“I stand by my cousin!” said one of them, and the other, after a moment’s lag, declared himself as well.
Leif Trollsverd spoke now in quick, clipped Norse. “I stand by my friend, the Yngling of the People,” he declared. “It is not right that he fight alone against three.”
“And I,” said Sten Vannaren. “He is my Jkinsman and my friend.” He paused. “It would be well if you spoke to your own kinsmen that you brought with you, who are not warriors, and told them what you want them to do when it is over. For it will be too late then.”
The hotheaded of Jäävklo’s cousins stepped forward with an oath, and once more Olof Three-Fingers restrained him. “I am headman here,” he warned. “I say when we fight.” He turned to Sten. “I will speak with those who are not warriors, and advise them. I will tell them to return to the clan, and that the feud ends here.”
Baver stared as the three Glutton warriors went out to counsel their people. Surely at least three men would die here tonight, as he understood these matters. And even in a culture which believed in rebirth for the dead, how could they act so matter-of-factly? Surely such belief could be no more than a veneer, overlying the deep biological realization that dead was dead. And for the survivors, what of lost limbs?
He could hear them talking, but not what was said. It seemed that Olof Three-Fingers did almost all of it. After
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two or three minutes they came back into the circle of firelight, and Baver realized that Hans had moved back out of the way. Quickly he followed, and recorder in hand, stood to one side, staring through the viewing frame at the six warriors lining up in two facing rows of three, well spread out. There’d been a bit of jockeying between Olof and the hothead over who would face Nils Järnhann. Olof, with his seniority, prevailed, and sullenly the hothead faced off with Leif Trollsverd instead.
Baver realized with some dismay that his fascination substantially outweighed his disgust. Nils had donned his own steel cap and hauberk, and stood half a head taller than any of the others. But these men were all formidable looking, their hands large and thick with muscle on their sword hilts, their forearms bulging and corded. Leif Trollsverd was the smallest, an average-sized Northman who gave an impression of coiled-spring energy.
They raised their swords, each man with his dagger in the other hand. Then, with an oath, Olof Three-Fingers made his opening move, his blade rotating beneath Nils’s, pushing it aside and thrusting toward the Yngling’s belly. At once they were all in action, blades clashing, bodies and weapons in constant motion, feet in a balanced dance, forward and back, their breathing a cadence of grunted exhalations. Within seconds, Leif Trollsverd’s sword cut a gaping wound in his opponent’s thigh. Blood poured. The wounded man, the hothead, doubled his efforts then, in a frenzy, but the Norske fended him off seemingly without effort, and cut the man’s sword arm so deeply that his sword dropped from nerveless fingers. With a shrill cry, the man lunged with his knife, and Trollsverd’s sword struck his neck, cutting through the chain collette and driving him to earth, half beheaded.
Trollsverd stepped aside to watch the others, and Baver’s attention went to Nils. The giant fought with an easy nonchalance that seemed almost slow but wasn’t. Olof Three-Fingers, by contrast, fought furiously. Then Nils’s blade cleft the man’s helmet, and the Glutton warrior
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fell, eyes wide and bulging, mouth agape, brains oozing through the rent.
Of the three, only Sten Vannaren still fought, and it seemed to Baver that Sten’s opponent might be the best of the three Gluttons. Blood flowed from cuts on arms and thighs, and each man had rents in his hauberk from strokes only partially fended. But neither seemed weakened yet. Baver waited in near agony for Nils or Leif to step in, but they seemed content or constrained to simply watch. For a moment the two swords seemed to lock overhead, and the Glutton warrior swept low with his knife. At that instant, Sten spun out of the sword lock, his blade sweeping down and across, driving through mail, shoulder, scapula, and into his opponent’s chest, even as the knife sliced the side of his own leg.