Chapter 7
Albrikt Gormson is naught but a violator of sheep and wants only to add you to the flock, Katla, Brandr would have told her if the princess would deign to let him speak. He’d always been a steady judge of character, and in short order, he’d decided Gormson had none.
Desiring a woman was one thing. He completely understood Gormson’s lascivious glances at Katla, even though they made his fingers ball into fists.
But the urge to subjugate, to dominate and control her, was quite another thing. He saw that need flare in Gormson’s eyes more often than raw lust.
This man meant Katla, and the people she cared for, no good.
Brandr stood by, refilling Katla’s drinking horn, and Gormson’s as well, when the man thrust it toward him.
In his mind, he gutted and quartered Albrikt several times, but he guarded his expression with care.
Only the discipline he’d learned in the Varangian Guard allowed him to stand by in silence.
But that didn’t mean there’d never be a time to act. No matter how frustrated he was with Katla, he wouldn’t let Gormson bring her to grief.
“Have you made preparations for the defense of this farmstead?” Gormson asked.
“We have,” Katla said circumspectly. “But we’ve had peace on Tysnes for so long, there’s been little need.”
“There’s every need,” Albrikt said. “I’m a fair hand with a blade. Mayhap you’d like a demonstration. Who’s your best fighter?”
“There’s too much work to be done to chance injuring someone in a mock battle. I won’t risk any of my people.”
Gormson turned and eyed Brandr. “Then risk one who isn’t part of your household.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll take your word for it. No doubt you’re very skilled with a sword.”
“The ear may hear, but the eye believes.” Albrikt leaped up and plowed into Brandr, shouldering past him with enough force to spin him around, nearly knocking him off his feet.
Brandr clutched at the back wall to remain upright, but he bit back a snarl. He was less successful about keeping the torches from flaring brightly around the long room. When he tamped down his anger, they returned to normal.
Katla gaped after Albrikt as he continued to walk another few paces.
Then Albrikt stopped and turned to look back at Brandr. “No challenge? Not a word of rebuke? Do you not care that I just insulted you, thrall?”
Brandr’s eyes blazed. “’Tis not the first time you’ve done me insult, but my collar protects you. A slave cannot issue a challenge.”
He hadn’t forgotten Gormson’s slanderous words about his father.
“And it won’t be the last time you’re insulted, so long as you wear that iron collar,” Albrikt said as he walked back to stand nose to nose with Brandr. “You may as well get used to insults.”
“That’s enough,” Katla said. “Both of you.”
Albrikt didn’t even glance her way. He put both hands on Brandr’s chest and shoved. Brandr stumbled backward a few paces but didn’t fall.
“Aren’t you going to defend yourself?” the big Stordman demanded.
“If I strike you, I strike off my own head.”
“Oh, that’s right. Pity.” Then Albrikt delivered a blow to Brandr’s jaw that sent him sprawling into the dirt.
Katla shrieked but quickly clamped a hand to her mouth when Brandr glanced toward her with mayhem in his eye.
“I have tried to serve you with honor, princess.” Brandr rose to his feet, his jaw rigid. “Will you give me leave to defend myself?”
Katla shook her head. “Albrikt, I insist—”
“Never mind, Katla,” Albrikt said. “He’s as gutless as his father.”
“Why are you trying to anger me?” Brandr asked through clenched teeth.
“To see if it is still possible. Or did they put an iron ring around your ballocks as well?” Albrikt shook his head, curled his lip at Brandr, and spat in the dirt. “You pathetic excuse for a half man.”
The roar that spewed from Brandr’s throat made everyone jump back a pace.
He lunged toward Albrikt, tackling his midsection and sending both of them clattering across the long table in a flurry of flailing arms and legs.
Brandr pounded Albrikt, landing several punches that would leave marks on Gormson’s ribs.
Albrikt returned the blows, sending a ringing cuff that blacked Brandr’s eye.
When they separated enough to rise to their feet, Albrikt drew his dirk.
Katla sucked in a sharp breath. “Stop! This is still my table, and we will have order here.”
“Your thrall attacked me,” Gormson said, swiping the blood that gushed from the broken skin on his brow. “I have a right to demand his blood.”
“So you do,” Katla said, tight-lipped. “But he was provoked, and he’s unarmed.”
Albrikt straightened and shoved the dirk back into its sheath at his waist. “You’re right. Never let it be said the son of Gorm fought an unfair fight. Call it a moment’s truce while this waste of skin finds a weapon suited to him.”
Katla turned to Finn. “He was armed when you enthralled him, I assume.”
“I was,” Brandr answered for him. “A broadsword in a shoulder baldric, and a dagger.”
“Then fetch his weapons, and be quick,” Katla said. “We’ll move this dispute outside.”
