Page 3 of Into the Isle

This was personal for both of us.

Grime got into my eyes. I blinked the grit away, keeping my form tight and sprightly. Damon worked in big, overhand arcs, cocking his arm back before every thrust and lunge.

I parried every strike. The iron of my spearhead clanged against his, eliciting some sharper calls from the watchers.

When he did a quick one-two stab with his spear—feinting low before going high, I read the maneuver and stepped into his guard to take the wind out of his sails.

I knew the maneuver because I’d taught it to him.

The haft of my spear slid along the top of his, in a wooden equivalent to nails on a chalkboard. He tried to disengage and pull back—

I was too swift, stepped even closer, keeping the weight of my spear on top of his so he couldn’t withdraw.

His dark eyes blew wide, and I smiled at him—

Right before bucking the end of my spear around like a baseball bat and smashing him in the face.

Damon crumpled to the ground, toppling onto his back as a spurt of blood sprayed from his nose.

Gasps from the crowd.

He kept his spear in hand, blinking wildly. Spear in hand meant the threat wasn’t vanquished.

So I spun my weapon, leveled it, and angled the point at his throat, prepared to plunge into the soft tissue of his neck.

“Halt,” came a stern voice from the northern end of the Sticks. Damon’s side.

I paused, lifting my head from my enemy.

My stepfather emerged from the crowd, which was mostly made up of Damon’s friends. He had his arms clasped behind his back like a field sergeant.

“I’m calling it,” he announced, much to the chagrin of the audience, who wanted blood.

I did too, honestly.

“What?” I murmured, surprised.

“Your brother is not at your level yet, daughter.”

I clenched my jaw. How dare he call me “daughter,” when he’d been one of the echoers of the Linmyrr name. Practically the one who had singlehandedly bestowed it upon me, and made it stick.

“Fuck—what? No!” Damon screeched, scrambling away from my spearhead on his hands and knees before wobbling to his feet. “Don’t end it, Da. I can take her. Give me another crack.”

My stepfather, Hallan, frowned. “She’s already given you more than enough cracks, Damon.”

My impudent half-brother snarled at me, bending his knees and raising his spear. He did a few faux jabs at me from afar. I didn’t flinch or react. I gave him an upright profile angle of my body, in case he wanted to try anything sneaky.

I knew my brother. All bark and no bite. I welcomed the challenge I knew would never come.

Which was why I was somewhat shocked when he charged at me anyway, all knobby elbows and angry tuts.

“Never underestimate your opponent, cub.”

I held my spear straight out from my side, waiting.

Watching his troubled footwork, again.

Damon was plagued by anger. He was even sloppier than before. He came at me hard, as if trying to tackle me to the ground.

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