But the raiders weren’t just mindless barbarians. They too were well trained, and seeing Arran’s tactics, they quickly pulled back and formed a shield wall with their interlocking shields, thrusting longspears between the gaps, designed to negate the advantage of the horses.
Arran growled in frustration, pulling Bran around in a circle, looking for a way through. As he did so, a hooked blade caught the hilt of his longsword and yanked him out of the saddle. He slammed into the mud and had an instant to register a blade swinging at his face. He rolled away as it slammed into the mud where he’d been lying and then kicked the man who wielded it in the knee.
The man grunted in pain and staggered, giving Arran enough time to climb to his knees and draw his claymore from across his back, which he held in a two-handed grip.
The man facing him was huge. Taller and broader even than Arran, he wore a sleeveless leather vest that showed off his tree-trunk arms, light linen trews, and soft knee-high boots. His long hair, matted and knotted, was hung with all kinds of charms: bones, twigs, feathers. On one arm he carried his round shield while with the other, he brandished his hooked blade.
“What are you waiting for, islander?” the man rasped in a guttural voice. “An invitation?” His accent was clipped, with a slight emphasis on the ends of words. Aye, definitely Norse.
Arran didn’t answer the taunt. He’d been in enough fights to know when an enemy was trying to bait him, and the last thing he needed to do against this brute was lose his concentration. So he kept his stance, treading warily to his right, eyes fixed on his opponent. The man moved the other way and they began circling each other like predators.
Around him, Arran was dimly aware of the battle beginning to turn, of the defenders of Tollman’s Gate opening the barricade and storming out to join Arran’s men, but he had no time to spare for them now.
“Who are ye?” Arran asked the giant. “What do ye want here?”
The big man grinned, revealing white teeth that had been sharpenedto points. God’s blood. What kind of man was he?
“I?” he said. “I want nothing. My master though? He’s another matter.”
Arran said nothing, but continued circling, assessing his opponent’s weaknesses. From the way he moved and the way he carried his weapons, it was clear he was well trained.
“Who is yer master?”
He did not expect an answer and had in fact only asked the question to catch his opponent unawares. Before the sentence was even finished, he dashed forward, swinging his claymore in a flashing arc that would have taken the man’s head had it connected. The man threw up his shield and sword to block the blow and that’s what Arran was waiting for. He adjusted his swing slightly, taking it above and away from the shield, allowed its momentum to carry it around and down, and then reversed the slash, bringing it low and slicing through the man’s legs.
At least, that’s whatshouldhave happened. But the man moved like lightning. As Arran’s blade came down, somehow the man’s blade was already there to meet it and the two blades slammed together with enough clanging force to send a jolt up Arran’s arm and into his shoulder.
“Oh, you are good!” the man crowed. “My master was right about you!”
He was grinning manically, as though this was the most fun he’d had in a long time. Now that they were so close, Arran saw that the man bore a strange design inked into the side of his neck, an interlocking design of three spirals, with an angular rune above it.
“Who are ye?” he growled. “What do ye want?”
The grin widened. “You can call me Ingold. And what do I want? Nothing. But my master? Oh, he only wants your island is all.”
With a grunt, Arran shoved the man away and attacked again, his sword moving in a blur of motion. Ingold parried everything Arranthrew at him, the grin never leaving his face. Arran was soon sweating and blowing, but he did not let up. All the rage he felt, all the guilt and pent-up frustration came pouring out of him, at last finding a focus in this grinning madman.
The clang of steel on steel filled the air, along with the stink of sweat and the rusty tang of blood. He could hear his own labored breathing and his heartbeat thundering in his ears, but this was inconsequential against his need to end this leering fool.
He began pushing Ingold back, away from the ramparts around Tollman’s Gate. He spared a quick glance for his men. The raiders were being inexorably surrounded. It would soon become a blood bath.
As if sensing this, the grinning man looked around, eyes narrowing as he surveyed his forces. Arran seized his chance, springing forward and swinging his blade in a series of lightning ripostes aimed at Ingold’s ribs. The man deflected them all and Arran’s frustration mounted. How could such a massive man be so fast?
Then, so suddenly it took Arran off guard, Ingold disengaged, lowering his weapon and backing away.
“Njord sends his regards! And sends his thanks for keeping his island warm for him!”
“This ismyisland!” Arran snarled.
The inked man laughed. “Not for long! Do you think your witch can save you? She can’t! This land belongs to Njord. You just don’t know it yet!”
Then he turned and ran, putting his fingers to his lips and whistling as he did so. The rest of the raiders battled their way free and fled, sprinting in a disorderly rabble towards the beach where their boats waited. Arran’s men set off in pursuit, but Arran didn’t join them.
A ball of ice seemed to have formed inside his belly.Do you think your witch can save you?
Jenna. The raiders knew about Jenna. And that meant she was in danger.
He slammed his claymore back into its scabbard and looked around for Bran. The warhorse was standing over by the entrance to the rampart, reins trailing. He’d lost his saddle in the melee and his flanks were crusted with dried sweat but his neck still arched gracefully and there was fire in his eyes as he shifted and stamped at two of Arran’s men who were trying to calm him.
