*
The next day they roamed the land beyond the fortress together.
The woods were sparse, full of old pines and white stones. But the dappled shade held golden surprises as Canute ran through the undergrowth. He felt every rock through the leather of his shoes, sharp and tingling; his short, thick hair lashed his face until it stung; his breath began to burn in his chest, and yet he felt invigorated. Tosti had challenged him to a race, and of course he could not say no.
Out of the corner of his eyes he could see Tosti, flitting through the trees like a bird’s flapping wings, pulling ahead step by step. But this only pushed Canute to run harder, and a determined sneer went up his face. He drew an estimate in his head of Tosti’s strengths and weaknesses. Tosti was faster now, but he would tire soon, and then Canute would pull ahead.
Tosti did not let it come to that, however. With a howl of victory, he topped the next rise and stopped there, as if deciding this was the finish line.
Canute caught up to him soon, glaring. He struggled to breathe amply through his nose, though his nostrils flared with the strain, while Tosti gasped freely through his grinning mouth.
“Did you wake up with stones in your ankles, Sweynsson?”
Canute ignored him and glanced at the new landscape beneath them. The water level was high in the land below the slope; long flat stones stretched over the earth, smoothed by the shallow streams flowing around them, gleaming as if with a permanent layer of water. It was difficult to discern what was solid and what was not. “This is a poor choice for a playing field.”
“I pick this one, you pick the next one.”
“No.” Tosti looked at Canute with irritation, his curvy lips drooping with an uncharacteristic frown. Canute did not like it when Tosti frowned as much as when he smiled. He lightened his tone. “Let’s do it the other way around. We fight here first.”
“On this hill?”
“Yes.” Canute was pleased with himself. He thought this would be another chance to teach Tosti a lesson.
And as soon that they began fighting, he confirmed his suspicions. Tosti struggled to maintain his unbounded energy while on either side of him, a slope threatened to drop him. He hopped and poked at Canute with his wooden sword, but every large movement made him struggle to regain his balance. Often he had to look down in order to find stable footing, and at these moments Canute struck at him, again and again and again.
At last he plunged the blunt tip of his wooden weapon against Tosti’s midriff, who promptly tipped backwards.
Tosti dropped his sword, hands lifting and flapping desperately in a last attempt to right himself. But it was too late: he was about to fall down the slope.
As he fell, he reached out and grabbed Canute’s outstretched sword, gripping until he no doubt acquired several splinters. Stubbornly, Canute refused to let go, even as all of Tosti’s weight transferred to its tip.
“You—son of a—bitch!” cried the Viking prince, as at last he lost his own balance and plunged headlong down the slope next to Tosti.
The slope was not particularly steep, but they rolled in the hopes of slowing their falls to a stop. Worst of all, sharp stones lay interspersed along the soil, which jabbed and pulled at their tunics while littering their flesh with bruises. By the time he came to a stop at the base Canute’s blood roared with fiery fury; as soon as he made it to his feet he looked over at Tosti and resisted the urge to kick him while he was down.
Instead, he realized his body ached more than he first gave it credit for. He wondered if he had twisted something. Meanwhile, Tosti sat up but didn’t move other than to struggle to regain his breath.
Canute snorted at him. “Whenever you’re ready to go again, you let me know.”
He strolled over to the nearest pool of water, lapping warmly in the dip of a rock, and splashed it on his face. He hissed as he discovered a raw scrape along his cheekbone.
A bird call split the air, and he looked up, glancing around desperately. In reward for his efforts, the sun half-blinded him.
“What’s with you and birds?”
Canute twisted his head to look back at Tosti, glaring. This did not daunt the other fellow in the least.
“You? And birds? One distracted you when we sparred yesterday, as well.”
Canute looked away and picked at his nails, as if suddenly this was a task requiring his attention. But Tosti saw right through him.
“Something to do with Thorkell, eh? Always going on about eagles—when he talks at all, that is.”
Canute couldn’t help but smile at that. Truly enough, Thorkell was not a talkative man, but he did like to tell the story of Thiassi, a giant who took the form of an eagle and stole Iddun and her apples of youth from the gods. Loki managed to recapture her, and afterward, Odin took Thiassi’s eyes and placed them in the sky as stars. It seemed to Canute that his mentor had a strange sort of affection for the legendary rebel. “I’m not looking for an eagle,” said Canute. “I’m looking for a raven.”
“Ah, so you can wave a hello to Odin?”
Canute was not sure what to think of Tosti’s cynical attitude, so he tried to ignore it. “No,” he said, and then grew silent again.
“What then?” Tosti leaned closer to him, hands spreading along the grass. The longer the silence, the more curious he seemed to become.
The Viking prince stopped fidgeting with his hands and paused to consider the truth. It sounded foolish and weak when he reflected on it directly. He did not want to embarrass himself further to someone who had managed to paddle him on the rump only yesterday. Nonetheless, he felt strangely touched that Tosti bothered asking such a question.
