Battle Through the Nine Realms - Chapter 24 - A Rival Gained (Patreon)

After all the fights were over, the Berserkers’ Den was bursting at the seams. Rumors swirled about the three teens from Reinn’s village, and others were coming to find out what was different about them.

“I feel like a caged boar,” Guat complained as the three of them were seated at the corner table.  “Look at them out there, talking with everyone like they are the ones who made us who we are.”

“Well, they did train us,” Osvif replied, winking at Magnus, who smiled and just watched the chaos that continued to teach him about the Viking world.  “It was our fearless trainer here who made sure we ate enough and never went to bed without feeling sore.  I don’t think I remember once in the last two years falling asleep without wishing I could skip whatever horrible thing he had for tomorrow.”

“They weren’t that bad.  Besides, I did give you two days just to recover.”

Both boys laughed at that comment and shook their heads.

“Recover… like running five miles is recovering.  My mother complained about how many pairs of boots and pants I went through.”

“Please,” Osvif said, nudging Guat with his elbow. “Your mother can at least afford the boots and pants. My dad got upset every time I showed him how bad my clothes were.”

The three of them started laughing, each knowing the pain their workouts had impacted their families.  Training had become serious the last year, and thralls had been hired by Reinn to make sure each of them was ready.  The results today proved that it had been worth it.

“So what does Reinn get from all this?” Magnus asked Guat.  “I mean, I know there is honor, but for a Lendmann who produces three boys that made it to day three.”

Rubbing his tongue against his teeth, Guat reached in with a finger and picked at something, pulling out a small piece of meat that had gotten stuck.  

“He will earn money based on how well we do.  For each of us who make it past the third day, he will gain some servants and gifts from Bior.  If we make it past the fourth day, those will become even greater.”

Guat reached out and took a piece of the flat bread on a plate between them and started tearing it into pieces.

“Let’s say this small pile is what Father gets from Osvif winning tomorrow but doesn’t make it past the fourth day.”

Osvif started to complain and then shrugged, nodding that Guat was most likely right.

Dumping twice as many tiny pieces in another pile next to the first, the Lendmann’s son tapped his finger next to it.

“If I can make it past the fourth day, this would be a fair example of what he would get from Bior.  The real reward comes from what everyone expects from Einar.”

Magnus watched as his friend tore up the rest of the bread and then combined it with the other two piles.

“If you make it to the top ten and then to the top five, Father will receive more lands and people.  The village will prosper in ways that no one could have imagined possible in a long time.”

As he finished talking, Guat took the plate that had one last piece of bread on it, bringing it close and scooping everything he had torn up, placing it on the wooden object.

“Win or take second…” Guat paused and pointed at Valgard, who was laughing and joking with Thora. “Your parents won’t ever have to work in a field again.  They would be set for life.”

Osvif groaned and picked up some of the torn pieces, shoving them into his mouth.

“Just remember me,” he said between bites, spewing crumbs over the table, “when you get a warband!”

The three of them laughed, and more bread ended up on the table, escaping from their short friend's mouth.

***

“You’ll be fine,” Magnus said, trying to help Osvif calm down.  

“I’m going to die,” his red-headed friend replied.  

It was hard watching the one who always had his back look across the circle at who he had gotten drawn against.

“It’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair. Who cares if you’re facing Skardi.  What matters is how you do it.  Someone had to get him.”

Osvif closed his eyes and nodded his head.

“Breathe.  Do what we practiced.  That boy is just like the wolves we faced.  No one expected us to come home with three pelts.  Show everyone here they are wrong, just like our village was.”

Slowly, Osvif began to take deep breaths and let them out. He repeated this over and over, ignoring the calls from across the ring. 

Skardi could see how his opponent was struggling to face him.  Every person he fought lost the battle long before they stepped over the white line drawn in the dirt.

“He’s got his axe again.  He wants to beat you senselessly with it.  Use the spear and play into your strengths,” Magnus coached his friend as he held out a spear.  “Make him come to you.  Remember the countless hours of practice.  You trained for this moment.”  

Nodding, Osvif took the spear and moved into the circle, holding his shield ready.

“Glad to see someone has a spine!” Skardi called out as he stepped over the line.  “Perhaps your girlfriend can help piece you together when I’m done!”

Standing on the edge, Magnus was glad when Osvif didn’t reply or react.  He was going to need to be calm if his friend hoped to withstand what was about to come.

The horn sounded, and every eye was on the match.  From day three on, only one fight took place at a time, and almost every seat was taken.  After today, there would be no room in the stands.

Skardi laughed as he swung his axe as if it were a twig.  The massive axe had to be almost six feet long, and the force at which it moved spoke volumes about the Viking’s Strength.

Tattoos danced on the teen's muscles as his frame came toward Osvif, who held his position, feet set and prepared.

“Come at me!” Skardi shouted.  “Or are you too afraid? Perhaps the shieldmaidens would take you!”

Magnus watched as Osvif didn’t react, his weight shifting just slightly as he stayed low, keeping the center of gravity where it needed to be.

