Hawk Quest

XXXV

Vallon took himself away from the camp and made up a bed under a spruce. He didn’t think about the fight. A calm and empty spirit is the right frame of mind for combat. That’s what his swordmaster had drummed into him all those years ago. He could remember his exact words. ‘You’re showing too much emotion. Don’t let your mind influence your body or your body influence your mind. Got that?’ Vallon smiled. His swordmaster had been one of the most peppery characters he’d ever known.

The rain stopped and a hard frost set in. Snug under layers of furs and fleeces, Vallon slept the night through. Raul and Hero crept up at dawn. ‘Look at him,’ Raul whispered. ‘Usually he sleeps like hellhounds are on his trail, and then on the eve of combat he slumbers sound as a babe.’

Vallon was smiling at some pleasant memory that fled when Hero’s hand touched his shoulder. He yawned and blinked around. The hoary shapes of the trees floated through freezing mist. The ground was stiff with frost. Steam rose from the basin that Hero offered him. He splashed water into his face.

‘I’m glad you passed a restful night,’ Hero said.

Vallon stretched his shoulders back like a rooster heralding daybreak. ‘I would have slept sounder if the Vikings hadn’t been making such a racket.’

‘Arne told me that they always get drunk before going into battle.’

‘Amateurs.’

‘Can I bring you anything to eat?’

‘God, no.’

Vallon saw a boiling cauldron slung from a trivet above the campfire.

‘Hot water and clean cloths,’ said Hero. ‘In case you’re wounded.’

Figures drifted from the camp. Drogo stepped forward bearing his armour and helmet on his shield. He held them out with his eyes averted. ‘You’ll need these.’

‘I thank you,’ said Vallon. ‘I’ll try to return them in the same condition.’ He knew that the armour wouldn’t offer much protection against Thorfinn’s axe.

‘Have you decided your tactics? The Viking must have a foot advantage in reach.’

Vallon scratched the back of his neck. ‘I’m not going to slug it out with him. I’ll keep moving and hope to wear him down until an opening presents itself.’

‘Watch your footing on this surface. One slip and it could be all over.’

‘Drogo, this isn’t my first sword fight.’

‘I wish you’d let me challenge him.’

‘I’ve never doubted your courage. It’s who you direct it at that I question.’

Vallon addressed his company. ‘If I win, we’ll try to persuade the Vikings to accept my command. It shouldn’t be too difficult to bring them over, judging by what we’ve learned during our passage.’

‘If the fight goes against you,’ said Raul, ‘I’m not serving under Thorfinn. Wayland says the same.’

‘Of course not,’ Vallon said. ‘Have your crossbow ready and kill him before he can cry victory. Wayland should be able to spit a couple more before they can use their swords.’

‘And Fulk and I stand ready with Helgi’s men and the other Icelanders,’ Drogo said.

‘Good.’

Hero frowned. ‘Then why fight Thorfinn? Let Raul kill him the moment he shows himself. That way you can direct the battle.’

Vallon smiled. ‘I must observe the conventions even when dealing with a savage. There’s another reason. If the day is mine, only one man needs to die. If we take on all the Vikings, some of us will be killed. Who knows? We might lose.’

‘Who takes command if Thorfinn kills you?’ Drogo asked.

‘You do. Exercise it well.’

Caitlin ran forward and seized Vallon’s wrists. Her eyes glittered. ‘Avenge Helgi.’

Vallon inclined his head.

Father Hilbert stepped up. After blessing Vallon, he ordered him to kneel and make his peace with God. Vallon stayed on his feet and told Hilbert that he wasn’t at war with his Maker.

Flanked by Wayland and Raul, Vallon made his way to the arena. Frost flowers bloomed in the puddles and thick rime furred the trees. The clearing was about fifty yards square, created by a storm that had ripped trees from the ground and left them strewn with their roots clutching plates of earth. Through the frigid haze Vallon saw the Vikings ranged on the far side of the clearing.

He stopped at the edge. ‘Hero, help me dress. The rest of you leave us.’

