The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(51)

Nisse stands and raises his arms. “Like all challenges to chieftain leadership, this duel will be to the death.” He looks down at Sten and Thyra. “As long as you both fight with honor, you are assured of your place on the battlefield of heaven. No fear.”

“No fear,” roars Sten, his dark eyes glittering with the torch flames as he begins to circle Thyra.

“No fear!” Nisse’s warriors echo, and then the cheering and chants begin, urging the dark-haired warrior on to victory.

Thyra remains silent. She gives her own warriors nothing to echo, because she has already disappeared into wherever she goes when she fights, a place where she reigns alone. She grips the hilts of her blades as Sten clutches his spear and makes a few feinting jabs, not even flinching as he begins to inch forward. And when he strikes, she easily blocks, using the thick base of her dagger to knock the advancing spearhead off track. Sten draws back and lunges again, and Thyra shoves the shaft to the left. He stumbles and rights himself, but as he does, she moves like lightning and slashes at his exposed right side.

He grunts as a thin line of blood stains his torn tunic and charges at her, his face twisted with anger. Thyra backtracks quickly, blocking jab after jab, spinning and slicing whenever she’s presented with an opening. Sten doesn’t give many, but there are enough that after a few minutes of this, he’s bleeding from three different wounds. The cheers have subsided slightly as Nisse’s warriors see she will not be easily defeated. When they fled our camp over the winter, Thyra was not yet a full-status warrior. She was still in training. And she has always been a reluctant fighter. But that is not the same thing as a hesitant fighter, and the difference is critical.

Thyra has only hesitated once. I was there to do her killing for her, and so it did not matter. She doesn’t need me now, though. Her thrusts are smooth and controlled, and she looks utterly at peace, even as Sten plods heavily around the circle, glaring his hatred at her, his lips peeled back into an ugly snarl. I wonder if he realizes he is going to die soon.

I see the moment it dawns on him. He’s just made yet another stab with his spear, and Thyra swings her dagger down so hard that his spearhead hits the ground. As it does, she jumps onto the shaft, and the wicked snapping sound echoes off the tower above. Sten stumbles forward as his weapon shatters, surprise and fear flashing in his eyes before he dives at his smaller opponent. She dodges his blundering charge and drives her dagger into his shoulder as he falls. It sinks deep, drawing a strangled shout from Sten and ripping it from her grip. He hits the dirt and rolls away from her, leaving a trail of blood behind.

She does not chase him. She merely waits, calmly transferring her remaining blade to her right hand. I glance at Nisse and Jaspar; both of them wear blank expressions, giving nothing away. But the warriors around them look frustrated and shout at Sten to rise. He does, with Thyra’s dagger still protruding from just beneath his collarbone on the right side. The wound bleeds heavily—she’s hit a large blood vessel by the look of it. Just as I’m thinking it would be wise to leave it, Sten reaches up with his left hand and, with a wrenching growl, yanks the blade from his flesh.

This is a mistake. Blood spurts from the wound, and he stares at the flood with stunned surprise. He clutches at the gash as he turns his hateful gaze on Thyra again. With another broken roar enhanced by the renewed cheers from his fellow warriors, he runs at her, the bloody dagger leading the way. Instead of dodging this time, Thyra charges too, but dives to the dirt as he nears, tumbling head over tail until she lands in a crouch between Sten’s legs, her blade a blur of silver. It happens so quickly that the shouts from the crowd falter, not knowing if Sten struck or she did.

But when she jumps to her feet again and spins, the answer is clear. Sten falls to his knees. Blood flows down the inner thighs of his breeches and puddles in the dirt beneath him. He is facing Nisse and the others, who sit on their raised benches. Thyra approaches from behind as he braces himself on his palms. I watch her profile as she looks up at her uncle. I wonder if she’s thinking he could have stopped this. If she is, she doesn’t say. She merely grasps Sten’s hair and draws her blade across his throat. No glory, no challenge or boast, no offer of mercy, just lethal action. She lets Sten fall forward onto his face, and then steps back.

Nisse looks down at Elo and Flemming, Sten’s two armorers, and then at Thyra. He stands as the warriors crowded around me fall into hushed silence. Sander and I do not cheer. For some reason, it feels dangerous to do so. But I want to. She might have cast me aside, but she is so magnificent in this moment that I cannot help but love her with every shred of my body and soul.

“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—”