Chapter 24
Much to Bryn’s surprise, Gunnar hadn’t retreated to the throne room. Instead, a bruised and bloodied thrall revealed the king had already come through and raced for the escape route into the mountains. Bryn remembered the entrance well, a chilling and narrow passage accessible from the courtyard.
“We tried to stop him, my queen,” the thrall said, voice wheezy and blood flecking his lips with each word. “He took the others and left me for dead.”
“Rest now. One of my shield maidens will tend to your wounds.” But she feared all they could do for him was see to his comfort and be at his side as he passed on to Valhalla.
A hundred men awaited them in the castle courtyard, all faces Bryn recognized. People she knew. Some of her own thralls had been placed in armor and set on the front line. She could tell by the fear in their eyes and the quake in their hands that they were not there by choice.
“Do you fear me so much that you hide behind slaves?” she called out in challenge, holding up a hand to halt her forces in their position. Sigurd moved to stand beside her, but he said nothing.
“Do not listen to the draugar,” Gunnar countered. “Destroy—”
“I challenge you!” she roared, ensuring her voice carried to every stone of the courtyard. “I challenge you, Gunnar, to the Hólmgang.”
“You challenge me to the Hólmgang?” He barked out a sharp laugh, though only a few joined him nervously.
His brother, an even greater coward, cleared his throat. “As you are undead, a draugar, King Gunnar is not obligated to honor your request,” Frode sneered, the sniveling bastard standing to the right behind his brother.
“Yes. I will not entertain the thoughts of battle with the likes of you. You have clearly ensorcelled these people.”
“How could she be a draugar when she bleeds?” asked Liran, only for the king to whirl on the thrall and backhand him with his gauntleted hand.
Behind her, three of the drottin stepped forward.
“We recognize Queen Brynhildr as being living and breathing. We recognize her right to Hólmgang.”
“You have committed treason and sided with usurpers who would doom us all!” Frode cried. “Did you not see her corpse? Dark magic can be the only explanation behind this.”
“The only dark magic here is that which you brought from Liang!” Sigurd snapped.
Bryn set a hand to his arm and took another step forward. “Brothers and sisters, look upon me. See the truth. Look with your eyes and heart, unburdened by their poison filling your ears. I am here by the grace of the gods and I hold to my challenge.”
Warmth and strength flooded through her tired, aching limbs as she called her wings. Several of the opposition startled backward, wonder in their eyes. Gunnar’s eyes reflected fear instead, and Frode nearly fell on his ass in a hasty attempt to back away.
“Brynhildr is Odin’s chosen!” Sigurd shouted. “And you will accept her challenge or relinquish the throne to live in exile and dishonor for the rest of your days.” He turned to all others in attendance, the many guards in the room, the berserkers and shield maidens, those loyal to the throne and those who were not. “Before you all, I present your cowardly king. Were she a draugar, would Odin have chosen her as a Valkyrie? Only those worthy of Valhalla claim that privilege.”
“Fools, all of you! Attack them!” Gunnar yelled.
“My king, we must acknowledge the Hólmgang,” Ulfgar spoke, stepping forward from the king’s ranks. “She has issued the challenge. Do you accept?”
“You can’t be serious,” Gunnar seethed.
“Very,” even Frode said in a quiet voice. “You must make a choice.”
He had no choice. If he refused, before them all, they would tear him apart and she would win.
“But how can I stand against her if the divine might of a god flows through her?” Gunnar said suddenly, sharply.
“Do you claim the gods grant unfair advantages?” Revna asked. “That the all-father has not the wisdom to grant you a proper fight?”
“I…”
“Watch your tongue,” Frode hissed. “My brother is right. The Hólmgang is an honor duel between men, not men and gods. Our lord Odin makes no mistakes, but it is Brynhildr who abuses his gifts to her advantage.”
Brynhildr pushed her shoulders back and stared at the jelly-spined men, loathing them more with each word. Closing her eyes, she focused on the warmth curling around her shoulders and bid them vanish. They did. “I need neither wings nor divine talent to obliterate you. What say you now, Gunnar?” She opened her eyes to find Gunnar staring her down.
The king clenched his jaw. Hate-filled eyes that had once looked at her with so much love she could have died for him—would have died for him—glared at her. “So be it, then. I accept your challenge. Let the Hólmgang commence!”
At this, the crowd dispersed and the sea of bodies moved to opposite sides of the courtyard. They formed a circle around the two combatants who stepped forward, Gunnar in his royal regalia, armor, and cape, wielding a hammer once honorably carried in battle. Bryn stood before him with her shield, telling herself she needed nothing else. A shield would always be her primary weapon, the one tool she needed in battle.
Gunnar charged, as she knew he would. He relied on brute strength, and she planned to use that against him. She held her ground and waited until the last moment to duck aside, spinning under his swing while slamming her shield into his back. He stumbled forward but managed to save his footing.
“Fight honorably, witch.”
“I am.”
Regaining his balance, he swung at her again, huge, cumbersome blows that would have taken a less agile opponent off their feet. Brynhildr danced around him instead. Briefly, she caught sight of Sigurd and Lagertha side by side. Her former thralls had joined them.
Desperate faces watched their duel of honor. Swollen faces. The faces of beaten thralls who had no doubt shown loyalty to her memory. One glimpse of Liran’s purple cheek filled her with indignation. Rage rushed through her veins, and she swung upward, buffeting Gunnar in the face with her shield. His hammer went wide and may as well have missed her by a mile.
Blood gushed from his broken nose. The people around them began to murmur, as first blood had been hers, a sign of the gods’ favor. Gunnar snarled and retaliated with a series of crushing blows, forcing her back on the defensive. Over and over, his hammer battered against her shield, filling the courtyard with ringing noises. His last strike forced her to one knee, her shield held above her. In a desperate move, she bowed backward, swung out her leg, and kicked him firmly in the knee.
His knee buckled, throwing off the trajectory of his next swing. He swore as the heavy weapon continued on its descent to the ground, carrying his body with it.
There. She had a chance. She tried to leap up to her feet, but he was faster, lunging forward on his uninjured leg and tackling her to the ground. He hit her with all of his weight, the impact unexpectedly crushing the air from her lungs.
Black spots drifted across her vision. It took all her effort to remind herself how to breathe, to draw in a deep breath before oblivion took her. She raised an arm and slammed one hand under his chin, forcing him up, taking his smothering weight from her chest. Taking advantage of his distraction, she rolled, tipping him off her body, then changed direction to roll back to her own two feet. Gunnar staggered upward as well and came at her with a clumsy, angry swing.