Guevarr screamed as the axe slashed down at his head.
Jarl Sigrún screamed.
Orka bunched her legs, leaping to knock Virk away from Guevarr.
A glimpse of something in Orka’s peripheral vision, then a body crashed into Virk before Orka could reach him, hurling Virk to the ground. Orka stumbled through the space where he had just been standing. She staggered on a few paces, then righted her footing and turned, staring at the ground.
Virk was thrashing, fighting something that lay on top of him.
Guevarr was dragging himself away with his uninjured arm.
Orka blinked and squinted at Virk, trying to understand. Then a body snapped into focus, laying entwined with Virk.
It was the warrior-thrall, her two seaxes in her fists, stabbing a savage flurry of blows into Virk’s torso. He screamed, blood spraying.
The thrall spat and snarled in Virk’s face, her seaxes carving into him, blood drenching the ground, all around staring. Breca was close, open-mouthed and wide-eyed.
Virk’s axe fell from his fingers and his arms flopped, head lolling, screams fading to a hiss.
The thrall stopped stabbing, white froth edging her lips, her eyes amber-hued. Her jaws opened wide revealing teeth that were abruptly sharp, and she let out a bestial snarling sound and lunged forwards, her mouth clamping on to Virk’s face, tearing, rending.
Orka burst into motion, feet slipping as she threw herself at the thrall, a voice in her head screaming at her to stop, saying that Virk was already dead, that there was nothing to do.
No, Orka snarled back at herself as she moved. I am his second and he fought well. He won; he does not deserve this dishonour. To be mauled.
A few paces separated her and the thrall, and then another figure stepped forwards, tall and broad, and kicked the thrall in the ribs. There was a tearing sound of flesh as the kick lifted the thrall into the air, ripping her jaws free of Virk’s face. She flew through the air a half-dozen paces, rolled, then came out of it in a half-crouch, amber eyes blazing, searching for her assailant.
It was Thorkel.
He stepped over Virk’s body and set his feet.
The thrall bared her teeth at him, blood dripping.
“The man is dead; your task is done, Ulfrir-kin,” Thorkel said.
The thrall leaped at him, her seaxes still in her fists.
“NO,” a voice yelled, sounding like Jarl Sigrún to Orka, who was still moving, level with Virk’s body now.
Thorkel side-stepped the leaping thrall and threw a punch into her head as she passed him, sending her careening to the ground. At the same time he grunted as one of the thrall’s seaxes slashed at his body, a red line appearing through his torn tunic.
White rage exploded in Orka’s head and she threw herself at the thrall.
“NIeUR, á J?ReU, HL?DDU MéR,” a voice bellowed. A flash of red burst through the thrall’s collar and she screamed and collapsed to the ground, limbs twitching.
Something grabbed Orka, hands pulling her, and she turned and thrashed, snarling, to fight the arms wrapping around her.
“It’s me, it’s me,” a voice said in her ear, over and over: Thorkel’s voice, melting the cold-fire in her head.
“Mama, Mama,” Breca was crying.
Deep, ragged breaths and Orka felt the rage drain; saw Thorkel’s face pressed tight to her.
“All right,” she exhaled and Thorkel stepped back, nodded at her.
Orka looked around and saw Virk’s sons, Mord and Lif, crouched beside their father, the crowd in the clearing all staring. She put a hand to Thorkel’s side; her fingers came away red.
“You are cut,” she said.
“A scratch,” he growled, his eyes shifting from Orka to the thrall.
Jarl Sigrún stood over the thrall, her mouth a tight line. Drengrs had filled the hazel square, weapons drawn.
“I told you to stop him, not kill him,” Jarl Sigrún said, her voice cold and hard as iron.
The thrall glared up at her, her eyes still amber, her teeth sharp and red.
“You are my thrall, you will obey me,” Sigrún said, but the thrall’s eyes glared their amber-hued defiance, her lips curling back in a snarl.
“Brenna, sársauki,” Sigrún said: another flash of red veins through the thrall-collar and the thrall whined. The amber faded from her eyes, and there was a ripple through her jaw and lips, her teeth losing their edge.
“Brenna, sársauki,” Sigrún repeated, louder, harder: red fire glowed in the heart of the iron collar and the thrall thrashed and yelped, like a hound tied to a stake and beaten.