Page 91 of Blood of Wolves

But then a shape whirled low in front of him, catching him in the shins with a sword.

Revna.

The sword dented the plate of his greaves, but didn’t pierce it. Still, he stumbled, and Revna whirled again, a flare of skirts and dark hair, a blaze of blue eyes, and brought the edge of her blade down against the back of his neck as he staggered. He dropped, and lay still.

“Girls!” she shouted, turning toward them. “If you’re going to fight, fight dirty!” She dropped, spun, and caught the next Sel in the knee, in the gap between his skirt and greave. Blood fountained, and this time, it didn’t bother Tessa so much.

~*~

It had been a long time since Revna fought in earnest, to the death – too long. Just a few swings of the sword, and she could already feel the burn of effort in her arms and chest. She wasn’t as young as she used to be, wasn’t as fit.

But her father’s voice echoed in the back of her mind. Her mother had been Southern, had smiled in a pained way and patted her head when she came in from training sweaty, smudged with dirt, in boy’s clothes, her tunic ripped.That’s nice, dear. But Father had been proud. Father had beamed at her, when she lined up with her brothers.Northern women were made to fight, same as the men. You’re a strong lass, just like your brothers.

Just like her brothers, only one of which was still alive. Hopefully.

“My lady!” a soldier grunted beside her, and she spun in time to catch the downward stroke of a Sel sword against her own. The blades screeched together, as his slid up and hit her cross-guard. Her arms shook beneath the onslaught: the man was big, and strong. Not Bjorn-strong, but Bjorn had never lifted a hand to her; had never glared at her through purple-painted eyes and sought to mow her down.

Revna’s knee buckled. She gritted her teeth and tensed every muscle with effort – but she couldn’t win this struggle.

Not alone. A flash caught her gaze, as a blade slipped between the man’s gorget and helmet, finding soft flesh. Blood spattered hot across her face as the blade withdrew, and Revna blinked it from her eyes to find that it was Estrid who’d come to her aid. And Estrid’s strong hand that gripped the back of her tunic and helped her upright.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

The Sels kept coming.

~*~

Rune was halfway down the gallery when the whole palace shuddered beneath a crash louder than any thunder he’d ever heard. He steadied himself against the balustrade, and felt dust from overhead land against his face, and hands. Another strike from a trebuchet, another portion of the palace damaged, more people possibly wounded or killed.

A cry went up from an open doorway: he’d reached the library. A glance inside proved the space was crammed with women, children, and elderly farmers too infirm to fight.

A trio of soldiers stood guard, murmuring un-listened-to assurances and trying to soothe everyone’s frazzled nerves.

One turned and spotted him, eyes flying wide. “Your grace?” Half-shout, half-question.

Rune glanced briefly down at himself, and saw the rips in his tunic, the white smears of mortar dust. He supposed he looked a mess.

He lifted his head. “Any reported injuries?”

“No, sir, but – your grace–” The man shook his head, and blinked, as if that would somehow help matters. “What’s happening? Weren’t you up on the ramparts?”

“Trebuchet,” he said, rather than explain. The soldier’s eyes widened an impossible fraction, proving he understood.I need to get back up there, he thought, at first, and he had been aiming for the stairwell. But, then, he thought better of it. What use had he been up there? Bjorn had prompted every command he gave. He’d been shaking, and afraid, and unable to fight in the ways he knew best. Being a leader was a valuable skill – one he did not yet possess.

What happened if he went back up on the ramparts? How did he console the men who’d watched a boulder crash through the roof? Killing, and maiming, and punching a hole in the palace.

No, that wasn’t him. Leif was the diplomatic prince; the leader; the heir.

Rune was the short-tempered, impulsive one. He’d always thought that was a handicap, and maybe it was. But. Right now, he was going to lean into his instincts.

“Is anyone free to come with me?”

The soldier blinked. One of the others turned to face him. “Your grace?”

“Is anyone free to come with me?” he asked again. “I have an idea.”

~*~

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