Chapter Twelve: Orka

CHAPTER TWELVE

ORKA

Orka stood beside Virk. She held a shield loosely in her fist, given over at Sigrún’s order by one of the Jarl’s drengrs. Two more shields were leaning in the grass against a tree. Virk stood patiently, his hand resting upon the axe in a loop on his belt. They watched silently as men and women laid and pegged hazel rods to the ground, marking the square that Virk and Guðvarr would fight in. Guðvarr stood on the far side of the square, glowering at Virk, the drengr woman who had accompanied him to Orka’s steading leaning close, whispering in his ear.

“Arild is telling him how to kill me,” Virk said. It seemed to amuse him. Much of his rage and tension had evaporated, now that he was set on this course. Orka had seen that in old warriors, before. He smiled at her. “You are my second; should you not be giving me advice on how to win?”

“Put your axe in his skull,” Orka said.

Jarl Sigrún walked to Guðvarr and leaned close to him, her mouth moving.

“Everyone is telling him how to kill you,” Orka commented.

Virk barked a laugh.

Guðvarr stepped away from Sigrún, a scowl on his face.

A hand tugged at Orka’s sleeve and she looked down to see Breca.

“What are they doing, Mama?” he asked, looking at the warriors laying out the cut-down hazel rods.

Orka squatted beside Breca.

“This is a holmganga,” she said. “A ritual duel used to settle disputes. It is done this way, so that it is fair, and so that the kin of the losing party cannot claim weregild or blood feud.”

Breca nodded slowly at that. “Why the hazel rods?”

“They fight within the square. If one of them puts a foot over a hazel rod then he has yielded, two feet over and he has fled. Holmganga is the old tongue for going to the island. It was thought that a fight on an island was better, if you could find one, because there is no running away. That means the matter is more likely to be dealt with quickly. If someone runs, then the other must hunt. As we are already on an island, Guðvarr’s challenge can take place here.”

Breca nodded, taking it all in. “And why has Virk been given three shields?”

“It is part of the rules,” Orka said. “If a shield is destroyed, there will be a pause while it is replaced. Three shields broken, well…” she shrugged. “You deserve to lose.”

“Ready,” a voice called out, Jarl Sigrún stepping into the hazel square, her warrior-thrall at her shoulder. She beckoned for Virk and Guðvarr to join her.

“Fight well. Don’t die.” Breca said to Virk as he stepped into the square.

“Stay close to your father,” Orka said to Breca as she followed Virk.

“The rules of holmganga abide here,” Sigrún said as they reached her. “You must agree: first wound, submission, or death.” She gave Guðvarr a hard look. He glared back at her, then looked away.

“Submission,” he mumbled.

Ah, that is what Jarl Sigrún was whispering in his ear, then, Orka thought.

“A wise choice,” Sigrún said. “I would rather the people of Fellur fight our enemies, not each other.”

Sigrún looked at Virk.

“Agreed,” he said, though he looked disappointed.

“Good,” Sigrún nodded. “Then fight.”

Jarl Sigrún and her thrall stepped out from the square as Orka handed Virk the shield in her fist. He took it, hefted it first, checking its weight.

“How is it?” Orka asked him, knowing that this was the injured arm that had kept him on land and out of his fishing boat.

“Fine,” Virk grunted, though he was quick to drop his arm, holding the shield loosely at his side. He slipped his axe from his belt and gave it a lazy circle with his wrist. A farmer’s axe, made for fence-building and woodwork, but its blade was sharp and it looked well balanced.

It will cleave a skull as well as a timber post.

Orka leaned close to him.

“Cut him quick. He doesn’t have the stones to see his own blood leaking from his skin,” she whispered to Virk and then she was walking away, stepping over the hazel rods and standing beside Virk’s sons. Thorkel and Breca were close, the crowd packed tight, excitement a tremor in the air. Virk just nodded at Orka’s words, his eyes fixed on Guðvarr now, who was taking his shield from his second, Arild. Then she was stepping from the hazel square and Guðvarr was drawing his sword. A fine blade, Orka noted, its pommel three-lobed, hilt bound with leather and silver wire.

“Do you know how to use that, weasel-turd?” Virk said.

Guðvarr’s face twisted and he ran at Virk, who stood waiting. A heavy, overhand swing from Guðvarr and Virk raised his shield and stepped back, taking the power from Guðvarr’s blow. Guðvarr followed Virk with a flurry of wild swings, Virk stepping away from each one, taking the blows on his shield, the rawhide rim sliced, slivers of wood spraying.

