Jary's opponent didn't see her. He saw only victory, his sword raised for the killing blow. There was no time even to draw her ax. Sibba flung herself at him with a yell that was a mix of rage and grief. Just before she rammed into the man, Jary looked up, his left eye a pool of blood, his right eye distant and unfocused.
Sibba and the swordsman both went sprawling to the ground. His hands groped for the sword that he had lost in the fall, while her hands pummeled his face, nails scraping against armor, trying to find a seam to work beneath and failing. He wasn't wearing a helmet so she clawed at his eyes, snarling like a field cat. He shouted and tried to push her away but her legs were locked around his waist as they rolled in the dirt. When he pinned her, she dug a rock out from beneath her back and slammed it against the side of his head. He toppled to the side and she pushed herself to her feet.
Her brother still knelt behind her. Was he crying? He was gasping for air, his fingers clawing at the iron manacles around his wrists. Blood leaked down his face and over his lips, dripping in strange patterns in the dirt beneath him. Her ax had flown from her hip and landed near him after the impact and she ran over to pick it up. When she was close, he looked up at her again, his good eye searching her face.
“Sibba?” he whispered.
She scooped the ax up without answering and turned just in time to face the opponent, who had also recovered his weapon. Her ax met the blade with a thunderous crash that rang up her arm and rattled her teeth together, but she pushed back against him. The muscles in her arms trembled as she drove him away. The crowd that she had been ignoring until now went wild, their shouts roaring in her ears. Sibba tried to drown them out, to summon the battle fury that had become a familiar state of mind. She thought of Gabel with his hands around her neck, of Evenon plunging her own ax into her stomach, of her brother, bound and fighting for his life.
The rage inside of her swelled and reached its crescendo, then came crashing down on top of the man who had sliced open her brother's face. His sword glanced off of her arm as she spun, and she brought the ax down. It bit into the place where his neck met his shoulder and lodged there. Red-black blood oozed from his neck and then his lips as he dropped to his knees, his face frozen in a wide look of surprise.
When he collapsed face down in the dirt at her feet, she looked back at her brother, but he wasn't watching her or the corpse. No, he was watching the two women, and the two women were watching her.
It had to be Chief Isgerd and her daughter, Isgerd the Younger. Well, if Evenon had come to betray her, it didn't matter now. She had betrayed herself. Lifting her arms to the side, the bloody ax dripping in one hand, she smiled what she hoped was a crazy grin at the women, inviting them into the ring. The older woman didn't move but the younger one jerked to her feet, knocking her chair over in the process.
Gods, she was beautiful. Or she would have been if not for the sneer on her face. She didn't burn bright like Tola but smoldered like coals after the fire had burned out. She was tall and her black hair was a mess of braids and curls. The tight-fitting leather armor she wore stretched taut over full breasts, and there were two swords at her curving hips.
“Isgerd, stop this!” Jary called to Sibba's surprise. The girl looked at her mother, but her mother didn't look away from Sibba. The whole arena held its breath. Finally, the woman nodded, and the girl smiled and then leaped over the barrier much as Sibba had done, landing in a crouch on the other side of the arena. She straightened and threw back her head, two shortswords twirling in her hands as she stalked forward.
Sibba had always faced men who were bigger than her, stronger than her, and thus underestimated her. In Isgerd the Younger, she might have finally met her match. But to her surprise, she didn’t feel fear, only the tight excitement of anticipation.
“Isgerd,” Jary said, lower this time, his voice more plaintive and obviously directed at the daughter. The spectators were stomping their feet, ready for this fight. Isgerd the Younger was one of them, and it was likely that they were eager for her to show this intruder what it meant to be a part of the Maiden Army.
Isgerd the Younger ignored Jary. If there was any friendship or affection there, she didn't show it. She circled Sibba and Sibba turned with her. She wished she had a shield, but drew the Crowheart sword instead, holding both weapons at her sides. The girl's eyes flashed to the weapon and then back up to Sibba's face.
“Look at you,” she said. “You must be a Hallowtide.”
“And you must be a Grimsson,” Sibba said.
“To the core.” The swords flashed as they made wide loops around her hands. Sibba hoped she'd slip and cut off a finger. She tried to remember what she knew about Isgerd the Younger, but it wasn't much. Chief Isgerd guarded her fiercely, always keeping her by her side. Isgerd never would have let her heir wander off on a raiding party or get captured by a rival clan. It was no wonder they thought her father a fool, an easy target.
“Release my brother.” Sibba rested the ax on her shoulder, trying for threatening but glad when her voice didn't tremble. “Let's settle this, you and me.”
“Oh, we'll settle this,” Isgerd agreed. “But Jary's not going anywhere.”
Isgerd was done talking. She swung one sword after another, and it was like watching a dancer, each move carefully planned. In the face of her windmilling arms, it was all Sibba could do to block her, using the blade of the sword and the hilt of the ax in quick succession. Going on the offensive was out of the question as Isgerd drove her backward against the wall. Sibba jerked to the side as one of the thick-bladed swords pierced the dirt where her face had been.
That was Sibba's chance. She shoved past the girl and spun, her sword skimming Isgerd's upper arm. Isgerd spat a curse at her and parried, but Sibba knocked her sword to the side. It flew out of Isgerd's surprised fingers and it was Sibba's turn to smile. She tossed the Crowheart sword away to the delight of the audience and advanced, feeling what those men must have felt in the pit—the bloodlust, the palpable encouragement of the crowd, the near taste of victory. Isgerd stumbled away. She had seen the ax against a single sword just moments ago, had watched the swordsman die.
It scared Sibba how much she wanted to kill her. How much she craved giving the ax another taste of blood. Her father would be proud. It is the Fielding way. But what would Tola say? She would stop her, pull her back, beg her to show mercy. To think about what more there was to get out of this situation. Negotiation and peace and allies. An end to the clan wars.
Tola.