Sokkolfr looked up at her from the edge of his bed. Their bed. “He can’t beat me. He’s a baby, Otter. I’m a war-blooded man.”
The panic was so sharp in her breast that she had no way to keep her voice level, or even lower it. “Accidents happen! Unpredictable things happen, especially when a pair of lunkheads are waving swords around!”
Sokkolfr held out a hand to her. She stared at it, but couldn’t keep herself from reaching out and taking it. His fingers were warm and strong. Rough scabs dotted the backs of the knuckles where he’d skinned them in the fight. She bit her lip to keep from sobbing.
“I have to,” he said. “We’ve got Rheans at our doorstep, don’t you understand? The very next thing I need to do once this is over is go out and round up every crofter and townsman who was too old to march south, get them inside this keep, and command them as if they were an army. And the only possible way that I can manage that is if they see me as a strong leader. A strong leader is not a coward. And only a coward turns down a personal challenge like that.”
Her fingers dug into him until she managed to make them unclench. She pulled her hand back and stuffed it into her mouth, biting down because the pain made everything easier.
“I’ll try not to kill him,” he said.
“Try not to get your own self killed, you bloody idiot,” she sniffed, and turned her back on him. But she didn’t pull away when he got up from the bed, came up behind her, and wrapped her in his warm, scarred arms. She wept, and he wept too—for Mar, and for the lost cub—and then she slept against his shoulder.
He did not stay with her through the night, however. She awakened in the darkness to a cold bed and after waiting a moment, she went to seek him only to find Brokkolfr instead. “Go back to bed, Otter. He’ll come to you soon, I ken. He’s preparing.”
“He needs his rest. That’s the preparation he ought to get!” she said tartly. But she went, and sat up with a light because she could not bear to lie down alone in the darkness. And Brokkolfr was right; Sokkolfr was by her side again before her candle had burned down an inch.
He would not tell her where he’d been. “You’ll see,” he promised, with a wink. “You’ll like it.”
The holmgang was set for three mornings hence, though it was more traditional to give the combatants seven days to prepare. But Varghoss was hot for his fight, and Sokkolfr was well aware that they were losing time against the Rheans.
So, “Why wait for it?” Sokkolfr had said. And Otter bit her lip, and the women cleared out a portion of the kitchen courtyard—Mjoll cursing the stupidity of men with every bench they shifted, and Kathlin frowning stoically—and on the chosen morning, they staked a bull’s hide to the ground. They dug a furrow around it, and at the corners of the furrow drove straight hazel wands.
Otter did not weep or speak while she and the other women hazeled the field of combat. She felt as if she had lost her voice. As if the stone that sat on her heart stopped up her words and all her strength behind it.
This was not the duel of honor of her homeland, but—wolfcarls being the hot-headed idiots that they so often were—she had seen enough holmgangs fought in her time in the North to know what would happen. Sokkolfr and Varghoss would each be allotted three wooden shields. They would step onto the hide, and they would take turns striking one another until the shields were broken. Then, they must parry only with their blades, and might not move away from the opponent.
To step off the hide with one foot was called giving ground and was a mark of shame; to step off with both feet was called fleeing and would mark the man who did it as much a nithling as if he had never stepped into the ring.
Some forms of the holmgang—those practiced in the southern parts—had the shields held by a shield bearer, who was not supposed to be injured, but who took the force of the enemy’s blow, thus keeping the primary combatant fresh for the passage of arms to follow. The far north, where the wolfcarls had held their ragged line against the trolls for centuries, held to a less elaborate practice. Sokkolfr and Varghoss would bear their own shields, and bear as well the force of the blows.
The holmgang would be decided in favor of the first man who drew enough blood from his opponent that it splashed and showed upon the bull’s hide under their feet.
Sokkolfr might be good enough to force Varghoss off the hide, at which point it would be as much a victory as if Varghoss had conceded. If he was not … he had no recourse except the sword.
When the holm—“island,” Sokkolfr said when Otter asked him—had been hazeled, Kathlin and Thorlot went for the men. One of the other new wolfcarls had agreed to stand as Varghoss’ shield bearer. He was the first to arrive, and he gave Otter an apologetic glance and a shake of his head as he arrayed the shields in easy reach of the hazels. She met his gaze, but could not find a smile.
