Chapter Fifty: Elvar

CHAPTER FIFTY

ELVAR

Elvar shrugged her shield from her back and hefted it. All about her the Battle-Grim were doing the same as Ilska’s Raven-Feeders spilled over the ridge.

“To me,” Agnar called, warriors moving, checking weapons, buckling helms. Elvar saw Agnar appraising the land. He shouted orders and warriors were jumping on to the driving benches of the carts, cracking whips and reins, the carts rolling into a new position.

“HERE, ON ME!” Agnar yelled, standing between the carts and the huge mound that Elvar thought was Ulfrir-wolf. The Battle-Grim drew up behind Agnar, roughly two rows of twenty warriors, Agnar in the centre of the front row. Elvar pushed through to stand at his left, Grend taking his place at Elvar’s side, his shield hanging loose. She saw Huld and Sólín in the front row, sword and long seax in their fists, and felt Biórr’s hand on her shoulder behind her. She glanced back and smiled at him, though he looked grim, the flutter of coming battle in his eyes, fear and anger mixed. There was a tremor in his spear. Warriors with long-axes and spears stood in the second row, with more room for stabbing or hacking over the heads of those in the front.

“What’s happening?” Sighvat called out, struggling in his bonds, trying to twist his head.

Agnar unbuckled the brooch of his bearskin cloak, folded it over his arm and walked to the nearest wagon, carefully draped it over the cart’s bench, then walked back to the centre of their line.

Behind them Elvar heard Vörn moving, the unsettling rustle and creak of branches. The Froa-spirit was climbing up on to the head of her dead mother.

“A battle? Excellent,” Vörn said as she sat and made herself comfortable from her vantage point. “You have no idea how boring the last three hundred years have been.”

“A battle!” Sighvat cried. “Let me up.” He struggled, twisting and writhing.

“Be silent, fat man,” Vörn called down to him. A muttered word from her and a vine snaked over his mouth and pulled tight.

Ilska and her warriors were closer, now, and the Battle-Grim stood in silence as they approached through the snow, across the plain of ash and bones. Fifteen riders rode at their head, all in oiled brynjas, all with raven-black hair. Maybe three-score warriors marched after them, and behind them rolled a dozen carts, warriors sitting on their benches, linen covers stretched upon the cart-bed’s frames, hiding what was held within.

Ilska rode at their head, black hair wind-whipped behind her, like her raven-winged banner. She wore a fine brynja and held a spear in her fist, her sword and helm hanging at her belt, a dark cloak across her shoulders and a round shield slung across her back. Either side of her rode two men, both in coats of mail, both dark haired, like Ilska, the look of kin about them.

Brothers to Ilska?Elvar wondered. One of them Elvar had seen before, standing in the stern of the Raven-Feeders’ drakkar as it had rowed out of Snakavik’s harbour: a warrior, tall and hulking, with the sides of his head shaved like Agnar’s and a long-axe in his fist. That axe was slung over his back now. The other warrior was black-haired and hunched with muscle, clothed in mail with a hand-axe hanging at his belt. His face had four livid scars running through it, as if he had been clawed by a bear.

Ilska raised a hand and the riders reined their mounts in, the warband and carts behind them rippling to a halt. The warriors spread behind her, forming a loose line, wider and deeper than the Battle-Grim. Ilska dismounted, handing her reins to a warrior in the line behind her and walked forwards, the two men either side of her dismounting and following after her.

Agnar stepped forwards to meet them.

Elvar scowled. She was used to seeing Sighvat at Agnar’s shoulder, and seeing him walk out alone seemed wrong. Without thinking she stepped out of the line and strode after him. There was a moment’s gap, and then she heard the pad of Grend’s footfalls behind her. And then another pair of feet. She glanced back and saw Biórr following after her, concern on his face. Elvar liked it.

Ilska stopped and waited.

Close up, she was older than Elvar had realised. She had deep lines around her eyes.

“Surrender to me and I shall allow you and your warriors to live,” Agnar said as he reached her, a grin on his face.

Ilska looked at him, hard and cruel. She snorted a laugh, but there was little humour in it.

“Your days are done, Agnar Broksson, chief of the Battle-Grim,” she said, her face flat, her voice emotionless. “Step aside or die.” She shrugged.

“I was here first,” he replied, still smiling, as if he were just chatting over a game of tafl. “Besides, I am glad that you are here. I have sworn a blood oath to find you, so you have made my task easy.” He raised his hand, looking at the white scar that wound around it, then looked over his shoulder at his warband. “My oath will be fulfilled to you this day,” he said to Uspa.

The Seiðr-witch dipped her head to him, then stepped around the warband and walked to them.

“Ilska,” she said, a familiarity in her voice, and a hatred. “My son?”

“He lives, Uspa,” Ilska said.

“Give him back.”

“No. He will change the world. As you could have done.”

“It is not the way,” Uspa said, a deep sorrow in her voice. “Please, do not do this.”

