have brought justice to his people for the misdeeds Domaldr had committed—crimes, he reminded himself, that were deliberate.
Dægan hated it then that Domaldr had gotten away with it. And he hated it now more than ever. With this duel, he would bring justice to his people and honor back to his father’s name.
He fit his hand around the jeweled hilt, tilting the blade down to the ground and rotating it to check its condition.
Flawless.
“You have done well, Havelock. But there is one last thing I must ask of you. I sent Breandán to see that the Connacht king does not strike out in search of us. Right now, I am a weary man in mind and body and I cannot afford to assume Breandán’s clout with the king, nor my own wife’s for that matter. All in all, the Irish may come, and I must know of their whereabouts before they know of mine. Set up a perimeter of scouts around this area, but under no circumstance does anyone strike out against them. Give that order clearly.”
Havelock gripped Dægan’s shoulders. “Your father was a great man and I should have served him better. Perhaps, he would still be alive. But I hope I do him well in continuing to serve under you.” Havelock ended his sentimental speech with a good, manly embrace and then left, unaware that he had readjusted the loose bones of Dægan’s ribs with his grip.
Dægan took a long and deep breath, as much as his ribs would allow, and held back every oath that came to mind on Havelock’s behalf. In redirecting his anger to someone more deserving of curses, he stared at his brother at the base of the large oak.
Domaldr’s head was hung. His will was crushed. He was not exactly the man Dægan wanted to spit oaths at and punish without mercy. Where was Domaldr’s dynamic fire, his ruthlessness, his loud-mouthed threats and curses—all the things he wanted to put into submission—to deliver a swift justice to? Where were they?
Dægan called to him as he walked closer. “You there!”
****
Domaldr looked up, seeing a hellishly intimidating warrior nearing him, his armor and mail tainted with his men’s blood. His strides were long and formidable. His voice was deep and certain. Domaldr could only assume a man as notable and powerfully built as this one, was none other than the infamous Sigtrygg.
“What is your name?” Dægan asked.
Domaldr crowded his eyes in hearing the very familiar voice, but thought the mead he drank that night had finally gone to his head. “Domaldr.”
“Ah,” Dægan said, falsifying a slim recollection. “You are the great son of Rælik. Domaldr ‘the Long-Winded’, I think I have heard. Word has also spread across the seas that you wronged a great many people in your life, killed more men than Kleng ‘the Claw’ Thorsson, have you?”
Domaldr squirmed at the man’s compliment, knowing it was really a blatantly sarcastic taunt. “That is a bit far fetched, but I assure you I have wronged no one. What I have done, I have succeeded with honor.”
“Are you certain about that?” Dægan asked, toying with Domaldr’s pride. “Are you certain you want to lie to me so bold-faced?”
“Let the gods strike me dead if I am lying.”
Simultaneously, the hoards of men gathered around that tree took a few steps backward, looking into the sky for Thor’s hammer. Dægan laughed as he witnessed their genuine fear. He then took this moment to remove his helmet, revealing his true identity, and Domaldr’s eyes widened to the point of popping from their sockets.
“Really, Domaldr, did you drink so much mead tonight that you could not recognize your own twin’s voice?” Dægan teased.
Domaldr swallowed hard and narrowed his eyes in disbelief, the question of “how” screaming in his mind.
“Your first mistake,” Dægan pointed out, “was that you were foolish enough to let another man slit my throat for you. You should have done it yourself, but then again, I have never known you to lift much more than a finger, especially if there were others who could do your chores for you. Ah, I can see your thoughts reeling in your head now, Domaldr—and yes, I speak of the Éireannach, Breandán. The one you thought you cunningly befriended. That was your second mistake—thinking that an Irishman could not get the better of you. But you will not find him here amongst your slain men. I spared him just as he spared me on Inis Mór. Both he and the princess have been safely led away, and you will not have Connacht, no more than you will have your dignity when I am through with you.”
Domaldr jerked and writhed beneath the ropes across his chest and legs. “I will kill you, Dægan! I will hang you by your intestines from the mast of your own langskip!”
“Now, that is the spirit!” Dægan cheered. He lifted his father’s sword high in the air, slicing through the ropes that held his brother prisoner. Domaldr fell face-down into the dirt, for Dægan purposely left the rope intact at his ankles.
“You bastard!” Domaldr shrieked as he sat up in humiliation, tugging at the rope at his feet. He finally freed his legs and jumped up, anticipating Dægan to rush him.
But Dægan didn’t.
He simply stood tall and fixed, unaffected by Domaldr’s poised fighting stance. Within seconds, Ottarr removed his helmet, and brought two spears, staking them solidly into the ground, along with a pair of shields. Domaldr saw his face, and then Tait, who had also removed his helmet. One by one, Dægan’s men removed their helmets and tossed them aside.
Domaldr tasted bile, his stomach regurgitating at the sight of all the faces he thought he’d rid himself of days ago. He looked at the tightened circle of men around him and the set of weapons between him and Dægan. “What is this?”
“What does it look like?” Dægan replied calmly, setting both his father’s sword and Nevan’s next to the shields. “For once in your life, you are going to earn something through sweat, blood, and tears—that—being your freedom.”
Domaldr gave a nervous chuckle. “You know this is not fair. What do you have? Four hundred men?”
Dægan shifted his lips about. “Hmmm…closer to five.”
Domaldr shook his head. “I have not a fi
ghting chance and you know it.”
“‘Tis only me you have to kill, Domaldr.”
“Even if I do, I am still a dead man.”
“Nay,” Dægan corrected. “If…you kill me, these men will not touch you. You will have earned your freedom. I give my word.”
“And why should I believe you?”
Dægan half grinned. “Have I ever lied to you? Have I ever given you reason to doubt me? I told you before you left the isle I would hunt you down. And here I am, making good on every word I said. Now choose your weapons, Domaldr. Take Father’s if you would like. I care not.”
“And if I kill you, I get to walk away with my life and Father’s sword?”
“If you can still walk, aye,” Dægan said plainly.
Domaldr quickly chose the sword he valued most, along with one of the shields, keeping a suspicious eye on Dægan who stood much too confident and calm for his liking. He stepped closer to Dægan, hoping to rouse a nervousness within him. “I am not the frail boy from your childhood, Dægan. I have learned a thing or two since we were lads.”
Dægan pondered his brother’s crowing. “For your sake, I hope you have.”
Domaldr twisted his jaw. “Let us get this over with!”
Dægan smiled and leaned in close, his nose just inches from Domaldr’s. “Gladly.”
****
If not for Tait splitting the two brothers up, they probably would have stayed locked in a heinous battle of staring, for neither seemed ready to yield just yet. Tait handed Dægan the other sword and shield and pushed him backward. “Need I remind you of the Irish king who also seeks justice? If you want a fair chance at killing this bastard, then I suggest you get to it, or you will have to forfeit your rights to infangenethef.”
Dægan noticed the peculiar tone of Tait’s chosen words and the obvious game of intimidation he was trying to insinuate by letting Domaldr hear. Likewise, he played along. “Ah, infangenethef. I had nearly forgotten.”
Domaldr tossed the strange term in his head. “What is he talking about?”
Dægan checked his weapons instinctively first, letting Domaldr fret a bit longer before explaining the heraldic phrase, even though it was an English custom not yet adopted by the men of the Erin. He knew Domaldr to be too stupid to realize that, and laid the threat on thickly. “Basically, Brother, if the king gets here first, before I kill you, then he has every right to pursue you and do what he will to you, for the crimes you committed against his daughter were on his land and not mine.”
The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set Page 30
