by J P Sayle
Thinking of battles to come, the infiltrating sounds of clanging metal met his ears. A slow, evil grin spread across his bronzed cheeks, his eyes alighting at the idea of a fight. Óláfr detoured around the brem, going directly to the bailey. The sounds grew louder. Metal hitting metal sang out across the land in anticipation of the fight, making him quicken his pace. That would be a perfect distraction from his wayward thoughts and nagging needs.
Going to the large wooden table set at the edge of the bailey, he perused the options displayed on the wood surface housing the battle axes, spears, and swords. Óláfr picked up a long sword, relishing the weight in his hand. He felt the cold metal send tiny shivers up his arm as he swung it, slicing through the air. The energy he had not been able to release returned, running rampant through his veins, encouraging him to move. He walked around a stockade, going directly to the large piece of ground they used to maintain their fighting skills.
Brooding eyes surveyed the battling Norsemen searching for, yes, Arngrim’s big ugly arse. Perfect.
The drive coursing through him had his heart beating erratically against his ribs as if already seeking the fight. The excitement inside him felt reminiscent of when he had joined with Magnus. Óláfr growled in frustration at where his thoughts were taking him yet again. His body responded against his will as the nature of their connection projected into his mind in full, glorified colour.
“Stop tormenting me, Maximillian, please. I do not need to see this time after time.” His silent pleas went unanswered as they had since he had fought with Maximillian. The only connection he had were the pictures of Magnus filling his mind, and he wasn’t entirely sure they were Maximillian’s doing. He had avoided making any decision about Magnus. Rather than deal with the issue, he had taken the time to prepare for the up-and-coming battle with his brother. The word coward continued to haunt his waking thoughts. Not that it was helping his beloved.
Shaking himself, he pressed the negative thoughts to the back of his mind and allowed the offer he had received the previous eve from his brother, Rögnvaldr to enter his mind. It appeared he wanted to welcome Óláfr back into the family. He had suggested a betrothal to Lauon, the daughter of a nobleman from Kintyre who also happened to be the sister of Rögnvaldr’s wife. It seemed to be a solution to stop the bloodshed.
Rögnvaldr generously offered to give him the Isle of Lewis as a betrothal gift and peace offering. Unsure if this were for the best and unable to seek advice from Maximillian, he’d stupidly gone to speak with the bishop. Regret filled him at not realising sooner that Arngrim would have gone and talked about the situation with Magnus.
He recalled the conversation which had been painful in ways he’d not expected.
When he seeked out the bishop at the church that he’d had constructed not long after his arrival, the smell of mildew and rotting vegetables met his nose as he opened the wooden door to enter. Stifling a curse at the sense of unease that skittered up his spine, he forced his shoulders back, standing tall. His eyes adjusted to the dimmed light, seeking out the bishop. He should not have been surprised to see him kneeling, praying to his Christian God. He was loathed to interrupt, but the urgent need for advice drove him forward, and his leather-clad feet moved silently across the dirt floor.
“Bishop Fingan, may I have a moment?” His voice seemed loud in the quiet of the church. Óláfr watched as the bishop clutched at the cross hanging around his neck before turning to acknowledge his presence. The small, spiteful smile that crossed his fat lips had Óláfr wishing he had not bothered, realising too late that Arngrim had already been to speak with the bishop. The cross that Arngrim had taken to wearing under his kyrtill demonstrated where his own beliefs lay, and they were clearly influenced by Bishop Fingan.
Óláfr rushed to speak, and he hoped to avoid any conversation about Magnus. “I have received word from my brother Rögnvaldr. He wishes to seek a truce and stop the fighting. He is also suggesting a betrothal between Lauon and me. What would you suggest?” Óláfr was distracted when Bishop Fingan moved to a wooden stool which sat at the altar. His large gut wobbled as he sat on the chair, making it groan under his weight.
“I’m glad you came to pay me a visit, Óláfr. I had planned to come and talk about some concerns that have been raised with me. I was hoping you had come to a decision on what needs to happen to Magnus?”
Bishop Fingan’s nasally screeching voice grated on Óláfr’s nerves.