Brokkolfr, who would be shield bearer for Sokkolfr, came next. He laid the three flimsy shields down one by one, facedown upon the earth. He was finished before Varghoss and Sokkolfr arrived, each coming from opposite directions.
Varghoss did not seem any less set upon his ridiculous vengeance this morning. The young wolfcarl was white-faced, rigid, pale, and in a cold sweat with rage. He kept his lips tight, and said nothing to anyone as his shield bearer began helping him strap into the first of his intentionally fragile shields. They were meant to break, and break quickly.
Otter was certain the young wolfcarl would be aiming to kill or maim Sokkolfr.
The women and children remained in place, huddled together on one side of the holm. Otter looked around her, seeing set faces and ragged braids, a lack of jewelry. Not one of them had put on her finery or dressed her hair—a silent protest of the whole mess.
I cannot permit this. Otter glanced at Alfgyfa, at the alf-cloak with its gold-broidered patch. And suddenly, she knew.
Her heart, which had thudded so stonily a moment before, thundered. Her hands tingled with chill. She felt a peculiar combination of elation and terror that she knew was the recognition of a chance at averting what she dreaded—and the fear that she would somehow fail to pull it off. She turned to Esja, whose face was terrified and only slightly comprehending, and said, “You and your sisters, run and fetch me every blanket you can find.”
“Otter?” The girl blinked at her, confused.
But Kathlin, on the other side of her daughter, looked over at Otter sharply. “Like Rannveig,” she said.
Otter nodded. Her chest ached with every breath.
“Go,” Kathlin said to Esja. “Run. Fast as you can. All your bedding and mine too. Right now.”
The girl looked as if she were about to ask another question, but her eyes got big at her mother’s tone. She grabbed her second sister’s hand and whirled, vanishing in a little patter of feet. Kathlin’s eyes met Otter’s, and the two women shared a silent moment of fear and anger—and an almost painful spark of hope.
Across the hazeled holm, Brokkolfr lifted up the first of Sokkolfr’s shields and slid it onto his left arm. Otter almost yelped out loud when she saw what had been painted on it and realized what Sokkolfr had been about in the night.
The shield was yellow, and upon that field was a long, brown, weaselly body—crudely rendered, the work of an obvious amateur.
An otter.
An otter, curse him for making her want to laugh and cry and scream all at once.
When the straps were done to his liking, Sokkolfr hefted the shield to test the fit. He looped a parrying blade by a thong from that wrist, for use once the shields were all broken—Varghoss had one also—and he looked over at Otter, then, his brows lifting in a question.
She meant to look away. She meant to flip her braid back over her shoulder and stare straight ahead. Instead, she found herself meeting his questioning look—like a wolf asking his brother for reassurance when confronted with some unfamiliar thing—with the faintest flicker of a smile.
The warmth that welled up in her almost countered the fear.
Hur
ry, children.
Then he looked away, and her hands clenched in her skirts again.
As if they had independently come to the same conclusion, Varghoss and Sokkolfr moved toward the holm. The sun was just beginning to creep above the courtyard wall. The holm had been placed so it remained in shade, however, and the women had made sure that the sun would not shine behind either combatant. Instead, it would shine from over the watchers’ shoulders. Otter felt the warmth as its rays brushed the top of her head.
The two men stepped over the rope that twisted from hazel wand to hazel wand. Their shield bearers followed them with replacement shields. The bearers would not step upon the hide, but would wait beside the ropes, in the furrows. Sokkolfr paused just outside the hide to adjust his boots, and Otter could see the fury working lines around Varghoss’ mouth.
Hurry, children. Hurry, hurry.
Sokkolfr, as the challenged, had the first blow. He straightened up and stepped onto the hide. Varghoss moved only a moment later, so his foot touched the hide an instant after Sokkolfr’s. They completed their steps and stood in the holm—across the width of the holm—facing one another.
