"No, lord Odin, not I," the berserk Tyr answered broodingly. "You know that a sword in my hand brings the madness on me."
"I'll face Jarl Keith," said Frey, standing up and smiling at me.
We walked around to the open space in front of the tables. There we were given gauntlets, shields, and two long swords whose points had been cut off.
"Who delivers three stout blows on his opponent's helmet wins the game," Odin stated.
The game appeared dangerous to me, for our faces were quite unprotected. I hadn't much hope of besting Frey; but I was determined not to show any semblance of fear before Freya and these fierce warriors.
Frey's blade clashed against mine. Next instant, I realized I could never meet his equal. Centuries of practice had made him unhumanly skillful. His blade flew like a streak of light and crashed on my helmet. As I staggered from the stunning blow, he hit my helmet again. A roar went up from the crowd. Resentment gripped me, and I lashed out savagely at Frey's head.
By sheer luck, the unexpected stroke caught his mailed shoulder. When he stumbled, I smote down on his helmet.
"Well done, Jarl Keith!" roared the bull voice of Thor.
But Frey recovered before I did. His blade became a blur of steel in front of me. Grimly I tried to hold him off. But he soon got in his third blow.
"Are you hurt, Jarl Keith?" asked Frey solicitously.