Book 7: Chapter 68: Fire and earth
Not long after dawn, they all made their way down to the small island, lying in the river with its solitary oak but nothing else. “What are the rules?” Martel asked of Starkad as they stood on the bank.
“Once you’re on the island, the fight begins. The fight ends when one side is dead.”
From the other side, Halfrid and Rolf entered the water to cross over. Both wore mail; the berserker had her axe, while the skáld had his sword.
Martel looked at Eleanor. They had made their preparations as best they could, agreeing on a simple strategy, especially as their precautions would prevent communication once the fight began. The mageknight would defend against the berserker; the battlemage would seek to kill either of their enemies fast, depending on opportunity.
Looking at the woman he loved, Martel knew he might lose her today, which frightened him far more than the thought of dying. But he would not let it distract him. Instead, it would be the whetstone that sharpened his instincts and abilities. If he had to kill Rolf to keep Eleanor alive, so be it.
She reached out to grab his hand, squeezing it in a silent gesture. Together, they walked into the water.
The four warriors regarded each other. Berserker and mageknight hefted their weapons, measuring their foes. The battlemage watched the skáld, who watched him.
Nobody gave a signal; this was not some arranged duel but a battle between enemies, and it had already begun once they stepped foot on land. They were all simply waiting.
Halfrid moved first. With a roar, she leapt forward, and Eleanor came from the opposing side of the isle to meet her. Behind, Martel raised his staff to release his magic, but Rolf acted faster. A glowing symbol appeared in the air, accompanied by a word, and the rune of repulsion blasted both Asterians through the air to land on their backs. Rolling away, Martel grabbed his staff and got back on his feet. He saw Eleanor do the same while an axe came swinging to decapitate her. All his fears boiling within him, Martel saw the fearsome weapon come to a halt, held back by Eleanor’s defensive spells. Flaming sword in hand, she engaged the berserker, and Martel turned toward Rolf to deal with the skáld.
He saw Rolf’s lips move. A song he made, filled with malice and murder, to make all enemies confuse friend for foe. Assuming they could hear it. Touching his ear, Martel ensured that the beeswax remained in place, keeping him deaf and depriving the skáld of his strongest weapon.
In turn, Martel unleashed one of his own. From the gem atop his staff, a bolt of lightning jumped to envelop Rolf with magical power, tearing through his body. A lesser man would have died, perhaps a stronger man too, but on the ground, magical symbols glowed. Rolf had already placed runes on the ground, and they shone, absorbing Martel’s spell and healing the damage done.
Not to be deterred, Martel released another bolt, and once more, Rolf seized up in pain. Yet twice he had suffered a spell to slay a man, and still, the skáld remained standing. His runes pulsed with power that spread out like a spider’s web, affecting the berserker as well, locked in a duel against the mageknight.
Again Rolf summoned a rune in the air to blast Martel away. Painful, but nothing to truly threaten the battlemage. Without his song, the skáld was limited in his offensive powers, it seemed, if he had nothing worse to offer.
Which meant that the berserker posed the greater threat. Ignoring Rolf, Martel turned toward the warriors fighting in close combat. He saw wounds upon Halfrid, her armour torn in many places. Still, she swung her axe with the same ferocity, and Martel knew that if a single blow came through Eleanor’s defences, it could prove fatal.
He dared not unleash lightning with Eleanor in such close quarters; instead, Martel released a ray of flames against Halfrid’s back, letting the fire burn with the intensity of his fury and fear alike. The berserker shrieked in pain, her entire body flinching before she seemed to simply shrug it off, launching another attack against Eleanor.
Martel whipped his head toward Rolf, casting more runes upon the ground. Finally paying proper attention, the battlemage saw how the symbols fed strength to the berserker; by their power, Halfrid healed and recovered, no matter the wounds she suffered. Before she could be overcome, the skáld had to be defeated. Martel turned his attention back on Rolf.
A fire bolt seemed too weak, and the lightning bolt had not sufficed; perhaps more sustained damage would break through the skáld’s wards. Another ray of flames came from Martel’s staff, this time aimed at Rolf. It struck with ease; Martel’s intuition of heat never failed him.
He sensed rather than saw movement, and out of instinct, Martel summoned his shield. A moment later, a terrible battle axe swung to split his skull, though his magic kept it bay. Spent, the spell could not protect him from the kick that followed, sending him flying through the air.
Desperate to buy time but unable to find his enemy fast enough, Martel simply summoned a wall of flames to surround him, hoping it would hold his enemy back.
