Page 101 of Heart of Winter
And a cup slammed into the side of his head.
Wine the color of blood sprayed in an arc after impact; it pattered down on the flags, and splashed Ormr’s face. He staggered back a step, bellowing, wiping furiously at his eyes with his free hand.
“Rune!”
That was Tessa.
And it was Rune who’d thrown the cup, who strode now into the middle of the match, teeth bared in a furious snarl. Unarmed, he stalked up to the still-struggling Ormr – Leif levered himself to his feet, saying, “Rune, no” – and punched him in the face.
Ormr shouted again, and fell back, rebounding off the arms of the spectators behind him. Two glaring men shoved him back into place: not hiding him, not letting him slip away, angry on behalf of their prince.
“You son of a whore!” Rune shouted. “You backwoods goat-fucker! Fight fair, or don’t–” He cut off when Leif’s hand twisted in the back of his tunic, and dragged him back from the now-glowering Ormr, who’d finally wiped the wine from his eyes, but who now massaged a growing lump on his jaw.
“Leave it, Rune,” Leif ordered, giving him a shake.
Rune tore out of his grip and spun to face him, incredulous. “He was going to kick you! He fights dirty, and–”
“And I can handle myself.” Leif was breathing hard from exertion, but his tone was otherwise calm.
“He cheated!”
“He fought cleverly,” Leif countered. “There’s no such thing as rules of engagement in the midst of a melee. You take the hits where you can find them, and you stay alive by any means necessary.” He squeezed his brother’s shoulder, and offered him a smile. “Thank you for coming to my aid, brother,” he said, formally, “but I could handle myself.”
Rune huffed with annoyance.
Behind them, Ormr bared his teeth and took a step forward.
Erik stood, shoving his chair back noisily.
The same moment, Ragnar pushed through the crowd and took Ormr’s arm. His hand flexed so tight Oliver could see his knuckles whiten, but his tone was forcefully chipper when he said, “I don’t believe it: bested by a wine cup.”
Nervous titters from the guests.
Ormr turned his glare on his leader, and muttered something too low to hear.
Leif stepped around his brother and dipped his head a fraction in a show of respect. “Well-fought, Ormr. I shouldn’t want to meet you on the field.”
Ormr turned a nasty glare on him, refused to respond, then tugged loose from Ragnar and stormed off.
Ragnar lifted his head and addressed Erik. “What say you, cousin? Can we mark it down as pride and stupidity?”
Oliver snuck a glance at Erik and saw a flicker of surprise cross his face. He hadn’t expected Ragnar to want to diffuse the situation, Oliver guessed.
After a long moment – the audience watching with rapt attention – Erik nodded. “Very well.” He resumed his seat. “Bjorn.” He made a little motion for his captain to continue the matches.
The tension that had lay over the hall the past few minutes dispersed, and a fresh pair of good-natured combatants went forward to claim practice swords.
Oliver leaned over the arm of his chair toward a troubled-looking Erik. “What was all that about?” he asked.
Erik’s gaze tracked back and forth across the hall. Ormr was nowhere in sight. “The Úlfheðnar’s resentment of us is contradictory: they think us clan traitors for living, in their words, like Southerners. And yet, they think Ragnar and his line should be set to inherit the wealth of Aeretoll.” He turned his head, finally, to meet Oliver’s gaze, his own serious, troubled. “They reason that, since I’ve no sons, and no plans to beget any, why should my nephews be my heirs when Ragnar is older, wiser, and, to their minds, a superior warrior.”
Oliver said, “And they clearly don’t understand how lineage and inheritance work.”
A smile tweaked the corners of Erik’s mouth. “No. Ragnar does.” His gaze skated away, out across the crowd again. “He likes to challenge me – flex his muscles, so to speak. But he’s too fickle to want the responsibility of a whole nation. He blows in and out like a storm, with lots of thunder and dramatics, but then he’s gone again.” He frowned. “If only I can convince Rune of that.”
~*~
A serving boy set a fresh cup of wine down in front of Oliver, and though he probably shouldn’t have, he picked it up, and found it to be a light, crisp white. When he glanced toward Erik in inquiry, he was informed, a bit self-consciously, that it was a Veniscalli white, and Oliver remembered, with a fond flush, that Erik’s mother had been from Veniscall.
