Page 100 of Heart of Winter
The young lord flashed a wicked grin. “And to you, your majesty.” His gaze shifted pointedly to Oliver – and he winked. Before whirling with a flourish, pale hair fluttering, and striding back to join the crowd.
“Hmph,” Erik murmured.
“Who’s next?” Bjorn shouted.
The crowd parted, and it was one of Ragnar’s Úlfheðnar that stepped forward, bare-armed, his cloak removed so he wore only a cracked leather jerkin with tufts of thick wolf hair on the shoulders. He was young, his head shaved as Ragnar’s was, only a single, thick braid running down the center of his head and down his back. A nasty scar marked one eyebrow, like a jagged, pink lightning strike that traveled up to his scalp, and down to the corner of his mouth.
A hush fell, as the feast-goers waited to see who he would challenge.
“Bollocks,” Erik muttered.
The wolf-shirt halted in front of Leif. He lifted a callused hand and jabbed a finger toward the prince’s chest. “You,little heir. Come and fight me.”
Leif was, in fact, taller than him. And also regarding him with brows lifted in mild surprise. “I’ll gladly spar with you, Ormr, if you wish,” Leif said, graciously.
The clansman – Ormr – closed the last distance so he could stab Leif’s chest with his finger, then he turned and crossed to Bjorn to take up a blunted sword.
Leif’s bearing was tolerant and dignified as he shrugged off his cloak, passed it to his brother, and followed, but Oliver saw the eager spark in his gaze, and the flex of his fingers. He’d wanted a chance to prove himself – to his people, and no doubt to Tessa, too, who stood beside Rune, whispering something to him, expression worried.
Rune whispered back, smiling, gaze even more excited than his brother’s.
Ormr accepted his sword and sliced it savagely through the air, his grin dark as he turned to face Leif.
“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t going to be a friendly match?” Oliver asked.
Erik’s hand had curled to a fist in the air, knuckles white. His brow was furrowed. “Because it isn’t.”
Leif took the sword Bjorn offered.
And Ormr rushed him, roaring.
“He wasn’t ready!” Oliver hissed, half-rising from his chair. The audacity! Fury and fear chased along his nerves, making his skin prickle.
Erik stayed him with a hand on his arm. “Leif can handle himself.”
And he did.
In a split second, he squared up his stance, lifted his sword in a two-handed grip, and met Ormr’s mad rush calmly, and effectively. He parried, side-stepped, and forced his opponent to rush past him.
Náli would have used the opportunity to strike Ormr in a vulnerable place, while his back was turned.
But Leif retreated, resumed his stance, and waited to meet his opponent again. An honorable move, especially in the midst of a feast-day sparring match in front of noble ladies and children.
But it was a move that seemed to anger Ormr. He engaged again – not a wild rush this time, but a proper clash. Leif lifted his blade and the steel chimed again, and again, and again. They traded strikes, and parries, and blocks, shifting back and forth across the floor, the crowd shrinking back when they got too close. The ringing of the blades was like the steady clang of a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil.
Finally, Ormr offered an opening. Oliver noticed it – he gasped – the same moment that Leif did, in the instant when Ormr tried to move his blade to his other hand after a particularly hard block that must have left his wrist tingling.
Leif swung, angling his blade so the flat of it would make contact with Ormr’s arm.You should have disarmed him, Oliver thought. But Leif went for the contact, for a blow – drawing out the fight, making it more interesting, and exhibiting good sportsmanship, for his own part.
The strike didn’t land, though. Ormr dropped to a crouch and cracked his own blade into the side of Leif’s knee.
Leif fell. His eyes flew wide in shock as the joint gave way, but he managed to twist his upper body so he landed on his hip, one hand braced on the ground, the other still gripping his sword.
A collective gasp of shock went up among the guests.
Erik lunged forward, both hands gripping the arms of his chair, his whole frame tense and vibrating. A low growl rumbled from his throat.
Ormr, Oliver saw with a lurch, wasn’t going to give his opponent time to get back up. He drew back for a kick–
