Brandewyne, Rebecca (47 page)

With
that, Ivar stripped off his own cloak and tunic, took up his shield, and drew
his broadsword from the sheath at his back; and as the pale, harsh winter light
caught the blade, it gleamed silvery with menace, its runes writhing in a
macabre dance along its deadly length, the zigging and zagging swirls of its
pattern-welding shimmering like wraiths kneeling to drink from the blood
channel at its heart. Wulfgar shuddered at the sight; and as he remembered the
name of the terrible weapon— Soul-Stealer— a chill settled deep in his bones,
as though a
goose had just walked over his grave. But then he thought of Rhowenna and Leik;
and a strength summoned from some deep, inner source welled inside him, and his
hands tightened on his battle-ax and his shield; his eyes burned with blue
flame.

"Halfdan,
do you join Ivar in this madness?" he asked tersely. "Mean you to
turn your own blade upon me, also, or to strike me in the back during the
battle?"

"Nay,
Wulfgar." Halfdan shook his head. "This is Ivar's game, not mine, I
swear it!"

Ivar
gave a low, scornful snarl at that, his eyes glinting with malice and derision,
as though to taunt Halfdan into forswearing his soul; but Wulfgar merely
nodded, satisfied that he need not fear to feel from behind the unexpected bite
of Halfdan's scramasax or broadsword.

Although
by his compelling it to take place upon an island, Ivar had given some
semblance of formality to the forthcoming duel, it was not truly a
holmganga
in a formal
sense, Wulfgar knew. There was no ring formed by four posts and a rope to limit
the area of combat, beyond which if one of the opponents stepped, he was deemed
to have run away from the fight; no white cloth spread upon the ground at the
center of the ring, to show when blood had been spilled and
so honor
satisfied; no seconds to wield the shields of the swordsman, the axman.
Instead, this was to be a bloody, no-holds-barred conflict, a duel to the
death.

The
sun was a flat, glimmering disk in the sullen sky, its edges as cold and sharp
as the two blades that glittered in its sickly frosted light. Across its face,
grey clouds scudded like billowing mist, as ominous as before a storm, although
these were but the snow-thick clouds of winter, dark and dismal. The wind
soughed plaintively across the harbor, so the thin layer of snow that blanketed
the ground drifted up in streams and swirls, and the sea swelled and surged,
white with foam as the combers rolled in to break upon the island strand.
Spindrift spewed into the air, damp and tangy with salt. Above the sands, wings
outstretched wide, the seabirds soared and called their achingly sweet, forlorn
cries, piercing the silence otherwise broken only by the sigh of the wind, the
rush of the sea. Nearby, Halfdan, Owain the Bard, and Yelkei stood as still and
quiet as a hare whose quivering nose has caught the scent of a predator.

"Ah,
'tis a good day to die, is it not, Wulfgar?" Ivar asked mockingly. He
threw his head back and low laughter emanated from his throat until the sound
abruptly metamorphosed into a mighty battle cry as, without
warning, he
moved, his broadsword streaking forth like a flash of lightning, a lethal
radiance in the dull-grey light.

But
Wulfgar had fully expected some such sudden strike against him, and he was not
taken unaware. The blow smashed down upon his swiftly upraised shield, jarring
him to the bone, even as his own battle cry issued forth, his hand came up, his
battle-ax glinting wickedly in the sun before dealing Ivar's own shield a
fearsome whack that staggered both men and sent them reeling. Recovering,
shouting to Odinn, they charged forward as, blades clashing, the terrible
battle was joined with such ferocity that even Halfdan shuddered. The clang of
metal upon metal echoed across the island and the sea, startling the seabirds,
so they flapped and shrieked in the wind. Again and again, blade and battle-ax
slashed and swung furiously at each other, scraping, clattering, hammering upon
lime-wood shields until they cracked and splintered beneath the horrendous
blows and were violently flung away as useless.

