Tiwaz. The Holmgang

     Hakon leapt backwards from the cliff, gripping his knees and flipping twice in the air before he plunged into the misty white lake. The water was hot – not from the heat of the sun, which was rarely generous in Iceland – but because the lake was nested in the womb of a volcano heated by the fires smouldering in the bowels of the earth. The vapour floated on its surface, giving the lake a milky haze but hiding a clear azure water underneath, which engulfed Hakon's body as he dived in.

     He let himself float along the watery alley bound in tall dark walls of stone, a narrow canyon submerged in Aegir's veil. He swam to the surface to draw breath, when, out of a sudden, something grasped his foot, a hand trying to drag him under! He startled in sheer surprise glancing beneath and saw a woman-like creature dashing away from him, a naked shape covered only in floating brown hair. A nykr², he knew! an evil water spirit. No, he could not let the creature get away to drown innocent humans, he thought. So he submerged again with lungs full of air – fighting the hostile force of the water that pressed his body from all sides - and chased her downwards. She swam where the rocky walls bent to the right towards a cave. Why would she lead him into closed space? It was her lair, no doubt, a trap then! he thought, with mind slightly reeling from lack of air. The nykr suddenly darted out of the water and sprinted into the cave. Hakon rushed on the rocky ground after her, but then, where the cave ended, she hid behind a rock and wrapped herself in a grey cloak that lay there. Confused, the man came to her and grabbed her by the throat:

     “Nykr! Vile creature! You tried to drown me with your wicked claws! I ought to break your neck, mounting your head as trophy in my hall!”

     But the woman glanced at him with wide grey eyes, in wonder at his words and menacing manner, and spoke with human voice:

     “Don't hurt me, master, please! I'm no nykr, I swear!”

     “You lie!” he frowned. “I'm a tried swimmer, and yet I was out of breath while you still swam unhindered – you are not human!”

     “I'm a shell-gatherer and fish-catcher, a slave in my lord's household. I'm used to water, I've been swimming since I was a wee babe. Have mercy, please!”

     “Mercy, eh?” he squeezed her throat tighter instead. And with his other hand he tore the cloak from her shoulders, leaving her body bare: in her right fist, a dagger was gleaming. “Not so harmless, are you?” he exclaimed. “First you try to drown me, now to wound me? You see me unarmed, but do you think I could not force that dagger out of your hand and still break your neck? I'm not afraid, I've been stabbed before.”

     “Not like this, trust me,” said the woman unintimidated. “I gut fish for a living – I can carve out a liver in two moves, with eyes closed! Release me, or I'll show you how it's done!”

     Hakon sneered at the threat. He released her throat, crossing his arms.

     “All right. Why were you following me, then? Do you know who I am?”

     “You are Hakon the bold, a famed raider and adventurer. You come from Norway, but you've travelled half the world with the sorcerer and fire-wielder Yngvar Eindride. You and him are renowned Bear-Warriors.” She smiled: “Look not so surprised, master Hakon, I may be a slave, but I have ears to hear and eyes to see. I was there at Gissur Gellirsson's wedding last night, but you couldn't have noticed me with so many rich and free ladies around. But I noticed you... I heard how you told stories at the table, I heard when lord Ottar spoke that terrible offence to you and I heard the oath you made - I know that you must duel in holmgang³ with him tomorrow!”

     Hakon glanced at her, taken aback by the boldness and cleverness of her words. He noticed that she had a long scar on her lips, streaming down on her chin.

     “Of course I will duel the insolent bastard! No man gets to offend me like that and go unpunished.” Although she still had the dagger in hand - a fine and richly ornamented dagger – Hakon touched her chin and fingered her wet hair that fell on her shoulders. “So, tell me... what do you want from me? Have you come to offer your... services... to a dying man in exchange for silver gathered in his travels that he will need no more? Worry not, woman, I will defeat Ottar tomorrow and enjoy long years spending my wealth!” he laughed.

     „Oh, but I can offer you no such service, master Hakon...” she looked worried. “My lord would hurt me terribly if he knew I pleasured another man!”