He shrugged on the cold metal hauberk over the padded undercoat and cinched his sword belt to take up some of the weight of the armour. He decided not to wear the mail leggings. The fight might be a long one and he would have to stay nimble to avoid Thorfinn’s attacks. When he was ready, he dismissed Hero, cloaked himself in a blanket and sat on one of the fallen trees. While he waited, he honed his sword with a whetstone, admiring the edges in the growing brightness.

Dawn had given way to leprous daylight when Thorfinn lurched belching from his tent. He undid his breeches and stood leaning one-handed against a tree while he took an interminable piss. When he’d finished he blinked sottishly around the clearing. Dead drunk, Vallon thought. Then he remembered Thorfinn’s play-acting on the river.

‘Over here.’

Thorfinn’s smoking eyes found Vallon.

‘Couldn’t you sleep, Frankish? Have you been up all night?’

Vallon rose. ‘Only a fool lies brooding over his problems. When morning comes he’s tired out and his problems are the same as before.’

Thorfinn laughed. ‘Spoken like a Viking. Well, your worries will soon be a thing of the past. Before the sun melts this mist, I’ll chine you from neck to buttocks. Die bravely and you might earn a place in the hall of slain warriors.’

Vallon shrugged off his blanket, pulled the mail coif over his head and donned the helmet. He gripped his shield and hefted his sword.

‘To the death.’

Vallon could tell if he faced a dangerous opponent just from the way the man stood and held his sword. Most men he’d met in battle fought like Helgi, wielding their swords like they were cudgels with sharp edges. They committed themselves to a position too soon, and because they were reluctant to leave their bodies open, they held their swords too close to their side, reducing the power of their blows and exposing their sword arm to attack.

Vallon suspected that Thorfinn had no finesse, but his sheer size and strength called for respect. By training and temperament, Vallon was an offensive fighter. The attacker has an inherent advantage in that he moves first, forcing his opponent to defend or counter. A skilled offensive fighter moves fluently, always ready to exploit his opponent’s errors. The good offensive fighter creates mistakes; the defensive fighter can only react to them.

Against Thorfinn, though, Vallon suffered from several disadvantages. As Drogo had pointed out, the Viking outreached him. Vallon was tall, but Thorfinn was a giant. His axe was at least six inches longer than Vallon’s sword and three or four times heavier. If Vallon parried that massive blade, it would shatter his sword to smithereens. The same applied to Vallon’s shield. It was designed to block a sword-edge, not an axe delivered with the force of a sledgehammer. His best tactic would be to stay out of Thorfinn’s reach until the Viking began to flag or dropped his guard. Vallon guessed that Thorfinn’s contests rarely lasted long. Most of his fights would be won before they’d begun, by sheer bladder-voiding intimidation. A roar, a rush, a sweep of that massive blade, and in most cases it would be over before the terrified opponent offered a stroke.

Thorfinn walked towards him. His chain vest left his forearms bare and he carried his helmet under his left arm like a metal skull. He stopped twenty yards off and Vallon studied his face. Chalky blue eyes bathed in a bloody humour, sand-coloured teeth, stubble like copper filings. No trace of fear. He lifted up his helmet and in one movement transformed himself into a savage god.

Vallon raised his sword and angled it down behind his right shoulder. He flexed his knees and balanced with his legs shoulder-width apart, right leg leading, weight centred. He gripped his shield by its lashings, partly supporting its weight against his left ribs, and held it edge-on towards Thorfinn.

Thorfinn roared and charged with his loping run. Vallon shifted his feet so that he could move in any direction. He watched Thorfinn wind up his arm and then floated left, cutting down at the Viking’s exposed arm. Missed by a foot, whereas the axe came within a whisker of unseaming him with the same brutal cut that had killed Helgi. Vallon skipped and grimaced. He wasn’t going to settle it quickly. Thorfinn’s reach was so long that he couldn’t penetrate the Viking’s guard without opening himself up to even the crudest swipe.