“I did not come to discuss Magnus. I have, as yet, made no decision as to what I will do with him. I understand Arngrim’s concern, but there was little evidence that I could see.” Óláfr’s hope that would close the conversation died when a malicious light sprang into the bishop’s beady eyes.
“Tell me, Óláfr. Do you not believe in the new teachings on Christianity? There is no place in this world for those who chose a different path. We need to show the Norsemen what happens to them if they go against their Christian god. Now, tell me when we will be carrying out the blood eagle. It has been many moons since I have witnessed one. It is time to remind ourselves that we live in different times now and we must embrace these new ways. Don’t you agree?” Bishop Fingan’s beady eyes froze him in place as his words had him doubting the feelings that battled to come to the surface and fight for Magnus.
Relenting, he agreed after he couldn’t find a reasonable argument to stop the madness, leaving the bishop making plans for Magnus’s death. A public show so his people would see they would not tolerate this unspoken love between the same sexes, even though past generations had had no issue with it. Defeated by his own guilt and suffering, he’d prayed to the Goddess Freya to take Magnus to her realm of Folkyang after his death and protect him in the afterlife.
He could still feel his conflicted emotions battling with his heart and head. Yanking his long hair off his moody face, he marched towards Arngrim. He felt it was only right that he be the one to give him an outlet for the bubbling anger brewing like the storms that hit the island from time to time. They ripped through the longhouses, trying to tear them apart from the very ground, demolishing them back to nothing, much as he wished to do to Arngrim.
His brooding, heavy-lidded eyes watched Arngrim battling with a far smaller Norseman. Arngrim was unaware of his presence, so lost in the battle with Erik was he. Óláfr was able to watch unhindered. Understanding dawned as he saw for the first time that Arngrim was picking on smaller, punier men to fight. Had he been so blinded by his thoughts of Magnus that he had missed this vital piece of information of his second in command?
Anger pulsed in the centre of his chest at Arngrim’s lack of courage. Clenching the sword in his vast right hand, he stuck the blade between the two men, pushing Erik back so he could meet Arngrim head-on. A feral grin spread across his flushed cheeks, and heat spread as blood pumped at the anticipation of kicking his arse.
The already charged air seemed to spark with violence with each breath he took. He watched Arngrim’s eyes fill with confusion as he pointed his sword towards where the others were stacked. Men stopped fighting around them as if sensing something was about to happen. They watched him with curious eyes, but Óláfr ignored them.
Dismissing Erik, he caught the look of relief before the man bowed and scuttled off to join the crowd at the edge of the bailey. Disregarding the silence that fell over the group, he gave Arngrim a malevolent scowl.
“Grab a sword. We will fight like real Norsemen.” His harsh command and inference that Arngrim was not a real Norseman had Arngrim’s brow arching and a scowl spreading across his face.
Óláfr searched the rocky outcrop next to the sea. Wanting more of a challenge, he pointed to the spot right next to the thrashing sea. The jagged, wet, slippery rocks would make it harder to keep their footing. It ensured they had to keep their wits about them and use whatever skills they had to stay ahead of their opponent. It would keep them both on their toes while the sea was spraying the land with every roll of the incoming waves.
/> Swapping the sword over into his other hand, he quickly rubbed his sweaty palm down his clothed leg, wiping away the moisture. He used his kyrtill to wipe the sword handle that was now hot to the touch from his body heat. His eyes narrowed as he watched the stiff, retreating back of Arngrim. His lips lifted in a hint of a smile at the disadvantage he had forced on Arngrim, whom he knew hated to use the sword, preferring the battle axe and his vast bulk to annihilate his opponents.
Óláfr’s preference had always been for close contact, which he got fighting with a sword. The sword offered the opportunity to look into a man’s eyes as you killed them, letting them know who had all the power, him. His cruel nature surfaced at the thought, masking his feelings behind shuttered eyes. He tapped his foot impatiently, taking the time to survey the ground for any hidden pitfalls. Opening all his senses, he calmed his breathing, centring himself for the battle to come.
