Gizur was joined by a warrior armed with a bow. Between them they shoved and prodded Einar and Affreca through the woods. Einar stumbled along in a daze. He felt like he had been punched in the face.
He was vaguely aware of Affreca saying his name over and over again but did not answer. He hung his head, eyes down. His world shrunk to the few paces in front of him. He felt empty inside. Nothing mattered any more.
All this was his fault. If he had not lost his temper in a stupid fight at a ball game in Iceland he would never have been exiled. He would never have sought out who his father was, never opened the old wounds that had ultimately led to this.
Then he recalled the merchant who would have betrayed her anyway. The first man he had watched die. From the moment that man had stumbled on Unn, his mother, finding out she had been hiding in Iceland all these years it was only a matter of time. Now Thorfinn’s vengeance was almost complete. They had been fools to think they could fight one so powerful.
‘Mother Frey, what is that?’ Affreca exclaimed.
Einar looked up. They had arrived at a wide clearing in the forest. It was roughly oval. About half of it was taken up by a circle made by five very tall standing stones decorated with swirling patterns and runes, carved into the rock and painted. There was also a smaller, round stone about half the height of a man just off centre of the circle. It glistened with some sort of dark-brown paint that was splashed all over it. Small pieces of something white was stuck in the brown stuff. At the other end of the clearing stood a huge sacrificial ash tree. All types of creatures dangled from nooses tied to the branches. Melting snow exposed how the ground at its base was littered with bones and blackened body parts that had rotted and dropped off the swinging corpses above. The stench of wet decay was awful.
It was not the tree however that had caused Affreca to cry out. Standing beside the tree was a giant of a man. He was tall as Skar, but wider by far. His bare arms and torso bulged with muscles that rippled beneath skin that was black all over. Strangely textured hair hung from his head in long braids. It was thick and stiff and looked more like black tree branches than hair. His hands were chained before him.
This could only be the king’s Blámaðr that Skar and Ulrich had told them about.
A safe distance away from him stood another man, almost as tall and totally bald. He wore a mail shirt. He bore a whip and a long, wide-bladed spear, the sort used for hunting boar. A big set of keys hung from his belt.
‘Is that a troll?’ Affreca said. Her voice was hushed.
Her hands had been bound in front of her and she had her right hand at her mouth, her white teeth gnawing on the knuckle. Her eyes were wide and staring. Einar realised she was terrified. He had seen her in battle several times, and on a sinking ship, in situations where she faced death, yet this was the first time he had seen her show any fear. The sight seemed to shake him out of his trance. He felt a desperate urge to protect and comfort her. If his own hands had not been tied behind his back, he would have thrown his arms around her.
‘No,’ Einar said. ‘He’s a man.’
‘Some would say that,’ Gizur grunted. ‘He has the shape of a man but he’s just an animal. As you will soon find out.’
The archer notched an arrow and drew his bow. He aimed it at the Blámaðr and the man with the whip stepped closer to him and unlocked the shackles that bound the Blámaðr’s hands. As soon as the chains dropped to the ground the black-skinned man feinted at the man nearest him, making as if to grab for him. The bald man stepped away and let the whip uncurl. He flicked his wrist and the whip cracked towards the Blámaðr.
‘Just try it,’ the bald man growled. ‘You know what you’ll get.’
The black man grinned but did not make any further move.
‘So now what?’ Einar said.
Gizur drew his sword.
‘You will fight a wrestling bout in the circle with King Eirik’s Blámaðr,’ he said. ‘Your father Jarl Thorfinn specifically asked that this be your fate.’
‘What’s your part in all this?’ Einar said.
‘I’ve orders to watch and make sure you are dead,’ Gizur replied. ‘Hardly a chore I have to admit. I liked Hrolf. He was a good man and you’ve just annoyed me the whole time we’ve been together on this quest. Jarl Thorfinn tells me I’ll be richly rewarded for this work but to tell you the truth I’d have done it for nothing. This will be excellent sport.’
‘What about her?’ Einar inclined his head towards Affreca.
‘She’s going back to Orkney,’ Gizur said. ‘Her father is dead and the throne of Dublin is vacant. Your father intends to make her his wife. Then he has a claim to Dublin.’
Einar screwed up his face in disgust. ‘Thorfinn is already married.’
‘Powerful men take many wives,’ Gizur said with a shrug. ‘Think on this. If you’d lived beyond the next few moments Affreca would have become your stepmother.’
‘Do I have to fight with my hands tied behind my back?’ Einar said.
‘Not at all,’ Gizur said. ‘That would be no fun at all.’
He grabbed Einar by the shoulder and shoved. Einar spun around so he faced away from Gizur, who then used his sword to saw through the bonds that bound Einar’s wrists. The blade was sharp and Gizur was not careful. Einar winched a couple of times as he felt his skin being slit. Opposite him he saw the archer swing his drawn bow around to point directly at him.
‘I tell you what,’ Gizur said. ‘I’ll free her too, so you can both say your goodbyes.’
‘You think that’s wise?’ the archer said.
‘She’s just a woman,’ Gizur said. ‘How dangerous could she be?’
‘What if I win?’ Einar said.
For a moment there was silence. Then Gizur, the bald man and the archer all burst out in laughter. Even the Blámaðr joined in with a wide, white-toothed grin.
‘No one has ever won a wrestling bout with the Blámaðr,’ the bald man said as Gizur cut Affreca’s bonds.
‘Then he’s never fought an Icelander,’ Einar said.
Gizur’s face became serious.
‘I’ve heard about the prowess of Icelanders in wrestling,’ he said. ‘But even if you somehow do manage to win, you won’t leave here alive. My sword will finish you. If you run that archer will bring you down. Now prepare yourself. The time you have left is running out.’
Einar walked away and leaned against the nearest standing stone. Affreca followed him. He began pulling off his boots.
‘What are you doing?’ Affreca asked. She seemed to have recovered from her moment of shock and terror.
‘You can only wrestle properly in bare feet,’ Einar said. ‘It’s the best way to get a grip on the ground. Shoes slide. Toes can dig in.’
‘You seem to know what you’re talking about,’ Affreca said.
‘Wrestling is one of the three things every Icelandic boy learns,’ Einar said.
‘That looks nasty,’ Affreca said, taking hold of his forearms, regarding the blood that was leaking from the slices Gizur had left in his flesh.
‘He wasn’t exactly fussy when cutting my bonds,’ Einar said. ‘Are you all right? Did he slice you?’
Affreca said nothing but held up her right hand, showing her wrist was wrapped in some sort of leather bracelet he had not noticed on her before. This must have saved her flesh from the blade.
‘Enough chatter,’ Gizur interrupted them. ‘Time to fight. Time to die.’