‘It has been a while since I was tested,’ said Yilling. ‘I visited Thorlby hoping for a fight, but there was no one there to kill but women and boys.’
Uthil gave a sad smile, then. As if he would’ve liked to give a different answer, but knew there could be only one. ‘That jewel you have for a pommel will make a fine bauble for my son to play with. I will fight you.’ He handed his sword to Master Hunnan, clambered somewhat stiffly over the parapet and slid down to the yard below.
‘That is the best news I have had all month!’ Yilling gave a childish little caper. ‘Shall I fight you with my right hand or my left?’
‘Whichever causes you to die most quickly,’ said Uthil, plucking his blade from the air as Hunnan tossed it down. ‘Your attack interrupted my breakfast and there is a sausage I am keen to get back to.’
Yilling spun his sword about in his left hand as nimbly as a dress-maker might her needle. ‘Old men are particular about their mealtimes, I understand.’
As if the whole business had been arranged for years, the two famed warriors began to circle each other.
‘This will be one for the songs,’ breathed Jenner.
Raith worked his aching hand. ‘I’m less keen on songs than I used to be.’
Fast as a snake Yilling darted in, blade a bright blur. Raith’s own arm twitched as he thought how he’d have blocked, how he’d have struck back. Then he saw he’d have been dead.
Bright Yilling twisted with inhuman speed, sword whipping in a low cut. But Uthil was equal to it. Steel scraped as he parried, stepped effortlessly around the blade, slashed back. As quickly as they’d come together they broke apart, Yilling grinning with his arms spread wide, Uthil frowning, sword dangling by his side.
‘Whoever wins,’ croaked Raith, eyes rooted to the duel, ‘the war goes on.’
‘Aye,’ said Jenner, twitching with the movements of the fighters. ‘None of us have any other choice.’
Another exchange, steel darting faster than Raith could follow, thrust, thrust, slash and parry, and both men spun away into space, picking their way between the bodies, the rubble, the scattered rubbish.
‘All this just for the fame of it?’
‘Fame’s worth more to some men than anything.’
Slow silence, and the slow walking, slow prowling, slow circling around each other. Yilling crouched low, flowing like Mother Sea into different stances, different shapes, chuckling at every exchange like it was a fine new joke. Uthil stood stiff upright, solid as Father Earth, frowning as if he circled a funeral. They watched each other, feeling out the moment, riddling out the opponent, the silence stretching until it seemed it had to snap. Then with no warning the clash and ring and scrape of steel, Death lurking at both men’s shoulders, clinging to the edges of both men’s blades, the steel question asked and the steel answer given then the quick breaking apart and the slow prowling, slow circling, slow silence.
‘It is a great shame that one of us must lose.’ Yilling dodged a high cut, eyes slightly crossed as he watched Uthil’s point flicker past his nose. ‘There is much I could learn from you.’
‘I fear we have time for only one lesson. Death waits for us all.’ Yilling sprang forward as the king was still speaking but Uthil was ready, steering the thrust away, twisting his wrist so his sword raked down the sleeve of Yilling’s mail and across the back of his hand.
Yilling jerked back, blood pattering on the already-bloody stones of the yard. With a carefree chuckle he tossed his sword across to his right hand.
Someone screamed, ‘Bleed, you bastard!’ from the tower above and suddenly everyone was shouting, hooting, roaring their insults and their defiance. They smelled victory. They smelled blood.
Uthil came on, metal twinkling as his sword caught the sun. Deadly thrusts no mail could have stopped. Yilling dodged, twisted, steel screeching as he pushed Uthil’s blade just wide on one side, turned so it whipped past him on the other, tottering back, off-balance.
Uthil sprang forward for the finishing blow and his foot twisted on a stone. The slightest stumble before his sword came hissing down. The slightest stumble, but long enough for Yilling to drop onto his knees, jerking away so the king’s blade left a cut down his smooth cheek and clanged into the stones just beside him.
Yilling’s own sword was left straight through Uthil’s body, most of the blade sticking bloody from his back.
The cheering stuttered out to leave a dumbstruck silence.
‘A stone,’ grunted Uthil, frowning at the sword-hilt pressed against his chest. ‘Poor weaponluck.’ And all of a sudden he fell, Bright Yilling jumping to catch him as he whipped his sword free.
‘No,’ muttered Jenner, slapping at the parapet with his palm.
All along the wooden crescent there were curses, hisses, groans of dismay as Bright Yilling lowered Uthil to the dusty ground, settling his arm so that the Iron King of Gettland clutched his sword to his chest, steel his answer in death as it had been in life.