Maidensong (44 page)

Bjorn burst through the door and scanned the long
room through the haze of smoke from the fires. He spotted Gunnar, whispering into a serving girl’s ear
and then laughing, with Astryd glowering beside him.
Ornolf pointed to another man, seated beside Halfdan
of Raumarike and some of the other
jarls
. It was Do
mari, the Lawspeaker.

“The Law demands justice!” Bjorn bellowed above
the din. “Hail, Domari, keeper of the Law.”

One by one the knots of conversation hushed around them.

“I seek your wisdom and know you will hear my cause.” Bjorn strode forward, confidently mouthing the time-honored request for the Lawspeaker’s intervention.

“Who are you, and what is your complaint?” Do
mari stood ram-rod straight. Despite his sixty winters,
he was a powerfully built man with a shock of silver
hair brushing his shoulders.

Bjorn waited until the hall was quiet. “I am Bjorn
the Black of Sognefjord, and murder has brought me
here.” He turned slowly to glare at Gunnar. “I charge
my brother, Gunnar Haraldsson, with the murder of
our father, Harald of Sogna, one-time
jarl
of that fair
land.”

“Oath-breaker!” The word exploded from Gunnar’s lips as he leapt to his feet, pointing an accusatory fin
ger at Bjorn. “This man has sworn fealty to me, yet he
dares slander me before this company on our holiest of
nights!”

“Is this true?” Domari asked.

“Ja,
I am Gunnar’s man,” Bjorn admitted. “But hear my evidence against the
Jarl
of Sogna first, and I shall
answer for my oath-breaking hereafter.”

“He admits it!” Gunnar roared. “Why should the
Lawspeaker trouble himself with the words of an oath-breaker?”

“Sit, son of Harald,” Domari ordered, nar
rowing his eyes at Gunnar. “Your father was my friend
and the Law seeks the truth. Let us see if there is any
here that needs concern us. Speak, Bjorn the Black.”

Bjorn did a slow turn, meeting as many of the eyes
that were riveted on him as he could. He wished for
Rika’s gift, for her facility with words and the ability to
send images to her listeners, but the bald facts
plainly told would have to suffice. In spare strokes, he related the story of his fight with Fenris the Walker and the big man’s dying confession.

“A fanciful tale,” Gunnar interrupted. “My brother
has been bewitched by that woman.” He glared at
Rika. “She styles herself a skald. No doubt she has
concocted this fantasy.”

“I am Jorand of Sogna, son of Orn. I was witness to
this fight.” Jorand stepped forward. “It happened just
as Bjorn the Black said. Fenris confessed as he lay dying and named the man who gave him a silver arm
band as the one who struck Harald of Sogna the fatal
blow. I do not think a man will step idly into the next
world with a lie on his lips.”

“Bjorn the Black is Jorand’s captain,” Gunnar said. “
A man will say anything for his captain’s sake.”

“It is true that he is my captain and I will add to
that. Bjorn the Black is also my friend.” Jorand’s voice
filled the hall. “But I am not oath-bound to him. My words are my own, and upon my honor, my testimony
is true.”

“This armband of which you speak, do you have it with you?” the Lawspeaker asked.

“We do,” Bjorn said. Watching the blood rush from
his brother’s face made Bjorn’s gut churn with a thrill, an anticipation of victory. He clamped the feeling down. He was sure his brother was not finished yet.
Ornolf presented the armband for Domari to examine.

“I am Ornolf TrueAx,” he said. “I gave this arm
band to my nephew, Gunnar Haraldsson, on his wedding day. Entwined serpents are the device Gunnar
had chosen for himself. You’ll find there is an inscription on the inside.” He fingered the runes and then left
the band in Domari’s hand as he turned to eye Gunnar. “I was sad to see it again in Miklagard and to hear that
it had purchased the death of my brother.”

“A man can lose an armband,” Gunnar protested to
Domari. “Besides, surely you see that this is just a case of jealousy. Second sons must stick together. Isn’t that
right, Uncle?” Emboldened by the Lawspeaker’s si
lence, Gunnar strode forward. “All they have is the word of an oath-breaker, the lies of his admitted friend, and a long-lost piece of finery, which I will claim again as mine. The rest is no better than a tale to frighten children on a winter’s night.”

Domari frowned down at the armband. “Is this all?”

“No.” Bjorn drew out the Galata sword and held it up in the flickering light. “This is the sword of Fenris
the Walker. As you can all see, it’s a fine blade, but it
has a flaw.” He ran a finger along the flat, careful to
avoid the razor-sharp edge. “The sword of my father,
Harald of Sogna, left a nick too deep to grind out. This
blade left a similar nick in my father’s steel as well.” He narrowed his eyes at Gunnar. “Come, brother.
Draw our father’s sword and let us see if the faults are
a match.”

“Only to send you to Hel, little brother,” Gunnar
roared. He whipped out his sword and slashed it down
on Bjorn in a deadly arc. Bjorn met the blow with the
Galata.

At a signal from the Lawspeaker, men leaped to grab
both Bjorn and Gunnar’s arms and immobilize them.

“Let no blood be shed in this house,” Domari said. “
The
Jarl
of Sogna has chosen trial by combat. So be it.
Prepare for the
holmgang
and let the challenge begin before another torch burns itself out.”

 
“I want you to leave now,” Bjorn said to Rika as he hefted the light wooden shield. Two others lay at his
feet for use when the first was shattered by a blow. “
Take Jorand and steal Ketil away during the confusion. Then all of you make for someplace safe.”