‘You smelled that, didn’t you? Next time you’ll taste it.’

Vallon evaded the next dozen attacks with barely a counter, all his attention concentrated on avoiding the axe. He used the fallen trees as cover, dodging between the trunks. Thorfinn’s men roared their disgust. They’d gathered for a bloody clash between champions; instead, it was like watching a man with a cleaver trying to catch a chicken. Vallon’s side hardly uttered a sound.

Thorfinn bared his teeth. ‘You said you wanted to fight.’ He leaned his axe on the ground and cupped his hand. ‘Fight and die like a warrior or I’ll cut your life away limb by limb. Come on, faggot. Fight!’

Vallon saved his breath. He feinted and retreated, dodged and sidestepped, his feet treading an eccentric black path in the frost. His breath grew short before he noticed that the weight of Thorfinn’s axe was beginning to tell. The Viking grunted with the effort of lifting it and his recovery time was a bit slower after each swing. The axe was so heavy and carried so much stored energy that even a man as strong as Thorfinn couldn’t alter its course quickly. It was an affectation, a boast of his strength, and it would be the death of him.

Thorfinn pulled his next attack, then followed up with a short chopping move that forced Vallon to parry with his shield. The axe struck the iron rim with a blow that almost dislocated his shoulder and numbed his arm from elbow to fingertips. He scampered back, working his hand to restore feeling.

Thorfinn followed up swinging. Too hasty. Too rash. Vallon drew himself in and swayed away from the whistling arc. Its momentum twisted the Viking’s torso round. Vallon had anticipated his opening an instant before it presented itself and he thrust into the humped muscle of Thorfinn’s shoulder. The tip of his sword penetrated the mail as if it were cheese and he felt steel jar against bone.

Next moment he was on his back, flattened by a reverse sweep that glanced off his helmet and scrambled his senses. He rolled away blind, sure that the next thing he would feel would be the axe cleaving the life from him. The blow never fell and he managed to stagger to his feet and get behind one of the fallen trees.

The Viking laughed breathily. ‘You fight like a girl, Frankish.’ And he mimed limp-wristed thrusts that roused anxious laughter from his men.

But Thorfinn was hurt. He ceased his rushes and began to stalk Vallon, his head lowered like a bull. Vallon let himself be herded, using the fallen trees as walls when pressed too hard. Blood from Thorfinn’s shoulder ran down his arm. Drain him of strength, Vallon thought. He closed in, using his superior technique to threaten attacks that he didn’t press home.

Blood dripped from Thorfinn’s fighting hand, sliding down the haft of his axe, making it slippery. He hefted it to shorten his grip, reducing his advantage in reach and halving the power of his strokes.

‘Decided to split kindling?’

The next time Thorfinn swung, Vallon had room to parry, slashing splinters out of the axe haft. Before the Viking could disengage, Vallon chopped another wedge out of the handle. Thorfinn clashed his shield against Vallon’s and swung his axe to hook Vallon’s ankle. Vallon reacted just in time, using the pressure of shield on shield to spring back. Thorfinn’s scooping sweep threw him off-balance. Vallon darted forward, hooked his sword’s cross-guard over the edge of Thorfinn’s shield, pulled it down and then, in a continuation of the same movement, brought the sword down on Thorfinn’s head.

The blade clanged off the helmet and Thorfinn recovered fast, swinging his axe like a scythe and nearly taking Vallon’s legs off at the knees. Again Thorfinn left himself open and Vallon aimed another cut at his axe arm. The Viking was expecting it and jumped back, giving ground for the first time. Vallon followed up as he retreated down an alley created by two fallen trees. When Thorfinn reached the end he threw away his shield, gripped the axe in both hands and charged with a bellow.

Vallon realised his mistake. The trunks blocked him in, leaving hardly any space for manoeuvre. Thorfinn’s rush was the do-or-die effort of a berserker. Vallon couldn’t avoid the attack and his shield was too flimsy to ward it off. Thorfinn held his axe like a demented forester, making no attempt to guard himself. Vallon knew that he could run him through, but not before the Viking had cut him in half.

