Page 57 of An Empress of Earth & Darkness

Emara’s eyes fell to Marcus, who was now one of three men still left to choose.

With his head bowed under the pressure of his decision, Marcus Coldwell shifted his weight between his feet. He ran a hand over his face, his dark skin glowing with the sun’s reflection. He blew out a breath and looked up at the Gods’ sky.

“Come on,” Gideon Blacksteel whispered beside her, his eyes on his friend. “Come on, Marcus.”

Gideon’s leg shook impatiently as they all awaited his verdict.

Marcus Coldwell’s dark eyes found Torin, and a sympathetic frown pulled around his mouth. “I am sorry,” he mouthed. “If you are victorious, I will follow you through any battle. But the Gods do not allow me to choose you today.”

Torin didn’t react, the mask of a warrior cemented to his face. He watched Marcus move to stand by his father’s side, and Viktir gave a taunting grin.

Gideon hung his head and let out a breath through his teeth, his fists balling.

Everyone had chosen their camp.

“When I sound my horn, both challengers who have laid claims to Commander of the Blacksteel Hunting Clan must step forth. All others must not interfere by hand or by magic until one submits or is killed, rendering the other triumphant. The opponents must only have two weapons on their person, and if their weapon falls out of the designated zone, that weapon is disqualified. The person who is announced successor at the end of the duel is immediately instated as the commander of the clan. Are the rules clear?”

In unison, both Blacksteel men announced, “Yes, Chief.”

As the commander stepped out of the battlegrounds, his eyes drifted over both men and said, “May the God Thorin wield you best at war. May Rhiannon bless you with dreams in the afterlife. May the God Uttara bless you if your soul reaches the stars or if you make it to a new dawn, and may the God Vanadey bless the soil your body will rest in.”

Hearing those traditional words sent a shiver skating over Emara’s skin.

The horn broke through the air, startling Emara, and her heart broke free into her mouth. Naya Blacksteel slid her hand into Emara’s, and she could feel the shake of her body as her husband and first-born son drew their weapons.

They were in perfect synchronisation, and Emara wondered how many times they had fought each other. Torin had been trained by Viktir, and you could see it now as both men assessed the other, their movements almost identical.

Torin was the first to attack; he advanced on the commander and took a few swipes at him. Viktir blocked every blow, his footwork precise and his sword work meticulous. Clashing metal rang through the air, and Emara wished that this was only a lesson in weaponry like the one she had first witnessed between the Blacksteel brothers before the Blood Moon.

Torin pulled back, having failed to hit his target, but in the same breath, Viktir took a stab at Torin’s chest.

His heart. The most vital killing point.

Emara gasped, and Naya pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling a cry.

Torin dove, narrowly escaping steel on his skin. As Torin ducked to the side, he brought his sword up, aiming to make a mark of his own, but Viktir blocked the hit with both of his weapons, twisting them up to create a shield. Torin advanced again, giving no time for Viktir to regain his balance properly. He was relentless as he forced his father back, swinging one sword right and then left. Sheer muscle and force swung forward in a skilful battle, but Viktir blocked the blows until he had reached the end of the fighting space. Torin had backed his father into the corner of the space. Emara’s heart squeezed, and her throat dried up.

Rapidly, Viktir swung up his sword, clattering off Torin’s hand, and it sent Torin’s left sword through the air. As soon as the weapon hit the ground, Emara closed her eyes, hearing the gasps that broke through the crowd.

Viktir was going to strike like a caged viper.

“Don’t lose focus,” she heard Gideon whisper. “Don’t let it rattle you.”

Torin took a step back, rolling the only sword he had left in the palm of his hand before his fingers flexed around the hilt, bringing it back up to his eyeline.

Viktir gave off a triumphant smirk as he lazily swung both swords before taking up another fighting stance. He lunged like an animal at Torin, ready to stab him with not only one sharp point, but two. Steel clashed on stee as the weapons collided.

Torin moved like the wind, and as quick as Emara could see, he had pivoted, rolled to the ground, and came up behind his father. Emara held in a breath as Torin lunged forward to aim for his spine. Viktir must have sensed his move as he veered to the side, but it wasn’t enough to escape Torin’s blade. A tear in the leather gilet was all Emara could see before she noted the commander was bleeding. She heard a hiss from Viktir’s support, some people now shifting nervously in the crowd.

Gideon shifted his weight, his eyes on the battle. His hands never left his weapon belt; it was like he wanted to be in there, helping his brother.

Viktir stumbled slightly as Torin powered a blow in his direction, and the clash of steel rang through the kingdom. A shout of pain came from Viktir as he stretched to block his son’s sword, his wound now gaping even more. Two more swipes came from Viktir, trying to injure Torin, but he was unsuccessful.

Torin darted forward, spying a weakness in his father’s stance, but Viktir met his one sword with two, locking him in.

It was a trap.

Emara’s breathing hitched as both Blacksteels stood eye to eye.

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