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He had been too distracted with his problems with Edith to notice the obvious signs. He’d been set up, but by whom? Was that why Athelstan had been so complacent? Was this the start of renewed hostilities? ‘To me, men!’
He drew his sword and pivoted with metal meeting metal. The bone-jarring crash reverberated up his arm and he knew the attackers were not Northumbrians, but Norsemen. But which ones? His jaw dropped as a man emerged from the thicket. Hrearek. He’d been played. The messenger from Halfdan was false. He’d come from Hrearek. Hrearek knew of Brand’s past and had used it. Brand ground his teeth, furious with himself.
His sword dispatched the first attacker and he turned to meet another.
Brand redoubled his efforts to reach Hrearek, his sword flashing and men falling.
Finally he met Hrearek. The great warrior stood with his fellow countrymen’s blood on his axe.
‘You false worm!’ Brand ground out. ‘You do challenge!’
‘At a time and place of my choosing. You know I always play the game until the end.’ Hrearek made a mocking flourish with his sword. ‘You were always predictable, Brand. Your lust blinded you. I knew you’d doubt her and I would find a chance to strike.’
Their swords clashed and Brand circled Hrearek, probing and jabbing, countering each stroke of Hrearek’s sword with one of his own.
‘Why?’ Brand ground out.
‘I want what you have and I will finally have it.’ Hrearek gave a little smile as spittle bubbled in the corner of his mouth. ‘When you are dead, I will enjoy your woman and then I will kill her slowly. Afterwards, I will take your bodies to Halfdan and he will proclaim me as the jaarl as he should have done after I arranged for the truce to be broken. You were supposed to die that day.’
Brand half-checked his sword. Hrearek breathed evil. ‘You will not prevail.’
‘Where are your men, Brand? Who will be your saviour...this time? You are alone as you always have been.’
Sweat dripped down Brand’s back as the swords clashed and clashed again. Always moving about the glade. Closer to the trees and then further away. They were well matched. Each knowing the other’s strength because of the years of practice, both watched for the tiniest hint of an opening. Hrearek feinted to the left. Brand blocked it and moved to his right. His left foot twisted on a tree root. He stumbled, hitting his knee on the ground. Hrearek’s sudden swipe with his sword resulted in the sword spinning out of his hand, landing on the other side of Hrearek.
‘The great Brand Bjornson felled by a tree.’ Hrearek laughed, raising his sword for the killing blow. ‘You should have known I would return. I do not forget those who have done me wrong. Look on me and despair.’
‘You will not succeed, Hrearek!’ Edith shouted from where she stood, paralysed with fear. Her stomach knotted and she found it impossible to turn away from the horrific spectacle. One after another the men had stopped fighting and stood watching the two Norseman warriors battling it out. It was a fight to the death. She clenched her fists. Brand had to win, but how? In the next heartbeat he’d be dead.
She started forwards but Athelstan grabbed her arm. ‘It is not your fight. One Norseman is like another.’
‘Let me go!’ She fought against his hold. ‘This is my fight. I refuse to allow Brand Bjornson to be killed. I love him. Help me, Athelstan.’
Hrearek turned towards her and made a slight salute with his sword. He raised it above his head and prepared to strike the final killing blow, but as he brought it down Brand twisted out the way.
‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘I beg you.’
‘No! I can’t allow you.’ Athelstan twisted her arm so that the knife fell to the ground. He stood straight, far straighter than he had since he’d returned. ‘I’ll do it. I know that man. We have a score to settle. He is the one I overheard boasting about how he broke the truce. You were right. Your lord is innocent. I should have gone when you first asked, my lady.’
He grabbed the fallen knife and started forwards. Edith fell to her knees, hand stuffed in her mouth, unable to turn her head.
Everything happened in slow motion—the slice of Hrearek’s sword towards Brand, Athelstan’s cry as he ran with his knife, Hrearek’s sudden pivot as he sought to fend off Athelstan, Athelstan’s one desperate stab forwards.
Hrearek blocked the attack. Easily. Almost lazily, he swiped the knife away before jabbing his sword. Even before he withdrew the blade, Edith knew it was deep, potentially fatal. In that instant Brand twisted to the right and drove his sword upwards, connecting with Hrearek
