Ah, that is what Jarl Sigrún was whispering in his ear, then, Orka thought.
“A wise choice,” Sigrún said. “I would rather the people of Fellur fight our enemies, not each other.”
Sigrún looked at Virk.
“Agreed,” he said, though he looked disappointed.
“Good,” Sigrún nodded. “Then fight.”
Jarl Sigrún and her thrall stepped out from the square as Orka handed Virk the shield in her fist. He took it, hefted it first, checking its weight.
“How is it?” Orka asked him, knowing that this was the injured arm that had kept him on land and out of his fishing boat.
“Fine,” Virk grunted, though he was quick to drop his arm, holding the shield loosely at his side. He slipped his axe from his belt and gave it a lazy circle with his wrist. A farmer’s axe, made for fence-building and woodwork, but its blade was sharp and it looked well balanced.
It will cleave a skull as well as a timber post.
Orka leaned close to him.
“Cut him quick. He doesn’t have the stones to see his own blood leaking from his skin,” she whispered to Virk and then she was walking away, stepping over the hazel rods and standing beside Virk’s sons. Thorkel and Breca were close, the crowd packed tight, excitement a tremor in the air. Virk just nodded at Orka’s words, his eyes fixed on Guevarr now, who was taking his shield from his second, Arild. Then she was stepping from the hazel square and Guevarr was drawing his sword. A fine blade, Orka noted, its pommel three-lobed, hilt bound with leather and silver wire.
“Do you know how to use that, weasel-turd?” Virk said.
Guevarr’s face twisted and he ran at Virk, who stood waiting. A heavy, overhand swing from Guevarr and Virk raised his shield and stepped back, taking the power from Guevarr’s blow. Guevarr followed Virk with a flurry of wild swings, Virk stepping away from each one, taking the blows on his shield, the rawhide rim sliced, slivers of wood spraying.
Looking at the two warriors it was easy to think that Guevarr would soon have Virk on his knees. Virk wore no mail or leather, just a woollen tunic and under-kirtle, had an injured arm and was a fisherman by trade, whereas Guevarr was young, dressed in a fine brynja and held a sword in his fist. And he was a drengr, a position held by proven warriors who were battle-trained.
But Guevarr had seen little battle, or none, Orka thought. Though he does have some sword craft.
Orka noted how he maintained his balance, even when swinging such heavy blows with his sword, and he held his shield well.
He has spent long hours in the weapons court. But fighting well in training is different from putting steel into another man’s flesh. And his anger is ruling his head.
Another sword blow hacked into Virk’s shield and the fisherman retreated another step, close to the hazel-rod boundary now. Orka saw his face pinch with pain, his shield arm falter.
Guevarr smiled and took another overhand swing at Virk’s head.
Virk took the blow on his shield and twisted his arm, guiding Guevarr’s sword wide and down, chopping into turf. A side-shuffle to the right from Virk as Guevarr stumbled forwards, off balance, and Virk chopped with his axe into Guevarr’s shoulder. There was a crunch of iron as brynja rings sprayed, and a spurt of blood and yelp of pain from Guevarr as he fell forwards, dropping his sword and crashing to his knees, tangled in his shield and falling on to his face.
Shouts sounded from the crowd, Virk’s sons yelling their voices hoarse.
Guevarr squirmed on the ground, ripped his arm free of his shield and twisted on to his back as Virk stood over him, the fisherman’s face twitching with elation and the battle-joy. He raised his axe and Guevarr lifted an arm over his face, squealing.
“To submission,” Guevarr squeaked.
Virk’s arm hovered, lowered.
“You have fled, weasel-turd,” Virk snarled at Guevarr, nodding at where the drengr lay sprawled the wrong side of the hazel rods.
Guevarr’s face twisted with shame and pain as he tried to reach for his sword; he whimpered as his arm flopped, the axe wound in his shoulder having severed muscle.
Virk kicked Guevarr’s sword away. “You are nothing but a nieing weasel-turd,” Virk shouted loud. “Now, say it: you submit to me, weasel-turd.”
Guevarr glared up at him.
“Say it,” Virk snarled.
“You are the nieing,” Guevarr spat up at him. “Win or lose, this changes nothing. You will always be a worm beneath my feet.”
Virk stood there a moment, Guevarr’s words sinking deep. A ripple of twitches flickered across Virk’s face, then he snarled as he bared his teeth and raised his axe high.