“And where would that be?” Rika asked, as she eyed
Gunnar across the
holmhring.
The
jarl
had a good thirty pounds on Bjorn. “There is no place in all
Midgard for me without you. Either we all leave to
gether or none of us do.”

The
holmhring
was nearly finished. A large cloak
had been pegged to the earth with three concentric squares etched into the dirt around it. Ropes were strung from hazel poles at each of the four corners of
the outer square, enclosing a fighting area only twelve feet across on each side. Bjorn and his brother pulled
their tunics over their heads. No mail or hardened
leather was allowed. According to the rules of the
holmgang,
once the three shields of soft linden wood were destroyed, a man’s only defense was his sword.

“Besides, you need Jorand as your second,” she said.

Bjorn frowned. “You are a thoroughly disobedient wife.”

“And likely to stay that way.”

“Rika, please—”

She pressed her fingertips against his mouth. “No,
love. I can’t desert you. Don’t ask it of me.” An ache
centered in her chest. Bjorn was
still
well under his
fighting weight, and she knew he was exhausted from the breakneck pace they’d set trying to make it to Uppsala in time. Gunnar was sleek and rested, the firm
muscles in his chest and arms standing out in stark definition under his smooth skin. Despite everything,
Rika forced a smile. “You can take that pea-balled troll
any time.”

Bjorn bent to her, his lips lingering over hers. When
he pulled back, his soul shone in his eyes,
radiating love for her.

“You warned me,” he said. “We’ve lived quite a love
story, haven’t we? A maidensong holds as many dan
gers as pleasures, you said.”

“So I did.” She wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. “But I didn’t know at the time
that the pleasures would be well worth the risk.”

He chuckled. “Ah, Rika, they are indeed. I do love
you, girl.” Bjorn ran a hand over her crown.

“And I you.”

“In the winters to come, remember me,” he whispered into her ear.

“In the winters to come, we will tell our maidensong
to our children and our children’s children,” she said
evenly. “They’ll never believe it’s not a skald’s tale. You
must win, Bjorn.
I’ll
not forgive you if you don’t get me
with child.”

Bjorn nodded, his crooked smile deepening the dim
ple in his cheek. Then his dark eyes hardened and he
turned back toward the
holmhring
to face his mortal
enemy. His brother.

“This combat is enjoined to determine the guilt or innocence of Gunnar Haraldsson in the matter of the
murder of his father, Harald of Sogna.” Domari’s
deep tone rang into the night sky.

The moon had risen over the treetops, but Rika
wouldn’t let herself think about Ketil’s fate when the silver disc reached its zenith. She focused on Bjorn
and prayed. If Dominic was right, if this new God did
indeed love them, she prayed He would show that love
right now.

“The right of the first blow belongs to the
Jarl
of
Sogna,” the Lawspeaker said. “Let the
holmgang
begin and let no man interfere.”

Bjorn and Gunnar both struck their shields with the
flat of their swords and stepped onto the cloak. Bjorn
flexed his knees, preparing to meet his brother’s attack.

Gunnar raised his arm and, grunting with effort,
crashed his sword down on Bjorn. The shield absorbed most of the blow, but it cracked down the middle.
Only the leather strap around Bjorn’s forearm stopped it from falling to ground in pieces. He tossed it aside and Jorand lofted a second shield to him.

Rika caught herself tensing and holding her breath.
She forced air in and out of her lungs, willing her heart
not to leap from her chest. Across the
holmhring,
she
saw Astryd, her face shimmering with hate. If Bjorn
lost, Rika knew Astryd expected to take her as a drudge once more.

Bjorn brought his heavy sword down on his brother,
but Gunnar’s shield glanced the blow to the side, leaving
his protection still intact. It was Gunnar’s turn again.

There was no strategy to the
holmgang,
no method
for winning other than brute strength and endurance
as the combatants exchanged blows. Bjorn staggered
back a pace under the brunt of an attack, one of his feet leaving the cloak.

“He gives ground!” The shout went up from all the
onlookers and Bjorn scrambled back onto the cloak
ready to continue combat. To let both feet leave the
cloth-covered area would be to invite the shameful cry of “He flees!”

Rika closed her eyes, a knot in her throat making it
difficult to swallow. She couldn’t bear to watch. The
sound of splintering wood, the low grunts of exertion,
and then the clang of steel on steel made her open her eyes again.

She gasped. All three of Bjorn’s shields were in tatters, but Gunnar still had one left.

“You should have left it alone, little brother.” Gun
nar’s face stretched into a macabre smile. “The winner
takes all in the
holmgang,
you know. Of course, all
you’ve got is that little redhead, but don’t you worry.”
Gunnar swung his sword in a wide arc, an easy swing,
just toying with Bjorn. “After I finish you, I’ll go watch the sacrifice. Then I’ll take care of the skald for you. And when I’m tired of her, I’ll pass her around to my men.”

Rika felt Al-Amin crowd close behind her. The eu
nuch rested his meaty hand on her shoulder. She shiv
ered. However much Al-Amin might try, he wouldn’t
be able to protect her from Gunnar if Bjorn fell in the
square. But if Bjorn died, the flickering lamp of her
soul would wink out with him. She would cease to care what happened to her anyway.

“Doesn’t it bother you that I’ll have your whore?”
Gunnar said tauntingly, trying to goad his brother into
a poor stroke.

The muscle in Bjorn’s cheek ticked, but he still
didn’t move. Rika knotted her fingers together and
gnawed her lower lip.

When the blow came, it was so fast, Rika’s gaze
could barely follow it. Bjorn feinted toward Gunnar’s
remaining shield, then slashed upward to meet his sword squarely. The lengths of steel rasped against
each other toward their hilts as Bjorn stepped into the
swing.