     He lifted a brow. “And who is this lord of yours?”

     “Ottar.”

     At this, Hakon beamed at her with interest aroused: “Why did you come to me?”

     She went on, looking away in recollection: “See this scar here on my chin? Ottar's father was old, ill and... rich. Ottar came to visit him, asking for gold and land for his endeavours, but the old man refused, saying he did not trust Ottar's good judgement. At this, Ottar was enraged, so he grasped a pillow and cast it on his father's face, smothering him until he jerked no more! I was there to change the old man's bedsheets and I saw them... I witnessed the dirty deed! When Ottar discovered me, he wanted to keep me silent, holding his blade against my lips and... taking me by force. I was thirteen.” Hearing this, Hakon exhaled in outrage, shaking his head sickened. She stared at him with bitterness and a strange determination: “I came to you because... I need this monster named Ottar to die!”

     Hakon looked aside, pondering, but not surprised by the request.

     “I can't kill him... He's a disgusting hole of an arse and deserves to die, but... Iceland's laws forbid a man to kill another, even in holmgang. And Ottar is an important man here in Iceland - a goði, a member of the Ting that would decide my punishment. I only want to prove myself a better warrior than him, shame him before his men, make him repent the offence he brought me last night. I won't kill him for your sake and become an outlaw. I will defeat him in duel and take you – as his property – as compensation and I'll set you free.”

     “How do you know he won't kill you instead?” she asked, mysteriously. “I heard him say it, master Hakon... You have deadly enemies! You must have upset someone important, a king perhaps... And that king is Ottar's friend. Ottar wants to kill you and he can – he is a good fighter. And he could bend the Ting's laws in his favour and get away with it. How do you think he achieved his position in the Ting, his titles and wealth?” She came close to him, dagger still in hand. “As a slave, I have nothing to offer you in return. Only this dagger that caught your eyes, with handle sculpted in walrus ivory, Ottar's gift from the king of Ireland. I stole it from his possession to defend myself, but... I need not oppose you, master Hakon.” She stroked his chest with the sharp tip of the dagger, her hips pressed against his. “Wait a while longer and I'll be yours. Rid me of Ottar and I'll come with you anywhere you want.”

     “Fine”, he answered. “I give you my word that, one way or another, you will receive justice.”

     At the break of day, five men were gathered on the holm, a tiny island not far into the sea from the garðr⁴ where the fateful wedding feast had taken part. The duel was to take place, according to the Icelandic law, amid the circle of stones raised like a small citadel on the uppermost plain of the island.

     “Finally, the bastard's coming, Njord sink his damned boat!” exclaimed one of the men, looking in the distance at a boat approaching on the still water. “I was looking forward to shouting nithingr⁵, as is the custom in Iceland when the man challenged to duel doesn't have the cock to turn up!”

     “Let him come, Knut,” answered Hakon. “I want to shame him with my own hand after he told me two nights ago – with that swinish grin of his - that...”

     But he paused. As the boat approached and drew ashore, something caught Hakon's attention in such an unexpected way that he forgot all about the offence that his adversary had brought him: at Ottar's side, holding his arm, there was a woman, richly dressed in scarlet, with eyes lined with coal pigment. He remembered her from the feast, but only now did he notice that, in the corner of the woman's lips, a long scar was stretching down her chin.

     “Freyr's prick, my eyes deceive me!” Hakon could not forbear a cry. “Knut, who's that woman? Who in Hel is that woman at Ottar's arm?”

     “His wife Sif, of course! Why?” But then the man gaped, enlightened: “Did you lie with her?”

     “Ah, I wish it were that simple...” Hakon mumbled.

     It was her, no doubt, the nykr in the cave! She was no slave, but Ottar's wife – she had lied to him, every breath of hers had been but a lie! But why, why would she play roles and then show up at her husband's arm so nonchalantly? What secret was she trying to pry out of him? Or was she simply insane?...

