Folk-Mower drew back to strike again. Haraldr leapt forward to defend himself with an attack, his head woozy and his mouth coppery with fear. His sword hammered against Hakon’s shield three times in rapid succession, and sharp linden splinters sprayed. The gold giant stepped back, mildly shocked at the impact of Green-wood’s fusillade. He withdrew dangerously close to the open side of the square as Haraldr continued his frenzied, booming attack. The crowd cheered wildly. Another step and the Varangian bully would be on the fast trip down the Dnieper.
Hakon halted his retreat at the lip of the drop and crouched beneath Haraldr’s blows. The giant’s shield was little more than an iron rim. Then, incredibly, his axe slipped from his hand. He dropped Folk-Mower! Haraldr exulted. It’s over!
Hakon swiped with a preternatural arm, and Haraldr’s feet jerked out from under him as smoothly as if he had decided to leap on his own. He saw a glimpse of cobalt sky, and then, below him, sparkling white foam over blade-sharp rocks. Some calm centre, still functioning, told him that he had just been flipped over Hakon’s back, and that only the rock-strewn Dnieper would break his fall. Time was suspended for a fateful instant in which he might still save his life, and his desperately flailing hand caught the collar of Hakon’s byrnnie. He clutched the metal hem with a death-cheating grip as his momentum sent him flying out over the roaring, silver Dnieper.
Hakon’s crushing paws wrapped Haraldr’s wrist in an effort to pry him loose. Haraldr held on; Hakon’s counterweight arrested his fall, and his knees smashed into the sheer rock face just below the lip of the cliff. Hakon looked down, eyes afire, and grimaced fiendishly as he attempted to snap Haraldr’s wrist. Haraldr could feel the bone scream with stress, and he knew his respite would be brief and would end painfully. There was no decision to be made. He glared back at Hakon and with all his force pulled down towards death, trying to bring Hakon over the edge of the cliff. The embers fanned in Hakon’s eyes but he could not combat Haraldr’s desperate weight. Unable to free himself and unwilling to share Green-wood’s mad fall, Hakon planted his huge legs, pulled with a bestial grunt, and, with Haraldr’s scrambling assistance, dragged his opponent back onto the burlap square.
Haraldr sprinted for his seconds. His knees were bloodied and he had lost his sword in the river. He grabbed his second shield from Halldor and his axe from Ulfr. His heart, throbbing with delayed fear, was strangling him. He turned to face Hakon again. He felt as if his limbs were trapped in cold black pitch, like a fly stuck in pine resin. He could hear the carrion-devouring ravens shrieking in his ears as Folk-Mower destroyed his shield in two lightning-quick flurries. Ulfr pressed a new shield on him. ‘Your last shield!’ Ulfr screamed.
King from kings. Haraldr forced his body on. His sword lifted, but before he could get off a good stroke, Folk-Mower lashed out and Haraldr had to parry with his shield. Hakon’s blade thudded deeply and stuck fast in the boards, and the light of hope flared again in Haraldr’s eyes. I’ve got it! I’ve trapped Folk-Mower! Haraldr twisted the shield with all his force in an effort to wrench the shaft of the deeply embedded axe from Hakon’s hands. An alarming resistance shocked back through his forearm. Kristr! No! The iron handle of his shield was ripped from his grip. He watched with morbid detachment as Hakon stood admiring the trophy Folk-Mower had gaffed, then blithely discarded the axe, Haraldr’s last shield still attached.
Hakon removed the gold-pommelled sword from his scabbard. He stood with his tree-trunk legs spread wide, grinning like the head of death. ‘I’ve yet one more surprise for you, Green-wood,’ he slowly drawled. ‘Folk-Mower was but my toy. My sword is my weapon.’
Haraldr gripped the handle of his axe with both hands. Good hard oak, it might shield him from at best a dozen strokes before it was hacked to splinters. After that Hakon would need scarcely more than an executioner’s skill.
Hakon delicately stroked the luridly blue-tinted, almost phosphorescent blade. ‘Come kiss these lips, sweet Green-wood,’ he said mockingly, pursing his thick lips and making contemptuous kissing sounds. ‘My wand-of-wounds will take your nose first. Then your ears. Then your hands . . .’
‘Then take my nose, sow-lover!’ Haraldr came forward screaming, determined not to beg for mercy in the jaws of the beast, determined to die with a courage worthy of the kings who had come before him and the good men who would soon have to join him in his death. The blue light of Hakon’s blade flashed before his eyes. His cheek itched. He struck Hakon’s shield a glancing blow. Hakon’s retort skidded off the axe shaft and ripped into Haraldr’s forearm. Deep, too deep. Haraldr could already feel the blood streaming down the sleeve of his byrnnie.
‘I’m whittling you away, Green-wood! Bit by bit, Greenwood! I’ll cut you down until all that’s left is your arsehole! Then I’ll make an arm ring out of it and give it to your mother!’
Now the blows came at Haraldr’s shoulders, sapping his arms, softening him up so that he could indeed be sliced bit by bit, slowly, without dignity. A metallic ringing rose to a quick, clamorous crescendo. Hakon’s blows were battering his steel helm. Resolve draining with every pulse of his ebbing life-blood, Haraldr ducked his head and the strokes fell on his back and shoulders like ripping dogs. The sun faded, and he followed the echoes of memory into the night.
Haraldr slowly began to walk across the dark tundra of death. This time he went on farther than he ever had before. His destination was announced by the roar of the beast, the sound of all creation shattering into oblivion. The blast struck Haraldr and flattened him into the stinging slush. His face was unfeeling, solid ice, and he could hear nothing.
Except the voice. Whispering, very faintly: Kill it. Kill the beast.
Haraldr’s arms were frozen in the ice, but he strained and shattered them free and struggled to his feet. His hands were numb and the axe handle burned like hot iron, but he forced himself to grip it. He peered into the endless blackness, and there, within the howling maw, saw the dark heart of the dragon. He hunched his shoulders and went in after it. . . .
When Haraldr returned to the light, the pain in his arms was gone and for an instant he wondered why he was being slapped on the head. Then he knew. He pushed forward with his arms and the weight that was on them flew away.
Nearly flattened by Haraldr’s explosive shove, Hakon wheeled his feet as he struggled to stay upright. He staggered back, veering to avoid the drop to the river below. His fire-irises were rimmed with white wonder. For an instant, only an instant, Green-wood had been a beast! But Green-wood couldn’t have the Rage. Only Mar has it! Only Mar! Hakon steeled himself. He was still Hakon, whose forehead-moons glowed with the stars-of-hearth, raven-sater, din-hastener, arm of the Great King, second only to Mar Hunrodarson. He advanced behind his shield and drew his sword back, preparing to draw a final, fatal arc through Haraldr’s neck.
In the spirit world the dragon let forth its monstrous death scream. The earth-shattering bellow came out of Haraldr’s throat. Hakon’s sword arm froze, petrified by his opponent’s inhuman oath, a sound known to any seasoned warrior, the terrifying peal of Odin’s favour. Haraldr’s axe lifted high, then struck like a thunderbolt.
Hakon’s shield was air, a mirage that had formed in the sun. It blew apart like chaff. His byrnnie was the barest sheet of glass, twinkling as it broke. His skin was a petal, bruising and then ripping. His bones were twigs. Haraldr’s blade did not slow until the earth that would soon claim those bones finally resisted its descent.