Equally
tall, long of limb, and powerfully muscled, the two men were so evenly matched
that neither could gain the advantage as the conflict raged on; Ivar's
broadsword thrusting, hacking, and parrying; Wulfgar's battle-ax arcing,
swinging, and falling, spinning
deftly in his hands as he suddenly employed the
long haft as a staff, driving the grip end into Ivar's stomach and beneath his
jaw, sending him to stumbling and sprawling back onto the ground. Wulfgar
lifted his blade high, then brought it down with all his might, intending to cleave
Ivar's head in two. But with the flat of his broadsword, Ivar blocked the fatal
blow, using his weapon to shove Wulfgar back so hard that he lost his own
footing and fell. Swiftly regaining their balance, however, both men then
lunged to their feet, standing motionless for a moment, their breathing so
labored that the massive pectorals in their chests heaved and their gasping
breaths blew white clouds of frost into the frigid air. Then the two men began
to circle each other warily before once more shouting their battle cries and
assaulting each other savagely.

Despite
the cold, they were sweating profusely, so their bronze flesh glistened over
their hard, rippling muscles— biceps that bulged and forearms taut and sinewy,
corded thighs and calves that strained and quivered beneath leather breeches.
Long, thin wounds now crisscrossed their naked torsos, weals that dripped
blood, staining the snow as red as the crimson sail of a longship— so perhaps
there was no need of the traditional white
cloth on the ground, after all, Wulfgar
thought dimly, experiencing a sudden, wild urge to throw back his head and to
roar with laughter at the bitter irony of it. He did not want to slay Ivar, yet
he knew that if he did not, Ivar would surely kill him. It was as Yelkei had
said long ago: His and Ivar's destinies were inextricably intertwined; somehow,
this was their fate, immutable, inevitable, written in the stars by the gods—
as their duel appeared to those watching like a clash between titanic young
pagan gods, each man proud, golden, handsome, not one to suffer defeat.

Time
turned— and kept on turning. Wulfgar did not know how long they fought,
although it seemed to him like hours, days. Every muscle in his body hurt. His
limbs ached, had grown leaden from the unrelenting battle; he moved ever more
slowly, staggering. But then, so did Ivar, seeming for the first time in his
life to have grown clumsy, to have lost the fluidity, the grace of movement
that had earned him his sobriquet, the Boneless. His hand came up and around in
a particularly awkward, hacking slash of his broadsword; and Wulfgar, who had
already begun an equally wild and ungainly swing of his battle-ax, could not
halt its impetus as he realized to his horror what was about
to occur. In
that moment, time seemed to move in slow motion, to last an eternity as,
powerless to stop it, he watched his weapon collide with Ivar's outstretched
wrist, felt the sickening thud of the blade connecting with flesh, with bone,
cutting clean through it.

Ivar
himself felt nothing for an instant; the shock and agony of the devastating
blow were so horrendous, so incredible that his brain initially rejected them,
refused to absorb them, told him that they were unreal, even as his gut
understood that they were not. Then, as he watched his broadsword go spinning
and flashing through the air, he at last dimly grasped that his hand was still
attached to its hilt, had been severed from his wrist; and he started to howl,
unable to stifle the terrible screams that erupted from his throat as waves of
excruciating pain stabbed like a thousand piercing barbs through him, and blood
began to spew in sickening spurts from the stump that was his wrist. Crumpling
to his knees, he intuitively, frenziedly, snatched up his nearby tunic and wrapped
it tightly about his injury, while Wulfgar stood rooted to the ground, helpless
to move, utterly stricken, not wanting to believe what he had done, praying to
the gods that this was no more than a horrible nightmare. Nor did Halfdan,
Owain, or Yelkei move, as though
they, too, were petrified by what had
happened, unable to accept, to believe that the great King Ivar the Boneless
should be brought down in such a manner, when they, all of them, had secretly
thought and feared that he was invincible, a demon, a god.

The
leather of Ivar's tunic had grown dark and wet, and still, the blood poured
from his wrist, flowing into a scarlet puddle upon the snowy ground. Ivar was
silent now, his madman's shrieks stilled, although his bearded visage was
contorted with deep torment at the affliction he had suffered. But
terrifyingly, as he gazed at his severed hand lying on the ground, his mouth
was twisted in a ghastly caricature of a smile, and his eyes gleamed morbidly
with a strange, unnerving satisfaction, almost triumph, Wulfgar thought as he
stared at his half brother. Surely shock and pain must have unhinged Ivar's
mind.

