‘WHAT ARE YOU talking about?’ Hagan said with a frown. ‘Are you serious?’
‘You and I have been on the path to this meeting from the moment we met,’ Sigurd said, taking a step forward. ‘When my wife spoke so highly of you. She loves me, you know. Adores me, in fact. And I can’t have rivals in anything. If you don’t realise this by now you will have to learn the hard way.’
‘You love Gunhild?’ Hagan said. ‘You have a strange way of showing that. I’ve seen you dallying with other women. And Zerco says you like to swive both slaves and noble ladies.’
‘They mean nothing to me,’ Sigurd said, taking another step towards Hagan. ‘Gunhild understands that. Besides, what’s a man like me to do? I am the champion of the people. I have women literally throwing themselves at my feet. Am I to ignore that? Gunhild knows I can’t do that. What sort of a man would people think I was?’
‘An honourable one,’ Hagan said.
He dropped his hand to his own sheathed sword.
Sigurd grunted derisively.
‘A man like you wouldn’t understand,’ he said.
‘My father was the champion of the people,’ Hagan said. ‘He did not behave as you do.’
‘Ah, Godegisil, your father,’ Sigurd said, swiping his sword left and right. The runes on its blade somehow glittered in the dim light. ‘Or rather the man who said he was your father. Gunhild has told me about that too. He wasn’t your real father, was he? She knows who your real father is, and that is another problem. That is why you have to die. The Gods have presented you to me here, and now I must complete my part of the bargain.’
Hagan glanced around and realised that they were alone, apart from the mounds of dead and scattered, broken war gear. He was weary and thirsty. His sword arm ached and he did not relish the idea of trying to fight a man as huge as Sigurd.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ he said.
‘But I do,’ Sigurd said. ‘I explained this to you before. The Sword of Tiwass has a curse. Whenever it is drawn it must taste blood. And I have already drawn the blade. Now. Enough talk.’
He began to stomp towards Hagan. Hagan unslung his shield and readied himself. He placed his feet shoulder-width apart and readied himself. He felt a strange feeling of unreality, as if this were not really happening. He found it hard to believe after such a day he was now facing off against someone from his own folk. Was he really going to die?
Sigurd did not bother with his shield. Instead he gripped his sword in both hands. With surprising speed for such a big man, he skipped across the last few paces between them.
He swung the sword overhead in a great arc. Hagan raised his shield to counter the blow. The great blade smashed into the face of the shield with an impact that made Hagan’s whole arm and shoulder shudder and his teeth rattle. There was an ominous crack and Hagan watched with dismay as his shield, already battered from the day’s battle, shattered and fell into pieces.
Hagan acted on instinct. He knew Sigurd was in range of his own sword and lunged with it, driving the point of the blade into the big man’s chest.
Hagan’s sword did not pierce the big man’s armour. Instead it poked into it, then with a rattle of metal on metal, scattered off sideways. Sigurd chuckled and drew his sword up to strike again.
Hagan twisted and staggered away from the big man, just making it far enough as Sigurd swung at him again. The blade just missed him.
Hagan attacked, not even looking where he was hitting. His arm checked with a painful wrench of his elbow as Sigurd blocked his attack with his own blade.
Hagan turned and struck again. He hit Sigurd with all his might, an overhead blow that landed on this other man’s left shoulder. Hagan watched in dismay as the blade yet again failed to pierce Sigurd’s scale mail and just skidded over the surface.
‘You are wasting your time,’ Sigurd said. ‘This is Byzantine armour. I took it from the Eastern Roman dragon warriors we ambushed and slaughtered when they tried to steal the treasure of the Nibelungs. So far today it’s proved impenetrable to Hun arrows, Ostrogoth swords and Gepid spears. Your puny sword stands no chance.’
‘So it was you who took the treasure,’ Hagan said. ‘As they all guessed.’
‘It was me who saved the treasure,’ Sigurd said. ‘For the people who it belonged to. Why should the Romans take it just because of a moment of weakness by Gunderic?’
‘I don’t see the ordinary Burgundar folk sharing in much of the treasure,’ Hagan said.
