Byzantium

his second shield from Halldor and his axe from Ulfr. His heart, throbbing with delayed fear, was strangling him. He turned to face Hakon again. He felt as if his limbs were trapped in cold black pitch, like a fly stuck in pine resin. He could hear the carrion-devouring ravens shrieking in his ears as Folk-Mower destroyed his shield in two lightning-quick flurries. Ulfr pressed a new shield on him. ‘Your last shield!’ Ulfr screamed.

King from kings. Haraldr forced his body on. His sword lifted, but before he could get off a good stroke, Folk-Mower lashed out and Haraldr had to parry with his shield. Hakon’s blade thudded deeply and stuck fast in the boards, and the light of hope flared again in Haraldr’s eyes. I’ve got it! I’ve trapped Folk-Mower! Haraldr twisted the shield with all his force in an effort to wrench the shaft of the deeply embedded axe from Hakon’s hands. An alarming resistance shocked back through his forearm. Kristr! No! The iron handle of his shield was ripped from his grip. He watched with morbid detachment as Hakon stood admiring the trophy Folk-Mower had gaffed, then blithely discarded the axe, Haraldr’s last shield still attached.

Hakon removed the gold-pommelled sword from his scabbard. He stood with his tree-trunk legs spread wide, grinning like the head of death. ‘I’ve yet one more surprise for you, Green-wood,’ he slowly drawled. ‘Folk- Mower was but my toy. My sword is my weapon.’

Haraldr gripped the handle of his axe with both hands. Good hard oak, it might shield him from at best a dozen strokes before it was hacked to splinters. After that Hakon would need scarcely more than an executioner’s skill.

Hakon delicately stroked the luridly blue-tinted, almost phosphorescent blade. ‘Come kiss these lips, sweet Green-wood,’ he said mockingly, pursing his thick lips and making contemptuous kissing sounds. ‘My wand-of- wounds will take your nose first. Then your ears. Then your hands . . .’

‘Then take my nose, sow-lover!’ Haraldr came forward screaming, determined not to beg for mercy in the jaws of the beast, determined to die with a courage worthy of the kings who had come before him and the good men who would soon have to join him in his death. The blue light of Hakon’s blade flashed before his eyes. His cheek itched. He struck Hakon’s shield a glancing blow. Hakon’s retort skidded off the axe shaft and ripped into Haraldr’s forearm. Deep, too deep. Haraldr could already feel the blood streaming down the sleeve of his byrnnie.

‘I’m whittling you away, Green-wood! Bit by bit, Greenwood! I’ll cut you down until all that’s left is your arsehole! Then I’ll make an arm ring out of it and give it to your mother!’

Now the blows came at Haraldr’s shoulders, sapping his arms, softening him up so that he could indeed be sliced bit by bit, slowly, without dignity. A metallic ringing rose to a quick, clamorous crescendo. Hakon’s blows were battering his steel helm. Resolve draining with every pulse of his ebbing life-blood, Haraldr ducked his head and the strokes fell on his back and shoulders like ripping dogs. The sun faded, and he followed the echoes of memory into the night.

Haraldr slowly began to walk across the dark tundra of death. This time he went on farther than he ever had before. His destination was announced by the roar of the beast, the sound of all creation shattering into oblivion. The blast struck Haraldr and flattened him into the stinging slush. His face was unfeeling, solid ice, and he could hear nothing.

Except the voice. Whispering, very faintly: Kill it. Kill the beast.

Haraldr’s arms were frozen in the ice, but he strained and shattered them free and struggled to his feet. His hands were numb and the axe handle burned like hot iron, but he forced himself to grip it. He peered into the endless blackness, and there, within the howling maw, saw the dark heart of the dragon. He hunched his shoulders and went in after it. . . .

When Haraldr returned to the light, the pain in his arms was gone and for an instant he wondered why he was being slapped on the head. Then he knew. He pushed forward with his arms and the weight that was on them flew away.

Nearly flattened by Haraldr’s explosive shove, Hakon wheeled his feet as he struggled to stay upright. He staggered back, veering to avoid the drop to the river below. His fire-irises were rimmed with white wonder. For an instant, only an instant, Green-wood had been a beast! But Green-wood couldn’t have the Rage. Only Mar has it! Only Mar! Hakon steeled himself. He was still Hakon, whose forehead-moons glowed with the stars-of-hearth, raven-sater, din-hastener, arm of the Great King, second only to Mar Hunrodarson. He advanced behind his shield and drew his sword back, preparing to draw a final, fatal arc through Haraldr’s neck.