The axe swung and he darted back and to his right, the direction he’d calculated Thorfinn would least expect. He’d read him wrong. By a massive effort, Thorfinn checked his stroke, corrected for Vallon’s dodge and brought his axe round in a flat crescent aimed at Vallon’s midriff. Vallon’s feet were grounded. All he could do was suck in his stomach and arch back like a cat.

He heard a faint snick. Nothing more, and then he felt a cold burning in his belly. Thorfinn’s attack had pulled him through a semi-circle, but Vallon was too flat-footed to counter. He used the time it took Thorfinn to recover to retreat into open ground. He glanced down. He’d seen men in the heat of battle continue fighting with their entrails spilling down to their groin. What he saw was bad enough. Thorfinn had sliced through his hauberk, leaving the lower part of the gash hanging in a flap, the padded undercoat sucking up blood.

‘I can see your guts, Frankish. I’ll strangle you with them.’

Thorfinn’s men whooped, urging him to finish the fight. Vallon pretended that the wound had drained his strength and courage. He moved clumsily, his uncoordinated efforts just enough to avoid the death blow. Thorfinn’s face contused, first with triumph and then with frustration. Every time he thought he had his opponent at his mercy, a blundering move carried him away. Vallon lurched as if one leg had grown shorter than the other. His sword wavered. Thorfinn’s eyes lit up. In his lust to kill, the Viking charged in too fast. He skidded slightly on the frozen ground, enough to make him drop his axe a few inches. Vallon danced forward and delivered a reverse sweep into the Viking’s right hip.

‘You’re dead.’

Thorfinn loosed one hand on the axe and felt the wound. He tossed his head.

They circled each other, both of them wounded, aware that the contest was in its final phase. Thorfinn tried to bring it to a crushing conclusion by making another charge. Ten feet from Vallon he let fly with the axe. Vallon ducked and the blade whirled past his head, nearly decapitating one of the Vikings before skidding to rest somewhere outside the arena.

Before Vallon could take advantage, Thorfinn drew his sword and ran to recover his shield. Vallon walked toward him. He had no idea how long the contest had lasted. The sun was beginning to break through the mist and meltwater splattered from the trees.

Every sword fight has its own rhythm, yet there are only eight basic moves. The skill lies in stitching them together. First hypnotise your opponent without hypnotising yourself. When he’s sure what your next move will be and has half-committed himself to countering it, change the line of attack. It’s like scissors and stone played for lethal stakes and with many more variations.

Vallon was fully engaged now, trading blow for blow. The blades skidded and clattered, bit and battered, Thorfinn’s sword striking in clanging contrast to the ringing chime of Vallon’s blade. Back and forth, round and round, until the ground underfoot was trampled and greasy. Vallon had Thorfinn’s measure and was using the technique called ‘soaking in’ — mirroring the Viking’s moves.

He stepped back and switched his sword to his left hand, his shield to his right.

‘Does your sword arm weaken?’ Thorfinn panted.

‘On the contrary. My left hand is my strongest.’

He attacked Thorfinn in all four quarters, aiming at his shoulders, his legs, his arms. The Viking could only defend, staggering back, holding out his shield and sword at arm’s length. Vallon cut him across his shield arm, made a lazy pass that sliced his thigh. Vallon’s eyes were the only fixed points in his body, while Thorfinn’s stare had begun to dart like a hunted animal’s.

The Viking rode the next stroke and brought his shield round in an attempt to punch Vallon in the face. His lunge ended in empty air. Vallon was a move ahead of him and delivered four strokes in less time than it takes to blink twice. With the last of them he cut all four fingers off Thorfinn’s sword hand. The weapon dropped to the ground.

‘Pick it up.’

The Viking threw his shield at Vallon and grabbed his sword in his left hand. He blundered like a beast, chest heaving, mouth dragging in snot. His supporters had fallen silent. Vallon heard Caitlin calling on him to kill, kill, kill!