     As the group walked up to the stone circle, the woman glanced right at Hakon, no shade of abashment in her grey eyes as if nothing had happened. But Hakon's agitation could endure no more demurral: he went straight to her and grabbed her arm, speaking in harsh but low voice:

     “What sick jest is this? How dare you mock me!”

     She did not seem startled by his anger – not even by the presence of her husband and his men who were bringing the weapons up the rocks - but instead she gave a short laughter:

     “Don't tell you didn't enjoy my clever play!”

     He grunted: “Is it bloody amusing to you? Is there anything true in what you told me, or are you completely mad?”

     She became serious. She squinted her grey eyes and whispered:

     “I want him dead. That part was true. And I'll pay you in gold. This is all you need to know.”

     She pulled herself away, but he grasped her tighter and pulled her in rush behind the tallest of the cairns. Knut and the rest of Hakon's men were welcoming Ottar's company with insults and arrogances, so no one had noticed the secret encounter. Hakon swished:

     “Not enough! Not enough reason for me to kill a man in front of the crowd! Damn it, woman, I'm not a hired murderer! Why do you want him dead? What vile schemes are you up to? Speak! And I want the truth this time.”

     She rolled her eyes, speaking quickly: “No vile schemes against you – only against that swine Ottar. Listen - I may not be who you thought I was, but Ottar is still the man that I described: a knavish, corrupt, two-faced savage bastard. You gave me your word, Hakon!”

     But as she stepped away from him, Hakon felt brutally wrested by the shoulder in the sound of grated steel: Ottar was standing before him with sword drawn.

     “How dare you speak to my wife, you fucking insolent scum?”

     Hakon drew out his sword, but called out readily:

     “You're standing outside the circle, Ottar! Have you forfeited the duel, panicked at the mere sight of me? Afraid you can't defeat me in lawful combat?”

     Noticing that his feet were in the grass outside the duelling area, Ottar lowered his sword and grunted:

     “Rot in a ditch!” And then towards his wife: “Come, you bloody woman, and shut your damn mouth next time before your husband's enemy! Taking a wench to a duel...” he huffed.

     The opponents took their places inside the stone circle, and Hakon called out his challenge once more and made known the rules of the duel, as it was the custom. They had settled to fight with only one set of sword and shield, no other weapons allowed. The audience – five people from each of the fighters' company – were watching inspirited. But the keenest watcher of them all was undoubtedly Sif, Ottar's wife.

     Hakon had the privilege of the first hit, as law required. But Ottar parried it and attacked him back, cutting upwards at his chest from beneath his opponent's shield. But Hakon quickly stepped back from the blade's reach, grappling Ottar's sword between his own blade and shield and casting it from his grasp. Seeing himself disarmed, Ottar looked alarmed, but even more determined. He grabbed his shield with both hands and attacked his enemy with its iron edge so mightily, that Hakon's shield cracked.

     So Ottar thudded his enemy with the shield again, closely, throwing the sword out of his hand, and Hakon suddenly felt a sharp sting in his back. He flinched aside and touched the spot instinctively, discovering a metal spine thrust in at the side of his back – it was the pin from Ottar's cloak brooch, which had probably tried to pierce his left kidney but had missed its target. Ottar had been fast, but not precise enough. He noticed his failure with a cringe.

     “You dirty bastard!” Hakon grunted, but did not call out foul play.

     Instead he pounced at Ottar and shoved him into the cairns that encircled the duelling ground, striking him with bare hands forcefully, until his shield fell. The audience looked alarm, wondering it the duel should be forfeited, but both Sif and Knut signalled their men not to intervene. But no one noticed that the brooch pin had stung Ottar's liver. Hakon kept striking him on and on until the man seemed sore and fatigued. His knees bent and he seemed to collapse on the ground, but instead, he grabbed a rock on the ground and slammed it against Hakon's head. Hakon fell, his forehead bleeding. Ottar threw himself upon him, trying to hit him again with the rock in his hand, but Hakon jerked with force and flipped him aside, casting him onto a boulder beside the circle, right on the brink of the cliff. The boulder loosened from the ground and tumbled down from the brink, with Ottar upon it.