He was really just trying to stall Sigurd while he thought about what he might be able to do. Sigurd was right, his sword could do nothing against the Byzantine armour. The big man was twice as strong as he was and he still seemed to be as fresh as he was first thing that morning. Hagan on the other hand was exhausted and if the massive blade of the Sword of the War God so much as touched him it could well take off an arm or a leg. It did not seem like he had many options.
‘They benefit from it in many ways,’ Sigurd said. ‘It makes their war horde strong. They have a rich king who brings pride to the realm.’
Sigurd swept his sword in an arc aimed at taking off Hagan’s head. Hagan used the last remnants of his strength to jump out of the way. He almost made it but the blade struck his left shoulder. It was a glancing blow but still split the iron rings of Hagan’s mail shirt like it was linen. He felt a searing pain as the blade sliced through his flesh beneath.
Hagan staggered away; the world seemed to spin a little before him and countless black specks danced and swirled before his eyes. He could feel the warmth of his blood running from the wound to his shoulder.
‘You think Gunderic will be content to continue to share the treasure?’ he said, trying to keep Sigurd talking rather than attacking, though with the dawning realisation that he was only postponing the inevitable.
‘It’s of no consequence,’ Sigurd said. ‘I am named as his successor, remember? It is he who will have to be wary of me.’
With that he swung a great blow, bringing it down from above in a strike designed to slice Hagan’s head in two from crown to chin. Hagan swiped his own sword above his head to block the attack. The two blades met in a tooth-jarring collision that sent sparks showering down onto Hagan’s face.
The impact made Hagan stagger backwards. Now utterly drained of all energy, he lost his footing and fell flat on his back. At the same moment there was a resounding dull metal clang as the blade of Hagan’s sword broke and fell in two.
Hagan gasped, the impact of his fall driving the breath from his lungs. Sigurd stepped forward and stood over him, one foot on either side of his chest. He reversed his sword so the point of the blade hovered over Hagan’s heart.
Hagan realised it was over for him. He was so tired that for a moment he almost welcomed death. But then anger flared in his heart. He did not want to die and he definitely did not want to die at the hands of Sigurd.
It did not look like he would have any choice, however.
He closed his eyes.
Hagan felt rather than heard the beat of horses’ hooves. He heard Sigurd cry out in either surprise or pain.
He opened his eyes again and saw a warrior on horseback riding past. Instead of stabbing Hagan, Sigurd swiped at the rider. He missed, then with a curse he hurled his sword after the galloping warrior. The blade struck, impaling the riding warrior who fell out of the saddle.
Sigurd stumbled sideways. Then he dropped to his knees with a rattle of his scale mail. For a moment Hagan saw Sigurd looking at him, a look of utter disbelief on his face, then the big man gasped and collapsed face forward onto the ground.
For the first time Hagan saw the broken shaft of the spear embedded in Sigurd’s back, driven into the unprotected gap below his neck where his mail shirt did not meet.
Hagan sat up, confused as to what had just happened. He scrambled to his feet and saw the rider who had struck Sigurd lying on her side a little way away.
It was Brynhild. She was transfixed by Sigurd’s sword. The point of it had burst from her stomach and glistened with her blood.
Hagan ran over and crouched beside her.
‘Here we are again, Hagan,’ Brynhild said, her breath coming in gasps because of the pain. ‘Just like at Vorbetomagus all those years ago. Except this time I will not survive.’
Hagan felt helpless as he stared at her wound. It was fatal, there was no doubt about that.
‘Pull it out, Hagan,’ Brynhild said through gritted teeth. ‘I want to lie back.’
‘If I do that you will die,’ Hagan said.
‘I am going to die anyway,’ Brynhild said. ‘I may as well be comfortable. Please, Hagan… it’s hard to breathe like this.’
Hagan took a deep breath then wrenched the sword free of Brynhild’s body. Eyes screwed shut, she let out an agonised scream as a great torrent of bright blood gushed from her body.
Hagan tossed the sword away as far as he could. It clattered to the earth not far from Sigurd. Then he helped Brynhild lie back on the ground. For a moment he thought she was already dead, then her eyes sprung open, filled with fury and fixing his own with an unflinching gaze.
‘I curse them all,’ Brynhild said. ‘I cursed you as well. Today was to be my day of vengeance and I killed many of the Huns. I killed Sigurd. I paid him back for his part in what happened to me. But he has killed me as well. Now it looks like my revenge is incomplete. Gunderic still lives. Gunhild still lives. You still live.’
