*
The first winter storms blew with them snow, ice, and ships bearing the rest of Hakon’s household from Yrjar. His wives, his daughter Asa, who was married to Harald, and his younger sons Geirbjorn and Herlaug were among those carried south. Ragnvald was surprised that Hakon would impose himself on Harald’s generosity all winter. Harald might not mind, though. Winters grew long and dull for men trapped inside with the same faces.
Harald had many plans to keep his men busy as the daylight hours grew shorter. On clear days, Ragnvald drilled with Harald and his captains. He worked hard to make sure his hand did not stiffen up. The scar was a thick ridge across his palm and still, even healed, looked like a bite mark. He worked tallow into it every morning and night, and stretched the scar tissue until it ached. In idle moments he thought of finding the boy who had given it to him, bringing the lad into Harald’s service. It would make a fine story.
He thought of Svanhild, and hoped that at least she was safe this winter, even if it was in Solvi’s bed. Tales reached them of Solvi traveling and gaining allies to stand against Harald. Guthorm thought that Solvi was not the type to unite anyone, but Ragnvald wondered. Solvi did as he pleased, and had men following him wherever he went. If he turned his talents toward gathering more than the warriors it took to make a raiding party, he might form a true rebellion against Harald. He might only be the messenger, putting his daring against the harsh winter winds to good use.
The day before Yule was gray and blustery. The wind blew the snow around in spindrifts, forcing it through chinks in the hall’s planking. Harald’s allies who could make the journey to his Vestfold hall in less than a day thronged the halls. They brought wives and daughters who filled the halls with the sounds of women’s chatter that had earlier been scarce. It made Ragnvald miss his home and Svanhild all the more. He promised himself that he would host a great Yule feast with Hilda, as soon as they married.
Guthorm and Harald had arranged a number of contests, the usual tests of speed and aim: a ski race, a snowshoe race, arrow and ax targets. Men fought out a huge mock battle with wooden practice blades over a pig’s-bladder prize. Harald’s side, which included all of his captains, won handily against Hakon’s captains and his younger sons. Ragnvald wished it had been a more evenly matched battle, but perhaps such an outcome would put to rest any question of who would win a true fight.
Guthorm said the last game was an old Vestfold tradition, which had claimed lives each time it was contested. Dark had fallen by the time the other games were done, though the midday meal was only a few hours past. Men were already tired from the days’ exertions, and many were drunk, having slaked their thirst all day with Ronhild’s strong fruit ale.
“The last event is a race,” said Harald, standing on one of the stone docks. A few men grumbled. A race did not seem exciting enough. “The ice in the harbor needs to be broken up before it grows too thick. And not with axes this time. We will race across it. Men have asked me how I became so agile, and this is how—racing across breaking ice all winter, for sport and speed. And you will do the same.”
“What are the rules?” someone called out.
“No rules except this: no weapons but what you find on your way.” Harald grinned as men started talking with one another, excited.
Guthorm spoke up. “We will have boats standing by to pull men out of the water, or rescue you if you become marooned.”
“A boat will fish me out,” said Oddi, who had made his way to stand next to Ragnvald. “But what will become of my poor frozen balls?”
Ragnvald laughed, though anticipating the race made him shiver. This water would be far colder than the waters of Geiranger Fjord that had nearly drowned him this spring. No visions waited there this time, only death.
“The prize is a Frankish sword for all who beat me,” said Harald. “And this, for the first man to reach the opposite shore.” Guthorm handed him a sword in its scabbard, and Harald drew it forth. It shone in the torchlight. Runes adorned the length of the blade, and ruby cabochons shone on the pommel, yet it was its shape and simplicity that drew the eye, not its decoration. Frankish swordsmiths knew secrets, and made light, unbreakable swords. This sword might dower a princess or buy Svanhild back from a king’s son.
Men massed at the shore. Ragnvald pushed himself up to stand next to Harald.
“If you win, you must promise to boast of your victory all winter,” said Harald to him, with a grin.
Ragnvald smiled ruefully. “That is cruel. Now I do not want to win.”
The fjord was a mass of twisted ice, which looked immobile now, but would break as soon as men’s weight touched it. Ragnvald was not faster than any of the fastest men, but he was still a bit lighter than the full-grown warriors. He had won Solvi’s arm ring racing on the oars, and this would require the same surety, the same quick leaping.
The race began at the sound of the horn, the most important men first, followed by waves of warriors. Ragnvald leapt lightly over the upthrust, snow-covered crusts of ice. Within a few seconds, he and Harald had gained the lead. Harald bared his teeth in a fierce grin. His hair stood out in a halo around his head.
Ragnvald redoubled his effort. He could not beat Harald in any other contest, but he might here, with luck. The ice began to shudder from the men behind them, and cracks opened up in front of Ragnvald. Luck favored Harald here again, for the cracks came more quickly in the lane that Ragnvald had chosen, a few arm spans farther from shore. Or had it been Harald’s canny choice to take the inside path? Ragnvald had moved outside to escape the spill of torchlight that would expose him to the missiles of men behind him.
He missed one step, and his foot plunged into a crack in front of him, instantly widening it. He still had enough purchase to recover from that step, and the water did not reach his foot immediately through the leather. When it did, the cold stabbed like knives.
Ragnvald’s breath rasped in his throat. Of course Harald liked this contest: a man could not simply throw himself into the physical effort of it and forget thought. He must always be thinking, deciding. On the other side of the fjord stood Guthorm and Hakon. They had appointed themselves judges of this, the most important race.
Ragnvald was a body width ahead of Harald when he made his final leap, then slipped on the bank and plunged in water up to his thighs. Harald’s leap found solid earth, before Ragnvald managed to scramble up onto the bank, cursing at the cold that gripped his legs.
Over the chattering of his teeth, he heard Guthorm and Hakon arguing over whether he or Harald had won.
“Ragnvald did reach the shore first,” said Guthorm.