Looking at the two warriors it was easy to think that Guðvarr would soon have Virk on his knees. Virk wore no mail or leather, just a woollen tunic and under-kirtle, had an injured arm and was a fisherman by trade, whereas Guðvarr was young, dressed in a fine brynja and held a sword in his fist. And he was a drengr, a position held by proven warriors who were battle-trained.

But Guðvarr had seen little battle, or none, Orka thought. Though he does have some sword craft.

Orka noted how he maintained his balance, even when swinging such heavy blows with his sword, and he held his shield well.

He has spent long hours in the weapons court. But fighting well in training is different from putting steel into another man’s flesh. And his anger is ruling his head.

Another sword blow hacked into Virk’s shield and the fisherman retreated another step, close to the hazel-rod boundary now. Orka saw his face pinch with pain, his shield arm falter.

Guðvarr smiled and took another overhand swing at Virk’s head.

Virk took the blow on his shield and twisted his arm, guiding Guðvarr’s sword wide and down, chopping into turf. A side-shuffle to the right from Virk as Guðvarr stumbled forwards, off balance, and Virk chopped with his axe into Guðvarr’s shoulder. There was a crunch of iron as brynja rings sprayed, and a spurt of blood and yelp of pain from Guðvarr as he fell forwards, dropping his sword and crashing to his knees, tangled in his shield and falling on to his face.

Shouts sounded from the crowd, Virk’s sons yelling their voices hoarse.

Guðvarr squirmed on the ground, ripped his arm free of his shield and twisted on to his back as Virk stood over him, the fisherman’s face twitching with elation and the battle-joy. He raised his axe and Guðvarr lifted an arm over his face, squealing.

“To submission,” Guðvarr squeaked.

Virk’s arm hovered, lowered.

“You have fled, weasel-turd,” Virk snarled at Guðvarr, nodding at where the drengr lay sprawled the wrong side of the hazel rods.

Guðvarr’s face twisted with shame and pain as he tried to reach for his sword; he whimpered as his arm flopped, the axe wound in his shoulder having severed muscle.

Virk kicked Guðvarr’s sword away. “You are nothing but a niðing weasel-turd,” Virk shouted loud. “Now, say it: you submit to me, weasel-turd.”

Guðvarr glared up at him.

“Say it,” Virk snarled.

“You are the niðing,” Guðvarr spat up at him. “Win or lose, this changes nothing. You will always be a worm beneath my feet.”

Virk stood there a moment, Guðvarr’s words sinking deep. A ripple of twitches flickered across Virk’s face, then he snarled as he bared his teeth and raised his axe high.

Guðvarr screamed as the axe slashed down at his head.

Jarl Sigrún screamed.

Orka bunched her legs, leaping to knock Virk away from Guðvarr.

A glimpse of something in Orka’s peripheral vision, then a body crashed into Virk before Orka could reach him, hurling Virk to the ground. Orka stumbled through the space where he had just been standing. She staggered on a few paces, then righted her footing and turned, staring at the ground.

Virk was thrashing, fighting something that lay on top of him.

Guðvarr was dragging himself away with his uninjured arm.

Orka blinked and squinted at Virk, trying to understand. Then a body snapped into focus, laying entwined with Virk.

It was the warrior-thrall, her two seaxes in her fists, stabbing a savage flurry of blows into Virk’s torso. He screamed, blood spraying.

The thrall spat and snarled in Virk’s face, her seaxes carving into him, blood drenching the ground, all around staring. Breca was close, open-mouthed and wide-eyed.

Virk’s axe fell from his fingers and his arms flopped, head lolling, screams fading to a hiss.

The thrall stopped stabbing, white froth edging her lips, her eyes amber-hued. Her jaws opened wide revealing teeth that were abruptly sharp, and she let out a bestial snarling sound and lunged forwards, her mouth clamping on to Virk’s face, tearing, rending.

Orka burst into motion, feet slipping as she threw herself at the thrall, a voice in her head screaming at her to stop, saying that Virk was already dead, that there was nothing to do.

No, Orka snarled back at herself as she moved. I am his second and he fought well. He won; he does not deserve this dishonour. To be mauled.

A few paces separated her and the thrall, and then another figure stepped forwards, tall and broad, and kicked the thrall in the ribs. There was a tearing sound of flesh as the kick lifted the thrall into the air, ripping her jaws free of Virk’s face. She flew through the air a half-dozen paces, rolled, then came out of it in a half-crouch, amber eyes blazing, searching for her assailant.