He feinted to the head, making Thorfinn cock his sword. Feinted again, forcing the Viking onto the tips of his toes. And then as Thorfinn bellowed and charged to embrace him in a death clinch, he locked his right knee and rammed the point of his sword through mail and muscle and bone until the hilt was flat against Thorfinn’s chest. The Viking’s sword cartwheeled out of his hand. Vallon felt the weight of his opponent bear down on his sword. He braced one foot against Thorfinn’s thigh and pulled out the blade.

Thorfinn dropped to his knees and slowly raised his head. A worm of blood crawled from his mouth. One hand groped behind him. Pink spittle popped between his lips. ‘Finish it, Frankish.’

Vallon stepped in and raised his sword and in the same moment Thorfinn drew his scramasax and lunged up to find his enemy gone. He was still blinking around when Vallon at his back cut off his head. Thorfinn’s body dropped into a kneeling position, two fountains of blood spouting from his neck. His hands groped at the ground as if he were trying to get up. Vallon shoved him on to his side. Thorfinn’s heels drummed and then he stopped moving.

The Vikings and the company surged forward and then stopped. The two sides came into Vallon’s focus.

Raul jabbed with his crossbow. ‘I’ll shoot any cunt who moves.’

Vallon began walking towards the Vikings. Blood squelched in his boots. He lifted his sword. ‘Thorfinn died as he lived. Bravely. The Valkyries will welcome him into the shield hall to take his place with all the other heroes.’ Vallon pointed his sword. ‘He swore that you’d acknowledge me as leader if I defeated him. Break that oath and I’ll send you down into the hellpit where the walls are woven from serpents.’

‘If we join you, we want a share of your silver.’

The speaker was the lieutenant who’d shared the rock in the river with Thorfinn. His name was Wulfstan.

‘You’ve done nothing to earn it. Food is the only thing I’ll give you, and you won’t get that until you’ve released the prisoners.’

‘The slaves are all the treasure we have.’

‘If you want to keep them, you’ll have to kill me.’

Drogo tugged at his arm. ‘You aren’t in any condition to fight again. Leave it to me and Fulk.’

‘I’m not going to fight,’ Arne shouted. His companions rounded on him. ‘What’s Thorfinn brought us? Nothing but pain and hunger. We’d be better off serving the Frank. You’ve heard how he outwitted his enemies and gathered riches in the home of ice.’

Vallon was feeling sick and faint. He caught Hero’s pleading look before turning back to the Vikings. ‘You’ve got until sunset.’

Vallon retired from the field in a stumbling crouch, blood squirting through the seams of his boots. Hero and Richard attempted to support him, but he flapped them away. ‘Can’t let them see how weak I am.’

He reached the place where he’d spent the night and sank to the ground. ‘It doesn’t hurt much. Probably looks worse than it is.’

Hero took charge. ‘Let’s get your hauberk off.’

He and Richard dragged the mail over Vallon’s head and stripped him of the blood-soaked gambeson. Then Hero pulled up Vallon’s sopping red tunic. Thorfinn’s axe had sliced through the iron mail and padding, severing the stomach wall for a distance of nine inches and exposing a bulge of intestine. Hero tested the depth of the wound. He grimaced.

‘Bad?’

‘It could be worse. No major blood vessels severed. The blade nicked your large intestine but didn’t cut through. Half an inch deeper and we’d be preparing your burial shroud.’

‘Let me look,’ said Vallon. He sat up with Hero’s assistance and examined the grey tube of gut with a lop-sided smile. ‘It’s a sobering thing to see your own innards.’ He flopped back.

‘I have to clean the wound. Richard, fetch the cauldron.’

Mosquitoes roused by the sun homed in on the reek of blood, speckling the wound as fast as Hero could clear it. He wiped his face on his shoulder.

‘Light some smudge fires.’

‘Just swab it and stitch it,’ said Vallon.

Hero spat out a mosquito. ‘There’s a lot of foreign matter in the wound. Let me do it my own way.’

