so that he doesn’t see this. I step back from him and deliberately let the sword fall down so that the point is lowered to rest on the ground. And then, taking a deep breath, I square off and step my feet into position, my posture erect, and with renewed strength I raise the sword up so that it’s squared to the centre of my body, sticking out directly in front of me. On my left side my shield is so heavy I feel my muscles quivering. Let the fight begin soon please, because my arms already cannot last any longer.
“Let’s do this,” I say.
When we were little, Steen and I would sometimes spend the day together trapping birds beneath a basket using a string and a dowel. Steen would only wait until the birds were barely underneath the basket and eating the breadcrumbs, and then he’d give this warlike roar and throw himself at it to push it down over them. Of course they would hear him coming and be gone long before he could reach the basket. He was always astonished when he looked through the wicker and saw it was empty.
He will be the same today in the fight – impatient and half-witted. To win, all I have to do is use these traits against him.
And so I stand back and let him make the first move and, sure enough, with a growl he lunges right at me, front foot first, hacking and waving his sword theatrically above his head, all bluster and forewarning so that I see him coming in plenty of time – and all it takes is for me to sidestep and I’m clear. I slash crossways and take the first strike against him, whacking my brother hard in the ribs.
“Oww!” Steen is furious as he staggers to one side. He’s still trying to regain his balance when I come at him again, acting fast, my sword in front of me, shield raised to protect my vulnerable neck and shoulder. Hack-hack-hack. I swing and this time I land three successive blows onto his left shoulder until finally he gets his shield up to block me and fights back with a cross-cut which I deftly block with my own weapon and then push his sword out and away from my body with my blade. I twist myself in a knot to slip inside of him, throwing the weight of my shield into his and pushing hard. Caught off-balance, Steen is tipped over on his back like a turtle and, before he knows what’s happening, I’m on top of him and my blade tip is in the soft groove where his throat meets his neck.
I can see his pulse in that groove, the beat of his heart pounding, throbbing through his skin. There’s sweat on his upper lip.
All it would take from me now is one thrust, even with a sword as blunt as this, and there would be no question of succession. I would end his life. Our eyes lock and I give him a knowing raise of my eyebrow. I stay there, sitting on his chest, and wait a heartbeat longer before I lower my sword. I put it back in its sheath and as soon as I do this Steen gives a furious roar and pushes me off him. I fall back on the grass laughing.
“You can stop gloating!” he shouts at me. “You got lucky is all!”
“Well done, Bru!”
I look up and see my friends Astrid and Hannecke. They’re cheering for me from the rocks above. Even the boys, who should be on Steen’s side, are hooting out in glee. But Steen isn’t laughing. He lies on his back in a sulk, refusing my hand when I offer it to help him up. Finally he takes it, but then as soon as he’s on his feet he snatches my sword and throws it up to Kari.
“This changes nothing,” he mutters darkly. “You know that, don’t you?”
I look at him and shake my head with pity. I knew he wouldn’t keep the deal. “See you tonight at dinner,” I say. And then I turn and walk away.
Our journey to reach Thing-Vellir for the great meeting of the tribes has not been long. My father is chieftain in the south, not far from here, and we followed the river, travelling for a day. The men of our tribe and many families have come too, almost a hundred of us, all on horseback. The six other tribes who join us have come from across the country and for many their journey has taken weeks. They all travel by horse as we do, men, women and children riding astride. It’s the only way here because the few tracks that cross the lands are too bumpy and rutted for a carriage to be of any use.
So as well as thousands of people, there are thousands of horses too at the All-Thing, the great conference of all the tribes of Iceland. There has been much trading and selling of stallions, mares and foals between us since we arrived and my father has been asked many times since we got here about my horse, Jotun.
Jotun is the handsomest stallion in the whole of Iceland. I’m not saying this just because he’s mine. It’s the truth.
It wasn’t always the case. As a small foal, Jotun wasn’t good-looking at all. His legs were too long and he had a big head, so that when I chose him my father asked me if I was sure and whether I wouldn’t rather choose another colt with more attractive looks and better conformation.
“He is the one I want,” I had said firmly.
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