“You now have a wound,” she said, then smiled at him as she shoved her shield into his chest. He took a step back, stumbled over her foot that she had sneakily placed behind his, and then his arse was on the grass and he was looking up at her, her leather-wrapped blade touching his throat.
A position he was becoming all too familiar with.
“A good start,” she said, “but when you failed to strike me, you should have broken away and shifted your grip. And never stop fighting until one of us is dead. I wounded you with my strike, but it would not have been a killing blow. Not immediately, anyway.”
She offered him an arm and heaved him to his feet.
“Again,” she said.
Varg stood in a line of the Bloodsworn, a bowl in hand. It was dark now, the summer sun long disappeared beyond the horizon, the sky a scattering of stars above him. He had changed out of his sweat-and fjord-soaked clothes into a fresh tunic and breeches from his sea-chest. Hearth fires flickered, sending shadows dancing, the sound of the fjord lapping at the shore and the creak of the Sea-Wolf on the water. He reached the pot hanging over the fire and ladled fish stew into his bowl, then turned and walked away, looking for somewhere to sit. He saw Svik stooping to speak to Einar Half-Troll, who was as big as the boulder he was sitting against. Svik pulled a loaf of bread from beneath his cloak and handed it to Einar, then sat down with the big man.
“Congratulations for your victory on the oars,” Varg said to Svik as he approached them.
“It is all in the reflexes,” Svik smiled and dipped his head at Varg. “I do not like getting wet,” he said. “It makes a mess of my beard, so I have learned to have light feet and fine balance.”
“That is something I do not have to worry about,” Varg said, rubbing his head and chin. Although, to his surprise, he found that his stubble had grown and it was no longer scratching and itching his palm.
“No, but it will grow,” Svik said solemnly. “Soon you will have hair as pretty as mine. You did well on the oars. It is a shame you… slipped.”
“I did not slip. I was thrown,” Varg grunted, not able to stop himself looking at Einar. “As I think you may know.” He looked pointedly at the loaf of bread that Einar was ripping chunks from. “And as Einar well knows.”
“I like bread,” Einar grunted.
“Are we even, now?” Varg asked the big man.
“No,” Einar said, not looking at Varg. He tore another chunk of bread from the loaf Svik had given him and dipped it in his fish stew, slurped on it, then slowly looked up at Varg. “You got wet, but I see that you are already dry. Me, I can count your teeth by their imprints in my leg, and will be able to do so for all the years of my life.”
“It was a fight,” Varg shrugged.
“That is a fair point, Half-Troll,” Svik said. “You were trying to smash his bones with your fists.”
“I was holding back,” Einar sniffed. “I was being kind. I even told him to stay down, and how does he repay my kindness? By biting me.” He pulled a face. “I do not like to be bitten.”
“I am now most clearly aware of that,” Varg assured him, “and I swear that I will never put my teeth in you again.”
“Hhmmm,” Einar rumbled, his brows knitting. Varg thought he could almost see the big man’s thought-cage churning as he turned Varg’s words over. With another rumbling breath Einar tore a chunk of bread from his loaf and offered it to Varg. “Sit and eat, then,” Einar said.
“My thanks,” Varg said, thinking that this was as close to a truce as he was likely to get. He sat beside Einar, as Torvik appeared and joined them.
“I hear Einar threw you in the fjord,” the young apprentice scout and blacksmith said, a big grin on his face. Varg looked from Torvik to Einar.
“I… slipped,” Varg said.
Einar nodded, a rumble of what Varg took to be approval reverberating in his chest.
Torvik looked at the three of them.
“You slipped on Einar’s oar, along with an uncommon number of others, and Svik won,” Torvik said. “Hmmm.”
Varg slurped on his bread.
“It is true, I am blessed with good fortune,” Svik said, twirling his red moustache. “And also, I am a remarkable oar-dancer. What can I say? Some bread for your fish stew?” Svik offered to Torvik, smiling.
“I hear the Skullsplitter was a remarkable oar-dancer,” Torvik said as he took Svik up on his offer of bread.
“Skullsplitter?” Svik said, raising an eyebrow. “No, the chief was big and heavy as a bear. Dancing on oars was not one of Skullsplitter’s skills. Splitting skulls with a long-axe, however…”