Orman followed his example. It was a shifting, swirling mêlée from then on. He blocked blows with his hatchet, took out knees with counter-attacks, dodged, and shifted his head left and right, ever circling. One canny fellow kept him pinned on his blind side until he surprised him by tossing a hatchet to wind him and slow him down long enough to snatch up a fallen spear and run him through. He spun then, quickly, but not quickly enough as another invader slipped inside the spear from his left, blocking the haft to slash a blow that Orman only slipped by throwing himself backwards. He lost the spear in doing so.
The outlander closed, shortsword reversed. Orman rolled, and as he did the fellow grunted and clasped a hand to his chest. The grip of a knife stood there from his leathers. He fell to his knees, cursed impressively, and toppled.
Orman straightened, panting, his limbs quivering. He retrieved the spear. Gerrun appeared next to him. The short man grinned up at him and winked. ‘You let him get inside,’ he said.
‘I’ll try to watch for that,’ Orman allowed. His mouth was as dry as stone.
‘This way,’ Shortshanks said, and headed off. Suddenly, he stopped, and tottered back into Orman’s arms. His front was slashed open and blood and inner fluids now poured down his fine felt trousers all the way to his cured leather boots. Orman gently lowered him, dead already, to the trampled grasses. He straightened then, knowing what he would see: Lotji standing a short distance off amid the fog, leaning upon Svalthbrul.
‘It is I who must challenge you,’ the Bain said.
‘Don’t be a fool! There are hundreds of invaders! We must work together to turn them away!’
But the Bain only shook his head. He straightened, levelled Svalthbrul at Orman. ‘A challenge, once given, must be answered.’ He smiled then, and Orman was reminded of Jaochim’s smile. ‘And thankfully we are upon Bain lands.’
The knapped stone spearhead gleamed wet with blood. This close, it appeared enormous. Lotji’s arms tensed for the thrust. Orman realized he held no weapon and snatched his fighting knives from the rear of his belt. ‘Fool!’ he damned the man, fully expecting this to be his last moment.
Both he and Lotji froze then, utterly shocked by a bellowed roar bursting so close that Orman swore he felt the hot breath. An enormous black shape burst through the mist. A swatting paw the size of a shield knocked Lotji tumbling away, to disappear into the swirling scarves of haze. The beast, the size of a wagon, lumbered off in pursuit and disappeared. Orman shouted uselessly: ‘No! He has Svalthbrul!’ Cursing the old man for a fool, he gave chase.
The crashing and roars of their battle guided him. He stumbled amid the wreckage of a camp: flattened torn tents, scattered cook-fires, scattered equipment. Invaders ran straight past him in their panic to flee the duel. The trail of debris and deep pawprints torn in the soft ground led onward out of the camp to a copse of ghostly alder and birch. Orman found shattered trunks and trees that had been knocked askew and were now leaning drunkenly. The ground was torn by claws. Blood lay splashed across one fallen bole. He followed, knives readied.
The tumult subsided. Amid the coursing banners of fog, he glimpsed a huge dark figure lying across shattered trunks. Old Bear. He quickly sheathed his blades and cradled the man’s bloodied head.
‘Speak to me, old man.’
Old Bear drew a long, shuddering breath. ‘What use is a glorious duel,’ he growled, ‘when no one can see a blasted thing!’
Orman burst out a laugh. ‘Y’damned old fool!’
‘It would have been something to boast of,’ Old Bear answered, his voice far softer now. ‘Anyway,’ he swallowed, said wearily, ‘softened him up for you.’
‘Should’ve stayed out of it. It’s my fight.’
The old man attempted to rise. ‘No, no. Would’ve been … would’ve …’ He eased back, his limbs relaxing.
‘Would’ve been something for the hero songs,’ Orman finished. Old Bear just nodded his shaggy head. His remaining brown eye closed and Orman felt his massive frame sag in death. He eased the head down, stood.
It was strange, he reflected. Outland invaders were here to steal the land from his own people, yet it was one of his own who had taken everything from him. ‘I know you are there!’ he called to the mists. ‘Let us end this now.’
As if answering a draught of fresh wind, the fog thinned. Off a short distance stood Lotji. ‘I wanted you to see your end!’ he shouted. He drew back his arm and launched Svalthbrul. Orman flinched. For some reason he hadn’t expected the man to simply throw the spear. He thought he’d have a chance to engage. Some sort of fair chance.
A grating thud sounded then and Orman blinked, surprised. Instead of being thrust through as he’d expected, he found the spear Svalthbrul jutting from the ground not an arm’s length from him. Its thick haft stood quivering.
Just as he had left it, he realized. When he had given it to Lotji.
Given it. And he remembered Old Bear’s words: ‘wrested it from the dead hand of Jorgan Bain …’
Svalthbrul, it seemed, was still his.
He snatched it up. Raised his gaze to Lotji. The Bain was staring, his eyes widening now. Unaccountably, he laughed, almost in approval or resignation, and gravely saluted Orman. Then he turned and walked away to disappear into the mists.
Orman brought the cold faceted stone head of the spear to his lips and did what he knew Lotji now understood, and accepted, as his unavoidable fate. ‘Find the bastard,’ he whispered, and heaved the weapon as high as he possessed the strength to do. Svalthbrul flew from his hand, almost leaping, and vanished. He drew his fighting knives and followed the line the weapon’s passage had cleaved through the mist.
Distantly, it registered upon him that the noise and tumult of battle had faded almost completely. He stepped over the corpses of fallen outlanders. Ahead, three standing figures solidified from the haze. He heard their laboured exhausted breathing. Sensing his approach, they tensed, swords rising.
He met three soldiers, two women and one man, armoured alike in long mail coats, belted, with broad shields and helmets. Their shields featured a much battered and scraped field of dark red with some sort of wiggly line across.
‘Identify yourself,’ the man ordered.
‘Orman, hearthguard to the Sayers.’
The three relaxed. The man sheathed his longsword. ‘Jup Alat. We are with the Losts. This is Laurel and Leena. Fight’s over, I think. What can we do for you?’
He motioned onward behind them. ‘I’m tracking someone.’
The big fellow frowned. ‘No one passed us.’
‘Nevertheless. If I may?’
The three parted. ‘Certainly. If you wish.’
Orman nodded and continued on. The three stood motionless, peering after him until the coursing fog closed between them once more.
He walked until he began to suspect that he’d somehow lost the trail, or had perhaps passed where the weapon had fallen. He paused then, listening. A stream of some sort rushed and hissed a good distance off. A freshening wind shushed through tree boughs. Far off, people called to one another through the fog.
An explosive wet cough sounded to one side. Orman tightened his grip on his weapons and closed. He found Lotji standing, tottering. The spear Svalthbrul had driven through him straight up and down; its end stood above his head, the haft disappearing into one shoulder. The spearhead stood forward, almost straight down, from his pelvis. At some noise from Orman the Bain turned, slowly, in lurching steps.
His grin was a smear of blood-red. The mouth worked and out came a faint: ‘You win.’
‘I care nothing for your damned feuds. Where is he?’
‘Who?’
‘Jass! Damn you!’
‘Ah. Him.’ The man drew a shuddering breath. His eyes closed, then fluttered, blinking. It occurred to Orman that the man could not fall even if he wanted to. The haft of Svalthbrul held him rigid, tree-straight. His knees buckled and he fell straight down. Svalthbrul’s blade drove into the ground and the man moaned an agony beyond reason. His head rose, revealing that he grinned once more as if at some cosmic jest. ‘I would try the Greathall,’ he mouthed.