As Arngrim approached warily, he indicated for him to move to the rockiest part of the ground. He gave him a once-over, considering his opponent’s weaknesses. Arngrim was only slightly shorter than him making eye contact easy. He wanted him to see his disgust and anger when Arngrim shifted his bulky body. The wobbling layers of blubber indicated there was more fat than muscle hidden beneath his kyrtill.
A moment of pity filled Óláfr for the unforgiving ugliness that was Arngrim’s face. His broad forehead, bulbous nose, and tiny beady eyes matched his mean personality perfectly.
Arngrim overt aggression worked in a fight, especially when they battled together. But his earlier realisation returned. It seemed Arngrim preferred to fight only smaller men, avoiding anyone of the same build or bigger. Well, that was about to end.
Óláfr felt the snarl rise as he was unable to contain his revulsion at Arngrim’s apparent weakness. His teeth gleamed against his bronzed skin as he peeled back his lips, sneering, a predatory gleam highlighting his dark eyes. It was the only acknowledgement he gave Arngrim before he lunged, thrusting his sword against Arngrim’s. His arm muscles sang from the violence unleashed with his anger. Whirling away, watching his footing, he felt the sharp rocks dig into the soft leather covering the soles of his feet. Ignoring the pain, he dived forward again, clashing his sword with all his might against Arngrim’s.
The sound of the wind died, leaving only the sounds of blades ringing out across the sea and land. Óláfr’s feet moved silently across the rocky ground. Slipping, he righted himself and balanced on the balls of his feet, waiting for the oncoming attack. Bracing himself as Arngrim charged like the large bulls they bred for food. Pivoting to the side, he blocked with his broad shoulder, knocking into Arngrim’s wobbling stomach. Arngrim’s weight shifted dramatically, having him topple towards the rough ground. The resounding cry as Arngrim landed on his knees had a maniacal grin spreading across Óláfr’s lips.
Not having time to enjoy the moment, Óláfr felt the air around him move as Arngrim got up. Dodging, he used the power now coursing through him to pounce, thrusting and slashing at Arngrim, barely allowing him time to block him. Óláfr felt the sweat gather between his shoulder blades and slide down his spine, making his kyrtill stick to his body. The material restricted his movement as it clung. Cursing that he had no time to remove the disruptive material, he felt the zing of the blade against his. The thrum spread through his body, making it sing. The force unleashed as his rage relished the flow of heat rushing through him, embracing the insanity it brought with it as it clouded his mind to reality, allowing the beast out.
He pivoted gracefully around the lumbering Arngrim. Rage coated his vision, causing violent hues of red to sear his eyes as if it surrounded them. The need to cause harm ate its way through his control. The wish to make Arngrim bleed and pay for his crimes was too much to contain.
Óláfr hunted his prey, scenting victory. His predatory movements were opposite to Arngrim’s lumbering, slipping and stumbling over the rocky outcrop. He sensed the kill as Arngrim struggled to find his feet on the uneven ground. Their swords sang loudly. The sound was music to Óláfr’s soul, and power flooded him, lifting away the light, giving him only the dark. His name rang out across the sea, Óláfr the Black.
He danced back, smirking when Arngrim backed away trying to regroup. Oh no, that would not do at all. Óláfr followed suit, only taking a second to swipe at his dripping brow with the sleeve of his offending kyrtill. The darkening stains gathering on Arngrim body pleased Óláfr as he continued to push his sword at Arngrim’s. Several times he could have ended it, but he pulled back, needing to punish him.
The crowd continued to roar and chant around them. The craving for blood filled the air. It buzzed as it would in the aftermath of the lightning storm. Óláfr’s thirst for blood had him thrust harder, wanting to give in to the clawing need. He struck hard, a feral grin spreading across his face as he saw the opportunity and pushed the sword into Arngrim left arm, slicing deep, making Arngrim relinquish his sword. The coppery scent of blood tainted the air around them as it splattered his kyrtill and the surrounding ground. Uncaring, he let the rage flow, dropping his sword as Arngrim did. He launched himself onto his big body, knocking them both to the ground. Landing on top of Arngrim’s fat stomach, he bounced slightly, allowing him to shift his knee. Aiming high between Arngrim’s legs, he drove hard and fast.
