Free The Dog and the Wolf by Poul Anderson

agree.
    The Scotian did order a currach full of warriors rowed to the inlet to lie offshore—“in case we have a heavy burden to carry back,” he explained. “This eventide all our seafarers shall be my guests at a feast.”
    He gave directions about preparing for that, sent word to the Dani, called for refilled wine goblets. When those had been drained to Lug, Lir, and Thor, the three captains set off.
    Forest took them into itself. Beneath a rustling of breeze, noon brooded warm and still. Branches latticed the sky and wove shadows where brush crouched and boles lifted out of dimness. Sight reached farther on the ridges, but presently nothing was to be seen from them either except tree crowns and a glittery blue sweep of sea. Nobody spoke.
    The trail dipped down into a glade surrounded by the wood. Folk said that one like that lay near the middle ofthe grove outside Ys and was where the sacred combat most often took place. Maeloch, in the lead, stopped, wheeled about, and brought his ax up slantwise. “Draw sword, Gunnung,” he said in Latin. “Here I kill you.”
    The big bright-haired man hooted outraged astonishment. Eochaid sensed trouble. He poised the spear he carried. Maeloch glanced at him and said in Gallic, “This be no man of yours. He befouls my King. Ye swore I’d be safe of ye. Stand aside while I take back my honor.”
    “It’s breaking the peace you are,” Eochaid declared.
    Maeloch shook his head. “He and I swapped no oaths. Nor be there peace ’twixt Ys and Niall. Later I’ll tell ye more.”
    Eochaid’s mouth tightened. He withdrew to the edge of the grass.
    “You die now, Gunnung,” Maeloch said.
    The Dane howled something. It might have meant that the other man would fall and his ghost be welcome to whimper its way back to the little slut he served. Sword hissed from the sheath.
    The two stalked about, Gunnung in search of an opening, Maeloch turning in the smallest circle that would keep the confrontation. The Dane rushed. His blade blazed through air. Maeloch blocked it with his ax handle. Iron bit shallowly into seasoned wood. Maeloch twisted his weapon, forced the sword aside. Gunnung freed it. Before he could strike again, the heavy head clattered against it. He nearly lost his hold.
    Maeloch pressed in, hewing right and left. His hands moved up and down the helve, well apart as he drew it back, closing together near the end as he swung. The sword sought to use its greater speed to get between those blows. A couple of times it drew blood, but only from scratches. Whenever it clashed on the ax, weight cast it aside. The next strike was weaker, slower.
    Gunnung retreated. Maeloch advanced. The Dane got his back against a wall of brush. He saw another blow preparing and made ready to ward it off. As the ax began to move, Maeloch shifted grip. Suddenly he was smiting not from the right but the left. The edge smacked into a shoulder. Gunnung lurched. His blood welled forth aroundtwo ends of broken bone. The sword dropped from his hand. Maeloch gauged distances, swung once more, and split the skull of Gunnung.
    A while he stood above the heap and the red puddle spreading around it. He breathed hard and wiped sweat off his face. Eochaid approached. Maeloch looked up and said, “Ye had right. His luck had run out.”
    “This is an evil thing, I think,” Eochaid replied. “And unwise. Suppose he had slain you. What then of your task?”
    “I have a trusty mate, and ye promised my crew should go free.” Maeloch spat on the body. “This thing misused the name of Dahut, daughter of Queen Dahilis—or misused her, which is worse yet. The Gods wanted him scrubbed off the earth.”
    “That may be. But I must deal with his gang.”
    “Yours outnumbers them. And ’twasn’t ye what killed him. Come with us to Ériu like ye said ye might.”
    “What is your errand there, Maeloch?”
    “What be your grudge against King Niall?”
    “This.” As Eochaid spoke, it became like the hissing