Legend of the Mist

by Veronica Bale

  “There’s always room for improvement. As you well know.”

  Torsten cracked a smile. “I’ll ignore that.”

  “Come back to Fara with me tomorrow,” Einarr repeated, a note of pleading in his voice this time. “A little light sparring would do you a world of good.”

  Though he made a pretence of resisting, he never truly intended to. And so, the next morning Torsten found himself once again in the hall of Clan Gallach, staring covertly at the captivating maid at the high table—and blushing furiously when she returned his helpless glances.

  At the conclusion of the meal, the island’s warriors and a number of the Norsemen headed to the barracks where a ring of boulders stood. The place had served as training ground for generations of Gallachs, and the dirt in the centre had been tramped down solid by thousands of heavy feet over the centuries.

  Reaching the training ground the Gallach men set themselves up on one side of the ring and the Norsemen on the other. As closely as they had been working these past years the division between them was still evident.

  Norah cold not blame her clansmen for their lingering resentment. They had been warriors in their own right before the Vikings had descended upon Fara, battle-hardened from years of hard-won victories. To now submit themselves to another’s training as if their own hadn’t been good enough ... it was humiliating.

  Even more so for the fact that it was necessary. At least each man bore it well. It told much of their character that whatever their personal feelings, they were not about to disobey their chief’s command.

  “There’s a seat for you right here, myn fagra,” Einarr called, and waved her over to one of the largest boulders with a smooth, flat top. His ruggedly handsome face beamed with pride, and it was clear that he was looking forward to showing off his skill and being admired by his intended.

  “Are ye certain, sir, that ye wish me to watch this lesson?” she teased as she arranged herself on the boulder. “I might learn a thing or two, and then ye’d best sleep wi’ one eye open.”

  Her wit earned appreciative laughter from the men in the circle. Even Torsten could not help but smile. Nor could he help that his gaze lingered on her even as she caught him watching her.

  When she smiled back, a secretive, warm, private smile, he could not help that his insides melted like ice beneath the desert sun.

  “Now then, men,” Einarr began, “We have spent much time learning the way of the Viking in battle. You now all know what he will likely be thinking, and the most likely ways he will attack. And not only do you know the weapons he will use, but you also know different ways he will use them, ja?

  “What I will show you today, men, is a valuable lesson. For not all Vikings are as large and as strong as I.” When his men threw up a general cry of protest, he added, “It is true. There are some among us who are, shall we say, smaller in stature? My brother, for example.”

  Laughter erupted around the ring, and Torsten, bearing the offense with good humour, bowed grandly.

  “He is our size,” observed one of the Gallachs.

  “Ja, exactly: smaller in stature for a Viking,” answered one of the Norse.

  “Enough fun making,” Einarr called over the din. When the men quieted, he continued. “Make no mistake. He may be small for a Viking, but he is just as deadly. Warriors like my brother must be approached differently. For they have had all the training of a Viking, but have had to—” Einarr paused to find the word he wanted in Gaelic, “—compensate for his lack of strength. At this point, I think it better to show you what I mean. Torsten, in the ring.”

  Casting a reproving look at his brother, Torsten obliged. From the other side of the ring he caught Norah’s laughing gaze, the corners of her lovely mouth upturned with mirth. Confronted with her presence as he was now, he couldn’t fathom the reason he’d dreaded seeing her again. Indeed he could not fathom why he’d stayed away in the first place.

  He had worried, when Einarr mentioned training, that she would be a distraction, that he would be rendered powerless under the spell which she seemed to hold over him.

  It turned out, though, that the opposite was the case: she strengthened the warrior in him. His desire for her increased his desire to fight, to protect. And perhaps he, too, wanted her to admire his skill.

  Accepting the sword that a Gallach held out for him, he gripped the handle, testing the weight of the blade. Then he felt its balance by swinging it about his body, the instrument an extension of himself. The power of his own force surged through him, and he grew heady with it, confident of his purpose here.

  On Fara.

  With her.

