Chapter Twenty-Four
Steel struck steel. Bellows rang as father and son fought for supremacy. Men yelled, fists beating the air, the same as when they cheered Ivar the Blacksmith’s wrestling matches. But this was no friendly contest. Red stained Vlad’s tunic. The father swung his sword with all his might, snarling at his son. Sweat and spittle sprayed off his face, but Rurik blocked the blow with his shield.
Lady Brynhild’s ice-blond head dipped in conversation with Astrid, her cool green speculation on Rurik. Hot bile churned in Safira’s belly. They were far away but she seethed over the woman’s possessive stare. It ate her insides. Fear did too.
Skin-numbing, icy cold fear.
Death’s shade lurked in the skies ready to swoop in and take a Viking.
Swords arced and mud splattered. Rurik gritted his teeth, slicing Fenrir down, knocking a chunk of wood off Vlad’s shield. This was a bloodlust fight to the end. One man would die. Onlookers cringed as thunder cracked and rain fell from the heavens. It pelted Rurik’s face. Arms spread wide, he roared to his gods and kicked the back of Vlad’s thighs. The older man’s legs buckled and his knees hit the ground.
Rurik stared down at Vlad, encircling him, prowling...the line of his mouth, cruel and violent. It was worse than what he wore when he nearly killed Sothram.
“He looks like he wants to kill Vlad,” she whispered to Erik.
“He does.”
Gunnar and Thorvald watched, faces grim and arms folded across their chest. Thorfinn fingered an amulet hanging from his belt, his smile a fierce show of teeth. None had sympathy for Vlad. None.
Safira pushed back the side of her hood for a view of Soren’s hourglass. “Bjorn. Can you see the hourglass? Tell me this is done. Rurik needs attending.”
He grabbed her arm. “Stay. Put.”
“Look at them,” she cried.
She strained against Bjorn’s hold, but his big hand banded her arm. Rurik was the clear victor, but his body wore marks of battle. Blood streamed down his left arm. His right thigh slashed, the trousers flapping open. The wound congealed to a shade of burgundy.
“Think you can best me?” Teeth clenched, Vlad swayed, his voice rising in the wind. “You were weak as a boy. You’re a weak man.”
Rurik swiped his blade across the side of Vlad’s knee. An artful cut. He did the same on the other knee. The older Viking wobbled, his face a mask of agony. Both legs were riddled with wounds.
“Two more insulting strikes,” Erik said.
The Sons murmured agreement, their feral stares locked on the dwindling battle. Rurik circled Vlad with slow, mocking steps.
Safira couldn’t take her eyes off Rurik. “I don’t understand.”
“Viking warriors go for the legs first,” Erik explained. “Drive your enemy to his knees. Then give him a death blow.”
“But Rurik keeps slashing Vlad’s legs.”
“Grazes, nicks, small jabs. Insults all of them.” Thorvald’s voice swelled with pride beside her.
Gunnar’s chin jutted at the battlefield. “Don’t you see it? Rurik plays with Vlad. No cut goes to the bone.”
“But with so many cuts, Vlad will bleed to death.”
“There’s not a single death blow among them,” Bjorn chuckled behind her. “Rouen is witnessing the better warrior and the better man. Rurik is in complete control.”
Her hazy vision bounced to the jarl standing proudly, both thumbs hooked in his belt. Ademar glanced her way, but it was the tall, icy blonde with cool green eyes whose hostile stare cut her—Lady Brynhild. Rurik’s future wife.
Tremors shook Safira badly enough that the giant of Vellefold said, “You will be out of the cold soon. It is nearly finished.”
The toes of her boots dug in, but Bjorn held her in place. She wanted to run to Rurik. To pull him away from this, to heal his body, and hold him close. What she wanted could never be. Rurik was a Viking warrior destined to marry a Viking woman.
A dry sob welled up. He’d live a lifetime with another woman. Not her.
She wanted to be the one to soothe him from the trouble between father and son.
On the field, the father said words too quiet to hear until...
“You cried yourself to sleep as a boy,” Vlad said for all to hear. “You’re not fit to lead a herd of goats.”
“He’s baiting him with insults,” she murmured.
“And Rurik’s not taking it,” Bjorn said. “Look at him.”
Rain fell harder on the sad smile twisting Rurik’s mouth. The son said not a word to his father. He was ice. Silent. Strong. And brutish. The Rus Viking panted on his knees. Planting a foot in a puddle, he struggled to push himself upright.
“Did you cry when Leif died?”
Rurik stuck Fenrir’s tip under Vlad’s chin. “You are not fit to say his name.”
He still wore his helmet. Vlad had long ago lost his. The iron headwear had rolled to the southern end of the ring after Rurik kicked it away. No one had tried to pick it up. Vlad’s scar flared a beet-red line down his face, and tendons stood out on his neck.
“Is it finished?” Rurik bellowed.
All heads turned to Longsword. Gudrun kept a silent vigil beside him, her staff hidden in blustering skirts. The jarl flicked two fingers to Soren, who raised the hourglass above his head. The top glass bowl was almost empty. A strangled cry caught in Safira’s throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth, her hair whipping across her eyes. Through the strands she looked to the center of the ring.
What happened next was a blur.
“Rurik!” The Sons’ voices rose in unison, their long-boned arms pointing at the field.
An axe flew at Rurik’s head. He dodged it. Safira screamed. Sigurd, Vlad’s red-haired second, charged at Rurik with a war hammer. Rurik jogged two steps back and raised his shield to block the blow.
Wood splintered. A hunk of the red-and-black shield went flying. Sigurd slipped in the mud. He lost his footing and stumbled to one knee. The red-haired warrior scrambled to his feet with a war cry.
Arms spread, Rurik yelled, “Come get me!”
“The jarl! He must stop this!” Safira’s words were lost in the din of battle and weather. “Sigurd means to kill him. Stop this!” She implored Bjorn and Gunnar, but their cheers for death were the fiercest.
Rouen’s thunderous voices rose to the skies. She strained against Bjorn’s hold.
The son of Vellefold barked an order. “Gunnar. Hold her arm.”
“At least go help Rurik fight.” She spat the words. “Look at him. If Vlad gets up, it will be two men to one.”
Erik’s jaw clenched under black whiskers.
“We suspected this would happen.” Disgust rolled off Bjorn’s tongue. “Rurik forbade us from entering the ring. It is for the jarl alone to stop this.”
“You are barbarians. All of you.” Her voice quaked with fury but none paid attention.
Rain blew sideways, stinging her cheeks. Sigurd was quick, pushing up on the balls of his feet. He swung his hammer again. A bottom piece of Rurik’s shield went flying. Vlad levered his shield in the ground and used it to push himself upright.
Sigurd looked to his leader, his laugh cruel. “Cut him down from behind.”
The split-second cost the red-haired warrior. The crowd gasped. Rurik drove the jagged end of his shield into Sigurd’s neck. Blood spurted. More of it gushed across the broken wood, dripping onto the ground. Sigurd wheezed and tottered. His feet slipped. Rurik’s arm swung wide, and with a great heave he bashed Sigurd’s head with the remains of his shield.
Sigurd flopped face down in a puddle. Vlad stood five paces away, slack-jawed.
Beside Sigurd’s outstretched hand, Gudrun’s thick wool thread, once the color of blood, had blackened in Viking mud.