In the spirit world the dragon let forth its monstrous death scream. The earth-shattering bellow came out of Haraldr’s throat. Hakon’s sword arm froze, petrified by his opponent’s inhuman oath, a sound known to any seasoned warrior, the terrifying peal of Odin’s favour. Haraldr’s axe lifted high, then struck like a thunderbolt.

Hakon’s shield was air, a mirage that had formed in the sun. It blew apart like chaff. His byrnnie was the barest sheet of glass, twinkling as it broke. His skin was a petal, bruising and then ripping. His bones were twigs. Haraldr’s blade did not slow until the earth that would soon claim those bones finally resisted its descent.

There was no sound except the rushing of the Dnieper over the rocks below. Hakon’s vivid arterial blood bubbled around the axe shaft that sprouted from the huge gash in his chest. His legs jerked spasmodically.

Haraldr bent over the fallen Titan. Indigo lips parted and the ivory teeth chattered. ‘Mar . . .’ Hakon said, his voice rattling. Blood gushed from his lips and the teeth were no longer white. ’Mar, avenge me. . . .’

‘That’s the last of them,’ said Halldor as he lowered the flap of Hakon’s silk pavilion, blocking out the inky blue wedge of sky. Even Halldor’s imperturbable voice was edged with weariness and irritation.

Haraldr turned to Ulfr, seated on the simple camp stool next to him. ‘What do you think, Counsellor?’

‘I’m satisfied,’ said Ulfr. ‘I’d say the loyalty of two dozen of the Varangians will be suspect, and perhaps one or two of those will have to be watched. But I think your ears will tell you the feeling of most.’

Haraldr smiled. The Varangians were already rowdy with tales of the combat and with extraordinary inventions about the origins and background of their mysterious new champion and leader. There were at least a dozen pagans, young men from small rural communities in Sweden, who were steadfastly certain that Haraldr was Thor in the guise of a mortal.

‘And the Rus?’

‘Well, to my thinking, as good as can be. They’ll all follow Gleb, at least until we reach the Rus Sea. We have assurances from the leading traders. And surely you filled their breasts with joy this morning.’

Yes. What a moment. There had been a hushed silence as Haraldr knelt over Hakon. After the blood had pooled and Hakon’s feet had stopped twitching, no one had moved. Then Gleb had walked forward, sagging cheeks working, stood over the corpse, and ceremoniously spat on it. With that the crowd had erupted in a delirium of joy and praise. Then the Varangians had carried their new leader to the late Hakon’s grandiose pavilion and had entered one at a time to pledge homage and loyalty. And after that came the Rus merchants and traders, begging concessions and asking Haraldr to settle disputes.

‘Now we only need worry about the response of the Griks,’ said Halldor. He was carefully cleaning his nails with his short eating knife. ‘And the commander of the Imperial Guard.’

Haraldr nodded wearily. The Byzantine trade ambassador had been noticeably absent among the day’s endless procession of congratulants and supplicants. Gregory, however, had come by. ‘An unofficial visit, Haraldr Nordbrikt,’ the little eunuch had whispered hastily. ‘I want to express my singular delight in your victory over that gangster, a joy that is only surpassed by the august ambassador’s acute discomfort at the news of your triumph. He hated the Manglavite as he hates all barbaroi, but he views with great trepidation the reaction that Hakon’s death will evoke from Mar Hunrodarson, a man far more powerful than even the august ambassador.’ Then Gregory had looked about nervously. ‘I am not certain that I will have an opportunity to speak informally with you again. I would like to be able to tell you what you may expect when we reach the Empress City, but I fear that fortune still spins that wheel. I am certain that the fact that the Manglavite joyfully acceded to your challenge, in front of many witnesses, is an element in your favour. But much is changing in our Empire. The planets are reeling, and what their final configuration will be, even an astrologer could not say.’

Haraldr had been less concerned about the fate of the Byzantine Empire than the vastly more chilling certainty that he would soon have to come face to face with Mar Hunrodarson. He remembered what Jarl Rognvald had said: ‘There is always another dragon.’

‘And you should have killed Grettir.’ Halldor continued to clean his nails as he delivered his admonition.

‘Halldor, you don’t understand the bond among poets,’ said Ulfr. ‘And Grettir’s just a boy. The bitter taste on