“Might as well get it over with,” said Sokkolfr. He strode forward, swinging his sword up and over, a great looping blow that looked to have the force of an axe-chop behind it. It came down toward Varghoss’ head, and Otter almost screamed aloud—one of the thralls did—but Varghoss tossed his shield up and caught the blow.
The blade clove deep, throwing splinters this way and that. The flimsy shield all but folded.
Varghoss threw his weight to one side on the shield, wrenching the sword in Sokkolfr’s hand. Sokkolfr yanked it back, hard and quick, and managed to twist it free of Varghoss’ shield before the trick snapped the blade or bent it beyond usefulness. Skjaldwulf’s songs were full of holmgangs that ended poorly because the sword of one combatant or the other was too warped after the breaking of shields to bite deep enough to end the combat.
Varghoss stumbled and almost put a foot off the hide. He caught himself, though, and twisted—leaving his side open in such a way that in a real combat, Sokkolfr might have gutted him. But it was Varghoss’ blow now. Varghoss staggered upright, caught himself, and cast his shield away viciously. It smacked into the courtyard wall.
Varghoss’ shield bearer, having ducked it, came forward with the replacement.
Sokkolfr and Varghoss regarded each other while the new shield was fitted. Varghoss breathed heavily. Sokkolfr hefted his sword as if trying to sense whether the blade had been damaged. After a moment, Varghoss’ tithe-mate retreated, and Sokkolfr set himself behind his shield.
Varghoss lost no time in his attack. Two quick steps forward and a sweeping blow that might have scythed wheat. This time, Otter did cry out—in protest, because the blow had been aimed for Sokkolfr’s head. A blow meant to kill.
Sokkolfr got his shield up, though, and stepped into the blow to take it closer to the source, before it had time to build up so much speed and force. He grunted and was knocked back a step nevertheless. Sokkolfr’s shield snapped in half rather than catching at the blade, giving Sokkolfr no opportunity to attempt the maneuver Varghoss had tried. Sokkolfr staggered back, shaking his arm out and swearing.
Such a blow—aimed to kill—was not illegal within the rules of the holmgang. But as the idea of the ritual was to settle differences without undue death, and without feud … a blatant attempt at manslaughter was, in Otter’s opinion, something of an overstep.
Brokkolfr was there immediately with the second shield. He helped Sokkolfr out of the shattered one, and the two men angled their bodies to hide from Varghoss and his shield bearer what Otter and the others saw clearly: there was blood welling from Sokkolfr’s arm, though whether the splintered shield or Varghoss’ blade had done it was uncertain. The blood was still soaking into the cloth of his coat sleeve however, and it would not be enough to end the match unless it stained the hide under their feet.
Sokkolfr steadied himself as Brokkolfr stepped back. They called him Stone for his stone face as much as for his taciturnity, and right now Otter was sure that no one else saw him wince. It was more a flicker of the corner of eyes and mouth than a full expression, but she recognized it and knew it well. Only Thorlot’s hand clamped on her shoulder kept her from running forward and throwing herself between the swords.
Where in all the red hells are those girls?
Sokkolfr swung again, a cleaving blow that splintered Varghoss’ shield jaggedly across. Varghoss seemed unstaggered by this one, but he did not have the chance to trap Sokkolfr’s sword again. He took up his final shield and came at Sokkolfr.
Sokkolfr ducked, trying to deflect the blow at an angle and save his shield. It was ineffective, and the painted otter had the worst of it. He too rearmed, and now there would be no more shields. If a blow landed after these two were destroyed, it would strike flesh.
Otter heard small feet running. Three girls, staggering under loads of bundled blankets and linens, the smallest dragging a sheet behind her in the dust.
“Give them here!” Kathlin said, and suddenly Mjoll and Thorlot and even Alfgyfa—always slowest to catch something unspoken among the women of the heall—seemed to realize what was happening.
Otter clutched after a blanket, felt harsh wool between her fingers. Sokkolfr, armed with his final shield, stalked Varghoss across the holm. Varghoss angled himself and punched with his shield even as Sokkolfr swung.
