Half witless with pain, Jarnskegg nonetheless drew his sax. The crooked blade whistled. It caught Hadding’s shield and clove half through. Numbed, the king’s fingers lost the handgrip. What was left of the shield thudded to earth.
Jarnskegg came after him. The sax was harder to dodge than the club. Iron met iron. Clumsy though the giant now was, he knocked Hadding’s blade aside and nearly tore it loose from the man’s hand. Jarnskegg’s blow kept going. It laid Hadding’s own right calf open to the bone.
Before he could lose much blood, the man darted forward ward. He slipped under Jarnskegg’s wobbly guard and hewed yet again at the blistering right ankle. Already he had cut through boot and flesh. Now the tendon gave way. Jarnskegg tottered and toppled. As he did, he struck out with his fist. It caught Hadding on his shieldless left side. The warrior soared before it and landed on the stones. Ragnhild wailed, less for fear than wrath.
Jarnskegg had dropped his sword. Earth shook when his weight came down. Snarling, he rolled over, laid hands on ground, pushed himself up-On his knees he rocked to make an end of Hadding.
The Man rose too. Blood flowed freely from the hurt leg. It made dark spots on torn cloth where the fall had sanded skin off him. He limped straight at the thurs. A hand reached for him. His blade sang. It ripped a gash in the arm from wrist halfway to elbow. Blood poured out. Jarnskegg stared at the flow. That gave time for Hadding to draw nearer. He stepped onto a hairy thigh. Sword hewed at throat. He fell off. The blood of his foe gushed over him.
He had not reached ground when Jarnskegg’s hale arm batted. Again Hadding pitched through the air, to crash yards away. There he lay still.
Jarnskegg crumpled. He gasped, horrible hollow wheezes, while the life ran out of him.
Over the wet stones sped Ragnhild. The jotun’s eyes tracked her until they rolled back and dimmed. The whole great body went slack. The death-stench rolled forth, chokingly strong.
Ragnhild heeded it not. She knelt by her champion. He breathed. She bent to peer closely through the twilight at the wound in his leg. It was grave but should not be deadly if the bleeding could soon be stopped. For a flicker of time she gazed at the mask of his helmet. Then she threw off her cloak and tunic. She unlaced the shirt beneath and pulled it over her head. With her sheath knife she slashed strips of the fine linen. She hauled the breeks leg up to his knee and began to bind the calf.
Gravel scrunched. She lifted her face. A stranger had come. Big and shaggy, he stared at her. She scrambled back. Her arms crossed over her bare breasts. “Who are you?” she breathed.
“I followed here,” said Thorfinn, pointing at Hadding. “He sent me off to wait, but when I heard the fight I could not stay. I see he did what he came to do.” He squatted down. “And he lives. You’re doing well by him, my lady. Finish the task.”
Ragnhild gave herself again to it. Thorfinn watched for a little, then went over to squint at the fallen giant. “Yes, lord, your name will be undying,” he said.
“Who is he?” asked Ragnhild. “Who are you?”
Thorfinn scowled. “Maybe best I not tell that here. This is kittle ground, the Troll’s Hood, and he newly slain was not human. Who knows what vengeful ghosts are aprowl?”
Ragnhild shuddered but kept at her work. Hadding stirred and groaned. Suddenly she slipped a ring off her right middle finger, a plain gold band, laid it in the wound, and poked it deep. At once she went on binding.
Thorfinn returned. Hadding struggled, as if to sit up. Thorfinn lowered himself and took the helmeted head on his knees. “Are you well, lord?” he asked. “This is me, your guide. The thurs is dead.”
“I, yes, I—maybe—” mumbled Hadding. He moved his arms, caught his breath. “Broken ribs, I think.”
‘And a slashed leg, bruises and scrapes, a knock on the noggin. But you’re a tough one. Lie still. When you’re more awake we’ll begone.”
Thorfinn took off his cloak, rolled it up, and very gently laid it beneath Hadding’s head. Rising, he met Ragnhild’s eyes. She had donned her tunic and stood steadily. “You’re the king’s daughter, eh?” he said. “Well, tell your father how the best of men saved you from the worst of dooms.”
“I will,” she answered, “but who is he?”
“I told you, we’d better not say that till we’re well away from here. His following is camped half a day’s trek hence. It’ll take longer than that, of course, the shape he’s in, but we’ll get there and bring you home.”
Ragnhild shook her head. “Thank you, but best I seek my own folk. They were to bide awhile, maybe a little nearer than yours. I know the way they’ve taken. We can bring the hero to them.”
“What of his men? If neither he nor I come back, they’ll be wild. They’ll recklessly seek hither. They’re not uplanders. Belike they’ll get lost and grope around till they die. He’d never forgive me that.”
Ragnhild smiled with tight lips. “It seems you and I must part.”
He nodded. “I understand. You don’t know what kind of men we are or what we’ll do—the more so if our lord dies, as he might. We could be foes of your father, Vikings, or outlaws, nearly as bad as him over there.”
“I meant no scorn or fear of you.”
Thorfinn chuckled. “I wonder if you have any fear in you to give. And as for scorn, no, I do understand. You
