He was not scared of Olaf, though nerves did keep him up into the darkest part of the night. He had never dueled before. It would be more formal than daggers in the dark, the stealthy raids he had led for Solvi. He had practiced dueling, of course, but it was different with sharpened blades. Tomorrow all would be settled, and more finally than a trial could do.
He ran his hand over his sword arm as he lay in the darkness. The muscles were hard when he flexed them. He was strong—a year’s raiding had made him so—but Olaf had twenty years’ experience on him, and was probably no less strong. Ragnvald thought himself clever enough; still, in contests past, he had seen how the young and strong could fall to the old and crafty. He would need to be both bold and watchful tomorrow, to dance as carefully as he had on Solvi’s oars. More carefully.
And he would need his sleep. He breathed deeply, trying to think instead of pleasant things. Hilda, in her tent, patient and steady. A good wife for bearing sons and running a farm. She shared that tent now with Svanhild. No, thinking of Svanhild would not bring him rest, only more worry. He thought of Ardal, of the broad lakes and high green pastures, as green in summer as the fabled green of Ireland. Of Sogn Fjord, the site of his father’s barrow, and the foundation of his father’s hall, now burned. His great-grandfather had fought giants that came down from the Keel to try to take their land, and driven them back with a magic spell, or so Ragnvald’s father had told him when he was a boy. Even allowing for some exaggeration from Eystein the Noisy, the blood of Ragnvald’s forefathers had watered the ground of Sogn and Ardal, where they had made their home since the gods made the first men. He would think of that when he fought tomorrow. He thought too of the golden wolf that waited for him, in life or death. The fates had already decided if he would live or die tomorrow, and waited only for him to choose how he met his fate, bravely or poorly.
He had almost drifted off when the snap of a twig made him tense. He put his head outside his tent and saw Vigdis standing there in her shift, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders against the cold. The shadow and folds of the fabric around her body in the moonlight made her look like a temptress spirit.
Ragnvald stared up at her for a moment, then came to his feet and said with a dry mouth, “Stepmother.”
She made a face, as he knew she would. She never wanted him to call her that. He had tormented himself on long nights on the open sea, thinking that he had imagined every heated look she gave him. She turned none of those glances on him now. She looked frightened.
“Ragnvald, Olaf means to kill you,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Tomorrow we duel. Or does he plan to cheat?”
“No, he plans to do it tonight,” she said, gripping his shoulder. “You are exposed here.”
They spoke quietly. A shout would rouse Hakon’s men, though perhaps not quickly enough.
“Why are you telling me?” He took her arm. He had never touched her purposely before, only suffered burning from her fingers since the day Olaf brought her home as a bride, only a handful of years older than himself, though far older in experience. “Should I follow you somewhere even more exposed?”
“Why do you think I bear you ill will?”
He laughed shortly. “Many, many reasons.” Ending with her imprisonment of Svanhild. “You have been setting me against Olaf since you came.”
“He hated you before that,” she said. He noticed she did not deny the charge.
“What should I do?”
“Go inside with Hakon, before they come. Olaf is a coward. If he fails tonight, he will leave without dueling.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because one day you will come to make me a widow, and I will welcome that day and welcome you.” She stood on her toes and kissed his lips lightly. He let go of her, surprised, and she turned away, her footsteps falling soundless on the soft grass.
“Wait,” he called after her. She did not stop.
He turned back to his tent, pitched only a few feet from the edge of Hakon’s huge feasting tent. It billowed and then caved inward. Ragnvald saw Olaf, his sword stuck into the puddled canvas. Sigurd stood behind him, his hair blue in the dimness of midnight. Olaf charged toward Ragnvald, over the fallen tent.
Ragnvald sidestepped, but a rope securing Hakon’s tent blocked his way, and Olaf’s sword went through the meat of his upper arm, his sword arm, a strange hot and cold sensation that brought no pain with it. Sigurd followed a half step behind him, his sword tip wavering.
“Finish him,” Olaf commanded his son. “You must do this.”
Sigurd gamely took a step forward, but he hesitated before attacking, and Ragnvald parried his thrust, pressing him back. As Ragnvald attacked Sigurd, Olaf lunged again, slicing a shallow cut along Ragnvald’s flank. That one hurt immediately, as every breath opened it further.
“You didn’t think you could win a duel?” Ragnvald asked loudly, edging along the tent. Someone must hear this soon. He kept most of his attention on Olaf; Sigurd looked as though he would attack only on Olaf’s command.
“You’re not worth dueling,” Olaf said.
“Yet you didn’t think you could murder me alone?”
Olaf lunged again. Ragnvald’s sidestep brought him within Sigurd’s range. He parried a clumsy slash from Sigurd without much difficulty.
“I only wanted my son to see what a coward you were,” said Olaf.
“He can already see one coward here tonight.” Ragnvald glanced at Sigurd again. Sigurd wore a lost expression on his face, visible even in the dim midsummer night. He did not want to be here. That could work to Ragnvald’s advantage, and he would need every advantage now. The muscles of his arm throbbed from Olaf’s lucky first slash, and moved sluggishly. Soon he would not be able to lift his sword, and Olaf could do what he liked with him.
One more lunge would do it, though. He probably had that in him. Ragnvald took a few more crabwise steps. He put a tie line between himself and Olaf, then made a feint forward, hoping to invite Olaf’s attack, while keeping half an eye on Sigurd. Olaf did take the step toward him, but not far enough to come inside Ragnvald’s guard. Ragnvald moved sideways again.
“Now who’s the coward?” Olaf hissed. “Come and fight.”
Ragnvald tried not to react to Olaf’s words. Anger would avail him little now. Another step, and Olaf would find himself tangled in the tie lines if he attacked in any other way than a straight thrust. Ragnvald stepped over the rope and swung his sword with both hands. A half second faster, and it would have taken off Olaf’s head, but Olaf threw himself to the ground and only lost a patch of scalp, while Ragnvald lost his balance from the too forceful swing.
Olaf stabbed upward, through Ragnvald’s thigh. Ragnvald shouted. Blood wet his trews. His grip on his sword was failing. He let go of it and reached for his dagger with his left hand. If Olaf killed him, at least they could die together.