Ragnvald and his men followed this awareness, driving Solvi’s ships before them, scattering some to the side. When Ragnvald’s ship drew nearer to the shore, he caught a glimpse of Harald where the fighting was thickest, his blond head standing out above the other warriors. He wore that same wild smile he had during their race, daring himself to go farther, faster, to reach for godhood. On land, Solvi’s men outnumbered Harald’s by at least two to one.
“To land,” Ragnvald cried. “To Harald!”
He leapt on the chaos of ships that stood between him and land. Heming’s men, his men, Harald’s men, now thundered behind him, rocking the ships under his feet.
On land, Solvi’s forces had surrounded Harald and his men in a circle that contracted as they fought inward, while another group of Solvi’s men barricaded the hall, and had begun to move wood from the woodshed to surround the hall for a burning. There must be men, women, even children, trapped inside, but Ragnvald needed to save Harald first. It would take time to set a fire.
“To Harald,” he called to the men behind him. “Attack from the shore. Protect our flanks. Do not let them come behind us.” He yelled, a battle cry without words, and charged toward the men surrounding Harald, whose backs were to the water.
A warrior turned, surprised, and Ragnvald killed him before he had time to get his sword into position. The next man gave him more of a fight, until Ragnvald caught him with a blow that ripped up the back of his leg, sending him screaming to the ground. Ragnvald kicked him hard under the chin as he took a step forward to face the next foe.
Solvi’s men, or whoever’s men they were—Ragnvald refused to believe that Solvi commanded this disparate force himself, especially on land—turned slowly to face their new attackers. Heming’s men obeyed Ragnvald well, turning outward, keeping Solvi’s warriors from getting between them and the shore, which freed Harald and his warriors from the knot of men where they had been trapped.
The battle shifted. Solvi’s allies had expected easy plunder, a one-sided battle to begin their season of raiding. They did not expect a real fight. Once their fellows began dying around them, some men ran back to their ships. Ragnvald saw King Hunthiof among them, calling for a retreat, before an ax caught him in the back and he fell forward into ankle-deep water at the fjord’s margin.
Ragnvald fought his way to Harald’s side, through men who scattered before him rather than face him. Harald was covered with blood; his teeth were red when he grinned. Ragnvald did not have the same joy of battle, but knowing it would be over soon gave him a new burst of energy.
“I knew you would return,” Harald called out to Ragnvald, as their foes retreated. Ragnvald was briefly angry—of course Harald would not doubt a thing, and his mother would tell him, prophecy Ragnvald’s return. Harald needed a little more uncertainty. “We must save the hall,” Harald added.
Ragnvald let himself catch his breath for a few seconds, his sword tip resting on the ground. “You first,” he said, gesturing for Harald to lead. Harald took off in a run. Many of the men working to build the fire saw Harald and his men screaming toward them and joined the flood back to the ships, but some remained.
Harald cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, “Solvi’s men, Danish men, you have come here to attack, but you see how the gods favor me, and bring me allies in my time of need. Throw down your swords now, and you can be mine instead of these outlaw kings’. I will make you rich beyond imagining, make your wives and children safe, and give you land to farm.”
It was a generous offer. Ragnvald saw a few men exchanging glances. Those who stood closest to Harald began putting down their swords.
“Do not do it,” Solvi yelled. “Harald will make you into a slave.” He had a carrying voice as well. He must have been on the other side of the ring of warriors around Harald. Now he stood close to the shore, ready to escape into a ship. Ragnvald watched dumbly as Solvi’s men swept him along. Now that the danger was passing, the weariness of the last week’s flight, the hours of battle, made Ragnvald’s muscles go weak.
“Do not let him escape,” Harald ordered Ragnvald. “Do it for your sister.”
Ragnvald looked around at the men surrounding him: Solvi’s allies, tired and sweating from the battle they knew they had lost, and lost not because they did not have the advantage but because they lacked the will. “You do not need me here?”
“Don’t take too many men,” said Harald. Near the shore, Solvi’s men still defended themselves, though their energy had gone. No one seemed to remember why they fought.
“Oddi, Heming, Dagvith, Arnfast,” Ragnvald called out, and added other names, all the names of Heming’s men and his own that he could remember. Solvi fled before him. He ran poorly on land. One of his men—Ragnvald recognized him as Ulfarr—scooped Solvi up like a child and ran, carrying him. Ragnvald laughed, and began to call out an insult, but stopped himself. It would slow him down. He could make sure later that when the skalds made the song of this battle, they mentioned Solvi’s flight.
Ulfarr carried Solvi out to their ship, the fast, narrow dragon ship from which Solvi had flung Ragnvald nearly a year ago. Men already sat at the oars, ready to take Solvi away. Ragnvald ordered his men to another ship, more or less at random, and bid his men put out the oars. Every moment’s delay gave Solvi a further lead.
Solvi’s ship rowed out of the clutch of ships in the harbor, then raised its sail, catching a breeze that did not reach Ragnvald where his ship lay. By the time Ragnvald’s men had their oars out, Solvi’s ship had already disappeared behind a bend. Ragnvald still ordered his men to row, and to raise the sail when they could.
Ragnvald worked the steering oar. As soon as he rounded the bend, he saw Solvi’s ship, and Solvi standing in the prow, a small brown form in armor and a helm, raising a sword.
They must have lost the wind, and had few oars out, while Ragnvald’s men still rowed with a will.
“Row, row,” he cried. “We can catch him.”
They pulled alongside the ship. It was not the dragon ship Ragnvald had thought Solvi fled to, but much shorter and stouter. Still, Solvi was in it, watching them approach. Ragnvald must have been mistaken before.
He and his men threw grappling hooks across and tugged the two ships together. Ragnvald made the first leap across, his sword drawn.
The ship was empty but for a few men with the close-cropped hair of thralls. And it was not Solvi but Svanhild standing at the prow, wearing ill-fitting armor, her face brown with dirt.
“You,” Ragnvald cried, not sure whether to be angry or not. “Solvi sends you in his place?”
Svanhild looked up at him, her face serene under the dirt. “He did not send me. I was waiting to do this for him, so he could escape. He will be angry with me, but it was worth it.” Her words came fast. “Now you can trade me with Solvi for an alliance with him. Hunthiof is dead. Solvi need not be Harald’s enemy.”
Ragnvald took her by the elbow. “If that is how you think the world works, you have been ill taught. Come with me. You shall not see Solvi again.”
“Yes, I will,” she said, following him. “He will win through to me, or I to him. You will see, brother.”
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