He must have remained quiet for so long, however, that Tosti began to give up on him. “How about you tell me why you care so much about damn birds after I beat your ass to dust bits,” Tosti suggested.
Spry once more, Tosti hopped to his feet and brushed off his tunic; then, to Canute’s surprise, he proceeded to take it off. He had a look on his face of fierce optimism, gray eyes glittering, white teeth flashing, his cat-like nose pinched by an unrelenting smile. Canute could not help but pause and watch for a moment as the young man peeled off his clothes; underneath his skin was even more golden than Canute remembered, its smoothness interrupted by nothing but the flow of his rippling muscles. His body seemed dark against his pale braids swaying in silky ropes.
In a moment Tosti was nearly finished and ready to go again, stripped to nothing but his loincloth. Canute ripped his eyes away and followed his example, flinging off his fine linens with all the gentility he might show a poison-soaked rag. The sun bathed his body, soaking into his veins and filling him with fire. It felt good to bare himself to the sun, and at the same time he felt insecure. Would Tosti find him scrawny and pale? Why did he care?
Tosti smirked at him. “My turn now.”
Canute looked back at his wooden sword, discarded on the hillside. “Weapons?”
“No weapons.” Tosti wriggled his fingers in the air. “I’ll take you down with my bare hands.”
“Very well. I weary of those toys, anyway.” Canute spat to the side. He rubbed his hands together, then opened them wide. “Where shall we do this?”
“Over there.” He pointed to a smooth stone in the middle of the rocky shallows.
Canute still thought it seemed like a terrible place for a skirmish—not only would it be slippery, but to fall one would risk a severe blow to the head. Nonetheless, they had an agreement.
He made his way out to the stone Tosti indicated, wondering if he would regret keeping his leather shoes on. They sopped wet as he walked, and stole from him the sensations of the stones and soil under his feet. However, they also numbed him to the occasional sharp edge. At last he found his position and made his stance.
Tosti had chosen to take off his own shoes. He strolled along the rocks, his gaze locked on Canute, as if he did not need to look down to determine his footing. Canute scowled at him, and s
hrugged his shoulders in a gesture of impatience.
Tosti pounced without warning, gliding over the rocks as if they were no more than a slide for his feet. In his surprise Canute shifted drastically, lifting his arms to block, and felt his heels slipping downwards. Trying to right himself only made him slip further, and by then Tosti was upon him, hands gripping Canute’s wrists and twisting them around.
Canute cried out, struggling to regain power over his arms while Tosti shifted to kick at him. He blocked himself with his own leg, though as a result Tosti’s shin struck his knee at a sharp angle, and he yelled again.
The burst of pain fed him strength. He pushed back against Tosti, bending the youth’s arms until his grip folded and Canute burst through, jabbing his elbow into Tosti’s sternum. Tosti gasped for breath and fell back.
Seeing his chance, Canute pushed forward, aiming another blow that would drop his opponent into the stones. But at the last moment Tosti wriggled about, regaining his balance somehow, and slipped to the side like a snake. Canute’s fist swished through empty air and disrupted his own balance; his feet came loose again and he stumbled about, hearing his leather shoes snag against a sharp stone.
In such a manner the two fought for an indefinite amount of time; Canute lost track of the number of times he thought he would throw Tosti for good, only to find himself scrambling and waving his arms like a fool as Tosti slithered about him. They exchanged one blow after another, until Canute’s stomach ached from so many punches, and a number of spots along Tosti’s gleaming torso swelled from the impact of Canute’s knuckles. Canute felt dizzy from all the twisting and turning, and the longer he fought the less he tried to stable himself, kicking and swinging desperately at Tosti’s slippery form.
At one point he threw all of his strength into a punch, but again Tosti slipped out of reach, and as Canute lunged forward with his own momentum he knew he would not be able to recover balance. He would fall on a particularly sharp pile of rocks, maiming himself and ending this match in a humiliating defeat. But all of a sudden Tosti grabbed him from behind, his smooth arms slipping around Canute’s back, one arm locking his shoulders in place while the other pressed tight against his throat. Canute wriggled a moment, testing his confines and preparing his limbs for their escape.
Then he heard Tosti’s breath against his ears, and felt Tosti’s soft lips press against his cheek. Canute froze. What had seemed like a chokehold suddenly seemed like an embrace. Tosti’s arms held him tight while he brushed his smirking mouth against Canute’s skin. There was nothing to call the gesture other than a kiss.
And just as suddenly, Tosti drew away again.
He released Canute, moved around him, and ducked. With a single deft movement, he kicked Canute’s feet out from under him, and the Viking prince went hurtling to the ground.
Water splashed all around him; the breath puffed out of his chest as his back struck the earth. But it could have been much worse: Tosti could have pushed him against the rocks. Even once he had physically recovered he remained still a while, staring vacantly up at the sky, confused and disoriented.
Tosti leaned over him, grinning.
“What ... what in Thor’s name was that?” Canute gasped.
“I don’t know.” Tosti shrugged. “But it worked.”
He reached down, gripped Canute’s hand, and pulled him to his feet.