More spears were hurled, one punching into the troll’s shoulder, another lodging between its ribs. Blood oozed like ichor. The troll screamed, lashed out with its club, smashing another shield, breaking the arm of the woman holding it. She stumbled away, the troll following, club rising.
Elvar darted in, Grend following her. She moved in from the side, running as the troll’s club whistled through the air and crunched down on to the woman with the broken arm. A wet slap, punctuated with the crunch of bones breaking, and she was gone, unrecognisable, just a pile of shattered bones in a sack of skin. Blood hung in the air like mist.
Agnar ran at the troll’s back, dropped his shield and leaped, stabbed two-handed with his sword into the troll’s back, high. Elvar heard the grate of iron on ribs, Agnar’s blade sinking deep.
The troll let out a scream that set snow tumbling from pine boughs, arched its back, arms flailing, Agnar trying to cling on to his sword hilt, failing and flying through the air.
Elvar ducked under pendulous testicles as the troll twisted and turned, trying to reach the pain in its back. She stabbed her sword into the troll’s thigh, high, hoping that its body worked like hers.
A fountain of blood jetted around her hilt as her sword found an artery and smacked her in the face, sending her sprawling, her sword still lodged. She stumbled away, Grend catching her, swinging his axe at testicles that slammed into them like a hammer, and they both fell to the ground.
Dark blood pulsed with the troll’s heartbeat: three, four pumping spurts and the troll was swaying, sinking to one knee. It stared at Elvar lying on the blood-slushed snow.
“Mine,” it said, like a confused child, and then crashed to its side in an eruption of snow, sighed, and was still.
A victory cry rang out in the glade, the Battle-Grim shaking shields and spears in the air.
“Are you hurt?” Grend asked, rising and offering her his hand.
“I… no,” Elvar said, climbing to one knee and taking his wrist, pulling herself upright. She was covered in thick, steaming blood, but it was not hers. She strode to the troll and gripped her sword hilt, put a boot on its leg and heaved. With a sucking squelch the blade pulled free.
Shouts, another scream drew her attention and she whirled to see the man who had been fighting the troll stabbing one of the Battle-Grim with his spear. The blade had scored a deep wound across a man’s shoulder. As Elvar watched his shield arm dropped, and the spear stabbed into his throat, a burst of bright blood as he fell gurgling. Six or seven warriors pressed in about the fur-clad man, all with shields raised, a half-circle closing tighter. Sighvat was behind them, swinging a chain around his head.
Now that the fur-clad man was stood close to other men and women rather than the troll, Elvar realised that he was huge, tall and broad, swathed in furs, his beard hanging almost to his belt. He swung his spear in vicious swipes, backing away from the shields closing about him.
He moved closer to the molten pool, heat battering at his back, the pool and waterfall hissing and deafening. Sparks flickered along his fur cloak, his hair sizzling as he took another step backwards. He stopped, face twisting, realising he was trapped. A shift in his eyes as he looked at the Battle-Grim closing about him. A deep breath, muscles tensing for a charge, and then Sighvat’s chain crunched into his head, hurling him to the ground, his spear falling away. He pushed himself on to all fours, blood welling, pouring down one cheek. He rose to one knee, hand grasping for his spear. Sighvat pushed through the Battle-Grim and punched the fallen man on the chin, his head snapping back, and he fell again, rolled on to his side, spitting blood. Began to rise.
How is he still conscious? Elvar thought. She had seen Sighvat in the pugil-ring. When he punched someone, they usually didn’t get back up.
Agnar appeared, striding over, his sword retrieved from the troll’s back and dripping with gore. Elvar and Grend followed.
Sighvat was booming orders, warriors holding spears at the fallen man’s throat while others pinned iron collars and chains around his wrists. A thrall-collar appeared in Sighvat’s big fists as the prisoner was dragged to his knees, arms bound. Sighvat moved to place the collar around the man’s neck, but his eyes bulged at the sight of the iron collar and he dragged two warriors holding his chains off their feet, started to rise.
Agnar stepped forwards, his sword levelled at the man’s throat.
“I would stay still, Berak, if I were you,” Agnar said.
The big man froze, looked at the sword point at his throat, then up at Agnar.
“You have the wrong man,” he said.