Behind them V?rn the Froa-spirit frowned, was sniffing the air.
Agnar had his shield held loosely in his hand. He drew his sword with hardly a sound, the blade shining with the oil and grease from the scabbard’s sheepskin liner. He looked back at the Battle-Grim, saw Elvar and winked at her, then he fixed his gaze on Skrie, set his feet, hefted his shield and gave his sword a lazy turn with his wrist.
“Come on then, big man,” Agnar said. “See if you can earn your battle-fame this day, and stand against Agnar Battle-Grim.”
Skrie’s lips moved into a twisted snarl, and Agnar laughed at whatever the hulking warrior had said. Elvar felt a flush of pride for her chief, for his boldness and wit, even as he must surely feel death’s raven-wings flapping above him. Agnar was not a small man – rather, he was tall and broad – but Skrie towered over him, like a bear over a wolf.
Elvar whispered a prayer, though there were no gods left to pray to.
Except for the dragon beneath her feet.
Let Agnar win. Let Agnar win. Let Agnar win.
The muted pounding beneath the ground beat on, like a war drum keeping time, faster now, as if it sensed the imminence of violence, the proximity of blood and death.
Skrie stepped forwards and swung his long-axe in a great, looping arc.
Agnar stepped away, letting it slice harmlessly through air. He smiled at his opponent.
Skrie did not pause. He strode in after Agnar, quickly for a big man, closing the gap between them, his axe whirling above his head, slicing again, lower. Agnar jumped away this time, stumbled on an ash-covered skeleton and Skrie rushed in, shifting his axe to a two-handed grip. There was a grunt as Agnar raised his shield, fighting for his balance. The axe’s butt cracked into his shield, hard enough to smash a door from its hinges, sending Agnar stumbling back another few paces. Skrie followed, his hooked axe head darting forwards, catching the shield rim and tugging Agnar towards him. Agnar stumbled forwards and swayed to his left, the axe blade slicing across his cheek, blood leaking, and he chopped with his sword into Skrie’s chest.
Brynja rings sprayed and blood welled, but Skrie just grunted and slammed his axe butt into Agnar’s shield again, sending him staggering back a few paces again, the sound of wood cracking. The axe whirled around Skrie’s head and whistled down at Agnar, who side-stepped to the right, raising his shield. The clang of iron as the axe blade grated off Agnar’s shield boss and deflected, sending the blade chopping into the ground.
Elvar grinned to see it, a move she had seen Agnar perform on the training field countless times. It was perfectly executed. She knew what Agnar would do next, even as the axe blade hacked into the ground with a burst of ash and earth.
Agnar pivoted on a heel and stepped in close, slamming his shield into the big man’s face and slicing his sword across Skrie’s thigh as he stepped away, out of range again.
Skrie stumbled back, spitting blood from his bloodied mouth.
A gasp erupted from the Raven-Feeders, a cheer from the Battle-Grim.
“I can almost hear the skálds singing,” Agnar said, a smile on his face as he followed Skrie, who retreated a few steps, limping, blood sheeting down his breeches from the cut in his thigh, just below the links of his mail coat. “Of the death of Skrie the Witless, the giant who thought he could kill Agnar Fire-Fist.”
He moved in on Skrie with small steps, left and right, always closing in, and Skrie shuffled back a few paces.
Elvar grasped Grend’s arm, the scent of Agnar’s victory so close. She glanced beyond Agnar and Skrie and saw Ilska and her brother, Drekr, watching. Ilska looked almost disinterested.
Skrie stopped retreating and straightened. Smiled with bloodied teeth. Elvar frowned. Something… changed about him. He looked at Agnar and hefted his axe. A glint of red flashed from his eyes.
Agnar hesitated.
“He is Tainted,” Elvar hissed.
Skrie moved, surging forwards more quickly than Elvar could follow, his axe swinging, too fast for Agnar to side-step, too powerful to defend against. Agnar raised his shield and took the brunt of the blow, the axe bursting through the linden-wood in an explosion of splinters, slicing into his arm. Skrie ripped the blade free in a spray of wood and blood, dragging Agnar with it. Agnar’s shield was rent, half-shattered in his fist. He stabbed with his sword, a short, powerful blow, but Skrie was already twisting away, Agnar’s blade grating sparks across Skrie’s mail. A short chop from Skrie, two-handed with his axe and the blade bit into Agnar’s shoulder, ripped down his chest, mail links shattered, a spurt of blood and a scream as Agnar dropped to his knees, sword falling from his grip, shield arm hanging limp. He stared up at the man towering over him, axe raised.