This time I’m the one who attacks, out of pure terror at his words. I plow into him, wrapping my fingers around his throat for an instant before he yowls with pain and grabs my wrists. I slam my forehead into his face. Cursing, he wrenches my hands behind my back, barely avoiding my snapping teeth. “Cut it out, Ansa!”
“Why should I?” I’m still struggling, trying to get my legs beneath me so I can thrust my knee into his crotch. “Are you reliving our last turn in the fight circle? This time I could bring you death if you like. Fight hard enough and Hilma might even welcome you to heaven.”
He shoves me away, and I land on my back in the sand, knowing I’ve poked an unhealed wound but too shattered to care. I need him to come at me, to give me a reason. I’m hoping he’s remembering that bright spring day, when he thought I was easy game, when he beat me until I could barely stand . . . when he turned his back on me and gave me the moment I needed. As I scramble to my feet, blood drips from his upper lip while he gingerly prods several red streaks along his throat. I glance down at my hands and ball them in my tunic. Did I just burn him?
“Your fingers . . . ,” he says slowly as his hands fall to his sides.
My heart thumps in time with my panicked thoughts. “I’ve had a fever lately.”
He squints at me. “They were so cold that I thought my blood would turn to ice.”
Saliva fills my mouth and I nearly retch. “I had just washed them in the lake.”
“Liar,” he says quietly, then puts his hands up as I start forward again. His steps are quick, like he’s nervous. And he should be. If he accuses me of witchcraft, I’m going to kill him.
“Ansa, I didn’t come here to fight you,” he shouts as I start forward.
“Now who’s a liar?”
“It’s Thyra! I was coming to tell you—just listen!” He has his hands out in front of him as I move closer, alarm ringing like a bell in my ears. “She told me to come find you. She was challenged.”
“What? By who?”
He glances over his shoulder, toward the camp. “Edvin laid his claim to the chieftain’s chair at noonmeal.”
“The second-wave commander thinks he can do better than she can?”
“He said he wouldn’t let Thyra turn us into land drudges. They were going straight to the circle. And I knew that you—”
I’m running now, my only thought of getting to Thyra. Sander catches up with me as I hit the trail. My mind is a whirl of questions, but I’m too panicked to ask him. My feet pound the rocky path as I sprint into camp. I can already hear the shouts coming from the big open area in front of the council shelter—where the fight circle lies.
I should have been at her side. She said she needed me! Instead, I crept away like a coward, too focused on my own problems to watch her back. When I reach the crowd, I use my small size to my advantage, weaving between hips and shoulders and legs to get to the edge of the circle. Sander gets shut out behind me. I hear him grunting as he tries to get through. But I don’t stop to wait. I can’t bear the thought of Thyra facing this alone.
But she already is. When I get to the roped off circle, she’s standing in the center, in her boots and breeches, wearing only her chest wrap and undershirt. Her kill marks are silver pink on her tanned skin, and the lean muscles of her arms are tense as she faces off against Edvin, a barrel-chested old warrior with arms the size of young oaks. He holds his battle ax and paces in a slow circle around her. He’s easily twice her weight, but she’s nearly as tall as he is. Her chest rises and falls slowly as she waits for him to attack, and she holds a dagger in her right hand, her grip light.
All around us, warriors and andeners shout and cheer. Some for Thyra, some for Edvin, most for the sheer normalcy and reassurance of blood, I suspect. Edvin’s andener stands proud near the entrance to the circle, looking sure of her mate’s victory. Aksel stands next to his mother, his brown eyes fierce with pride as he stares at his father. There is no one there for Thyra—her parents are dead. She has no brothers, no sisters. Not anymore. The open space in that place of prestige is gaping. Our chieftain is all alone. I am desperate to make my way over there, but I don’t want to distract her now that the challenge has begun.
Most fights in this circle are for sport. Or to gain status. This is where I faced off with Sander the day I became a warrior, the moment I spit a part of his ear in the dirt and smiled at him with bloody teeth while Lars roared with laughter.
Warriors usually clasp arms at the end. We all bleed red.
But in a challenge fight for the chieftain’s chair, only one will leave the ring. It’s a fight to the death.
“I’ll make it quick, Thyra,” Edvin says in his scratchy sand and lakewater voice. “I respected your father.”
Thyra’s eyes flicker with pain. “You should have had faith in me, Edvin. You haven’t even given me a season to prove myself.”