CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO GUÐVARR

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

GUDVARR

G uevarr hurried close to Sigrún, who was calling her drengrs to her, a small bedrock of safety in a swirling sea of sharp steel. When Guevarr had heard the wolf howl his guts had turned to water and he had scrambled for his brynja , tried to slither so quickly into it that mail rings had snared in his beard ring and he had become stuck, become even more terror-filled as the muffled screams of battle had grown ever closer. His aunt had saved him, dragging the brynja up and freeing it, then helping him wriggle back into it.

Now he was keeping as close to Sigrún as he could, as all around him Ulfrir and his warband charged snarling out of the darkness. It was impossible to know what was happening, who was winning, snow falling in great swirls and gusts, veiling everything. Close by Ulfrir and Lik-Rifa were roaring, Rotta squealing, the stone wolves growling. Through the snow Guevarr glimpsed one of the wolves finally drop beneath a barrage of blows from Heein and his trolls. Chips of stone and clouds of ground dust were erupting from the stone wolf as it lay on one side, one of its rear legs completely gone, its side crushed, still snapping and snarling as blows rained down upon its head. Heein roared and smashed his club down two-handed, and finally the wolf was still, its head turned to rubble.

"SHIELD WALL," Sigrún cried and Guevarr looked away from the trolls and wolf, saw a knot of mail-clad warriors coming towards them in a loose pack, a black axe and spear on their red-painted shields. Guevarr stepped in close to Sigrún, locked his shield with hers; looking over his shield rim, he saw the red shields tightening up, locking together.

"Who are they?" Guevarr grunted at Sigrún.

"The Battle-Grim," she said.

Guevarr swallowed. He had heard of them, had enjoyed the tales that skálds told of them. But it was an altogether different thing to be standing in a shield wall against them. He looked over the rim of his shield again.

A huge, red-bearded warrior stood at their centre, a bearded-axe in his fist. To one side of him stood a lean, unkempt man with thinning hair, but it was to the other side of the red-haired warrior that Guevarr's eyes were drawn. An older warrior in a nasal helm, black hair sprinkled with grey. His face was as flat and emotionless as a cliff, but his eyes blazed with a depth of hatred that chilled Guevarr's blood. And he was coming straight at Guevarr.

Warriors set their feet, Guevarr's knuckles white as he gripped his sword. The shield walls clashed together, wood grating, voices grunting, snarling. Guevarr made an attempt to stab over his shield rim and saw the warrior with the hate-filled eyes glowering at him, had his sword contemptuously swatted away and he pulled it back, twisted his head to avoid the savage axe blow that followed it, the blade grating on Guevarr's helm, jarring his neck and setting his head ringing. He decided it was safer to stay behind his shield and just let the man on the other side of his shield wear himself out or get killed by someone else.

Beside him Guevarr glimpsed his aunt snarling and stabbing, saw an axe chop over her shield and she jerked her head away, sliced at the axe haft with her sword.

A blow crunched into Guevarr's shield, shivering through his wrist and up his arm. Another blow, and another.

He must be getting tired , Guevarr thought. Please …

On the fourth blow a crack twisted up the inside of Guevarr's shield, and on the fifth splinters exploded inwards, stabbing into Guevarr's cheek and he yelped. On the sixth there was a ripping sound and Guevarr's shield began to tear apart. The blows came harder and faster now, Guevarr whimpering with each one, his shield splintering, wood spraying, until the axe burst through, and the beard of the blade snared in the iron of the boss. With a roar Guevarr's shield was ripped from his grip and he stood there, staring at the cliff-faced man, who was dragging his axe from the remnants of Guevarr's shield and raising it again.

Guevarr threw himself to the side, crashed into the warrior beside him and sent them both stumbling out from the wall, Guevarr falling to the ground. A spear struck out, stabbing into the throat of the warrior Guevarr had pushed, and the warrior fell, the Battle-Grim stepping over him, pressing into the gap left by Guevarr and the dead warrior, and Sigrún's shield wall was breaking apart.

Guevarr lay on the snow-churned ground, holding the remnants of his shield over him, heard shouts and grunts and screams, glimpsed Sigrún trading blows with the huge, red-haired axe man. Saw Sigrún fall in a spurt of blood, the axe chopping into her shoulder. Heard the thud of running feet and battle cries and a handful of skraeling were there, Krúsa leading them. Krúsa standing over Sigrún and swinging her thick-iron weapon, half sword, half cleaver. Saw Krúsa smash a warrior's shield to kindling, the one Guevarr had seen with the lank, thinning hair, and Krúsa was hacking into the warrior's chest, the man falling to the ground close to Guevarr, his breath rasping, blood foaming on his lips as each breath grew fainter and wider apart. A gurgle that faded to nothing. Another roar, the sound of an axe splitting wet wood and Krúsa's head was spinning through the air, the red-haired warrior smashing her still-standing body to the ground and striding over her corpse, the battle moving on.

Guevarr lay there, hiding, clinging to his shield, the sounds of battle growing fainter, moving away from him. He scrambled up onto all fours, crawled over to his aunt and saw that she was still breathing, a red gash in her shoulder, mail links of her brynja gleaming wetly in the wound.

"Come, aunt," Guevarr said, making his decision. He hooked his hands underneath her arms and lifted her. "We are going . I am getting you out of here and taking you home."

Battle is not for me. I've tried it, and I've had enough. A man can only take so much terror.

He hauled Sigrún a dozen paces, slipped and dropped her. Sucked in deep breaths. Looked at the treeline, not so far away, then at the battlefield, where the steel-storm was raging, warriors fighting, screaming, dying.

No, definitely not for me. He looked down at his aunt, groaning, semi-conscious.

If Lik-Rifa wins, someone will find her, tend to her wounds.

He looked around, found his sword, picked it up, and saw a shield that looked intact enough and swept that up, too. One last glance at his aunt and he began to walk towards the trees.

A figure stepped before him, a man in mail and a steel cap, a shield and spear in his fist. Guevarr recognised him.

"Oh, not you again," Guevarr breathed.

"Guevarr, I am going to slay you for the murder of my father and my brother," Lif said.