Residents of the longhouse spilled into the inky night, bearing torches and forming a circle.
Brandr followed Katla out. The set of her shoulders was rigid and high. She was obviously furious, but she reined in her emotions with admirable control.
He wondered if she was angry with him or with Albrikt. Both, if the scowl she shot in each of their directions was any measure.
“This is my home. My word is second only to the Law, and these are the rules for this holmgang,” she announced in a ringing tone. “This fight is for first blood only.”
“He struck me,” Albrikt said. “I have a right to a kill.”
“Not if you still wish me to consider your suit,” Katla said. “Son of Ulf, if you kill Albrikt Gormson, you will be dealt with according to the Law.”
Even though the penalty for a thrall who killed a freeman was horrific, Brandr was tempted. “Gormson still gets to court you. What do I get if I don’t kill him?”
“If you prove you can show restraint, you’ll be allowed to go armed hereafter,” Katla said. “Do we have an accord?”
Gormson growled his consent.
Brandr nodded. “We have an accord.”
Finn came loping up, bearing Brandr’s weapons. He handed the baldric to him and stepped back into the ring around the combatants.
Brandr drew his sword and made a few practice cuts in the air, testing the blade for weight and balance, in case Finn had ill-used it.
He ran his thumb along the edge. A bead of red welled up on the pad of his thumb.
Brandr gave a satisfied grunt. Then he settled into a fighting stance and bared his teeth at Gormson in a wolfish grin.
“Now we’re even,” Gormson said, determination glinting in his pale eyes. “Though some might still call this an unfair fight, thrall.”
“I’ll take my chances.” Brandr nodded in satisfaction as he circled Gormson, looking for an opening in the Stordman’s defenses.
“You know a woman’s word is worthless once the holmgang begins, don’t you?” Gormson hissed. “If I gut you from balls to breastbone in one stroke, that still counts as first blood, doesn’t it?”
“That’s how I see it.” Brandr feinted left and then struck from the right.
Gormson parried the blow with ease. “Now we have an accord.”
Albrikt was older than Brandr, but he was still a warrior in his fighting prime, with a wealth of experience to aid him. Brandr, however, was blessed with the nimbleness and strength of his younger years and a soul still smarting from Gormson’s insults.
He’d have borne the insults to himself, but he wouldn’t let his father be slandered. The day Brandr’s father wailed like a little maid hadn’t dawned.
They exchanged several ringing blows, but when Gormson pulled his dirk from its sheath, arming both hands, Brandr’s chances dimmed significantly.
Brandr lunged, and Gormson leaped out of the way. But not before his dirk sliced through Brandr’s tunic. Gormson feinted and ran into Brandr’s waiting blade, but he neatly deflected the sharp edge with his own dirk, whirling away unhurt.
There had been a time when combatants in the holmgang would stand toe-to-toe, whacking away at each other with no finesse at all, trusting brute strength to win the day.
Now fighting was more like a macabre dance, full of leaps and quick turns.
They both came close to drawing blood, but Brandr only nicked Gormson’s leather breastplate, and Gormson had only shredded more of Brandr’s disreputable tunic.
Brandr was vaguely aware of the chants of encouragement from the crowd. Einar was taking wagers, shouting out the odds in a loud voice.
He wanted to glance at Katla, but Gormson launched a fresh assault, and his world spiraled down to the next parry, the next thrust.
Keep your feet. Don’t stop moving.
Neither gave quarter nor expected it to be given. Their eyes burned feral. Black berserkr rage stole over them, setting their blood aflame.
It seemed both were tiring, when Brandr changed tactics and let Gormson get close to him. When Albrikt swiped at him, he used his sword hilt to catch the older man’s blade. With a quick flick of his wrist, he wrenched the sword from Gormson’s hand.
Brandr buried his fist in Albrikt’s belly, and the dirk dropped from Gormson’s grip. With his opponent doubled over, Brandr swept Gormson’s legs from under him in a swift kick.
Albrikt landed flat on his back, sucking wind. With a final roar, Brandr brought his blade down suddenly on Gormson’s neck, stopping a hair’s breadth from the older man’s pulsing life vein. Brandr’s chest heaved, and every bit of his blood screamed out at him for stopping short of the actual kill.
The crowd fell into stunned silence. A thrall had bested a freeman, a landed karl. It would take a moment for their world to right itself.
“Do you yield?” Brandr asked between gasping breaths.
“No,” Gormson said between clenched teeth.
“Then I guess I’ll have to blood you.” Brandr pressed down enough to pink Gormson’s neck with a thin mark. He straightened and looked down at Gormson. “Be sure to thank Katla the Black. She’s the only reason you’re still breathing.”