Page 43 of Blood of Ancients

Part of me was racked with guilt as the Sticks were set down. I was brought back to my duel with Damon nearly a year ago in Selby Village—the fateful fight that decided the trajectory of our futures.

I had beaten him then, soundly, and I would do it again. I would show him no quarter.

Deep down, some part of me resented the fact it had come to this. We weren’t dueling out of competitive spirit, to see who would become Vikingrune’s next initiate. We were fighting out of sheer loathing, which was never healthy.

I only wished once Damon learned he was outmatched, and that I truly meant no ill will toward him—despite all his grievances against me—we could work to start mending our relationship.

But first, this.

Damon swung a blade at one end of the Sticks, testing its weight. He strapped a shield onto his other arm, looking every part a medieval Viking warrior ready to join a shield wall. His face had lost its sneer, now wholly focused on the battle ahead. His lips pursed, a knot between his brow.

I threw my fur coat off, showing my strong biceps, my sleeveless shirt, and my trusty spear as I pulled it from my back.

We stood twenty paces away.

Before the duel began, Eirik walked in with his three allies. His face was serious, chin down-tilted as Damon and I glanced at him in surprise.

“Someone has to officiate,” he muttered, though I knew that wasn’t the only reason he’d shown up. Sighing, shaking his head, he added, “I decided it’s best toseethe outcome rather than hear about it.”

We nodded to our elder sibling, then faced one another.

“I won’t let you two kill each other,” Eirik said, raising a palm as he stepped into the middle of the Sticks between us.

“Neither will I,” Grim grunted behind me.

“The duel will be to first blood, with no magic,” Eirik continued. “You have no need to go waylaying into each other, breaking each other’s bodies. Got it? I want a clean—”

“We understand, brother,” Damon grunted. Then, moving his gaze past Eirik, “Don’t we, dear sister?”

I gave them a simple nod, not finding any need for words. Damon’s snide attitude was overwhelming. A pulse built in my skull, blood singing in my ears as the anticipation bubbled to an explosion needing to get out.

Eirik stepped aside, out of the Sticks, and fanned his hand down. “Begin.”

Damon took up a typical bent-knee defensive stance. His eyes peeked over the rim of his lifted shield as he stepped forward hesitantly.

I closed the gap much more confidently, taking one, two, three strides—

And then faltering.

My brow furrowed as my foot hit a rough patch in the gravelly cave floor. I glanced down, to see what I’d stepped on, and was shocked to find the ground flat.

Lifting my gaze, the world wobbled around me, blurriness setting in before I could blink it away—

Just as Damon charged, noticing my misstep.

My brother let out a growl as he came at me shield-first, hoping to batter my spear aside so he could skewer me.

I backpedaled, trying to compose myself, wondering where the haze in my mind had come from.

And then the ache in my temples began.Something’s not right.

Fuckery was afoot.

Damon’s shield shoved forward like a weapon. I spun aside, teetering on unsteady legs, to smack his blade aside with the haft of my spear.

My palms were slick on the weapon, sliding, which was completely unusual. Ialwayshad a firm grip on my spear, because I understood it better than anything. It was an extension of my being.

Despite my sloppy form—which Swordbaron Korvan would have chastised—my instincts took over. I engaged my senses to fall into a deadly rhythm.

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