Erik acknowledged them with a deep, respectful nod, and the combatants broke apart and squared off from one another. Bjorn, acting as referee, gave the signal, and they engaged.
Erik leaned in close. “Absalon and Adils. Twins,” he explained in an undertone, below the crack of the wooden blades coming together. “They fight best with axes, so this is mostly a chance to practice under Bjorn’s gaze and improve their skill with swords.”
“Shore up your grip, lad,” Bjorn said. Adils shuffled his hands and was better braced for his brother’s next swing. “Good. Now, watch your feet.”
The match progressed as more of a lesson. It ended in a draw, with both brothers noticeably lighter on their feet by the end of it. They grinned as they wiped sweat-damp brows, and the audience clapped and cheered politely. The twins approached Bjorn to offer their thanks, clasping his brawny forearm in turns, then offered quick bows to Erik before melting back into the crowd.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Oliver said, much more relaxed than he had been to start.
“Just wait,” Erik said.
“Who’s next?” Bjorn called.
“I am,” a crisp voice rang out. A tall, clean-shaven, slender young man with white-blond hair gathered along the crown of his head in two narrow braids strode forward, unclasping his fur-topped cloak as he went so it fell to the floor dramatically, and he stepped away from it in layers of fitted gray wool and well-oiled brown leather. His only ornamentation was an engraved silver belt buckle, one that cinched his belt tight around a narrow waist. He walked with shoulders back, and head lifted at an arrogant angle, his steps dancer-light on the flags. He carried a sheathed short sword on his hip, and drew it, the sharpened steel rasping against the leather.
Rather than approach the dais, he called out, “Your majesty, I’ve challenged Ulf Gorsun, if he hasn’t scurried off yet in fear.”
A few chuckles from the audience.
A hulking young man with intricate designs shaved into the dark hair along his temples stepped forward, glowering. “You wish, princess.”
More chuckles.
The blond boy grinned, brandishing his sword. “Well, I am more adept at handling a blade than you. I’ll take it as a compliment.”
“Very well, Lord Náli,” Erik said, with a wave. “But you know the rules: put that away.”
With a theatrical sigh, the boy sheathed his sword, and accepted the blunted practice blade that Bjorn offered him. He gave it a few experimental swings, twirled the handle across his palm, frowning. No doubt it wasn’t nearly as fine as his own blade.
“Náli inherited Naus Keep from his father only six months ago. The new Corpse Lord of the Fault Lands,” Erik informed him. He sighed. “He’s going to be trouble, sooner rather than later.”
The other boy accepted a sword, but gripped it tight in one hand, rather than testing its heft and balance. Hulking though he was, Oliver could see his clumsiness straight off.
Lord Náli, on the other hand, slid into a ready stance, sword held at a showy angle, already grinning smugly to himself.
“Ready?” Bjorn asked, waiting for their nods. “Begin!”
Náli lit into the other boy with an explosive burst of swings. Ulf managed to get his own sword up and block him, but gave ground on every connection, backpedaling until the spectators were forced to fall back as well. The chime of steel-on-steel was over-loud in the hall, high though the ceilings were. Oliver fought not to flinch against its sharp ringing.
“Come on, Ulf,” Náli taunted. “Have you learned nothing since we were children?”
Ulf – already grimacing – bared his teeth in a strained snarl, absorbed the next blow with his blade, and then lunged forward. His swing was artless, and too-wide, but forceful enough that Náli shuffled back in a hurry to avoid it. Ulf’s momentum carried him forward, and he charged, swinging again.
Náli cursed and threw up a block.
Sword struck sword with a sound like a gong; it echoed off the stone, rippling back and back again.
Absorbing the shock of it had hurt, Oliver could see: Náli had his teeth bared, his arms shaking, feet braced wide apart. Oliver remembered all too well his day in the training yard, Erik bearing down on him; the way the impact had shot through bone and muscle and pulsed hot and painful in his joints. His teeth clenched in sympathy, no matter how cocky and deserving of a lesson the young lord was.
