Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(50)

The Ulfings took up their position across from the Leifings as final preparations were made. Grey painted shields were laid down for Olaf as he gave his axe a few testing swings. Eyvind stood across from him, head bowed and perfectly still.

The Lawspeaker stepped forth, laying out the rules in the northern tongue for all to hear, even though every man and woman of Thrymgard knew them by heart. But the ritual had always to be followed, the traditions maintained.

Kolbrun had explained the custom earlier. “Each man has three shields, but no more. If one steps outside the stones, he is a coward, and made a nithingur, beneath the law’s protection.”

Each combatant stooped to pick up a shield and hefted their axe before turning to face the old man once more. He spoke again, then the combatants turned to face one another. With the ringing crack of the Lawspeaker’s staff against stone, the battle began.

Olaf moved with serpent’s speed across the ring, closing the gap in a heartbeat and striking toward his opponent’s left thigh. Eyvind was ready, though, and met the slicing blade with the edge of his shield, knocking back the Ulfing’s attack before pushing forward with the shield’s iron boss. Blows rang out against wood as the two men sparred, probing for any weakness.

Aelfhild ducked as the first rock flew overhead. Another followed, lofted from within the Ulfing side, and fell further back in the Leifing’s sprawling crowd.

Harald’s people were evidently not the only ones spoiling for a fight. She tried to split her attention between the fight in front of her and the threat above.

With a splintering crack, Olaf’s first shield was cleft from edge to boss by Eyvind’s axe. The two men separated to their respective side of the ring. When the shield was replaced, the Lawbreaker called for the fight to start anew.

The crowds bristled, and both Sindri and Harald turned to yell at their followers.

More rocks flew over the arena, and this time Aelfhild saw some from both sides. There was shouting as the projectiles found marks.

Ceolwen cried out and fell to the ground from her perch. Dropping beside her, Aelfhild could see a gash on her mistress’ forehead.

“The bastards hit me!” She sounded more indignant than injured. There was a touch of blood, and the bruise would be a sight to behold, but Ceolwen was fine.

“Just a scratch.” Aelfhild had to yell to be heard.

Suddenly, the wall of bodies surged forward. Shouts came from every direction, and Aelfhild bent over Ceolwen’s body to shield her from the stones that rained down.

Bercthun was behind her, pulling at the back of her dress. “We need to go, now!” he cried. Then the crowd shifted, and he was gone.

There was fighting nearby, whether it was axe on shield or club against club was impossible to tell. There were writhing red tunics in every direction, countless flailing arms and fists and boots to trip on. Aelfhild tried to pull Ceolwen through, but the press was suffocating. She fell, losing her grip on her mistress, and scrabbled on the rough ground for footing.

“Aela!” She could pick out Ceolwen’s scream.

Getting back on to her feet, she pushed her way through the Leifings. She saw a flash of bare skin through the heaving wall of chests around her. There was a shirtless man in front of her, all sweat and tattoos, whom she did not recognize from before. A blade flashed in his hand.

Ceolwen screamed again. “Aela!”

There was no time to think. She snatched a stone from a nearby hand, shoving away its owner, and hammered the tattooed man in the back of the head. He dropped like a punctured waterskin.

Another one appeared, bearing different tattoos and a curved dagger. She lashed out with her rock, but someone in the crowd jostled her to the side.

Screaming surrounded them as more folk noticed the knives. Not all the Thrym were as courageous as their raiders, it seemed. Feet lashed out left and right in the scramble to escape as men attempted to climb overtop one another.

Aelfhild hefted the stone with both hands above her head and launched herself forward.

The man stepped forward as he stabbed, and she clipped him across the jaw with her balled fists. They both fell, and she landed on top.

Blood filled her eyes faster than the first time, in a cloud of writhing wisps, and she brought her hands down over and again where the attacker’s face had been. Time slowed, and there was only the fight.

The man had stopped struggling long ago.

Someone tackled her from the side and she hit the ground.

Someone fled, sending loose gravel skittering.

Bright sky opened before her eyes as the madness passed. She was on her back in the dirt, the remnants of the red and grey clad rioters fleeing in all directions.

“Aela!” Ceolwen was close enough to hear her voice over the war drums pounding in her ears.

Kolbrun’s face appeared above her, followed by Eyvind.

“You lived,” said Aelfhild. Her own voice seemed far away.

“Hold still,” Eyvind commanded.

She lifted her head from the ground. Gore covered the front of her dress, and had splattered up along her sleeves.

That dress is ruined. The thought drifted lazily through her mind.

Ceolwen was crying.

“She is hurt, we must move her! Out of the way!” Kolbrun shouted.

It is not my blood, she wanted to say. I am fine.

As hands lifted her from the ground, her head lolled sideways. The hilt of a dagger protruded from the side of her dress, wedged in between her lower ribs.