It was Thorkel.

He stepped over Virk’s body and set his feet.

The thrall bared her teeth at him, blood dripping.

“The man is dead; your task is done, Ulfrir-kin,” Thorkel said.

The thrall leaped at him, her seaxes still in her fists.

“NO,” a voice yelled, sounding like Jarl Sigrún to Orka, who was still moving, level with Virk’s body now.

Thorkel side-stepped the leaping thrall and threw a punch into her head as she passed him, sending her careening to the ground. At the same time he grunted as one of the thrall’s seaxes slashed at his body, a red line appearing through his torn tunic.

White rage exploded in Orka’s head and she threw herself at the thrall.

“NIðUR, Á JÖRðU, HLŸDDU MÉR,” a voice bellowed. A flash of red burst through the thrall’s collar and she screamed and collapsed to the ground, limbs twitching.

Something grabbed Orka, hands pulling her, and she turned and thrashed, snarling, to fight the arms wrapping around her.

“It’s me, it’s me,” a voice said in her ear, over and over: Thorkel’s voice, melting the cold-fire in her head.

“Mama, Mama,” Breca was crying.

Deep, ragged breaths and Orka felt the rage drain; saw Thorkel’s face pressed tight to her.

“All right,” she exhaled and Thorkel stepped back, nodded at her.

Orka looked around and saw Virk’s sons, Mord and Lif, crouched beside their father, the crowd in the clearing all staring. She put a hand to Thorkel’s side; her fingers came away red.

“You are cut,” she said.

“A scratch,” he growled, his eyes shifting from Orka to the thrall.

Jarl Sigrún stood over the thrall, her mouth a tight line. Drengrs had filled the hazel square, weapons drawn.

“I told you to stop him, not kill him,” Jarl Sigrún said, her voice cold and hard as iron.

The thrall glared up at her, her eyes still amber, her teeth sharp and red.

“You are my thrall, you will obey me,” Sigrún said, but the thrall’s eyes glared their amber-hued defiance, her lips curling back in a snarl.

“Brenna, sársauki,” Sigrún said: another flash of red veins through the thrall-collar and the thrall whined. The amber faded from her eyes, and there was a ripple through her jaw and lips, her teeth losing their edge.

“Brenna, sársauki,” Sigrún repeated, louder, harder: red fire glowed in the heart of the iron collar and the thrall thrashed and yelped, like a hound tied to a stake and beaten.

“Mercy, lord,” the thrall hissed. “I serve you,” she groaned, and crawled towards Jarl Sigrún, touching her forehead to the jarl’s boots.

Jarl Sigrún nodded, then looked up from the thrall to Virk’s body. His sons were kneeling beside him, weeping.

“Give us justice,” the older one, Mord, said to Jarl Sigrún.

“Your father broke the holmganga,” she said. “All at this Althing heard: Virk and Guðvarr agreed to fight to submission. Guðvarr submitted, and yet Virk lifted his blade for a death-wound.”

“He was goaded by that… niðing,” Lif, the younger son said, pointing at Guðvarr.

“Be careful, child,” Guðvarr said, back on his feet now, Arild binding his shoulder, “else I shall challenge you to holmganga, too.”

“Silence,” Jarl Sigrún snapped at Guðvarr, who looked sulkily away.

“Virk broke the holmganga, so justice has been done,” Sigrún said to Lif and Mord. “Though…” she glanced at the thrall and shook her head. “Wrap your father’s body and take him from here.” She looked up at the gathered crowd. “The Althing will break awhile, to allow Virk’s kin to do what is proper.”

“Help me get them out of here, before they get themselves killed,” Thorkel said quietly to Orka as he strode over to Virk’s two sons.

“Here,” Thorkel said, unfastening the pin of his brooch and laying his cloak across Virk.

Orka grabbed Breca’s hand and pulled him with her, and together they helped Mord and Lif to wrap Virk’s body.

When they were done, the four of them lifted Virk’s body on to their shoulders and carried him from the clearing, Mord and Lif weeping quietly. As they turned a bend in the path Orka looked back. The crowd were raising the hazel rods and filling the square, heated conversations spiralling, a space left around the dark patch of Virk’s blood. Sigrún was talking to Guðvarr, and the thrall was sitting at Sigrún’s feet. She was watching Orka and the others, and at the same time she raised one of her seaxes to her mouth and licked the blood from it.