The king stared fixedly at his strategist and then at the other two chieftains, making it clear with his gesture that he was willing to accept the conditions. Constantine I wished to maintain his prestige, but he was no fool: facing a son of Ragnarr knowing that an immense Norse army was already camped in the south was too risky.
He was about to announce his decision and accept the deal, when one of his chieftains stepped ahead on impulse and shouted at Thorir:
"Let us fight!"
The Pictish commander challenged Thorir to an open duel. The young Viking did not need the interpreter to translate; he understood the intention immediately. One of his warriors, an experienced fighter prepared for the hólmganga, wanted to take his place to claim the glory, but Thorir stopped him with a firm gesture and stepped forward.
The Pict dismounted in a leap, indicating to Thorir to do the same. Thorir got off his horse calmly. Both warriors measured each other with their gaze in the middle of the frozen field.
The Pictish chieftain shouted at him:
"Show me what you are made of!"
Thorir was considerably taller than him, a true mountain of muscle. He gripped his heavy two-handed Norse axe.
The duel began. The Pict, armed with a short sword, launched a flurry of rapid thrusts. To his surprise, Thorir dodged his attacks with astonishing agility despite the enormous size of his weapon.
King Constantine I watched the Northman’s skill and looked at his strategist with obvious concern; losing a chieftain in an absurd duel was a severe blow. Both let out a heavy sigh.
Thorir launched a diagonal axe blow with tremendous force, trying to cut his rival in two. The Pict managed to dodge the steel by pure miracle. Panting from the effort and feeling the fatigue in his legs, he understood the difference in power. He tried to move faster, desperately seeking an opening in Thorir’s defense.
Thorir, seeing his opponent’s exhaustion, let out a brief laugh. He dropped his axe into the snow and lunged at him bare-handed. The Pict tried to plunge his sword into his chest, but Thorir struck him sharply on the wrist, making him lose the weapon instantly.
Next, Thorir unleashed a flurry of punches straight to his face. Three precise blows broke the Pictish warrior’s nose and cheekbones, leaving him lying on the ground, stunned and bathed in his own blood.
The other Pictish chieftain feigned drawing his weapon to intervene, but Cináed, the strategist, stopped him cold. He knew that for the Northmen a duel was sacred; if they intervened dishonorably, they would break any chance of negotiation and unleash a slaughter.
"KILL HIM! I don’t care what has to happen!"
The three Viking warriors accompanying Thorir did not leave him alone. They immediately lunged toward him to help him mount the horse, while the interpreter turned his mount and rode at full gallop toward the city to warn Hárekr.
Thorir, whom the combat had not fatigued in the slightest, grabbed one of the noble women by the arm to use her as a human shield. However, the threat no longer stopped the Picts: the enemy riders spurred their horses and launched the attack ready to sweep everything away.
The Pictish horses were a short distance from Thorir. The Viking took his axe again and cut off the noble woman’s head in a single movement, letting the blood splash on the snow like rain. He immediately tightened his grip on the weapon and aimed at the legs of the nearest horse. The Pictish rider, terrified upon noticing the Northman’s intention, abruptly stopped his mount.
King Constantine I shouted at him full of fury:
"What are you afraid of?! We are far more!"
Thorir took advantage of those seconds of doubt that bought him time. In a leap, he mounted one of his men’s horses and they fled at full gallop toward Dunkeld.
The Pictish chieftain, furious at seeing his companion lying in the snow beaten to death, took his bow and aimed at one of the fleeing Vikings. The arrow crossed the cold afternoon air until it embedded itself forcefully directly in the Norse warrior’s back.
The impact made him vomit blood onto the snow, but the Viking clung to the horse and kept riding. Thorir, seeing his companion wounded, roared full of rage:
"Honorless bastards! You will see! May Tyr curse you all!"
The king, upon hearing that harsh, rumbling voice pronounce the Old Norse, felt a bad intuition in his chest. Beside him, Cináed, the strategist, let out a long sigh; indecision and impulses had thrown the negotiation into the trash.
As soon as they crossed the entrance, the Viking who had received the arrow tumbled from his horse lifeless; the tip of the projectile had pierced his heart. Hárekr ran to hold him, watching the thread of blood coming from his mouth. Indignation and hatred took hold of him.
Moved by the fury of the moment, he ordered shouting:
"Torstein, bring me the nearest men!"
Thorir, thirsty for revenge, was ready to turn around and fight. However, Torstein stepped firmly in Hárekr’s path and stopped him by the shoulders:
"Calm down, boy... We cannot do it. They outnumber us and we are in their lands."
Hárekr pushed him away violently and exclaimed with eyes burning with rage:
"If I do not take vengeance for the blood of Gormr, I will not be satisfied with anything we have achieved on this raid!"
He had barely spoken those words, loaded with fury, when the rumble of horse hooves echoed outside the city. Hárekr jumped up to the top of the wall and looked at King Constantine I approaching at the front with a retinue, though it was not yet his main army.
The king looked up and, upon discovering Hárekr flanked by dozens of warriors on the wall, shouted at him with arrogance:
"You come to my land and take my cities! I don’t care whose son you are!"
The interpreter translated every word to Hárekr instantly. The young Viking did not bother to respond. Without wasting a second, he snatched a bow and an arrow from the Viking standing guard next to him and aimed directly at the Pictish king.
Cináed, the strategist, upon noticing the movement on the wall, reacted immediately: he raised his shield and interposed himself in front of the king to protect him. The other riders tried to do the same, but they completely underestimated Hárekr’s speed.
The arrow flew like lightning. Although the strategist’s shield managed to cushion the direct impact, the enormous force of the shot made him lose his balance and the shield flew from his hands.
Looking up in terror, the strategist saw that Hárekr was already nocking a second arrow on the string. King Constantine I, intimidated by the marksmanship, turned his horse abruptly to take refuge behind the formation of his men.