With a better shield, it might have been an effective tactic. As it was, the shield all but exploded on contact with Sokkolfr’s sword. But perhaps Varghoss had counted on that. In any case, he seemed prepared for it, because he used the ruined shield to batter Sokkolfr’s sword down and returned the blow without disentangling himself from its wreckage.
The blow cracked Sokkolfr’s final shield and sent Sokkolfr reeling. Otter heard Thorlot gasp at the distinctive ting of a breaking blade. Varghoss swung again, and Sokkolfr, shieldless, got the stump of his sword up in time to parry. Varghoss grunted and heaved another blow, seeming to try to bury Sokkolfr under the force of the assault. Both men had a grip on their parrying blades now, and it seemed impossible that they should go much longer without serious injury.
Alfgyfa waved away a blanket and unslung her cloak instead. The women crowded forward, led by Otter and Thorlot.
Sokkolfr’s parrying blade darted in low while Varghoss’ was still high. His blade tip scored the younger man’s thigh, and red blood welled sharply. A long splash streaked across the bull hide.
“Hold!” cried Varghoss’ shield bearer, Brokkolfr echoing not even a moment behind. But Varghoss did not hold; he swung again, the overhand blow with his sword a diversionary tactic to a short, sharp stab with his parrying blade. Sokkolfr somehow eluded both: Otter did not see how.
She screamed a Brythoni war cry she would have sworn she did not remember and hurled herself forward, the blanket outstretched in her hands. The earth in the furrow around the hide crumbled under her foot, then the hide itself dented. Other women surrounded her. She swung the blanket up and wide, toward Varghoss. Felt it snag and tangle. Alfgyfa was on her right, tossing that cloak. Thorlot whipped sheets about to tangle blades, and from the other side of the holm came Kathlin and Mjoll. A moment, and the men joined them, too, jumping the hazeling to wrap their arms around Varghoss and restrain him until he stopped fighting their embrace.
The linens and weapons lay tangled on the hide. Sokkolfr—Sokkolfr stood panting for a moment and then turned to Otter, his broken sword forgotten on the ground.
She hurled herself into his arms. “Careful,” he said. “The blood.”
“Fuck the blood,” she answered. He would have tried holding her with his right arm only, and keeping the left—still bleeding—away from her dress. But she pinned his arm between her elbow and her side, forcing him to bleed on her dress so that he would stop being stupid about it. She thumped him on the chest with her other fist and buried her face in his shir
t.
* * *
After the wounds were tended, after the holm was dismantled and the earth shoveled back into the furrows, after luncheon was served to everyone except for Varghoss—who had vanished with such thoroughness that even his tithe-mates, their young wolves still clinging to their shadows, did not know where he might have gone—Alfgyfa went to seek out Otter.
She found the other woman mixing wort for brewing and wordlessly stood by to help sling the cauldron on its heavy arm back to the fire, so it could boil again. When that was done, they stepped away from the fire and stood side by side, wiping the sweat off their faces.
When Alfgyfa judged they had been quiet long enough, she said, “That was smartly done.”
Otter shook her head. “The boy won’t thank me.”
“Not today,” Alfgyfa said. The “boy” was several years older than she was, but she could not think of him as anything other than a boy. “Maybe in ten years.”
“Maybe not even that many.” Otter looked at her. “You’re right; time mends many spirits.”
“So the svartalfar say,” Alfgyfa said. She laughed. “In them, time seems rather to anneal many grudges.”
They stood companionably together for a moment, watching the wort simmer. Alfgyfa said, “What’ll happen to Varghoss?”
“He’s a wolfcarl,” Otter said. “He’s our problem. And he’s a boy. I cannot blame him for doing stupid things when he’s half-crazed with grief. But I don’t want him here. If he wants to stay in the heallan, he’ll probably be traded away to whoever has a litter coming soon.”
If any of us are left after the war to manage the trade.
But she didn’t say that. And Alfgyfa didn’t let on that she’d heard that unspoken rider.
She fingered the new rent in her cloak—not yet stitched up—and said, “I can’t stay here.”
Otter looked at her. “Going back to the alfhame?”
“Hah! As if they would have me without Tin. No. But the army needs smiths, don’t they? I’ll go meet them.”