The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(53)

Nisse sets his booted foot along the edge of Elo’s ax handle. “Impressive, Niece.” He glances at Flemming.

“Oh, heaven. He had this planned,” Sander mutters right as Flemming stabs his dagger at the sky and shouts, “I challenge her!”

“No!” I shout as fire melts the ice inside me, singeing my heart as it rises. Sander’s hand clamps over my wrist, but he pulls back an instant later, gasping and shaking off the heat.

Preben and Bertel have drawn their knives and are approaching Flemming as he moves to step into the fight circle, but Thyra’s voice cuts through the noise of the crowd, rising into the smoky night. “Stay back!” She glances over at me. “Stay back,” she says again, more quietly.

“Flemming,” Nisse says. He sounds so calm, as if this is merely a tournament instead of a fight to the death. “Are you sure?”

“She’s not fit to lead,” Flemming shouts. “She’s a betrayer and a schemer! She’s the one who should have been banished.”

“Liar,” I shout, but Thyra turns around and gives me a look so fierce my mouth snaps shut.

“I will not stoop to dignifying these pathetic insinuations,” she says in a tight voice. “Especially when it’s obvious that the truth carries no weight within these walls.”

Jaspar looks right at me and Sander as he takes his seat again, next to Elo’s ax, still buried in the wood of the bench. His blank expression only stokes the flames of my rage.

“Nisse’s told everyone that he didn’t try to poison Lars,” I say to Sander. “Are they implying that they think Thyra did it?”

Sander shrugs. “I think the bigger question is—why isn’t she denying it?”

“All of that is in the past,” Nisse says blandly to Flemming. “We found our victory even in defeat, did we not?”

His warriors shout of blood and victory as Thyra wipes Elo’s blood onto her breeches. Now there are two parallel stripes of crimson on her leg. But her hand shakes as she adopts her fighting stance again. The sight makes my throat constrict. “This has to be stopped,” I whisper. “If their enmity is truly in the past, as he says, why isn’t he stopping this?”

“What a dead clever plan,” Sander says.

“What?”

“If he had executed Thyra, or assassinated her, he could not have won the loyalty of our tribe. So he’s letting his warriors fight this battle in a way everyone must honor, because we all know and respect the basic rules of the fight circle. All he has to do is nothing, and his victory will be complete.”

“There is no honor in this!”

“Thyra is a chieftain, Ansa. Warriors can refuse a fight like this, but chieftains must defend the chair or lose it.”

I cry out as Flemming steps into the circle, his tan skin glistening with sweat. He is no taller than Thyra, but he is wiry and fierce, all sinew and strength. Like her, he has two daggers. Unlike her, he looks steady and smooth as he approaches.

And for the first time, she looks like prey. Her chest shudders and sweat drips from her chin. Her beautiful face is twisted with pain, and her left sleeve is soaked with blood. Flemming does not joke or preen, but the determined look on his face is just as bad. Heat blazes across my skin even as ice runs hard along my bones. I begin to tremble with the effort of holding them inside.

Flemming lunges, and Thyra staggers away from him. Their blades clash together, but Thyra isn’t strong enough to hold him back, and he pushes inside her guard, the tip of his blade arcing toward her throat. She kicks him in the stomach, and he huffs, his eyes wide, but he’s still able to block her next strike and shove her off balance. She stumbles over her own feet and falls onto her rear. As he advances, Thyra hurls her dagger, and it slices along his thigh as it flies past. She rolls away as he tries to stomp on her rib cage, so he stabs both of his blades down. One misses, but the other cuts along her flank, and she can’t quite stifle her scream. She stabs up with her only remaining blade and sends Flemming arching back, then blocks one of his daggers as he sends it flying at her.

Thyra heaves herself to her feet, clutching at her side. Blood flows over her trembling fingers.

“No,” I whisper.

Flemming walks toward her, unhurried, unconcerned. He doesn’t look like he’s exerting himself at all as he blocks and parries her next desperate strikes. Finally, he slams his blade against hers, and her dagger flies out of her grip. Before she can scramble for it, his fist crunches into her stomach, sending her to the ground.

She’s on her knees, right in front of the wooden benches.

“This is it,” whispers Sander, and even as Nisse’s warriors scream their satisfaction, I hear him so clearly, each word penetrating my heart. I am paralyzed with disbelief. This cannot be happening.

Thyra raises her head. She must know Flemming is behind her. She must know what comes next. “Uncle,” she says, and all go quiet. Will she ask for her life, even if it means banishment?

Ask for mercy, I silently beg. I’ll leave with her. I’ll follow anywhere she goes.

Nisse stands. “Yes?”

She lets out a pained breath and squares her shoulders. “Treat my warriors and andeners with respect after I am gone.”

Flemming grabs a handful of Thyra’s short hair and wrenches her head back, his dagger rising to cut her throat.