  He settled into a ready stance, his sword resting casually at his side. Einarr grinned, for he was not fooled by his brother’s relaxed posture nor his non-committal expression. He knew Torsten’s muscles and his mind were both as tense as rigging. Prepared and deadly.

  He called to the group: “You will notice, men, that when your Viking opponent is smaller, like Torsten here, he will attack in the Viking way only when he knows it will make an impact. Vikings, as you know, attack with power. They will use their ... their ... Muspelheim! What is the word? Rikri?”

  “Superior,” one of the Norse suggested.

  “Ja, their superior might to make the most damage in as short a time as possible. But when he cannot match your strength, he will find clever ways to turn your strength against you—”

  Before he’d fully uttered the last word he lunged at Torsten, bringing the full, crushing weight of his body down through the swing of his blade. Had his opponent not expected it, he would have found himself cleaved from shoulder to hip.

  But of course, his opponent had expected it.

  As Einarr made his opening strike, Torsten whirled out of the path of the descending blade. Then, as the momentum of Einarr’s swing pulled his torso forward, Torsten wrenched his own blade upwards, counter-aiming to slice his brother’s exposed flank—a move which Einarr had in turn anticipated. With surprising agility for one of his size, he halted his trajectory and redirected it. Torsten’s blade sliced through the mist which was kicked up by their dangerous dance.

  Norah sat rigid through the performance. Seeing Torsten in the midst of a battle, even an orchestrated one as this was, sent her spiralling into a panic. Ancient memories of him from another battle reared themselves in her mind. Each swipe of Einarr’s blade was the swipe of another warrior’s sword. A warrior encased in gleaming metal, with a plume of red horsehair fanned at the crest of his helmet.

  It was only when they paused in their demonstration, neither harmed, that she realized she’d been holding her breath. She exhaled loudly, and uncurled her fingers which clutched the edge of the boulder.

  “You are slow today, brother,” Einarr jested.

  “Why should I be quick when my opponent moves like an old woman?”

  “True,” Einarr conceded. “We usually spar without our shirts. Take yours off that the men may see a real fight.” With a wink he shed his leather vest and lifted off his linen tunic. Unclothed, he was even more fearsome. Bands of muscle wrapped his arms and rippled over his abdomen, across his shoulders and down his back. Battles scars criss-crossed his skin, the ridges a clear warning to any that might go up against him.

  More than a few flinches could be seen from the Gallach side of the ring.

  “You’re showing off,” Torsten muttered in Norse.

  Einarr grinned, not denying the charge. “Be not shy,” he said. “Norah does not mind, do you fifla?”

  “I dinna,” she replied casually. “After all, ‘tis no’ as though I havena seen it before.”

  Torsten flushed, hearing the double meaning in her off-handed statement. She’d seen it before ... seen him before.

  He glanced sideways at her, uneasy; she gazed back, unwavering, her eyebrows lifted in a sensuous challenge.

  “See? Off with it,” Einarr demanded at his brother’s hesitation.

  Groaning, Torsten pulled his
tunic over his head with much less flourish than Einarr had, exposing his own well-muscled torso. He was more deeply tanned than his brother, his years spent beneath the baking sun of exotic lands had turned him a deep gold. His skin glowed beneath the shafts of weak sunlight which managed to penetrate the cloud overhead.

  His hair, braided at the sides and drawn into a queue which he wore off his neck, exposed the flesh between his shoulder blades. Norah was surprised to see that no scar existed there, where she felt so certain one should be. Her fingertips tingled with the long ago memory of touching that flesh, of clutching that soft hair in the entanglement of a passionate kiss. It sent a thrill through her, and she belatedly realized the memory had drawn a smile across her lips.

  She cleared her throat, her eyes darting around the circle to ensure that none had noticed.

  No sooner had Torsten taken up his sword than Einarr barked, “Make an effort this time.” Then he lunged without warning. But Torsten had not let down his guard. He leapt back, out of reach of his brother’s blade, and then circled him, coming at Einarr from behind.

  The battle continued in this manner for a time, each strike anticipated, each blow dodged or deflected. The differences in their styles were obvious: Einarr’s reliance on brute strength was unquestionable. He leveraged it with every move he made whether he needed to or not.

