“I wouldn’t mind a wager,” Alfarr agreed. His gaze passed over Elena with interest and she felt a prickle of uneasiness pass over her skin. “Especially if a woman is involved.” Despite the short distance, she could feel his stare upon her and it made her skin crawl.
Ragnar didn’t bother to look back. “She is not a part of this.”
“When you’re dead, she will be,” Alfarr answered.
“But if I win,” Ragnar warned softly, “your champion will be dead, and you’ll go raid another tribe. Not this one.”
“You’re wounded, Ragnar Olafsson,” Alfarr argued. “You are no match for us.”
“Then I’ll meet Odin in Valhalla, if my sword does not prevail,” he said.
So much rested upon this fight. Not only their fate, but the fate of the Irish as well. It angered Elena that the people kept a distance instead of joining him. Why had no one offered to help?
Fear quickened in her veins as the men faced off. Even if Ragnar prevailed, she suspected their enemies would not keep their word. Raiders who lived and died by their swords were not men of honor. The moment Ragnar’s back was turned, they would cut him down.
She closed her eyes, trying to bring clarity to her clouded mind. If he were not wounded, she didn’t doubt that he would strike down every last man.
But with only one good leg to stand on, he might not live through the rest of this day. She would become their prize of war unless she did something to stop them.
Elena turned back to the Irish, her mind spinning with ideas, most of which wouldn’t work. But when she saw a woman carrying a basket of green apples, an idea began to take root. The apples were a symbol of the gods. Men like these might not honor the afterworld...but they would understand the effects of a curse. It was something to be feared.
There was one way to put an end to the fighting and drive the invaders away.
Freya, be with me, she prayed.
They chose their tallest man to fight him. Thehersirweighed more than Ragnar, but Ragnar wasn’t afraid to face the man. The larger the warrior, the slower he tended to move.
His thigh wound was aching, but Ragnar blotted all of the pain from his mind. If he failed in this fight, they would take Elena and use her. He had no doubt of it. In times like these, he had to use his wits, rather than his strength.
The man had chosen a battleaxe as his weapon and after dismounting from the horse, Ragnar took a round shield from the warrior he’d already killed.
Thor, guide my blade, he prayed.Let me strike true.
He waited for the man to make the first move, for in that motion he could determine his enemy’s weaknesses.
“Your wound will slow you down, Olafsson,” the man remarked, eyeing the reddish stain on Ragnar’s thigh. His enemy tossed his battleaxe and caught it again, the silvery gleam of steel revealing a sharp blade. The man was fair-haired with a reddish beard and wore a hauberk made of whalebone.
“Wounded or not, the gods favor me.” Ragnar nodded toward the sky, which was transforming from sunshine into a darker hue. Large clouds drifted into a gray mass, forming storms. “In a little while, Thor will show his lightning, and you will be in Valhalla to greet him.”
“Or you will,” the man countered.
Ragnar glanced back toward Elena, but was startled to see that she’d disappeared. It was for the best, he supposed. At least if she’d gone, he would not have to worry over her fate.
But he’d known her too long. She wasn’t one to run from a fight. It was more likely she’d gone to fetch a weapon herself.
Better to end this quickly, then.
Instinct took over and he let the blood course through his heart, pushing back any trace of mercy. This man would die and soon.
Ragnar raised his shield to deflect a blow from the battleaxe, biting back a gasp when the man kicked his thigh. Pain shot through him, but he slipped into the blur of fighting, no longer feeling anything. He was aware only of the weapon in his hands and the movement of his enemy. Blood seeped against his wound, but he dulled his mind against distractions.
“You’re stronger than you look. But not for long,” the man said. He renewed his attack, using his own shield to press hard against Ragnar.
Ragnar’s muscles tensed as he refused to surrender ground. He was a warrior, a man sworn to live and die by the sword. Wounds and pain were a part of the fighting and as he pivoted to dodge another blow, his father’s words came back to taunt him.
You’re weak and soft, boy.
He tasted blood in his mouth when his enemy’s fist plowed into his jaw, but he willed himself to feel nothing, just as he’d endured years of his father’s beatings.
