“Heming and Thorbrand are dueling,” he said. “On the sparring ground.” Harald took off running, with Oddi and Ragnvald loping behind him.
“Stop this immediately,” Harald roared as soon as he drew close. Heming and Thorbrand had measured out a true dueling space. They must have planned this, in secrecy, no rumors coming to Ragnvald or anyone else. Each had staged the requisite three shields against the fence, and each had chosen a second. A rope marked the edge of the dueling ground. If either stepped over the margin, he would be counted the loser.
“I cannot, my king,” said Thorbrand. He and Heming only circled each other now, their shields still whole, their breathing still easy. “It has gone too far. We must settle this.” Men stood watching the duel, stone-faced, resolutely looking anywhere but at Harald.
“Your boy king cannot save you now,” said Heming to Thorbrand.
“I command you to halt this at once,” said Harald. “Or the winner will be outlawed. You will never set foot on any lands I rule for the rest of your life.”
“What of the loser?” asked Herlaug, Hakon’s youngest son, belligerently. He was short for his age and had a febrile restlessness, always looking for a fight. “They only fight to first blood.”
“The loser will also be outlawed, if he survives,” said Harald. “You must stop.” He looked at Ragnvald desperately. Ragnvald shook his head and shrugged. There was nothing to be done here. They would not stop on Harald’s say-so, and the more he commanded them to stop and they failed to, the weaker he looked.
Harald seemed to understand that as well. They needed to feel the sting of his wrath, to show that even friendship was not stronger than his law. Ragnvald almost felt relieved that this was finally happening. Heming must learn that he could not solve everything with his father’s name and his fine swordsmanship. If the lesson had to come at Thorbrand’s expense, there was nothing to be done. And an unworthy part of him knew that he would be even closer to Harald without Thorbrand and all their history.
Heming and Thorbrand circled around one another, making feints with their swords, but neither attacking with full force yet. To first blood, Ragnvald thought; at least they had shown some restraint there.
“Will you accuse me of cheating this time?” Heming asked Thorbrand. Thorbrand used the moment when Heming’s attention was more on his insult than on his swordwork to dart a cut that parted the fine silk of his peacock-blue sleeve.
Heming backed away, laughing. “I have many tunics,” he said. “You can slash them all to ribbons if you like, but you won’t touch my skin.”
Heming came close the next time, slashing at Thorbrand so fast his sword whistled through the air. At the last minute Thorbrand brought his shield up, and Heming’s sword crashed into it, shearing off a piece of the ash wood, which clattered to the ground.
They had paced a bare circle in the center of the dueling ground, though patches of snow still lingered near the rope boundary. Thorbrand forced Heming to the margin, where his foot slipped, and he swung his shield up into Thorbrand’s chin, knocking his head back with a clatter of teeth. If it had been Heming’s sword, Thorbrand would be dead now.
Heming regained his footing and attacked quickly, before Thorbrand had a chance to do more than shake his head to try to clear it from the jolt that Heming had given him. Heming fought him ever closer to the border behind him, daring Thorbrand to step out of circle, losing in the most shameful way possible.
Thorbrand would not do it. He spun around, just out of Heming’s reach, and then behind him. It seemed Thorbrand’s sword found skin then, for Heming flinched, but no blood dripped down his arm from where Thorbrand had touched him.
Ragnvald could not tell what Heming’s aim was in his next thrust. What Ragnvald saw was Heming’s sword rip upward—perhaps he meant to lay open Thorbrand’s cheek, take an eye, leave Thorbrand’s bullish face forever marred.
The point of Heming’s sword caught under Thorbrand’s chin and went upward, through his throat, so easily that Heming looked shocked. He dropped the sword and backed away. The wound could not be other than mortal, but Thorbrand grasped the sword anyway, as if he could pull it out and somehow save himself. As soon as his hands touched the sword, he crumpled to the ground.
Ragnvald heard screaming from the crowd, so high and wild it sounded more like a tortured animal than anything human. Thorbrand’s wife Erindis broke through the crowd and threw herself over Thorbrand’s body, heedless of the sword still stuck in him.
When she tied to pull it out by the blade with her bare hands, Harald rushed over to her and drew her away. Her hands were covered with Thorbrand’s blood and her own. In Harald’s arms she stopped screaming and made a quiet keening noise instead, muffled by Harald’s furs. Harald’s eyes were wide with shock, all of his preternatural confidence gone. He was only a boy at that moment, a boy who had lost his friend and could not quite believe it yet.
Hakon had been absent for the whole of the duel. Now one of his younger sons came running back with him. Harald carried Erindis inside, and then stalked out again. Guards flanked him.
“Take him,” Harald said, pointing at Heming. “Bind him, and do not let him go.”
“What is this?” Hakon asked, striding up to Harald.
“Your son”—he said the words as though they tasted ill to him—“has killed my dearest friend and my best captain in an illegal duel. I demand his life in payment.” He refused to look down at Hakon or meet his eyes.
Ragnvald drew an astonished breath, along with the rest of the crowd. Hakon took a step back as Harald loomed over him.
Harald’s men bound Heming hand and foot. “Where should we put him?” the lead guard asked.
“I will kill him now,” said Harald.
“No!” said Ragnvald, at the same time as Hakon’s men started to rush toward Harald. “He is bound. This must not be done in haste. Heming Hakonsson has violated your laws. You wanted him to be outlawed for this, and so he should be.” Hakon narrowed his eyes at Ragnvald. “That is what Harald said would be the punishment for both of those who participated in the duel,” Ragnvald explained loudly, for those who had come late.
“He killed Thorbrand,” said Harald. “His wife—”
“My king,” said Ragnvald. “Please think on this. You are grieving right now. We all are. But killing cannot be undone. Some bonds cannot be reknit when they are cut.” Harald looked as though he might listen, and Ragnvald continued. “Mourn Thorbrand. Give him a funeral feast. Keep Heming in your custody, if you must. But wait until you can render a fair verdict. A king owes that to his people.”