I speak for Grima, Berto said, his chin in his chest as he made himself gruff. The fact that he spoke at all in such a way so astounded Balle that he opened and closed his mouth once or twice.
He challenges Balle for the leadership of the Red Brothers, Berto went on. He declares Balle a white-livered son of a sheep, who lets himself be used as a woman every ninth night by those who supported him in throwing Grima into the sea.
There was muttering at that and a hissing sound of sucked in air, for there was no stepping back from that insult. The stillness that followed made the sea-breathing seem to roar and a gull cried out like a lost bairn; the stripling leader raised his head and searched for it.
I take the challenge, Balle said, and after I have won I will not deal kindly with you, Wend.
Then he twisted his mouth in a nasty smile at Grima.
Will you stand up long enough for me to kill you? he asked, knowing Grima was not the one he would have to fight.
The bundle on the throne shifted a little.
No, said the husked whisper, which a trick of wind carried down the beach to a lot more ears than should have heard it. Yet you cannot kill me, Balle. I will live longer than you.
Folk made signs on themselves and Balle had to resist the temptation to cross himself, or touch his Thor Hammer, which would have been as sure a sign of weakness as dropping to your knees and babbling for mercy.
I stand in his place, said the stripling with two spears.
Mar, looking at Balle as the youth spoke, saw the sudden flood of relief wash the man.
He thought it would be the giant, Mar realised, but thinks he can beat the stripling. That is wrong; if the stripling fights a big man like Balle, whose name is a warning since it means dangerously bold, it means he is their best. Better than a giant with a hooked axe. Mar studied the youth more closely now, but saw nothing in him that spoke of greatness, or even of prince. He was a tall youth with tow hair and a spear in either hand, nothing more. It was clear Balle thought this, too.
If you have a god, he growled, low and hackle-raising, you had better ask him for help now.
I have a god, the stripling declared, and I dedicate you to him. I claim the Red Brothers for Grima and you are the price of it. Will you stand aside or fight?
Kaup caught the unease that flickered on Balles face, a moment only, like a flare from a firestarters spark. Enough, all the same. Balle will lose this and the youth already knows it. Yet the little princes face was as innocent as a Christ-nuns headsquare.
Balle spat on his hands, hefted the long axe and rolled his shoulders, which was answer enough. The youth smiled and the delight in his voice was a rill of pleasure.
Odin, hear me take this Balle, as blot for this victory. I, Prince Olaf of the Oathsworn of Orm Bear-Slayer, by-named Crowbone, say this.
There was a rustle, as if a wind had come up and rushed through unseen trees, as men stirred and sighed. Suddenly, the famed Oathsworn were here, launched out of a clear day and a calm sea like Thors own Hammer; Mar looked at Kaup and licked dry lips, for the grim mailed men with horsehair smoking from their helmets were now even more fearsome than before.
Balle, too, felt the chill lick of it, but was instantly ashamed and the anger that brought to him was a forge-fire. He hefted the long axe and calculated the distance between him and the stripling then signalled for Mar to pass over his shield.
Mar paused, then handed it over with a look that flared Balles rage into his face. He would remember that scorn when this was done and then Mar had better look to himself. Overdue for having his head parted from him, Balle thought.
Kaup watched carefully, for he tucked all such matters of these northmen away in the sea-chest of his head and knew that this was no holmgang, with ritual and measured fighting area, but an einvigi, unregulated and unsanctified, which most vicious combats were. It did not rely on any god though Ullr was claimed to be the deity who watched over it but on skill and battle luck only. Once, when his people were young, Kaup knew that they had worshipped false gods, such as Bes and Apedemak, the god of war, who would have presided over such matters as this.
No matter which of the Asgard gods watched here, Kaup had to admit Balle looked the better man with his long axe on one shoulder, and shield held to cover most of himself against the stripling with two short throwing spears. They faced each other on the sand of a nowhere beach, where the tide-birds scurried, beaking up black mud from a strand silvered by the fading light of an old day.
You are a big man, Kaup heard Prince Olaf say said softly to Balle, and no doubt of some value to Grima, once, before Loki visited treachery on you. At half your size, I will still be twice as useful to him and three times the fighter you are.
You are a big man, Kaup heard Prince Olaf say said softly to Balle, and no doubt of some value to Grima, once, before Loki visited treachery on you. At half your size, I will still be twice as useful to him and three times the fighter you are.