“Enough,” Agnar barked at Uspa. “There will be no pleading, no bargaining. We will take your boy back from these niðing child-stealers,” he said, his smile gone, iron and steel in his voice. He looked over Ilska’s shoulder to her warband and sniffed. “My Battle-Grim will make a fine song of this. Of you and your Raven-Feeders.”

“A song that they will not hear sung,” one of the men at Ilska’s shoulder growled, the one with the long-axe. “You and your Battle-Grim will be food for ravens soon enough.”

Agnar shifted his gaze to him, and took his time to look the huge warrior up and down. “Best be silent when your betters are talking,” Agnar said to him.

The man took a step forwards, his hand reaching for his axe. Ilska held a hand up, slapped his chest and he stopped.

“We have work to do and little time to waste,” she said, her eyes flickering to Vörn the Froa-spirit, perched upon her mother’s head, then back to Agnar. “A holmganga to resolve this, Agnar Broksson,” she said.

“You would risk all on a duel, when you outnumber us?” Agnar said, raising an eyebrow.

Elvar was surprised, too. Despite Agnar’s words, it was clear that they were in the weaker position: the Raven-Feeders outnumbered them, and their reputation was formidable, so to suggest a duel that would level the odds to one on one, that seemed foolish.

“I value my people, as no doubt you value yours,” Ilska said. “My Raven-Feeders will win, there is no doubt of that. But this way, the only death on this field will be yours.” She shrugged.

“So, you would fight me?” Agnar said.

“Not I,” Ilska said. “My brother, Skrið, has begged for that pleasure.”

The warrior with the long-axe smiled.

“Him?” Agnar said with a twist of his lips, then he laughed. “I accept.”

“Good,” Ilska said, turning on her heel. “Skrið, make it quick. Drekr, with me,” she snapped at the scarred man. He stood there a moment, looked from Agnar to Elvar, from Grend to Biórr, then gripped his brother’s arm and squeezed it before striding away after Ilska.

Elvar hesitated a moment, then leaned in to Agnar.

“Kill this arseling,” she whispered. “We have a saga-tale to make.”

“I’ll see you after,” Agnar said, not looking at her, his eyes fixed on the bulk of Skrið, and then Elvar was walking away, Grend and Biórr following her.

She settled into Agnar’s position in the front row of the Battle-Grim and looked back. Skrið shrugged his axe from his back, gripped it two-handed and swung it around his head, loosening his shoulders. It hissed through the air, snatching snow into its swirling wake. His dark brynja rippled and gleamed.

Elvar looked along the line of the Battle-Grim and saw the tension and excitement she felt in her own bones mirrored in those about her. Huld held the bear-claw around her neck; Sólín’s white-knuckled hand gripped her sword hilt; Biórr tugged on his neat beard; others were restless, shifting.

Behind them Vörn the Froa-spirit frowned, was sniffing the air.

Agnar had his shield held loosely in his hand. He drew his sword with hardly a sound, the blade shining with the oil and grease from the scabbard’s sheepskin liner. He looked back at the Battle-Grim, saw Elvar and winked at her, then he fixed his gaze on Skrið, set his feet, hefted his shield and gave his sword a lazy turn with his wrist.

“Come on then, big man,” Agnar said. “See if you can earn your battle-fame this day, and stand against Agnar Battle-Grim.”

Skrið’s lips moved into a twisted snarl, and Agnar laughed at whatever the hulking warrior had said. Elvar felt a flush of pride for her chief, for his boldness and wit, even as he must surely feel death’s raven-wings flapping above him. Agnar was not a small man – rather, he was tall and broad – but Skrið towered over him, like a bear over a wolf.

Elvar whispered a prayer, though there were no gods left to pray to.

Except for the dragon beneath her feet.

Let Agnar win. Let Agnar win. Let Agnar win.

The muted pounding beneath the ground beat on, like a war drum keeping time, faster now, as if it sensed the imminence of violence, the proximity of blood and death.

Skrið stepped forwards and swung his long-axe in a great, looping arc.

Agnar stepped away, letting it slice harmlessly through air. He smiled at his opponent.

Skrið did not pause. He strode in after Agnar, quickly for a big man, closing the gap between them, his axe whirling above his head, slicing again, lower. Agnar jumped away this time, stumbled on an ash-covered skeleton and Skrið rushed in, shifting his axe to a two-handed grip. There was a grunt as Agnar raised his shield, fighting for his balance. The axe’s butt cracked into his shield, hard enough to smash a door from its hinges, sending Agnar stumbling back another few paces. Skrið followed, his hooked axe head darting forwards, catching the shield rim and tugging Agnar towards him. Agnar stumbled forwards and swayed to his left, the axe blade slicing across his cheek, blood leaking, and he chopped with his sword into Skrið’s chest.

Brynjarings sprayed and blood welled, but Skrið just grunted and slammed his axe butt into Agnar’s shield again, sending him staggering back a few paces again, the sound of wood cracking. The axe whirled around Skrið’s head and whistled down at Agnar, who side-stepped to the right, raising his shield. The clang of iron as the axe blade grated off Agnar’s shield boss and deflected, sending the blade chopping into the ground.