With a sneer, Halfrid jumped through the fire. It singed and burned her, but she seemed to disregard all pain, and she raised her axe for a killing blow.
Eleanor came flying after her, gritting her face in pain as she passed through the flames. Both the women fell tumbling to the ground. Fearing that his wall hurt his companion more than his enemy, Martel dismissed it. He rolled away once again, knowing it was not his task to face the berserker. He had to leave that to Eleanor and trust she could last until he had done his part.
Grabbing his staff, Martel got back on his feet, only in time to be attacked again. This time, his instincts proved too slow; a blade slashed his leg open. A scream of agony fled his lips before Martel summoned air to push his enemy away. Composing himself, he prepared to continue the battle. Spells had not slain the skáld; perhaps his weapon would.
Rolf seemed eager to reciprocate; he came with his sword raised, engaging Martel in close combat. Immediately, the battlemage realised his mistake. He knew how to fight with a staff, he had empowering magic to lend force to his blows, and spells to shield himself. But it was not where his power lay.
In comparison, Rolf seemed just as ease with his sword as with runes or song. He struck with speed and precision, giving Martel cuts again and again. And should the black staff connect, it barely caused hurt to the skáld.
Breathing swiftly, Martel pulled back step by step, just to buy time. He could not win a duel against Rolf. His spells had seemed to offer little. Yet while the skáld’s runes remained active, Halfrid appeared impervious and invincible.
Martel had one hope left – that his strongest spell could overpower the wards that protected the skáld. A spell he had rarely used, but it came to him with ease this time; he needed only imagine Eleanor dead on the battlefield, her body hewn apart by an axe. Channelling the power of his staff in his other hand, Martel raised his palm against Rolf.
The skáld spent a moment to look in confusion before his expression turned to horror. A torrent of fire was unleashed. A pure inferno of flames, poured from Martel’s soul to rival the heart of a volcano.
Overwhelmed, Rolf fell to the ground, his body burnt. Guilt touched Martel for a fleeting moment; this was not the time. He looked at the runes on the ground as they blinked and dissipated. Finally, the berserker was vulnerable.
His spellpower close to extinguished, Martel released a simple fire bolt at Halfrid’s back. It struck, but it seemed ineffectual. She continued her rhythm of attacks, and Eleanor was close to spent as well; as the axe came, it splintered the mageknight’s shield.
Returning the strike, Eleanor slashed Halfrid across the stomach, bursting the rings of her mail. Undaunted, the berserker struck out with the hilt of her axe, hitting Eleanor in the head. As for the wound Halfrid had suffered, Martel saw power creep from the ground itself to keep the berserker standing. The earth itself kept her alive, kept her strong.
He realised what to do, but he could not alert Eleanor; she could not hear him. Seeing no other recourse, Martel threw his staff away and launched himself forward. He came from the behind to grab Halfrid’s collar with both hands to raise the woman into the air.
Empowering magic lent him strength, but not for long, nor did the berserker intend to let him handle her this way. Kicking backward, she struck Martel’s wounded leg, and he dropped her while also falling down himself.
A hand closed around his throat as he lay on the ground. He gasped for breath, clawing at Halfrid’s arm, to no avail. Her strength exceeded his beyond measure. His vision began to darken.
Another hand came, ripping the berserker away and raising her into the air. Martel breathed with greed, praising the Stars that Eleanor had understood his strategy.
As before, Halfrid squirmed and tried to free herself, but she faced an opponent equal in strength; deprived of her connection to the earth, the berserker lacked the power to win the struggle. Walking into the river, Eleanor swung the berserker down into the water and kept her submerged. Moment after moment passed until no further bubbles of air came to the surface. Finally, Eleanor released her grip, and Halfrid sank to the bottom of the river.
Relieved beyond words, Martel watched his companion return to the island, to him, and they embraced. His wounds hurt, especially his leg, and he felt exhausted to the point of passing out, but it was done.
In the shade of the oak, three women suddenly stood. They spoke with one voice, looking at Rolf. Martel did not understand their words, and he hurried over to the fallen skáld. Bending down, he found the Tyrian still breathed.
Once again, the seiðr-wives spoke, their voice sharp and cold as ice. Martel could guess their meaning; they were not satisfied yet while one opponent lived.
He would not cower before these witches. Grabbing a potion from his belt, Martel fed the contents to Rolf. It would not heal his injuries or guarantee that he survived, but it would fortify the skáld’s waning strength.
A third time, the women spoke. Martel turned to them. “Enough blood.” He shook his head. “Enough death.” Next to him, Eleanor picked up Rolf’s body; together, they left the island, returning to the shore.