Vallon cuffed him and closed his eyes.

The company got two smudge fires going. Hero tweezered out fragments of metal and textile, bits of bark and pine needle. ‘Richard, sprinkle some sulphur on the flames to purify the air.’

Vallon coughed on the rotten-egg atmosphere. ‘Hero, your cure is worse than the cut.’

The brimstone fumes killed the mosquitoes in their thousands. Their bodies spiralled down and Hero had to keep removing them from the wound. He took a bottle from his chest.

‘What’s that?’

‘Strong wine fortified with Venice turpentine and balsam. It fights corruption.’

Vallon recoiled from the volatile vapours.

‘I’m not drinking that. It smells like embalming fluid.’

‘It’s for dressing the wound. It will sting.’

Hero decanted some of the antiseptic into a cup, dipped a squirrel-hair brush into it and dabbed at the wound. Vallon gasped as the mixture bit into his raw flesh. Hero swabbed the wound and the surrounding skin. ‘That’s as clean as I can make it. Now I have to close it. It will be painful. You’d better take some of the drowsy mixture.’

‘Save it for someone worse hit than me. It’s only a flesh wound.’

‘Don’t be such a hero.’

‘This isn’t the first time I’ve been wounded. Jam a stick in my jaws and get on with it.’

Raul knew what to do. He cut a branch of the right thickness and gave it to Vallon and gripped his arms. ‘Wayland, you grab one leg. Drogo you take the other.’

Hero threaded a needle with gut. He clamped the edges of the wound with forceps. His hand trembled as he prepared to make the first suture. ‘I’ve not done this before. Not on a live person.’

‘Give it to me,’ Wayland said.

Raul grinned at Vallon. ‘You’ll be all right with Wayland. I once saw him stitch up his dog’s belly as dainty as you please.’

‘That’s a comforting thought.’

‘Wash your hands,’ Hero told Wayland. ‘Scrub them clean.’

Wayland washed his mitts and Hero made him rinse them in the antiseptic. ‘Sew each stitch about a finger’s width apart. That way the wound can drain.’

Wayland looked at Vallon. ‘Ready?’

Vallon clamped his teeth on the stick.

Wayland inserted the needle into the flap of muscle, pulled it through and threaded it through the opposite lip. Vallon’s abdomen cramped up and the tendons in his neck stood out. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Wayland completed the first stitch and looked at him.

‘Keep going,’ said Raul.

Twenty-one sutures were needed to sew up the wound. Vallon sobbed, rocked his head and clawed at the ground, but he didn’t call halt until the operation was finished.

‘It’s done,’ Hero said.

Vallon spat out the stick, leaned to one side and retched. His eyes were streaming, his face almost black. Gasping like a woman in labour, he arched up, stared at his navel, gave a childlike cry and fell back.

Hero applied a poultice of sphagnum moss and bandaged it with strips of linen. ‘You must avoid movement until the wound knits. No solid food until I say so.’

Vallon’s laugh terminated in a wincing cry. ‘Do I look as if I’m hungry or eager for strenuous activity?’ The blood drained from his face and his eyes flickered. ‘I think I’m going to pass out.’

Vallon woke at twilight to find Hero sitting beside him.

‘How do you feel?’

‘Sick. Sore. Like a horse had kicked me in the belly. Thirsty.’

Hero gave him some water. ‘The Vikings have accepted your conditions.’

Vallon could hear a muffled roaring. He turned and saw the trees outlined by an apocalyptic glow.

‘It’s Thorfinn’s funeral pyre,’ said Hero.

Vallon lifted a hand.

‘You mustn’t move.’

‘Prop me up.’

The Vikings had built a bonfire the size of a grave barrow and laid their leader on top of it. The blaze was at its height, the conflagration so fierce that the trees around it tossed in the updraught. Pillars of sparks whirled into the sky. Vallon shielded his eyes. Peering into the sizzling core of the pyre, he saw the shrivelled and carbonised corpse of Thorfinn Wolfbreath, last of the Vikings.