  Torsten, conversely, had a grace and a lightness of foot which his brother could never have, considering his sheer mass. Where Einarr thrust, Torsten leapt. Where Einarr struck, Torsten glided. He used his power only when necessary, and when he did, he was as fierce as any Viking on Fara.

  Though terrified, Norah could not look away, for watching two masters take each other on was fascinating. Had they not been putting everything they had into each strike, one might assume they had coordinated their movements beforehand.

  But they had not, and it soon became evident that even these master warriors were still human, and were beginning to tire.

  It was Einarr who called an end to the demonstration. “Do you see?” he panted to the men watching him. “Not quite as powerful as a true Viking, but still deadly. Even more, perhaps, for his small size brings an element of surprise to the enemy that does not know his skill.”

  Torsten lowered his sword, he, too, rapidly breathing. “You flatter me,” he mocked.

  A gruff voice speaking in Norse interrupted their banter. “Einarr, you have company.”

  Norah looked to see who had spoken. It was the same man who tried to pick a fight with Garrett those few mornings ago. He inclined his large, artfully shaved head, nodding to a figure standing behind him a distance.

  It was Garrett. He stood observing the demonstration with his arms folded across his chest and a smirk on his lips. Norah felt her heart sink to her stomach: his Campbell sword was sheathed at his back and a battered shield slung over his forearm.

  Oh heavens above, he was here to pick a fight of his own.

  “So, the young heimska has come with his tail between his legs,” Einarr taunted. “Interested in seeing how real warriors fight are you?”

  Garrett tilted his head to one side, studying Einarr through a cool expression. He shrugged his shoulders, broadened from the years spent training and fighting on the Scottish mainland. “I have seen how men fight in my time wi’ my uncle’s clan, the Campbells. I’m here now to see how dishonourable dogs fight.”

  Cries of anger rose up from the Norsemen in two distinct waves: the first from those who had enough Gaelic to understand what the young heimska said, and the second from those who needed it translated.

  “Careful, boy, you cannot take them all on,” Einarr warned. “Insult them enough and I will not be able to stop them from silencing you.”

  “Doesna that prove my point? If ye were honourable men, I wouldna need to be concerned wi’ fighting all of ye at once.”

  His accusation hit its mark. Einarr’s eyes narrowed, the blue which peered out seeming to glow with a cold, hard light.

  Norah shivered involuntarily; she had been on the receiving end of that merciless stare once. Inwardly she chanted, walk away, Garret, walk away. But he stood resolute, his challenge held firm.

  “Fair enough,” Einarr said at length. “As an honourable man, I invite you to step inside this ring and prove your worth. But know this: you will not receive my mercy should you lose, ja?”

  His voice was ominous in its low pitch, and any man would be a fool to accept his invitation.

  “Ye bloody amadan,” Norah hissed as Garrett stepped into the ring without batting an eyelash.

  Glancing between her angry, frightened face and her brother’s defiant one, Torsten moved away from the centre of the circle. Grabbing his tunic from the ground where he’d tossed it and pulling it back over his head, he took a seat on the boulder beside Norah. Her creamy skin, he noticed immediately, had gone stark white and her back was as straight as a pine.

  “Do not worry, fifla, I shall stop this madness if your brother is in danger of losing.”

  She turned her emerald eyes to him, setting him afire with her pleading glance. Torsten swallowed thickly as she reached for his hand, taking it in both of hers. The heat of her touch was like a torrent running through his body. Even if he wished to—which, Freya help him he did not—he could not have pulled his hand away.

  His paralyzed senses were reprieved when she turned her eyes back to the ring, where Garrett had unsheathed the sword from his back and now held it skilfully at the ready. He and Einarr circled one another like two cats, each assessing the other’s weaknesses.

  “Are you going to begin?” Einarr prodded.

  “What makes ye think I havena already?” Garrett clipped in return.

  An amused smile tugged at Einarr’s lips. “Clever sveinn.”

  Norah gasped. “There is no call for him to be so insulting.”