‘Brynhild, I am sorry for my part in deceiving you,’ Hagan said. ‘I never thought of the consequences. I just wanted to please everyone.’
‘If you really mean that…’ Brynhild said. She grimaced, blood staining her clenched teeth pink. ‘Then you will complete my revenge for me.’
‘Brynhild, I—’ Hagan started to speak.
‘Swear you will do it!’ Brynhild said. She continued to glare at him and she gripped his forearms, her nails digging into his flesh.
The effort drained her last energy. Hagan saw the light fade from her eyes and the pupils became fixed. Her fingers relaxed and let go of his arms. Her last breath left her in a sigh as she fell onto her side.
Hagan flopped down on his backside, panting and staring in disbelief at the two corpses of Sigurd and Brynhild.
Then he heard a high wail.
Gunhild rose from behind a nearby pile of corpses. She staggered like someone drunk to where Sigurd lay and thew herself on top of him. She began to heave great sobs.
Hagan looked at her, unsure if he could believe his eyes. Had she been watching the whole thing?
‘She killed him,’ Gunhild said in a weak voice. ‘She wasn’t supposed to do that. I don’t know where she came from.’
She sounded as if she was talking to herself.
‘He was going to kill me,’ Hagan said.
‘He was supposed to kill you!!’ Gunhild screamed.
Hagan was taken aback by the anger in her voice and the glare in her eyes. He had heard grief could do strange things to the mind, which if it was twisting Gunhild’s then all Sigurd said must have been true. She really did love him. Or was there something else?
Either way he felt too exhausted to try to work it out.
‘I came to find him on the battlefield,’ Gunhild said through sobs. ‘To warn him about Brynhild. She’d gone mad. Then he insisted on killing you. He was such a wonderful man. A hero. There will be no one like him again for a thousand years!’
‘You must have seen a different side to him,’ Hagan said. ‘I only saw a bully and a thug.’
‘What would you know?’ Gunhild said with a sneer. ‘What would any of you know? He was truly great. And now he’s dead because of a stupid battle, the cowardice of my brother and the weakness of Brynhild.’
‘It was hardly weakness…’ Hagan did not press his point. Even at a distance he could see the hard glitter in Gunhild’s eyes and knew there would be no reasoning with her.
Gunhild rose to her feet.
‘We were supposed to rule together,’ she said. ‘If not through manipulating the weakness of my brother then in his stead. Gunderic had already agreed Sigurd as his successor. And I would have been queen. I was the eldest after all. It was my birthright. Then all of you – Wodnas, Aetius, Attila and you, Hagan – came along with your stupid schemes and now he’s dead.’
She heaved a huge sob that spoke of thwarted hopes and endless sadness. Hagan wondered if her grief was due to the death of Sigurd or the end of her hopes. Perhaps they were both entwined.
‘Well I’ll show you,’ Gunhild said, her lips turning to a snarl. ‘I’ll show you all! I will rule all of you.’
She staggered over to where Sigurd’s great war sword lay and lifted it. For a moment she struggled under the weight of it. Hagan felt a brief moment of panic that she was going to attack him with it but instead she ran the sword into its jewelled sheath. With tender fingers she unclasped it from Sigurd’s dead body and slung it over her shoulder by the strap.
‘Attila wants a bride and he wants this sword,’ Gunhild said. She was talking now as if to herself as she strode over to where Brynhild’s horse, its saddle now empty, stood waiting for its owner who would never ride again. ‘Well, I will give him both. I will offer him the sword as my dowry.’
Hagan began to struggle to his feet. He looked around. His own horse was nowhere to be seen.
‘Wait, Gunhild,’ he said. ‘If Attila gets that sword he could grow strong again—’
‘That is my fervent hope,’ Gunhild said, swinging herself up into the saddle. She kicked her legs and trotted off a little way.
‘One thing, please!’ Hagan said, his voice pleading. She was already too far away for him to try to stop her. ‘Sigurd said you know who my real father is.’
Gunhild reined her horse to a halt. She looked over her shoulder at him.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do.’
Then she kicked her heels against her horse and galloped off.