A frown appeared, and Skardi realized that none of his taunts were going to make the shorter boy come at him.  Frustrated, he began to circle around the red-headed teen, occasionally taking steps toward him like he was going to attack but stopping.

Osvif didn’t react beyond the subtle shifting of his feet, never taking big steps, keeping the boy right before him as Magnus had trained him this last year.

Boos came from the crowd as they wanted to see fighting, not dancing or endless insults, and Magnus couldn’t help but smile when Guat shouted above the noise.

“He’s just a daddy’s boy! Needs runes to be able to compete with the rest.”

A growl came from the teen, not risking a glance to see who had called that out, but enough in the crowd laughed, spurring him on to action.

Like a roaring bear, the giant charged, his axe hacking with a speed only possible because of his Strength.

As the brown-haired beast approached, Osvif moved backward, thrusting and retracting his spear quickly, making the taller boy have to work to avoid getting stabbed by the metal tip.

Each swing of the axe fell short by a foot or more, unable to close the distance as Osvif moved and weaved, taking care with his spear to avoid getting it chopped by the blade that sought him.

Seconds passed, and soon, over a minute had vanished without any blow landing.

Roaring, Skardi came at Osvif, his axe moving in a similar pattern, and Magnus saw it, wondering if his friend did as well.

Osvif didn’t back up as he had before, this time setting his feet and angling his wooden shield.

Only a portion of the audience saw the smile on Skardi’s face when his axe came down, cleaving out a section of the shield.  The giant then backed up quickly, grunting, and a hand moved to his side.  Blood seeped from his stomach near the edge of his waist.  

The spear caught him in the gut when his axe clipped the shield. Osvif read the jarl's son’s movement. Skardi had made the same attack pattern three times already, and Osvif traded safety for a strike he knew would land.

The tip had pierced the outer edge above the hip, sinking almost two inches.  

Roaring, the wounded teen came again, this time ignoring the spear and willing to trade blood for blood.

Dodging as best as he could, Osvif managed to spear the boy in the left thigh, yet the second it struck, the axe came down, cleaving the shaft of the spear.

It tore the wound in Skardi’s leg open, but with only a stick and a shield, the match changed in a moment.  

One chop came, cleaving the shield almost in two and splitting the wood, cutting deep into Osvif’s arm, who took the shortened wooden stick and thrust the sharpened tip at the boy’s stomach.  It did little against the leather armor that Skardi wore, and the giant kicked forward with his right leg, connecting against Osvif’s unprotected stomach and sending him rolling across the ground.

Seconds passed as the giant moved toward the rolling pile of flesh, blood splattering against the dirt as the shield fell apart and the severity of the wound now showed.  The axe head had cut to the bone, and blood was vanishing like crazy.

“I yield!” Osvif shouted as he ended up on his back, the axe head coming down.

Skardi’s eyes didn’t register the call for surrender or the shout from the judge that ended the match. 

Instead, the blade fell, coming right for Osvif’s head.

A gust of wind from the judge’s outstretched hand slammed into Skardi, pushing him off balance slightly, and the axe came down on Osvif’s collarbone, cutting through and into the dirt.

Healers raced to where Osvif lay on the ground, a scream of agony filling the dueling fields.

Skardi didn’t stop his onslaught even after all this; his foot lifted, and his eyes filled with rage.  

Magnus had already been moving the moment Osvif had called to end the fight.  He knew there was no way the judge would get another blast of air off.  How Skardi had resisted being blown over was a testament to his fortitude.

There was a rage in the teen’s eyes, and all he seemed focused on was ending the life of the boy beneath him.

His axe wasn’t good enough, and the foot came down, crushing Osvif’s hip.  

Sounds of shouting arose, but when Skardi raised his leg once more to end his opponent’s life, his foot aimed at Osvif’s chest, Magnus slammed into the giant’s side, driving with every bit of Strength he had.

The larger boy went flying, off balance from being on only one foot, and landed about five feet away on his side, rolling and rising to his feet in a moment, ignoring everything that hurt.

He rushed forward at Magnus with his bare hands, now focused on the one who had stopped him.

“Skardi Gudrodsson!”

The voice that boomed across the dueling field had a power to it, and the boy to whom the name belonged blinked, slowing down his charge for a moment.  He shook his head and roared as he raised his hands toward the sky.

Glaring at Magnus, the giant turned and saw his father walking along the dirt toward him.

“Do not dishonor me anymore! You will pay for this personally!”

Healers were pushing past Magnus as Osvif had passed out from the pain and blood loss.

“Don’t lose,” Skardi growled as he swatted away one of the healers who was attempting to check him out. “I owe you for stopping me from what was mine.”

With that, the boy turned and walked to where his father stood, towering over the guards who had moved with the jarl.

Wasting one more glance at the teen who walked away, Magnus turned and saw Hragnelf next to Osvif’s head, hands pressed against the boy’s shoulder where blood continued to seep out.  Someone had removed the axe that now lay on the dirt, gore covering one of the blades.

None of the noise mattered, as Magnus couldn’t hear any of it.  All he could think about was the boy at his feet and the friendship they shared.  

“I swear, Osvif, I will gut him.”