Balle blinked a bit, worked the insult out and came up spitting and dragging the axe off his shoulder with one hand, though it was unwieldy like that. Yet everyone saw the battle-clever in Balle, for he was about to rush the stripling who had two throwing spears and a seax snugged across his lap.
The youth would get one spear off, which the shield would take then Balle would throw the shield to one side and close in with the two-handed axe, before the youth transferred his second spear to a throwing hand. Everyone saw it. Everyone knew what would happen except the youth, it seemed.
Balle lumbered forward; the spear arced and smacked the shield hard harder than Balle had imagined, so that he reeled a little sideways with it and saw the point splinter through on his side. A powerful throw, but harmless, ruining only the shield.
With a great roar of triumph, he hurled the speared shield to one side and threw himself forward. He had him; he had the youth, for sure.
Something whirred like a bird wing and there was a sharp tearing feeling in Balles belly, then he tripped and fell, rolled, cursing, scrambling upright and appalled at his bad foot luck. Ready with the axe, he spun in a half circle and almost fell again, looked down and saw a blue, shining rope tangled round his ankles. At the same time as he followed it back to the bloody rip in his shirt and into the very belly of him, a shadow fell and he looked up.
It was the stripling, a thoughtful look on his face and Balle snarled and went to strike, but the axe seemed stuck to the ground. Then something flashed and there was a burning sensation in Balles throat, harsh and fierce enough for him to drop the axe and spin away. He did not want to touch his throat, was afraid to touch it, but thought to get away from the stripling for a moment, get his breath and then work out how to get back in the fight, for it had clearly gone awry.
He could not hear properly and could not catch his breath and there was a terrible gargling, roaring sound; he found himself on the ground, felt a draining from him, like slow water falling, looked down at the huge bib of red that soaked his tunic.
Never get the stains out of that, he thought. My mother will be furious
Crowbone stuck his seax in a patch of coarse sand once or twice, then wiped the rest of the throat-clot off it on Balles tunic sleeve, the only bit that was not already covered in the big mans blood. He felt his left thigh start to twitch and hoped no-one had noticed either that or the fear-sweat that soaked him, stinging his eyes to blinking.
No-one spoke, then the Burned Man walked up with Crowbones second spear, the one that he had thrown with his left hand, the one that had sliced open Balles belly so deftly that the axeman had scarcely even noticed it until he fell over his own insides. He handed it politely to Crowbone and smiled, unnervingly white, out of the great dead-black of his Hel face.
Am I leader here? asked Grima in his hoarse whisper. Men nodded and shuffled.
Am I leader? Grima roared and then they bellowed back that he was. Grima, the roar almost the last breath left in him, slumped back in the makeshift throne and whispered to Berto, who nodded and straightened.
I told Balle I would see his death before mine and so it is and I can let Asgard take me, Berto said and, for all his piping and thick accent, no-one doubted it was Grimas voice. Prince Olaf will be jarl. My silver is his. My ship is his. If you have any clever in you, you will follow him but mark this. The Red Brothers die with me. You swear to him and the Oathsworn now.
Men looked at the so-called prince, a stripling digging his spear point into the sand to clean it. The giant with the hook-bitted axe, grinning, worked the other spear point from the shield, then handed the shield back to Mar.
Sure, he said, there is a fair wee peephole in it now. A good thick leather patch is needed ask Onund if he has some left from fixing our steer oar. He is the man with the mountain on one shoulder. My name is Murrough macMael.
Mar looked thoughtfully at the finger-length gash and then nodded to Murrough.
I will leave it as it is, he answered blankly. The breeze through it will be cooling in the next fight.
The tension hissed away from the beach. The ring-mailed throne-carriers picked up the chair with Grima in it and started back to the knarr; the Red Brothers began to go back in little knots to their fires, but the stripling cleared his throat and they stopped.
He did not say anything, merely pointed once, twice, picking two men. The third time was at the bloody remains of Balle. The men he pointed out hesitated for an eyeblink; Mar stepped in to that, scowling.
Pick him up, he said to the men. He was a Christmann so we will bury him.
He looked at Crowbone. Do you have a priest in your crew?
Crowbone eyed the man up and down, taking in the neat-chopped hair that came down round his ears only, the close-trimmed beard, the cool eyes the colour of a north sea on a raining day. The one, he noted, who had handed his shield to Balle with a look as good as a spit in the eye. A good friend to the Burned Man and the pair of them better on your side than against it. He smiled, for he felt good and the thigh-twitching had ended; he was alive, his enemy was dead and the triumph of it coursed through him like the fire of wine.