  “Insult?” questioned Torsten. Then he laughed as he realized the error of her interpretation. “No, no. Sveinn is Norse for boy.”

  “Oh,” she chuckled with chagrin, and peered up at him from under her lashes. The simple, intimate look was almost his undoing. His heart began to pound so loudly he worried the entire circle of men would hear.

  The first clash of steel upon steel crashed over them, and they both looked to see that Einarr had made the first strike.

  Which Garrett easily deflected.

  “Well done,” Einarr commended. “But what if I come at you like this?”

  With blinding speed, he whirled around, swinging his sword down and then up in a wide arc—a trapping move. Any unsuspecting opponent would have stepped forward to slice at Einarr’s exposed back only to have his own gut sliced open before he got the chance.

  Alarm bounded through Torsten. Einarr was serious: he would kill the young man without hesitating.

  But Garrett was no unsuspecting opponent. Einarr’s trap failed to entice him. Instead, he stepped back, away from Einarr, which left him a clear path to meet the upward blow and halt it with his blade.

  “An impressive move, Viking. More for show than for impact, though, is it no’? I should think something like this is more effective.”

  Garrett made a lunge of his own, catching Einarr off guard for a fraction of a second. Surprise was evident in the Viking’s hardened face.

  It was not enough, though. He regrouped, his sword ricocheting off of Garrett’s, repelling his strike.

  That Garrett had found a moment of weakness made Einarr angry. There was no more talk, no further taunting or teasing. He swung at Garrett with force, lunging and thrusting in earnest, putting the full power of his bodily mass behind each strike. But Garrett proved himself a match. Each of Einarr’s strikes met either air or Garret’s blade, his every move anticipated. And each evasive move of Garrett’s was met with another crushing strike from Einarr.

  “Now you are learning the way of the Viking,” Einarr growled between blows.

  “Now ye are learning the way of the Celt,” Garrett spat back. />
  As the battle progressed, Norah’s terror took on a tinge of curiosity. Observing them, she leaned towards Torsten. “Perhaps I dinna understand battle tactics well enough, but it looks to me like there’s no difference between the Viking and the Celt ways.”

  “You’re right, there’s not,” Torsten said mildly. “Their fierce words are nothing more than a pissing match—excuse my crudeness, fifla.”

  It was not long before Einarr grew frustrated by his lack of victory. His strikes became more daring, more careless. Garrett, on the other hand, remained calculating, waiting for his opponent to make a misstep.

  His patience was rewarded. Einarr lunged, and Garrett side-stepped him, releasing a swing that knocked Einarr’s sword from his hand. Letting out a wild cry, Einarr rolled to the ground.

  But as Garrett moved to make his final strike, Einarr wrapped his hand around a large rock at the outskirts of the ring and flung it at his opponent with stunning accuracy. The rock hit Garrett in the temple, opening up a large gash in the flesh.

  Both Norah and Torsten were on their feet, each of them ready to throw themselves between the two men. Garrett staggered backwards, wiping away the blood which trickled into his eye and down his cheek.

  “Ye bloody cheat!” he hollered, his face crimson with rage.

  All traces of his calculating obliterated, he leapt for the larger, stronger Viking, landing a fist in the side of Einarr’s head.

  Within seconds, both men were on the ground, locked in a violent embrace. Their arms swung wildly; their fists pummelled each other with sheer hate. Despite Einarr’s advantage of size, Garrett held his ground surprisingly well. Raucous cheers erupted from both sides of the ring as the two men fought bitterly by hand, their abandoned weapons completely forgotten to the animal urge to inflict raw pain.

  “Torsten, stop them, please,” Norah begged, gripping his hand tighter.

  Even in the midst of such madness her touch had a hold on him. It was with effort that he pulled his fingers from her grasp.

  “Enough, both of you,” he shouted, rushing to pull the two brawling men apart. But as he bent to wrench Einarr off Garrett, a solid Norse elbow was flung high, crushing the bridge of Torsten’s nose with a sickening crunch. His eyes welled, and blinding pain wrapped his skull. He swore long and eloquently in Norse, falling to the trampled dirt ground which soaked up the blood pouring from his nose.