The loud shout in his ear was little consolation when the horrible stench of fetid breath panted into his face before he had a chance to roll off Arngrim. He jumped up when the rage wouldn’t cease its hot, destructive path through him. It wanted to pummel and grind Arngrim to dust.
He beckoned for Arngrim to get up with shaking fingers. The abject terror painted on Arngrim’s face made the beast inside jubilant, but it didn’t quench its thirst for more. Before he could rationalise, he bent, dragging Arngrim up by the scruff of his kyrtill and shaking him. Frustration and anger rattled through the larger man, making his bones crunch and grind together under Óláfr’s hands.
His nose wrinkled in disgust as he watched a wet stain spread across the lower part of Arngrim’s kyrtill. Releasing him, Óláfr jumped out of the way and watched Arngrim land in a heap at his feet. He rubbed his hands against his chest, trying to remove any remnants of body fluids that had touched his skin.
He tucked his hands behind himself when they wanted to shake violently as the rush of adrenaline died under the onslaught of the reek of Arngrim’s soiled clothing and pitiful sobs. Óláfr moved back, kicking Arngrim’s unmoving legs out of the way as he stalked off. He forgot about his sword and disregarded the pathetic shouts coming from Arngrim.
“Why, Óláfr? Why… would you attack…. me in this way? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to kill me.”
Óláfr marched back into the castle, ignoring Arngrim’s breathless sobbing shouts aimed at his back. His body shook with the restraint it took not to go back and finish him off. Looking down at his bloody clenching fists, he thought only of the need to rinse off the blood and dirt clinging to his skin. He felt contaminated somehow by Arngrim’s blood, as if it was poisoning his system.
The sense of disquiet filling him had him moving quicker. Entering his chamber, he collapsed against the hard door. The fight left him drained, and his legs wobbled while his heart tried to slow. Struggling to draw in a breath through the tightness inside his chest, a wave of pain morphed into an immense pressure that sat in the middle of his chest causing white flashing lights to blind him. He fell to his knees while images from the fight were replayed in all their gory detail. Gasping for breath, he sucked in large gulps while gripping his head to ensure it didn’t fall off. His neck strained to hold his head up as he staggered to his feet trying to make sense of why Maximillian was replaying the fight to him. He hadn’t even been aware Maximillian had been there watching. Giving up, he fell onto the pile of fur, letting Maximillian have his own way.
Maximillian felt Magnus’s tears drying on his matted coat, adding to his own distress. His stomach chose that moment to growl
and gurgle, letting him know in no uncertain terms it was time to get out of that tiny cell.
Where the hell, is Óláfr? Why had he not come to his senses?
Maximillian puffed up his chest, hating that Óláfr had made a liar out of him when he had assured Magnus he would come. He coughed at the lie that sat in his craw, choking him with each passing sunrise. His feeble repeated attempts even sounded unconvincing to his ears.
Stubborn fool!
The desperation leaking from Magnus had both their hopes waning. His shoulders drooped with the reality of what he had to do. He had to prepare for the oncoming lecture, knowing full well Christina wasn’t going to be pleased with what he had done.
“Christina, Christina, are you there? I am in need of your help.” His panicked squeal met with a static silence. Maximillian paused. Panic crawled inside his gut, tangling it in small knots while he tried to calm himself. Waiting for a beat, a sense of foreboding he didn’t want to feel slid across his fur, lifting the tiny hairs. He hoped that it was just the block he’d used on Óláfr interfering. He tried again. The effort contorted his sizeable body filthy from rubbing him against Magnus’s grimy, tattered clothing, causing the filth to coat his mouth and nose.
He sneezed. Eyes streaming, he blinked owlishly into the darkness. His eyes widened in horror at the empty ringing inside his mind. It had him remembering the last time he’d entered the church bailey when the bells chimed so loudly, he could hear nothing but the ringing for days. Oh by the God Njord, this cannot be a good thing.
He took a fortifying breath, regretting it instantly as the stale smell of unclean bodies and death coated the back of his throat, making him gag. Blinking back his distress, he did the one thing he’d vowed never to do and called on his relatives for help. The nosy cretins would surely know what had happened to Christina because they were always poking their tiny noses in everyone’s business.
