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.’
