The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(52)
“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.”
I look up at Sander, but his face is a mirror of my own puzzlement. And we get no explanation, because in the next moment, Thyra strikes. Her dagger reflects the flames as it arcs forward, but the blade of Elo’s ax knocks it away. And then they are a blur of metal and muscle, and Thyra has to backtrack rapidly under the strength of Elo’s blows. Her speed is her best ally as she leaps to the side, her thighs brushing the rope of the fight circle as Elo’s ax blade slashes only a few inches from the chests of the warriors standing just on the other side of the rope. They all shout and throw themselves back, but there is nowhere to go because the crowd is packed in so tightly between the tower and the stake-wall.
Thyra pants and quickly swipes sweat from her brow as Elo rounds on her again. He’s more strategic than Sten was, and stronger. An icy splinter of fear begins to dig its way into my stomach as she parries another attack. Her arm buckles under its ferocity, and though she dodges, his next swing slices along her left shoulder.
Elo laughs as she staggers back. “If you hold still, I’ll end this quickly.”
She regains her balance and lowers her chin, glaring at him even as blood blooms along the sleeve of her tunic. “I didn’t realize you needed a stationary target to be victorious.” Her voice is jagged with contempt, her cool melted under the heat of her pain and this disrespectful, impulsive challenge.
Elo roars at the insult and swings his ax, a blow that would sever her head—if she had remained still. But she is fast as the wind as she lunges low and ducks inside his guard. Elo grunts and his ax flies from his outstretched hand, and the warriors on the benches dive out of the way as it whirls end over end, stopping only when the blade buries itself right where Jaspar had been sitting a moment before. Nisse is the only one who didn’t move, and he merely looks down at the vibrating ax handle before raising his head to look at the warrior who challenged his niece.
Elo, like Sten before him, has fallen to his knees, and is embracing Thyra, his hands scrabbling along her back as she presses herself close. Relief nearly doubles me over as I realize what I’m seeing. Thyra’s dagger is buried deep in his gut. She is kneeling in front of him, twisting it as he makes high, choking sounds until at last she yanks the dagger out again, spilling his blood across the dirt. Her breath rushing harsh and fast from her mouth, Thyra stands as he slumps at her feet. Her left arm hangs at her side, the weapon in that hand dangling from her fingers. “There you are,” she says to Nisse in a weary, halting voice. “Surely I have proven myself now.”