“I have seen men survive such wounds,” said Ragnvald. Einar had rushed at him, and Ragnvald had parried. He had not meant to kill, but death seemed to come easily at his hands. The draugr had fallen thus.
Vigdis shook her head. “Einar will not. See how the blood pumps out.” Indeed, Vigdis’s wimple was not enough to stanch it. There seemed no end to his blood. Ragnvald recalled the legend that a corpse would bleed anew in the presence of its murderer. Einar should be taken away from him, or his blood would make a new lake. Einar’s face was corpse-white now, his head tipped back, his eyes staring as the dead did, at something only they could see.
“I had to,” said Ragnvald quietly. Einar had run on the sword, but Ragnvald moved it to meet him. Ragnvald had come here to do murder, and now he had.
Vigdis said nothing, only rose to her knees. She and Ascrida would prepare this body tonight, as they would Olaf’s.
Now the courtyard stank of death. Ragnvald had done this. He paced about in the sun, trying to keep his arms warm. A thrall brought him a basin of water to wash Einar’s blood from his hands.
*
Olaf came as Ragnvald’s stomach started to rumble for his dinner. He was still only a shape on the horizon when his horse scented danger and reared up. From there he approached more slowly, picking over the small dips and hillocks in the fields. All Ragnvald’s weariness was forgotten.
Olaf dismounted from his horse just inside the wall. He wore no armor, but he did have his sword at his belt—no man would do otherwise.
“You bring death, my son,” said Olaf, looking around. “A fine king you will make.”
“I am not your son,” said Ragnvald. He was vaguely aware of eyes watching them, shapes of warriors and servants, men and women of the household, but he kept his fixed on Olaf.
“No. I already knew you for a serpent when I killed your father.”
That should not have stung. Ragnvald had long suspected his father’s death at Olaf’s hand. Olaf spoke of it to anger him, and succeeded.
“You’re the one who paid a man to kill me,” said Ragnvald. “Come, if you would have me murdered, do it yourself.”
“I will,” said Olaf, and lunged. He moved slowly, as if through water. Ragnvald had all the time in the world to step out of the way.
He had not seen Olaf fight in years—perhaps he had not truly fought since the last raid on Ardal, the time Ragnvald had killed his first man. Olaf’s movements were predictable and unpracticed. Ragnvald had fought many better men than him in his time with Hakon and Harald.
Olaf made another lunge and exposed his flank. Ragnvald drew a ripping cut up the back of Olaf’s leg, tearing flesh on the point of his sword. Olaf stumbled forward. He tried to catch himself, and his leg collapsed, the tendon in the back of his knee cut.
After that Olaf’s end came quickly. He lurched off his good leg to close the distance between them, and Ragnvald deflected him with an elbow to Olaf’s nose that broke it with a wet splinter. Ragnvald cut him twice more, once along the shoulder, and once more, out of spite, across his cheek, then finally hit Olaf’s hand with the hilt of his sword, causing Olaf to drop his own.
Ragnvald kicked it away and raised his sword to Olaf’s neck. “Kneel,” he said. Oddi pushed Olaf to his knees with a kick to his back.
Olaf knelt, his back straight and proud, though he bled from half a dozen cuts. His nose was purpled by Ragnvald’s elbow, and his chest heaved with the effort of staying upright. He kept his eyes fixed on Ragnvald, who paced in front of him. Ragnvald lowered his sword. There was no chance of Olaf running now. Even had Ragnvald not lamed him, he had nowhere to run.
“Do you know why your uncle Gudrod never came to avenge himself on me?” Olaf asked. Gudrod was Ragnvald’s mother’s brother, a friend of his father’s, or so she had always said. Now Ragnvald lifted his sword and put it under Olaf’s chin. Olaf spat in the dirt, blood and saliva, barely missing Ragnvald’s foot, and pressed his neck against the blade. “You think I care?” he asked. “I know you won’t let me live.”
“No, I will not,” said Ragnvald. “But I might let you die standing, with a sword in your hand. Perhaps the gods will overlook that you dropped it before.” Ragnvald owed him that much, for the training at arms Olaf had given him.
“Then do it,” said Olaf. He swayed on his knees. Oddi rushed forward to prop him up again. “I can stand long enough for that.”
“No, you tell me,” said Ragnvald. “Why no revenge?”
“Gudrod knew that if he came against me, King Hunthiof would burn him in his hall, and leave none of Eystein’s kin alive.”
“And you think he will still do that for you?” Ragnvald asked. “I no more believe that King Hunthiof will come to your aid than that a frost giant will come marching down from the Keel Mountains and offer to trade his life for yours. You die now.”
“Your father deserved no defense,” said Olaf, sounding more desperate now. “My sons will avenge me.”
Ragnvald laughed at that. “Where is Sigurd? Why is he not defending you now?”
He jerked his chin at Oddi, who came over, bearing Olaf’s sword. He put it in Olaf’s hand, and before Olaf had a chance to stand, Ragnvald swung a mighty blow and struck off his head. The neck stump spurted blood for a moment, a strange vision that made Ragnvald want to laugh, though he did not think it was funny. The body fell forward onto the ground, soaking it wet again where Einar’s blood had already soaked in.
Ragnvald turned to Ascrida and Vigdis, who stood to one side. They did not touch, but their bodies were turned toward one another, as if they wished to shelter each other from the death Ragnvald brought. He pictured the sorceress Alfrith among them, so vividly he had to shake his head to dispel the vision. He wondered if he would see her again.
“He may have a pyre,” said Ragnvald, “and a cairn to mark his passing. But no mound for him. No son of Olaf Ottarsson will ever claim dominion over these lands. The runes will tell truly, ‘Olaf Ottarsson, Eystein’s usurper, fell here,’ nothing more.”
“I will make the cairn for him,” said one of the older servants. Ragnvald thought he and Olaf had raided together once, though he had not stood in Olaf’s defense.
Ascrida stepped forward. “And I will wash his body,” she said, her voice harsh with some emotion. In the ten years since Eystein’s death, Ragnvald had rarely seen sorrow in his mother’s face, but he read there now sadness and a deep anger.
“I will aid you,” said Vigdis, and moved to join Ascrida. “He was my husband too.”
“Are you sure you do not need to make your new master welcome?” Ascrida asked, viciously. “Rolling over for men has always been your play.”
Ragnvald went over to them. “Mother,” he said, “you do not need to do this.”
“I do,” she replied.