‘Sterkest slag — strongest blow,’ Grimson explained. ‘Go.’ He pushed Arn forward.
Ah crap; what the hell have I got myself into? Arn stepped out from behind the table and slowly walked to the centre of the room, feeling the weight of the dozens of eyes upon him. Strongest blow — he felt he had walked into some jock’s football test, except instead of facing the high-school quarterback, he knew he was about to be asked to challenge a creature more than a head taller than he was, and probably twice as wide.
He heard a voice above the chanting crowd — not calling Strom’s name, but his own. It was Eilif. She cheered and made a small fist in the air.
‘Strongest blow.’ Grimson appeared at his side and looked at Strom with admiration. ‘Strom always wins; no one is stronger in the kingdom.’
Arn bent down slightly, and whispered, ‘What am I supposed to do?’
Grimson pointed to the tree stumps. ‘You need to sink the axe deep into the wood — the winner is whoever has buried their axe head the deepest.’
‘That’s it?’ Arn straightened, feeling safer now that he knew he didn’t have to try to swing the huge weapon at the giant Strom… or worse, having the king’s champion swing an axe at him.
Grimson looked at Arn’s arms and shoulders. ‘I like you, Arnoddr, but I don’t think you’ll win today.’
‘I don’t really think I’m supposed to. But hey, who cares?’ Arn shrugged, now willing to play along.
‘You might care. The winner is sometimes allowed to pick another challenge. Strom usually likes the punching contest.’
‘Oh great, that sounds like fun as well.’ Arn shook his head. ‘I wish I could at least see it done first, so I don’t totally humiliate myself.’
Grimson nodded and looked to the king. ‘Demonstration, father?’
Eilif seconded the request. ‘Yes, a demonstration of the art of sterkest slag by one of the elite!’ There were mutters around the able, and Eilif added loudly, ‘A dozen solvs on the Arnoddr.’
For a moment, there was silence, then a burst of activity as bets were shouted from one end of the table to the other. Arn could hear they were nearly all for Strom, with a few extremely small wagers on him… and only because the odds against him winning were so great.
A young warrior with almost jet black fur spoke up loudly above the excited babbling of the crowd, ‘A thousand solvs on the king’s champion.’
The bet’s effect was instantaneous — silence, followed by a roar of applause.
Even Grimvaldr shook his head. ‘A fortune, Bergborr, and one that no one will dare to claim.’
‘I’ll take that bet.’
Like a beast with many heads, the crowd turned as one to gaze in the direction of the voice. It was Balthazar. The old Wolfen looked first at Bergborr, then at Arn. His wise old eyes had a look of understanding that made Arn think he knew more than he was letting on.
‘Done.’ Bergborr banged his tankard down, his expression now as dark as his fur. Arn wondered whether he had expected no takers for his huge bet. But now he would make or lose a fortune this day.
The king banged a fist down onto the table, making the remaining plates and cups rattle and jump. The crowd settled and turned towards him.
Grimvaldr looked up and down the table, taking in each of his diners’ faces. ‘I will allow Arnoddr a demonstration. We must give the Man-kind some time to gather his strength, seeing there is so much coin riding on it.’
He continued to scan the assembled faces, stopping at a large young warrior. He nodded to him. ‘Sorenson, stand and show us your arm.’
The young warrior whooped and stood up from the table. He raced around behind all the other seated Wolfen, occasionally patting one on the shoulder, or pushing a head forward good naturedly. Arn liked him already.
Sorenson was tall, but still many inches shorter than Strom, and as he approached the centre of the room, the king’s champion threw back his head, and laughed heartily.
‘You, little brother? I should have known.’ He and Strom punched knuckles in a gesture that was eerily familiar to Arn, and reminded him of the camaraderie displayed at a million sporting events he had seen back home.
Strom bowed theatrically and motioned with his hand towards the axes — the first choice was to be the challenger’s. Sorenson nodded and walked to the bench. He selected an axe, and judging by the way he dragged it from the table, Arn could tell it must have been extremely heavy.
Sorenson walked back towards Arn, and slapped him on the shoulder.
‘Use the force of the swing, and never ease your grip,’ he said, his sharp eyes examining Arn’s face. ‘And beware the impact; it has broken many a strong Wolfen’s arm, whose hand was loose.’
He walked away before Arn could thank him, and positioned himself in front of one of the stumps. Spreading his legs, he allowed the axe to lean against his thigh for a moment as he wiped his hands up the length of his pants. His fingers flexed and closed around the steel, getting a feel for it. Cheers and jeers came from the crowd, and Grimvaldr sat back smiling, his arms folded.
Sorenson looked to the king, who nodded once. The young Wolfen started inhaling and exhaling — slowly at first, then faster and deeper. Then he let out a mighty yell and swung the axe in an arc from the floor, over his head, and then down onto the centre of the stump. The strike echoed around the stone room, and was only drowned out by the cheers of the seated Wolfen.
Arn had expected the wood to be cleaved in two, but it must have been like the toughest ironbark, as the axe only penetrated to about a third of the way. Sorenson raised both hands in the air, obviously satisfied with his swing. Strom raised his eyebrows, showing he was impressed with his younger brother’s arm.
Then came the chant: Strom — Strom — Strom… The king’s champion bowed and walked purposefully towards the bench, taking up the other axe and swinging it back and forth one handed, the heavy weapon somehow looking smaller and lighter in the giant Wolfen’s grip. He rolled his shoulders and looked to the king, waiting.
The king nodded. Strom turned to the stump and started to growl low and deep. The crowd fell silent. Even among his kinsmen, he was a fearsome sight. When he roared, it made Arn cringe slightly. He lifted the axe and swung it.
The blade buried itself more than two thirds of the way down into the iron-hard wood. Arn had felt a shudder from the impact as it travelled from the axe to the stump, and then down through the heavy stone floor.
There were gasps, then cheers and applause. Strom released the handle and turned to the king, first bowing to him, and then to his opponent. As he straightened, he held out his hand. Sorenson laughed and grabbed the forearm of the large Wolfen. Strom in turn gripped the shoulder of his younger brother, and spoke with a smile. ‘Next time.’
Sorenson nodded and spoke softly, ‘Probably not until you are an old Wolfen, I think.’ He returned to his seat, getting slapped on the back by many of the seated warriors as he passed by them.
The two stumps were left side by side — Sorenson’s axe buried about a third of the way down, and Strom’s more than double that.
The familiar creak of wheels from behind Arn heralded the arrival of another two stumps and axes. Grimson nudged him. ‘Your turn, Arnoddr. Just use your baseball magic again.’ He gave Arn a gentle shove.
Reluctantly, Arn stepped forward. As he stood by Strom’s side, there was another furious round of betting. Arn guessed that the sight of him, next to the massive bulk of the king’s champion, inspired renewed confidence in those who were betting against him. He could also see that Bergborr now had a smug look of satisfaction on his face.
Arn turned to Strom, who bowed to him. As before, the giant motioned towards the axes. Arn looked to Eilif who had her hands clasped together in front of her chin, looking like she was ready to start praying. She mouthed something he couldn’t understand.
Arn flashed her a tight smile, drew in a deep breath and walked like a condemned man to the bench. He examined the enormous weapons laid out there; to his eye, there was no difference between them, and he placed his hand on the closest.
His heart raced in his chest, as he picked up the axe. Surprisingly, it was light… in fact, much lighter than he expected. He knew it shouldn’t have been; he had seen Sorenson, and even Strom, straining to lift it. Was he once again under the influence of the strange energy the giant moon seemed to be affording him? The thick blade was
