Page 98 of Bloodmoon Ritual

My brother clearly did not want to talk about this, and I could see his arms tensing as he judged the distance to me and if he’d be able to get to me before they hurt me.

“Our Prophet has judged you an Apostate,” he said. “Your immorality shall be wiped from the earth to cleanse it.”

Ronan laughed then, but there was little humor in it.

“Do it, then,” he said. “Wipe me from the face of the earth, Holy Warrior.”

He still had his legs up, and his whole pose was casual and relaxed. But I prayed Rhyder would be careful. There were Congregants all around, weapons within easy reach.

“I want to take Temperance away first,” he said. “That is of primary importance to me.”

“Maybe I’ll just give her to one of my men,” Ronan countered. “And order you torn apart by wild dogs.”

“I demand a Testing,” Rhyder said, and I felt my insides clench to see my brother standing there, fearless, ready to fight for me.

Ronan raised his eyebrows. “What is that?”

“12 minutes in the circle with me. If I win, your people will agree to let Temperance out safely.”

“And if I refuse?” Ronan asked.

My brother flicked his eyes up incredulously. “You cannot refuse. It would be dishonorable.”

“What the fuck do I care about that?” Ronan asked. “I’m an Apostate.”

The Prophet’s hand ran down his thigh and he darted a glance over at his wife.

“However,” he said. “I’ll accept your challenge. Take up a cudgel.”

Shit

How were we going to get out of here once my brother killed Ronan?

I wanted to warn him to be careful. There were warriors all around, strong and able men who could pick up a bow or spear to kill or injure Rhyder after the fight.

But there was no time. Ronan had stretched his long limbs and risen from his chair, instantly clearing the space in the center. Bee had taken my arm and guided me to the outer edge of the circle, as was proper for Helpmeets.

“Don’t be afraid,” she whispered in my ear.

I didn’t think the men of their Congregation would kill me. But there was no way they’d let Rhyder go.

The two men circled each other, and the fight began.

As usual, Rhyder was overpowering, his blows seeming to land with thundering, deadly accuracy.

My brother was in only a T-shirt, enormous shoulders and back, thick trunk legs. Ronan was in a light fleece, watching Rhyder with careful eyes.

This close you could see that although Ronan was bit taller, Rhyder was a better fighter.

A blow toward Ronan’s ribs, only knocked away at the last moment.

Then an elbow to Ronan’s face, landing with a solid strike.

My brother’s back looked slick with sweat.

Was it better to kill or maim Ronan quickly or slowly? What was more dangerous?

I began to worry about what would happen if Rhyder dragged out his death with slow, bloodthirsty violence.

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