“You have been out too long in the sun if you think I would hand over one of my own,” Glornir growled, shaking his head. “No.” He hefted his long-axe in two hands, holding it loose across his body, his blood-spattered shield slung across his back.
A twist of Jaromir’s lips and then his bow was rising, drawing and loosing faster than Varg could follow. There was a hiss of iron through air, a crack, and the arrow fell splintered at Glornir’s feet, his long-axe swinging in his hands.
A frozen moment as Jaromir and his druzhina stared, open-mouthed, then Jaromir was reaching for a fist full of arrows.
“LOOSE!” he cried, and forty or fifty arrows left their bows.
Bloodsworn warriors leaped forwards, shields closing around Glornir. Varg saw Einar and R?kia there, and many more, hunched behind their shields, protecting Glornir. Arrows fell like hail, rattling on to the linden-wood, then there was a scream. Einar stood tall and hurled a spear, which flew through the air and slammed into the chest of a druzhina warrior, sending them hurtling from their saddle in a spray of blood.
Jaromir slipped his bow back into its case at his hip and drew his sabre. He let out a wordless scream and spurred his horse on, the warriors behind him leaping forwards, lances lowering.
“SHIELD WALL!” Glornir bellowed.
All around Varg warriors moved, shuffling tight, shields rising, crunching together. Varg just stood there, lifting his shield, but he did not know what to do. A concussive crash sounded from the front of the wall, rippling back to where Varg stood, horses and warriors screaming, steel clashing.
The sound of hooves came from behind him, and he turned to see more mounted warriors riding hard at them across the dock, stone sparking under hooves.
“WARE!” Svik cried beside Varg, a row of warriors from the rear of the shield wall turning, re-forming to face this new foe.
“Helm,” Svik yelled at him. Varg realised he was the only one in the Bloodsworn who hadn’t buckled on his helmet.
He fumbled at his belt, couldn’t unbuckle the chinstrap, and gave up. The thunder of hooves was not helping.
He looked up, realised he was standing in the open, riders charging towards him, and without thinking he raised his shield in front of him as R?kia had taught. A rider spurred their mount at him. A mountain of horseflesh hurtled towards him, the warrior on its back gleaming in scaled armour, a sabre rising high.
Varg stared up at his death, dimly aware of Svik yelling his name, calling him back into the shield wall. It was too late. All he could see was the warrior’s snarling face, oiled beard, cold steel glinting. Time seemed to slow, the muscles in the horse’s shoulder and chest contracting, expanding, and Varg slipped to the side, keeping his shield held high. The sabre crunched into it, a hollow smack, the power of the blow rattling through Varg’s bones into his shoulder, numbing muscle. Then the rider was past him and instinctively Varg stabbed with his spear, a hard thrust angled up into the rider’s waist. It should have pierced mail and flesh, stabbed deep under ribs, but instead the spear glanced away, Varg losing his grip and dropping it. He stared at the spear: saw he hadn’t taken the leather cover off the blade.
Around him the other druzhina were crashing into Svik and the shield wall, with more yelling, screaming. A spray of blood flew across grey stone.
Then Varg’s rider was dragging on his reins, turning his mount in a tight circle.
Without thinking, Varg dropped his shield and ran at the warrior. He leaped, grabbed a fistful of horse’s mane and dragged himself up on to the animal’s back, the druzhina warrior twisting, trying to hack at Varg with his sabre. A mail-clad elbow cracked into Varg’s nose, sending blood gushing, but he hung on, one arm wrapped around the warrior, his other hand fumbling for his seax. He found the antler-hilt, dragged it free of its scabbard and stabbed into the small of the warrior’s back, the blade deflected by the plates of his lamellar coat. The seax scraped along iron, grating sparks, finding the smallest of gaps where buckles and strips of leather tied the coat tight. The blade slipped in, sliced through wool and linen and into flesh. Varg thrust harder, the warrior arching in his saddle with a scream rising in pitch as Varg’s blade sank deeper. He could feel the strength leak from the warrior, and with a final twist and shove Varg sent the rider toppling from his saddle, crunching on to the stone, where he lay twitching.
With a ragged breath Varg slipped into the saddle and sat there, not knowing what to do. He had never ridden a horse before. It felt much higher, upon its back, than it looked from the ground, and he could feel the animal’s power beneath him, muscles flexing.