“The chieftain has won her challenge and retains her chair,” Nisse yells.
Thyra bows, a small, weary smile on her face as she walks toward the edge of the circle, her shoulders relaxing from their taut readiness. She’s breathing hard, but she’s completely unscathed. Sten couldn’t even draw blood. I grin, so proud of her that I can barely breathe for the feeling. Jaspar catches my eye and gives me a little nod as Elo and Flemming trudge into the circle and carry Sten’s dripping body to the other side, where they lay him gently on a length of rough cloth that has been brought over by Halina and another Vasterutian, a bearded man with a shaved head and bold black eyebrows. Both of them look disgusted as they watch Elo cover Sten’s face.
Thyra reaches the edge of the circle and begins to step over the rope. Preben and Bertel offer their hands, wide smiles on their faces. Nisse holds up his arms again, a glint of strange amusement in his eyes. “And now—”
“I challenge her,” shouts Elo, his kill marks shining silver in the smoky light. He holds his ax high from his position next to his fallen comrade.
Thyra’s head jerks up, her eyes wide. “But—” Her words are drowned out as Preben, Bertel, and several of our warriors shout their protests as Nisse’s cheer. I am so stunned that I can’t find my voice. A second challenge?
“A challenge to a chieftain cannot be refused,” Nisse shouts. He gives Thyra an apologetic look. “I am sorry, Thyra. I did not anticipate my warriors’ feelings about your presence here.”
Thyra slowly steps back from the rope, retreating deeper into the circle. Without taking her gaze from her uncle, she kneels and picks up the dagger Sten ripped from his shoulder. Two slashing swipes and his blood paints the thigh of her breeches with a thick red mark. “Come then, Elo,” she says loudly, still staring at Nisse. “Just remember that once you enter this circle, there is only one way you will leave. Be certain.”
Elo sneers as he stomps into the circle without hesitation. “I was fighting better warriors before you were even born,” he says in a deep, rumbling voice. His beard is shot through with silver, and he looks to be nearly as old as Edvin, but he’s lighter of frame and his arms are roped with muscle and vein. He is an experienced killer, and he hefts his ax, a double-bladed weapon with a short, thick handle, with comfort and ease. One solid blow would be all it took to destroy his opponent, and Thyra has already had one fight tonight.
“This is unjust,” I hiss from between clenched teeth.
Sander is staring at the puddle of Sten’s blood that is being absorbed by the dirt. “There is no rule that says one challenge cannot immediately follow another.”
“But it isn’t done. This isn’t how warriors treat each other.”
“We’re on foreign ground, Ansa,” he snaps. “Nisse doesn’t have to rule the same way Lars did, and Lars didn’t give him the choice to remain in our tribe.”
“Where is our tribe?” I ask, looking around. A few waving fists mark the loyal, but there aren’t enough of them to make any difference at all. Most of the warriors around us seem hungry for this fight.
I turn back to the circle to find Thyra watching us. Can she see that I am loyal? Does she know I would never abandon her? Her gaze softens for a moment when our eyes meet, but then her bottom lip trembles and she looks away quickly. Her grip on her dagger tightens, and her face loses any expression—she has gone again, and now she’s alone in that circle. Her limbs move with a grace that makes my heart pound with want and wish. Her steps are sure as she crosses one foot over the other, circling as Elo begins to stalk her. He is vibrating with hatred, though she only did what any warrior would in responding decisively to Sten’s challenge. I don’t understand what drives him.
“You’re a conniving little thing, aren’t you?” he says to her. “Do you think we don’t know what you did?”
“What’s he talking about?” I murmur.
“No, Elo.” Thyra tilts her head. “I know you don’t know what I did.”