Ragnvald’s breath still heaved in and out of his lungs. He beat at his thighs and feet weakly, trying to force cold from them.
“I think the rule was that I must be standing on the bank,” said Ragnvald ruefully, “not flailing at it.”
“A gracious loser,” said Harald.
Ragnvald made a face. “I was faster,” he said, “but you have the gods’ own luck.”
“It is better to be lucky than skilled,” said Harald evenly. He would never doubt the gods’ gifts.
“And better still to be both,” Ragnvald answered.
The growing cracks had slowed down the other runners. Thorbrand and Heming were in the lead. They moved slower than Harald and Ragnvald had, as much because they kept jostling each other as because of their lesser skill.
Thorbrand was not built for this, too blocky and easy to overbalance. Heming looked as though this contest should favor him, but he was more cautious. This might be the first time he had ever shown caution.
Heming began to pull ahead, finding a path of ice rafts that led him toward the shore. He reached a larger sheet, crossed with a network of black cracks and seams. Thorbrand made a wild leap to where Heming stood. His shove sent Heming sliding into the water. The force of his exertion made Thorbrand flail his arms and tip backward on his ice floe. The front end came up, spilling water from its front like a waterfall. Thorbrand threw himself forward onto it, and nearly sent it tumbling over the other way before its rocking ceased and he was able to regain his footing. Ragnvald peered into the dark water for Heming’s bright head, feeling sympathetic stabs of cold in his own limbs.
“Get up,” Hakon muttered from behind where Ragnvald stood. Heming waved his arms in the air, his head disappearing behind the drifting ice. A boat came by to offer help. By the time it reached Heming, he had found the strength to pull himself up onto a stable ice floe as big as Harald’s feasting table. He waved off the boat, his cold lips black in the moonlight.
“Thorbrand, you coward,” he called across the ice. Thorbrand made the last few steps to the shore and bent over with his hands on his knees, panting. Heming began to walk again, but moved jerkily, like a poorly managed puppet. The cold was taking its toll on him.
Thorbrand, meanwhile, made the shore, and received a hearty congratulations from Harald. “Which of you won?” Thorbrand asked. “I could not see.”
“Harald,” said Ragnvald absently. Like Hakon, he still watched to see what Heming would do.
“Coward,” Heming called out again. He was coming closer, his face a mask of ice and frozen beard. He did not look a hero now.
“It was allowed,” said Thorbrand. “You should have had better balance if you did not want a ducking.”
Heming, nearly at the shore now, roared with wordless rage as he launched himself at Thorbrand and pulled him down into the water. Thorbrand shrieked as the water hit his privates, a womanish noise that made Ragnvald choke down a laugh.
“Come, both of you,” said Harald. “You’ll freeze to death, and I need you.” Ragnvald helped Heming out of the water, while Harald did the same with Thorbrand. The ice was too broken to allow any of the other racers to continue. Those that remained on the harbor picked their way back, single file, along the margins of ice farther out, while boats rescued the most stranded.
“He’s a coward,” Heming muttered as Ragnvald helped him along the path back to the hall.
“Don’t be foolish,” said Ragnvald. “It was within the rules. You would have done the same to him.”
Once they were inside the hall, their clothes began to steam. Heming went to his chamber, and returned wearing a set of thick wool trews and a heavy silk tunic.
As soon as Thorbrand returned, also wearing dry clothes, Heming straightened up and marched over to him. “You are a coward,” he said. “I challenge you to a duel this night.”
“It was part of the contest,” said Harald. “And I have outlawed duels.”
“We need some way to settle this,” said Thorbrand. Ragnvald was surprised. Thorbrand seemed too loyal to Harald and his ambitions for a more peaceful Norway, but he must have reached his breaking point with Heming.
“No duels,” said Harald. “I need both of you as my captains.” He said it by rote, as if Guthorm had coached him.
“It was within the rules,” said Thorbrand. “But if you like, you may consider it payback for what you dealt me in the arm-wrestling competition.”
Heming fumed. “No,” he said to Harald. “I will be satisfied. My father is your most important ally, and this jumped-up farmer is not near me in birth. I will not be captain with this coward by my side.”
Harald rolled his eyes. “Very well. Do not be my captain. Run back to your father.”
“You should value him more,” said Heming. Ragnvald took a step forward. Heming seemed angry enough tonight to challenge anyone, even Harald, and then he would certainly die.
“If I valued him less,” said Harald, “it would be far worse for you.”
“Come, Heming,” said Ragnvald. “I’m sure some lady here wants to make sure you are well-warmed tonight.” He drew Heming away from Harald and Thorbrand, and found them both warm drinks to take away the fjord’s chill. Heming would not do violence tonight, at least.
30
It was time to leave Dorestad. Solvi would get no more from Rorik. Yet more days had slipped by, while he found excuses not to set his men to preparing the ships.
“You have found out how to please her, it sounds like,” said Tryggulf. He had joined Solvi where he sat, foolish, watching Svanhild hold court with Rorik’s ladies. She had charisma and command Solvi would be happy to see in any son of his.
Solvi smiled and looked down at the rushes on the floor. He had never been one for boasting of his conquests, and Tryggulf did not either—that was Ulfarr’s task. Svanhild did seem to enjoy it now, and was not quiet; in a hall with curtains for walls between chambers, all must know.
“The weather turns cold,” said Tryggulf.