     Ottar fell down the crag, hitting the rocks on the shore. The stone where his head was resting reddened with a waxing pool of blood. The audience gasped and murmured. Only Sif stood tall and silent, catching Hakon's eye mysteriously. Hakon was declared the winner of the holmgang.

     At the funeral, Ottar's body was lying on a table in his great hall for the people to come and pay their respect. Hakon came in last. Most of the guests were waiting outside to accompany the deceased to his burial mound, their eyes scrutinizing Hakon as he walked by and entered the hall. Ottar's widow was there, covering the body with a cloth. At the sight of Hakon, she smiled teasingly:

     “Yes, I accept your condolences, Hakon. Don't waste your breath on formalities.”

     He paced to Sif by Ottar's body. “So you're free. Happy now?”

     “Oh, yes! But the best part is only beginning. I don't mind being married, you know, only not to this dead swine here,” she winked. “I'll find myself a new swine in his stead!”

     “Why? What did he do to you that you hated him so much?”

     “He used to bring dirty, stinking, lice-infested whores into our bed! I too have lovers, but I do it in secret so that I don't become the town's gossip; and at least my lovers are washed! Besides, when he was too drunk to do his duties as goði, I had to do them in his stead; he would get all the credit and the gold, and never thanked me once! And he was richer than he deserved – his gold looks better on me, don't you think?” she puffed up foxily.

     “Yes, yes, lavishness becomes you, Sif.”

     She pouted her lips, sulking, and went on in a falsely disappointed tone: “See why I lied? Even now you feel more compassion for the abused slave girl than for the capricious rich woman! Men must be manipulated to feel they have all the power – and once you do that, you have them wrapped around your finger!” she giggled. “And besides, I truly enjoy playing roles! Life is boring otherwise.”

     He cocked his eye. “Well, we have this in common: we know how to not make our lives boring. What about the scar on your lips, then, did Ottar make it?”

     “Nah, it's just a token of my naughtiness as a girl: I once made a dive in the pond too close to the rocks,” she smiled. “You are pretty naughty yourself, I may add... You discovered Ottar's scheme with the pin of his brooch and used it against him! You dirty little beast,” she tsked. She came to him, running her hands on his tunic, glancing in his eyes keenly. “See Hakon, we are of the same kind, you and I. You never took a spouse because you wanted to be free – I had mine killed for the same reason. We don't care for loyalty and law unless it suits us. You have gold from your travels, I now have what should have been mine years ago. We know it takes cleverness to be a leader, and we aren't afraid to step out of the right path into the shade.” She licked her plump lips enticingly and let her hands slide to his belt. “We know the way of the world, and we love those dirty little things that make life exciting... Be mine and I will not seek to bind you like other women, because I like you untamed – like me. Marry me, Hakon!”

     He grabbed her waist and lifted her on the table where Ottar's body was lying, rolling up the dress on her thighs, whispering:

     “So that you can have me killed at your whim?”

     She pulled him close in embrace, sliding her hands on his back breathlessly: “Only if you become fat, foul and boring, like this wretched asshole here.” She bit her scarred lower lip in lust. “Well...? What's your answer?”

     He released his embrace. “And deprive you of the joy of throwing lavish feasts and having wealthy men make you offers? Come, you'd miss out on the amusement!” he exclaimed, arranging his belt and tunic. “Besides, I would not be so sure we have that much in common. Perhaps I'm not as dirty as you think I am. But I am dirty enough to claim my payment for a dirty job well done.” He kissed her passionately while touching her belt where her keys as mistress of the manor were dangling, and he took out the fine Irish dagger with hilt of walrus ivory. He placed it at his own belt, sporting a bright smile. “I wish you fair luck with your future husband, and I hope you'll still keep yourself open to my next visit in Iceland...” he winked suggestively. “Farewell, Sif.”

     She watched him depart with folded arms, one brow raised with spite but a subtle smile in the corner of her lips. And he walked out of the dark chamber, without glancing back.