"By
the gods, man! Do you not bind that wound tighter, you're going to die!"
Wulfgar cried, somehow gathering his wits and finding his tongue at last,
starting toward his half brother. "Halfdan! Build a fire, to sear the
flesh shut, ere Ivar bleeds to death!"

"What
is... the point?" Ivar gasped out softly, mockingly, his face ashen but
his eyes blazing feverishly with a terrible
flame. " 'Twas my— 'twas my...
sword hand, you... bloody, accursed... bastard! I always— I always knew that
you'd... have it somehow... in the end. 'Twas my fate, you see. Loki's wolf
told me so... that day of the— of the deer hunt. When I looked into his eyes...
I knew— I knew that he was your... brother spirit, and that you were... his,
and that he had come because— because Ragnar and we had made of you a
bóndi;
we had... chained you, so to speak... just as, with Gleipnir, the gods
chained Fenrir, so he bit off Týr's hand at the— at the wrist as punishment for
the— for the gods' arrogance, for their deceit, for their fear of the— of the
wolf Fenrir, who might... bring about their downfall. Thus Týr paid, Týr, the
god of battles, who lost his... sword hand and so could... fight no more."
Ivar paused, gathering his breath. Then he spat, "Damn you to Hel,
Wulfgar! Why do you just stand there? Why do you not end my life now?"

"You
know why: You are my brother. I cannot... I will not turn kinslayer for you,
Ivar. I will not!" Wulfgar muttered fiercely.

"Damn
you!" Ivar cried again. "You sold Ragnar to Aella!"

"Nay,
'twas Yelkei who did that, in revenge for Ragnar's murder of her son."

"You
cannot leave me here like this! You cannot! I am maimed, and without my sword
hand, I shall never be able to fight again. What is that but a life of endless
torture for me? You are not so hard and cruel as to condemn me to that! I know
that you are not, Wulfgar!"

"I
will not listen to you, Ivar! You are out of your mind with shock and pain.
Halfdan and the others are building the fire. We will seal the stump so the
bleeding will stop. You can learn to wield your sword with your left
hand."

"And
with what will I hold my shield to defend myself, the reins of my horse as I
ride into battle?" Ivar laughed shortly, bitterly. "You've never been
a fool before, Wulfgar, so do not you be one now! Show me the same mercy you
showed Ragnar when you handed his sword down into Aella's snake pit!"

"That
was different! He was already a dead man!" Wulfgar declared stubbornly,
turning away to begin walking toward Halfdan and the fire he, Owain, and Yelkei
had built upon the beach and that now blazed high.

"And
I am not? Wulfgar! Damn you, Wulfgar! You owe me! I set you free that day of
the deer hunt! Now do you the same for me!"

In
his heart, Wulfgar knew that all Ivar had said was truth, that it would be a
mercy to kill him; yet, despite that, Wulfgar kept on walking. Then he heard
Ivar utter very softly, in his voice an agonized note of entreaty:

"Please...
brother."

Wulfgar
halted in his tracks then, stiff and trembling with emotion, sudden tears
stinging his eyes, a lump rising to his throat to choke him. With difficulty,
he forced it down, saying, "This one stain of dishonor upon my soul, in
exchange for your death... brother," and then he laughed as harshly and
mockingly as Ivar had earlier, the laugh turning abruptly into a terrible,
anguished cry. "Ah, gods! It sounds like a fair bargain to me!"
Shouting to Odinn, the tears raining down his cheeks, Wulfgar whirled about and
leaped forward, his battle-ax swinging high, glittering as bright and silvery
in the sun as the mail of a golden-haired Valkyrie.

The
song Blood-Drinker sang was a song of death; still, Ivar was smiling that
strange caricature of a smile, and his eyes shone with a queer light of triumph
as the blade bit deeply into his neck, taking his head.

* * * * *

Ceremoniously,
they burned Ivar's body in the fire upon the beach. Afterward, although
weapons were
highly prized family heirlooms, handed down from father to son, Wulfgar raised
Soul-Stealer high and, with all his might, flung the blade out into the sea.
Like a beautiful white swan or a dragon breathing fire, it flew through the
air, long neck outstretched, gleaming in the sun, until it dived straight
downward to disappear forever beneath the frothy waves. Ivar the Boneless had
been a king of the Northland, a great
Víkingr;
it was not right that his
weapon be wielded by any other man.