Elvar grinned to see it, a move she had seen Agnar perform on the training field countless times. It was perfectly executed. She knew what Agnar would do next, even as the axe blade hacked into the ground with a burst of ash and earth.

Agnar pivoted on a heel and stepped in close, slamming his shield into the big man’s face and slicing his sword across Skrið’s thigh as he stepped away, out of range again.

Skrið stumbled back, spitting blood from his bloodied mouth.

A gasp erupted from the Raven-Feeders, a cheer from the Battle-Grim.

“I can almost hear the skálds singing,” Agnar said, a smile on his face as he followed Skrið, who retreated a few steps, limping, blood sheeting down his breeches from the cut in his thigh, just below the links of his mail coat. “Of the death of Skrið the Witless, the giant who thought he could kill Agnar Fire-Fist.”

He moved in on Skrið with small steps, left and right, always closing in, and Skrið shuffled back a few paces.

Elvar grasped Grend’s arm, the scent of Agnar’s victory so close. She glanced beyond Agnar and Skrið and saw Ilska and her brother, Drekr, watching. Ilska looked almost disinterested.

Skrið stopped retreating and straightened. Smiled with bloodied teeth. Elvar frowned. Something… changed about him. He looked at Agnar and hefted his axe. A glint of red flashed from his eyes.

Agnar hesitated.

“He is Tainted,” Elvar hissed.

Skrið moved, surging forwards more quickly than Elvar could follow, his axe swinging, too fast for Agnar to side-step, too powerful to defend against. Agnar raised his shield and took the brunt of the blow, the axe bursting through the linden-wood in an explosion of splinters, slicing into his arm. Skrið ripped the blade free in a spray of wood and blood, dragging Agnar with it. Agnar’s shield was rent, half-shattered in his fist. He stabbed with his sword, a short, powerful blow, but Skrið was already twisting away, Agnar’s blade grating sparks across Skrið’s mail. A short chop from Skrið, two-handed with his axe and the blade bit into Agnar’s shoulder, ripped down his chest, mail links shattered, a spurt of blood and a scream as Agnar dropped to his knees, sword falling from his grip, shield arm hanging limp. He stared up at the man towering over him, axe raised.

“Food for ravens,” Skrið snarled and swung his axe.

Agnar dragged his seax from its scabbard and stabbed down into Skrið’s foot. The big man bellowed, stumbled, his axe swinging wide, whistling past Agnar’s shoulder. At the same time Agnar rammed his shattered shield up, long splinters stabbing into Skrið’s throat, bursting out of the back of his neck.

Skrið slumped and gurgled, blood jetting, and with a bellow Agnar heaved him away, Skrið toppling to the side, ash exploding around him, settling back upon him as he lay gasping and twitching beside Agnar.

A silence settled over the plain, snow falling, ash swirling.

Elvar screamed and punched the air with her spear, the Battle-Grim letting out a triumphant roar, banging weapons on shields.

“AGNAR,” they yelled. “AGNAR!”

Agnar moved, half-rose, then slumped back down to his knees, gasping.

Ilska stared, face pale and twitching. Her brother beside her stood with his mouth open, stunned. Ilska took a step towards Agnar.

Elvar stepped out of the line and started to walk to him, then to run.

Behind her Vörn shouted something.

She heard the sound of feet behind her, Grend following, and Biórr.

“DRAGON-BORN!” Vörn shouted, and Elvar’s footsteps faltered. She stopped, turned and looked at Vörn.

The Froa-spirit was standing upon her mother’s head, pointing at the corpse of Skrið, her hair rippling like branches in the wind.

“DRAGON-BORN,” she yelled. “I SMELL YOUR BLOOD. CHILDREN OF LIK-RIFA, YOU SHALL COME NO CLOSER!”

Elvar stared, uncomprehending for a moment, then she remembered Skrið’s eyes glinting red, his unnatural speed and strength.

He was Tainted: dragon-born. But… they do not exist.

Grend reached her and slowed to stand with her, Biórr running on to Agnar.

Elvar turned, stared at Skrið’s dead body lying in the ash beside Agnar, then at Ilska and Drekr, both striding towards Agnar.

They are kin, she thought: Ilska, Skrið, Drekr. She looked at the others who had ridden in behind Ilska, another score of warriors, all with crow-black hair. All of them are dragon-born.

Ilska stopped, staring at Vörn. She turned, waved a hand in the air and the carts at the back of their warband began to move, their drivers guiding them wide, around the warband, towards Vörn and the blasted remnants of the great tree. As they moved the linen sheets covering their cargo were ripped away, revealing scores of people sitting on benches in the cart’s beds. Children. Iron collars glinted around their necks.

“Bjarn!” Uspa cried out.

Biórr reached Agnar and stood over him, the Battle-Grim’s chief raising an arm to the young warrior, his mouth moving as he said something.

Biórr raised his spear and stabbed it down, into Agnar’s open mouth, down into his throat, and ripped it out. Blood sprayed, Agnar swaying, falling backwards.

Elvar screamed.