Turning, he found himself within a dozen paces of Olaf, Thorgrim’s son, who had followed his page round the curve and sat in his saddle awaiting the boy’s fate with keen interest.
Not soon enough could Olaf hide the disappointment that had convulsed him on seeing Eric dropped unscathed. The Songsmith caught the expression and read it and understood at last the snare that had been set for him. Scorn brought his rage to that point of white heat where his voice sounded curiously still.
“You—dastard!” he said. “So that is what you were plotting, that I should be fretted into slaying the young one, and furnish you with the excuse of avenging him. That is why you beguiled him into your service—poisoned his mind against me—set him on me when you suspected that my temper would be raw.”
No answer came from Olaf’s parted curving lips; only he leaped expectant from his horse and stood looking at his enemy, the glitter of his eyes heightened to a white glare. As metal bars under white heat, Randvar’s prudence lost shape and ran. In the relief from its restraint, he vented his short laugh, plucking the cap from his head with a fantastic flourish before he tossed it aside.
“Behold, how much needless trouble you took!” he cried. “Here have I walked the roads all morning only in the hope of meeting you, caring never a whit whether you gave me a new excuse or not! At any price would the joy of slaying you be a bargain. Shall I make it plain that I challenge?”
As a bolt from a bow shot his fist from his shoulder, landing fair and square on the smiling mouth he hated. At sight of its marred line, its starting blood, he laughed again and drew back and unsheathed his sword.
Olaf’s curse cut the short laugh shorter, as his brand flashed forth. The next sound was curter still, the jarring clash of steel on steel.
Far as sound could carry, it bore the news that mortal enemies had met. Catching no more than a faint echo, Gunnar and his mates—far down the road—whirled, crying, “The Songsmith!” and, “Thorgrim’s son!” and then, as with one voice, “Randvar is not his match!” and after that came loping back, their eyes agleam. Sweeter than harp-music, it filled the ears of the men wielding the swords.
Fierce is the thirst for water, but fiercer still the thirst for life. Parching his veins, it spread through Rolf’s son. Now it seemed appeased as he felt the parting of flesh under his blade, saw red water rise in the well he had digged. Now he knew the fiery pang of Olaf’s point entering his own flesh, and the thirst consumed him anew. Kill! kill! kill! it roared in his ears above the clashing.
Olaf’s greater skill against his charmed body—it was a fair game. To leave his heart unguarded that Thorgrim’s son might lunge at the opening and in the act of lunging leave himself exposed—that was the way to play it; and he played with all his might, drove home each thrust with laughter.