Everyone looked at Isangrim. The old cyning sat motionless.
Morcar spun around. ‘You, Eadwine, how did Swerting come into your hands?’
The eorl gave back stare for stare. ‘Dernhelm put him in my custody. Eadwulf captured Snake-Tongue off the Frisian coast. Snake-Tongue was on his way back to Gaul.’
Morcar swung back to his father. ‘Dernhelm, Evil-Child: both exiles, worthless; both hate me. I am not the traitor. Dernhelm is the traitor. The little Greek Zeno told me Dernhelm carries secret instructions from Gallienus — there on his belt — instructions to overthrow the cyning, kill his father, take his place on the throne.’
From his wallet Dernhelm removed a small ivory-bound diptych. He passed it to his father.
Isangrim opened the document and read. ‘This orders him to take all measures to look to the safety and success of the embassy, if necessary to take command from Zeno; nothing more.’
Morcar spun around. The Greek was nowhere to be seen.
Morcar rounded on Dernhelm. ‘Oath-breaker, blood follows you. What you do now will turn against you.’
Dernhelm stood still. ‘Some things just happen.’
Morcar spread one hand in supplication to his father; the other jabbed at Dernhelm. ‘I will clear my name. I demand a duel.’
The silence was complete. Not even a bird sang.
‘No,’ Isangrim said.
‘A duel — it is my right. I demand a duel.’
Isangrim looked down. He seemed even older. Eventually, he looked up. ‘I would not see my sons fight. One of you can go into exile.’
‘Never!’ Morcar was lost in his emotion. ‘I am innocent.’
‘Dernhelm, you are returning to the imperium anyway.’ There was pleading in Isangrim’s voice. ‘You could leave now.’
‘No.’
‘So be it.’ Isangrim raised his chin. ‘Let the hazel twigs mark out the ground before the hall.’
‘Not the homecoming I had hoped for,’ Ballista said.
Maximus continued to check the shoulder pieces of Ballista’s mailcoat.
‘Fratricide is a terrible thing.’
Maximus was pulling at the straps as he would a horse’s girths. ‘Sure, Morcar is an evil bastard.’
‘I was thinking about myself.’
Maximus stopped what he was doing, gripped Ballista’s shoulders, forced his friend to look into his eyes. ‘You can think about that when you have killed him. Empty your mind of everything except the fight.’
Ballista nodded.
‘And if you are dying, I will challenge, kill fucker very dead.’ Tarchon beamed at the latter prospect. ‘I keep his skull as another cup. Every time I drink, I think of revenge for you.’
Ballista grinned. ‘You are not an Angle. He would not have to accept.’
‘But he could not refuse my challenge,’ young Eadric said. ‘If you fall, I will take revenge.’
Ballista saw Maximus put his thumb between his fore and middle fingers to avert evil.
‘Morcar is a duel-fighter of much experience.’ Ivar Horse-Prick was very solemn. ‘He defeated the Bronding, killed the champion of the Hilleviones before both armies. He has won four judicial duels among our people. If he wins today, I will fight him. He is of our generation. It is for us to wipe away the dishonour.’
‘Enough about losing,’ Maximus said. ‘Give the man some space.’
When the others had drawn back, Maximus leaned close. ‘He is not your brother. He is your brother’s killer. Empty your mind. Nothing but the fight.’
Ballista unsheathed his dagger an inch or so, snapped it back, did the same with Battle-Sun, touched the healing stone tied to its scabbard.
‘Watch the blade. Get your feet moving straight away. Treat each blow on its merit.’ Maximus hugged him, kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Time to go. Watch the blade.’
It was very bright outside the hall, the sky very high.
The dense crowd parted to let them get to the duelling place. Morcar was waiting. Mord was with him, holding his two other shields.
Ballista and Maximus stepped over the sprigs of hazel. Six paces by six, the cloth seemed tiny.
A high seat had been set up to one side for the cyning. Isangrim sat hunched on it. Ballista tried not to imagine his father’s thoughts.
Ballista took a shield in his bandaged left hand. He stepped up to Morcar.
‘You and me,’ Morcar said, ‘like snow blowing from one tree to another.’
Ballista said nothing.
Morcar stepped back. As the challenger, he had to wait for the first blow. He settled into the ox guard; half turned, shield out, blade held palm down, jutting down like a horn.
Ballista hefted his sword high, shifted to the left then the right, getting himself moving, his muscles warm.
Quick steps, feet close together, Ballista closed in, swinging down from the right at Morcar’s head. In a fluid motion, he dropped to one knee, switched the strike towards the ankle. Morcar brought his shield down. The impact ran up Ballista’s arm. He took the counter-blow on the boss. Pain flared in his injured left hand. Ballista surged up, shoving Morcar away. He stepped back.
They watched each other. Morcar moved into a charge guard, his sword low and hidden behind his body.
Ballista remembered how Morcar had fought the Bronding. A long defence, then a sudden attack. Ballista could wait. Time was no issue. Not taking his eyes off his brother’s sword, he moved around the cloth, feeling its footing, exploring its edges, memorizing its dimensions.
With no warning, Morcar attacked. He feinted a cut from the left, rolled his wrist, chopped from the right. The steel sliced through the leather rim of Ballista’s shield, cracked the boards.
‘Shield!’ Ballista shouted.
Morcar pulled back, the tip of his blade pointing to the cloth.
Ballista took his second shield from Maximus. Blood was seeping through the bandages around his left knuckles.
No sooner was the shield in Ballista’s hand than Morcar tore in again. A surprisingly wild overhand vertical chop. Ballista brought his shield up. Morcar pulled the blow, hooked the pommel of his sword over the rim of Ballista’s shield, dragged it forward, the blade arcing down. Ballista twisted down and away. The edge of the steel slid off his shoulder piece. He stepped forward and to the right. They were wedged together, Morcar’s shield jammed between them.
‘Snow — one tree to another,’ Morcar hissed. ‘We are the same, nothing to choose between us.’
Ballista staggered as Morcar heaved him backwards. Morcar stepped forward. A low, rising cut. Ballista lowered his shield. Morcar kicked it across Ballista’s front, jabbing to the neck with the inside edge of his weapon. Ballista ducked. A metallic clang as the top of his helmet crest was sheered off. Ballista pivoted on his left foot, kicked his right boot hard into his brother’s right shin.
Morcar grunted in pain. ‘Rest!’
Ballista backed away. His ears were ringing from the blow to his helmet. His left hand hurt.
As Morcar took a drink offered by his son, he flexed his right leg.
The sacred truce over, Morcar hung back. Ballista feinted high and low from one side and the other, working him around. Morcar was favouring one leg, reluctant to put weight on his right. Ballista knew he had to finish it now, before his brother could work off the pain.
With three quick blows, Ballista drove Morcar into a corner. Morcar crumpled as his leg gave. The killing blow was open. Ballista shaped to strike. He remembered the Bronding. He side-stepped to the right. Morcar, suddenly recovered, thrust. His blade whistling where Ballista’s stomach would have been, Morcar overshot. As he passed, Ballista hacked to the back of the thighs.
Two, three steps, Morcar crashed to the ground. His shield rolled out of reach. He rolled on to his back, brought his sword up. Ballista beat it aside, got his boot on his brother’s sword arm, the point of his blade to his chest.