When he saw Alarr staring, his expression tightened before it fixed upon Sigurd. The hard look was not of a man who wanted an alliance—it was of a man itching for a fight.
Someone needed to alert the guards, but Alarr could not leave in the midst of the ceremony. He searched for a glimpse of Danr or Sandulf, but they were nowhere to be found. He only saw his aunt nearby, and she could do nothing.
You’re overreacting, he tried to tell himself. But no matter how he tried to dismiss his suspicions, his instincts remained on alert. He could not interrupt the ceremony, for it would only humiliate his bride. This was meant to be a day of celebration, and Gilla’s smile was bright as she looked at him.
She was a kind woman, and as he returned her smile, he forced his thoughts back to the wedding. Friendship was a solid foundation for their union, and he inwardly vowed that he would try to make this marriage a good one.
He stood before her, and Sigurd brought the sword of Hafr that they had dug from his uncle’s grave. Alarr presented it to Gilla, saying, ‘Take this sword as a gift from my ancestors. It shall become the sword of our firstborn son.’
She accepted the weapon and then turned to her father to present their own gift of another sword. ‘Take this sword for your own.’
The blade had good balance, and he tested the edge, noting its sharpness. Gilla knew of his love for sword-fighting, and she had chosen a weapon of quality. It was a good exchange, and he approved of her choice.
Alarr placed the ring for Gilla upon the hilt of the sword, and was about to offer it, when he caught a sudden movement among the guests. Feann cast off his dark cloak and unsheathed a sword from where it had been strapped between his shoulder blades. His men joined him, their own weapons revealed. The visible threat made their intentions clear.
Sigurd’s face turned thunderous at the insult, and he started to reach for Alarr’s sword.
He handed the weapon to his father and commanded, ‘Take Gilla to the longhouse and guard her.’ The last thing they needed was his father’s hot-headed fighting. ‘Vigmarr and I will settle this.’
He took back his uncle’s sword from Gilla, and her face turned stricken when she murmured, ‘Be safe.’
His father heeded his instructions and took Gilla with him, along with a few other men. His aunt joined them, running with her skirts clenched in her hands. He heard his mother scream as she fled towards another longhouse in the opposite direction. Only when the women were gone did Alarr breathe easier.
It was a mistake. Chaos erupted among the guests as his men hurried towards the longhouse where they had stored their weapons. King Feann uttered a command in Irish, and his men surged forward, cutting down anyone in their path.
Alarr ran hard, and iron struck iron as his weapon met an enemy’s blade. He let the familiar battle rage flow through him, and his uncle’s sword bit through flesh, striking down his attacker. The weapon was strong, imbued with the spirt of his ancestor. Alarr swung at another man, and he glimpsed another warrior behind him. He sidestepped and caught the man in the throat before he slashed the stomach of his other assailant.
The volva was right, he thought. It was an ill omen.
Already, he could see the slain bodies of his kinsmen as more men charged forward in the fight. Alarr searched for his brothers, but there was no sign of Sandulf or Danr. By the gods, he hoped they were safe. If only Brandt and Rurik had been here, they could have driven off their enemies. He caught one of his kinsmen and ordered, ‘Take a horse and ride north as hard as you can. Find Brandt and Rurik and bring them back.’ The man obeyed, running hard towards the stables.
A strange calm passed over him with the knowledge that he would likely die this day. The shouts of kinsmen echoed amid the clang of weapons, only to be cut short when they died. The Irish king started to run towards the longhouse, but Alarr cut him off, swinging his sword hard. The older man caught his balance and held his weapon against the iron.
Feann paused a moment. ‘Stay out of this, boy. The fight isn’t yours. Sigurd has gone too far, and he will pay for his crimes.’
‘This is my wedding, so the fight is mine,’ Alarr countered. He swung his weapon, and the king blocked his blow. ‘And I am not a boy.’ He was beginning to realise that Feann had travelled seeking vengeance, and his intent was to slaughter Sigurd. But what crimes was he talking about?
They sparred against one another, the king toying with him. Alarr struck hard, intending to stop the man. But with every blow, he grew aware that Feann was stalling, drawing out the fight. It was then that he saw men surrounding the longhouse where his father was protecting his bride. Gilla’s father, Vigmarr, was fighting back, trying to defend them.
And then Alarr caught the unmistakable scent of smoke and fire.
He renewed his attack, slashing with his sword as he fought to find a weakness. Feann parried each blow, and when the screams of the women broke through, Alarr jerked his attention back to the longhouse.
A slashing pain struck him in the calves, and he saw the king withdraw a bloody blade, just before his legs collapsed
