The first, to him, was a joke. Something to be disposed of; a nuisance, and little more. Not even the most trained of his soldiers and yet, he challenged him. The response, at first, was a simple smile, a bemused frown, and a shake of the head.

            “You what?” he asked, and the first repeated himself.

            “You are weak as a leader, and you rely on those around you to make your decisions for you. I wish to fight you.”

            The shield-drums pounded through the cold, winter air, the voices of the gathered men chanted, hushed. A ritual duel, something to be respected. Respected, and enjoyed.

            Yngvar Magnrsson gripped his sword, and breathed outward, watching his own warm breath turn into mist before his dark green eyes. It was cold, snow layered thinly on the ground, and yet he did not feel it. He was angry, his blood boiling. He did all he could to ensure that these men knew that he wanted only the best for them. And this is what he got in return. Yet, he found in his heart, that if this man asked for mercy, or backed away, he would still allow it. Though he would not allow this man back in his shield wall.

            The first. Bjorn was his name. Bjorn Ulfrsson. The name was apt; he was as a bear, standing half a head taller than Yngvar himself, built like a bar of iron. The perfect man to put in the shieldwall’s frontline; equipped with heavy, long spear and thick round shield. Yngvar himself had stood beside him in some battles; clapped him on the shoulder. Bjorn had only been with them months, still he had saved Yngvar’s life, and Yngvar his.

            Bjorn watched. He stood, spear in hand, glaring at Yngvar. Yngvar, his warlord, his leader. There was no love in those eyes. Not for him.

            That made Yngvar even angrier. He roared at the taller man, opened his arms, his shield and stout sword out to either side. He slammed the rawhide rim of his shield on the ground, the V-shaped point of it making a cracking sound against the stone layered beneath the snow. “Kill me, Ulfrsson,” he bellowed, “If you truly think you can!”

            Bjorn grinned, slammed the shaft of his spear against his shield. He bellowed as well, and charged forward.

            Yngvar waited, watching. He kept his gaze barely above his shield, the great wooden thing shaped differently from those belonging to the other Norsk; his was shaped like that of the southern men. He slammed the pommel of his sword against the wood of his shield, once, twice, in rhythm, as Bjorn leapt in the air, round shield protecting his body as he pulled back his spear.

            Yngvar had not even bothered to put his ringshirt on for this duel, nor his helmet, and so he was fast. Yngvar slipped aside, dragging the shield with him as Bjorn came down, and Yngvar moved his shield aside, sword tip dropping to his left side. He whipped his shoulders and his blade, lifting the shield, tilting in the same motion, a blur, slashed open Bjorn’s jerkin, layering a deep, yet still not fatal cut across his ribs. The sword came up to rest upon his shoulder as Yngvar moved back after the cut, keeping away from Bjorn, who stumbled and growled at the cut in his side, whirling to face his warlord.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

            The men present cheered, shouted, first blood had been drawn. Their chants grew louder, as well as the drumming upon their shields, as steel cut through flesh and blood was spilled.

            Yngvar said nothing, keeping his knees bent, his weight light on the balls of his feet, yet stable and strong. He was not in a shield wall. His sword was half-cocked, over his shoulder, shield still poised. The shield allowed him to put all his momentum behind his strikes, wild swings enough to break bones even beneath a ringshirt. All Yngvar would need is one good chop. The same could be said for Bjorn, and his longer spear.

            Bjorn lunged, pulled back his spear over his shoulder, brought it down in an arc, yet pulled away and back, trying to tease a reaction from the shorter man. Yngvar moved his shield to block the strike, yet did not flinch. Yngvar tapped the pommel of his broad sword against the wood of his shield again, taunting Bjorn.

            Bjorn bared his teeth, snarled, slamming the shaft of his spear against his own shield in response. Had Bjorn lived, he’d have made of himself a powerful blood-drinker. Bjorn lunged, pulling his spear back aside his ribs once more, only to instead twist his shield and lunge and jab with the rim at Yngvar’s face.

            The warlord, instead of backing away from the strike, ducked low, and into the attack – beneath the larger man’s shield, holding his own up to push aside the spear, and Yngvar’s steel drove forward and home – through jerkin and skin, a hot knife cutting through winter snows. Yngvar’s shield-arm wrapped around the big man, pulled him against the thrust. The broad steel blade bit through stomach-flesh, out the bigger man’s back.

            Yngvar found himself roaring as he stepped aside and twisted his body, spilling Bjorn’s guts into the snow, blood painting the air crimson as he pulled his sword away. The fire still in the warlord’s veins, he pulled backward, watched as Bjorn sank to his knees, dropping spear and shield in a desperate attempt to keep his guts in his belly.

            Yngvar found he had no sympathy for the man. He looked down at his bloodstained blade, ran a thumb over it, before sheathing it at his hip. The cold began to eat at Yngvar from beneath his tunic. He looked around, at his soldiers, who still chanted, hushed, the drumming upon their round wooden shields having stopped with the killing blow having landed.

            His thumb painted in blood, Yngvar knelt in front of Bjorn, and did not look up. He could hear the man’s choked breath. He was strong, to have held on this long. Hot blood steamed in the snow around the big man’s innards. Yngvar was silent, as he dragged his bloodstained thumb through across Bjorn’s forehead in three red lines – a rune. “Warrior.”

            He looked from it, into Bjorn’s eyes, a slow breath taken, heaved in and out, and picked up the bigger man’s spear by the head. “You will go to meet the gods, Bjorn Ulfrsson,” said Yngvar Magnrsson, “As a warrior, and not as a betrayer.” Setting the spear in Bjorn’s empty, clutching hand, Yngvar stood, and stepped beside Bjorn, still looking down at the big man. “Lie back, warrior,” said Yngvar, laying a hand on Bjorn’s shoulder. He pressed the big man back, to lie in the snows. The big man’s bloodshot eyes stared up at the empty sky. A dead, distant stare in those blue eyes. He would be seeing his forefathers’ snowraven now, who would ferry his spirit to see the gods, his ancestors, his dead family. Yngvar stood over that gaze, raised his shield.

            Shield-arm in the straps, one hand on the rawhide rim, Yngvar raised his shield above his head, and slammed it down upon Bjorn’s skull. A sickening crunch, and the voices of the surrounding men were silent. All was silent, on this snowy day. That made him even angrier. A twist of the shoulders, and Yngvar tore the shield from Bjorn’s skull. He slammed it down, again, and again.

            Yngvar Magnrsson pulled his shield from Bjorn’s skull one last time, and gaze low, he stepped towards the ring of soldiers, and slipped between them. His eyes met his wife’s, who had been drumming her axe on her shield moments ago. He feared looking into those emerald eyes for more than a heartbeat.