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A melee broke out then, with his father, two brothers, and more than a dozen Vikstead men on one side, and an equal number on the other side with Sidroc, including Finn, King Thorvald, Rafn, Ivar, and a dozen others.
For an hour and more they fought, with others joining in. It was a silent battle, except for the grunts and growls of soldiers at giving and receiving sword wounds, the clang of steel upon steel, the whistle of arrows, the slap of leather, and the occasional death scream.
In the end, before they scurried off like rats in a sinking ship, his father lost an ear to him, Svein appeared to have sustained a possibly mortal gash in his belly, and two Vikstead warriors were dead. Panting heavily, but smiling at the pleasure of a good fight, Thorvald was assessing their casualties. None dead, but quite a few injuries, some serious.
“Shall we make pursuit?” Rafn asked the king.
He paused to consider, then said, “Nay, let the scoundrels go. They are not worth the effort. Me, I could use a horn or five of ale. What say you?” The latter was spoken not just to Rafn but all the men still standing, some dripping sword dew, and not just from their swords.
“To the hall!” a chorus rang out. “A feast! A feast!”
Sidroc limped over to Finn, the limp being from his prior self-inflicted accident in Mylonas’s Praetorion chamber, not a new one today, though it hurt like hell from all this activity. He felt something wet on his face and realized he had a cut on his forehead, but it did not appear to be deep.
Finn was sitting on the ground against a boulder, holding a blood-soaked rag to his face.
“Are you injured, my friend?”
“A broken nose. Can you believe it? After all these years of safeguarding my good looks, I am now ruined by a disfigured nose.”
Sidroc smiled.
“You have blood on your teeth,” Finn observed with distaste.
Sidroc licked his lips and realized that he must have bitten his tongue during the fight. That sometimes happened. Back to Finn, though. “Some women like the looks of a broken nose. They say it makes a man more masculine.”
“If Isobel did not want me when I was perfect, she will not want me when I am not.”
Only Finn would describe himself as perfect. “Desist with the Isobel nonsense. She will not have you, Finn, and that is that.”
“I do not notice Drifa hanging on you with adoration, either. Methinks we are both out of woman-luck.”
Sidroc glanced around. Finn was right. Drifa was nowhere to be seen. Nor was his daughter. Which was a good thing, though. ’Twas not proper for women to see the gore of battle.
Heading toward the castle, he saw Drifa’s sister Vana speaking to her husband, Rafn. “Have you seen Drifa?” he asked.
“Bloody maggot arse hole!” Vana snarled, shocking both him and her husband before stomping off.
He looked to Rafn, who was grinning. “Ne’er mind my wife. Betimes she speaks her mind in an earthy way. Comes from living in a fortress with so many fighting men.”
“Why is she angry with me?”
“She is angry on Drifa’s behalf. Do not expect any less from Drifa.”
“Huh?”
“Are you really so daft?
“Speak plainly, you smirking cur.”
“Didst really see naught wrong with sailing into Stoneheim, not to seek your ladylove, but to bring with you not one but two beautiful women?”
Ladylove? He tilted his head to the side. “She’s jealous?”
“Do dragons piss?”
He pondered the idea for a long moment and decided he liked it. As he was walking away, Rafn called to his back, “Oh, I should warn you. King Thorvald is planning a wedding.”
He glanced back over his shoulder to see that Rafn was still grinning.
