“Spear work now?”
“Ha,” R?kia scowled. “You are a shield master already, then?”
“No,” Varg said, “but what else is there to learn? It’s just a shield.”
A cold smile spread across R?kia’s face. “Leave the spear where it is. Most fights do not take place with one combatant standing still, no?”
“No,” Varg agreed.
“So, perhaps you should learn how to move with a shield, and how to defend against a foe who moves around you.” She stepped close to him, eyes level with his. “Raise your shield,” she said. Varg set his feet, hefted the shield as she’d taught him. And then R?kia was moving, feinting left and darting right, her spear jabbing: a pain in Varg’s shoulder; a gasp of surprise and shock as he realised she’d just cut him. Not deep, but enough for blood to bloom on his tunic. Then she was behind him and he was jumping away before he got a spear in the back, turning, raising his shield. She was smiling as she stepped in, her spearhead lunging low.
“Never lose sight of me by hiding behind your shield,” she hissed as she moved. “That way lies a quick death.”
Varg thrust with his shield to deflect R?kia’s stabbing spear, but somehow she shifted her weight and swayed back, fluid and smooth as mist. The spear spun in her hand, reversing her grip, and then the blade was at his throat.
Varg froze, breathing heavily, and felt a bead of blood trickle down his neck.
“Ready to learn?” she asked him as she pulled her blade away.
“Yes,” Varg said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ORKA
Orka stood beside Virk. She held a shield loosely in her fist, given over at Sigrún’s order by one of the Jarl’s drengrs. Two more shields were leaning in the grass against a tree. Virk stood patiently, his hand resting upon the axe in a loop on his belt. They watched silently as men and women laid and pegged hazel rods to the ground, marking the square that Virk and Guevarr would fight in. Guevarr stood on the far side of the square, glowering at Virk, the drengr woman who had accompanied him to Orka’s steading leaning close, whispering in his ear.
“Arild is telling him how to kill me,” Virk said. It seemed to amuse him. Much of his rage and tension had evaporated, now that he was set on this course. Orka had seen that in old warriors, before. He smiled at her. “You are my second; should you not be giving me advice on how to win?”
“Put your axe in his skull,” Orka said.
Jarl Sigrún walked to Guevarr and leaned close to him, her mouth moving.
“Everyone is telling him how to kill you,” Orka commented.
Virk barked a laugh.
Guevarr stepped away from Sigrún, a scowl on his face.
A hand tugged at Orka’s sleeve and she looked down to see Breca.
“What are they doing, Mama?” he asked, looking at the warriors laying out the cut-down hazel rods.
Orka squatted beside Breca.
“This is a holmganga,” she said. “A ritual duel used to settle disputes. It is done this way, so that it is fair, and so that the kin of the losing party cannot claim weregild or blood feud.”
Breca nodded slowly at that. “Why the hazel rods?”
“They fight within the square. If one of them puts a foot over a hazel rod then he has yielded, two feet over and he has fled. Holmganga is the old tongue for going to the island. It was thought that a fight on an island was better, if you could find one, because there is no running away. That means the matter is more likely to be dealt with quickly. If someone runs, then the other must hunt. As we are already on an island, Guevarr’s challenge can take place here.”
Breca nodded, taking it all in. “And why has Virk been given three shields?”
“It is part of the rules,” Orka said. “If a shield is destroyed, there will be a pause while it is replaced. Three shields broken, well…” she shrugged. “You deserve to lose.”
“Ready,” a voice called out, Jarl Sigrún stepping into the hazel square, her warrior-thrall at her shoulder. She beckoned for Virk and Guevarr to join her.
“Fight well. Don’t die.” Breca said to Virk as he stepped into the square.
“Stay close to your father,” Orka said to Breca as she followed Virk.
“The rules of holmganga abide here,” Sigrún said as they reached her. “You must agree: first wound, submission, or death.” She gave Guevarr a hard look. He glared back at her, then looked away.
“Submission,” he mumbled.