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.
