The Forest Laird(25)

“Borrow it?” Will’s grin seemed to grow even wider. “Aye, I think you could borrow it. Jamie, hand the man your staff and show him how to hold it.”

“No need,” said the Viking, as I had already named him. “Throw it to me. I’ll manage.”

“Will …”

“Just throw it, Jamie. You heard the man.”

I bit my lip, knowing this was wrong, and lobbed my quarterstaff across the gap. The stranger caught it easily in one hand, and as I left the bridge he hopped up effortlessly to stand on the upper log, facing Will, who was suddenly frowning, his mad grin vanished. He was now aware, I realized with relief, of the grossly excessive advantage he would have over his unsuspecting opponent.

“Do you know how to use one of these things?” Will’s voice was rough now with concern, and I began to feel better, but the Viking merely flicked the hair off his forehead with a toss of his head and took the staff in both hands, holding it as though it were a felling axe.

“I’ll manage,” he said again, flexing his knees. “Don’t worry about me. Look to yourself.”

With that he launched a swift attack that left me open-mouthed with shock, a spear-like thrust so fast and well executed that Will had to spring back to avoid it, whipping his staff up in a defensive block that the stranger immediately used against him, dropping to one knee and hooking a vicious crosswise blow under Will’s horizontal guard, aiming for his knees and almost connecting as Will leapt back again, giving ground for the second time.

From that point on, their battle was hard and heavy, each of them giving the other the respect due to an opponent who was his match and neither of them taking foolish risks, ever conscious of their footwork on the curved, moss-coated surface of the log beneath their feet.

The tempo increased suddenly as Will’s foot caught on a slight bump on the log, throwing him off balance just long enough for his opponent to seize the advantage. As Will swayed, the Viking swung a short-handed, chopping blow that caught him high on his right shoulder. I thought it was all over as soon as I heard the solid thump of the hit, for I knew Will’s arm must be deadened, but he surprised me by dropping to one knee, still clutching the right end of his staff with now lifeless fingers, and brought the other end sweeping inward for a crashing blow as powerful as a swung axe, hammering towards the Viking’s knees and pivoting through chest and shoulders for added impetus.

It was a prodigious effort, but the Viking’s response to it was miraculous to me. Like a threatened cat, he sprang into the air with both feet, drawing his knees clear up to his shoulders as Will’s staff whistled through the air where his legs had been a moment earlier, and the blow that would have shattered his knee almost missed him completely. But the tip of the scything staff struck the edge of the thick sole on the Viking’s left boot and smashed it sideways, tumbling him violently while he was still close to the top of his mighty leap. He fell headfirst in a sidewise somersault and his skull struck solidly on the log before he slipped into the deep water of our swimming hole. He sank instantly, his eyes closed and blood streaming from his yellow hair.

“Will!” I threw myself forward in a running jump, but even before my feet had left the ground I saw the arc of my cousin’s body as he dove ahead of me, and we landed together, one on either side of the sprawling body.

“I have him!” Will shouted, surfacing with his hands beneath the floating shoulders. “Take his legs.”

We hauled the inert body onto the bank and knelt beside it, staring in horror at the blood that oozed through the sodden yellow hair. But then the Viking snorted and coughed and writhed away from us, spewing up water, and I thought I had never seen or heard anything so beautiful. He pushed himself up shakily on straight arms, spitting the sour taste of vomit from his mouth, and then sat hunched, clutching his head, his elbows supported on his raised knees.

He groaned after a moment and cocked his head to squint painfully at Will. “You hit me?”

“Aye, but not on the head. Christ, man, I thought I’d killed you. I caught the sole o’ your boot and cowped ye sideways and your head hit the log. Are you all right?”

“Sweet Jesus, no, how could I be? My head’s broken. Let me be for a minute.” We did as he wished and he sat silent for a spell, groaning quietly from time to time and cradling his head in his hands, rocking it tentatively from side to side. But then he took his hands away, still grimacing, and gazed at the blood on the fingers of one while he probed gently at his scalp with the other.

“Ye’ve got a bump there like a goose egg,” Will told him, “but it doesna seem like a deep cut. Just a dunt.”