He is telepathic then! Baver told himself. How else could he know? Or had he staged the whole thing? Had he known or suspected that he’d be followed by these kinsmen of Jäävklo’s, and arranged with his friends to follow? Leif Trollsverd would be an ideal choice for such a plan. Even Baver knew his reputation, a Norske warrior-hero famed as a swordsman, with his own saga from the Ore War. Even the warrior name given him, Trollsverd, implied someone dangerous, for trolleri meant magic, and in Neoviking tales, trolls were often savage as well as tricksters and magicians, with far more than human strength. By extension, a trollsverd—troll sword—would be terrible to face—powerful, magical, and savage.
It occurred to Baver that he should have his pistol, not his recorder, in his hands. For surely, with such a prospect, Olof and his kinsmen would attack Nils together now, cut him down and reduce the odds against them before Nils’s friends arrived. Olof had said that vengeance was their motive, and Nils their target, and their prospects would be poor when the newcomers arrived.
But they waited, backed into the circle of light, facing the coming horsemen. Mager Hans threw more dry branchwood on the fire, as if to better light the fight to come. As if he wanted to see every detail for the Jarn-hann Saga he was preparing. Now Baver could hear the dull thudding of hoofbeats at an easy trot, surely more than two horses. They slowed, and Nils called out:
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“Leif! Sten! Well come! Knut Taavklo’s kinsmen have come to visit, seeking vengeance!’
The newcomers rode into the edge of the firelight, or the first two did. Behind them were more. Two more, Baver thought, probably sword apprentices brought along for the camp chores and adventure, being forbidden by the Bans to take part in fighting among Northmen. Four men then, with pack horses. Leif Trollsverd and Sten Vannaren swung easily off their mounts, and as their feet touched down, their swords were in their hands, not flourished but ready. They too wore steel caps and hauberks.
The one who spoke first had a clipped reddish beard, and his accent came from Svealand. We wondered,” he said. “We were told they’d left the encampment and turned north, and decided to follow. As for vengeance— Knut Jäävklo wrote his fate with his actions in life, and the manner of death he chose was part of his penance. His clan still has the price of his dishonesty to pay, but that’s just: It was they who made him chief.”
“His kinsmen see it differently,” Nils answered. “They blame me for his death.”
Sten Vannaren nodded. “Has a challenge been made?”
“Not formally. Nothing has been said that cannot easily be passed over. Perhaps killing can be avoided.”
Olof Three-Fingers shook his head. “We have decided. Perhaps it was ill done, in the heat of loss and anger, but we have told others what we intended; we cannot go back now.”
“I understand.”
Baver was surprised that Sten Vannaren was spokesman here, instead of one of the two heroes, and wondered if this was some obscure protocol in action.
“Well then,” Sten went on, “challenge if you must.”
Olof Three-Fingers gestured toward Nils. “He said he would challenge.”
Nils shook his head. “That was to save your kin from outlawry or the blood price, and yourself the karma. Now it’s no longer three on one, so you won’t be labeled
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murderers, and if I challenge with equal numbers, I could be charged before the Council for an unsanctioned feud.” He paused, looking intently at Olofsson. “Men before you nave retracted words said in anger. And while some have looked ill at them for it, that passes, while others speak of them as grown in wisdom.’
The Glutton warrior stared at Nils. “That may be,” he said slowly, “but the cost of such wisdom is pride, and that is a price I will not pay. I challenge you, Nils Järnhann, Hammarsson, to pay with your blood for the death of my brother. Just you and I.” He gestured at his two warrior kinsman. “These can challenge or not, as they please.”