Beside him, Erik eased forward a fraction in his chair, elbow braced on the armrest, fingers curling slightly, gaze fixed on the match. You violent thing, Oliver thought, far too fondly.
In the center of the hall, Ulf pressed his advantage. Be bore down on his opponent, the swords screeching as they slid along one another. Náli, sweat gleaming on his temples and throat, arms beginning to shake beneath the onslaught, had little choice but to yield, or risk injury.
Or so Oliver thought.
A triumphant grin began to break across Ulf’s face –
Just as Náli ducked and spun, whirling away from their shoving match.
With nothing to push against, Ulf staggered forward, off-balance. Grinning now, Náli whacked him across the backside with the flat of his blade and sent the larger boy sprawling across the flagstones, much to the crowd’s startled amusement.
Ulf lay still a moment, winded, stunned.
Náli turned and bowed deeply to both sides of the room, his smile wicked and the toss of his hair triumphant.
“How in the world did he manage that?” Oliver asked, caught between impressed by the young lord’s feat, and repulsed by the way he’d made a fool of his opponent.
Erik’s mouth, when he checked, was set in a thin, grim line, plainly disapproving. “Náli is quick – he’s slippery. He’s young, but he’s never lost a match. He always manages to wriggle away before he comes to any harm. He isn’t the strongest fighter, as far as brute strength goes, but he’s the quickest, and the most precise.”
“Has he ever sparred with one of the boys.”
“No. He’s too clever for that.”
While Ulf heaved up to his feet, red-faced and glowering, clearly embarrassed, Náli strode up to the dais and offered Erik an exaggerated bow. “Your majesty.”
In a flat voice, Erik said, “Congratulations, Corpse Lord.”
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 mor
e 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–
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.
It was a good wine, the sort of thing he would have drunk at home, and it eased the last, lingering tension of watching Leif fight Ormr, so that Oliver watched the next few moments in contented silence beside the king, only realizing how late it was when a huge yawn overtook him.
“I think that’s enough for one night, lads,” Bjorn announced as the last two fighters handed over their swords.
There were some good-natured groans of disappointment, but many more yawns and nods of agreement.
The celebration was winding to a close.
Revna climbed the dais, her arm looped through Tessa’s, who looked a little tired, but pink-cheeked and happy, too.
“That was
mostly a success, I’d say,” Revna said as they drew to a halt on the other side of the table.
Erik lifted a single brow at her. “Only mostly.”
“Isn’t that what I said?” She grinned, and then lifted a hand to stifle a yawn. “Goodness. We ladies are all retiring to the second floor solar for tea and gossip. I suppose you’ll be down here for the drinking games.”
“There’s going to be more drinking?” Oliver asked, faintly distressed.
“The men who wish to remain may do so,” Erik said. “But I’m going to bed.”
Revna’s look turned sly before it cut to Oliver. “Mmhm, I see.”
Erik’s gaze slid over, too, less sly, more inviting.
Oh.
Oliver set his cup down and hitched up straighter in his chair. “Tessa, if you’d rather go to bed, too, I’d be happy to escort you.” His pulse throbbed and quickened; a heat that had nothing to do with the wine he’d drunk crawled up his throat, and he couldn’t decide whether or not he wanted her to refuse. It was one thing to dream of something and entirely another to get it. One thing for a spontaneous tryst to unfold in the baths, and another to walk calmy to bed side-by-side.
Tessa smiled at him. “Oh, no. I’ll take tea with the ladies.” She looked apprehensive, he thought, a little nervous, but her smile was genuine enough.
“If you’re sure…”
“Oliver,” Revna said. “Go to bed.”
“Right.”
A low, cut-off sound beside him might have been Erik chuckling.
“Goodnight, boys,” Revna said, as she and Tessa turned away and started down the dais. “Sleep tight! Don’t let the – well, you can let some things bite.”
Tessa let out a shocked giggle.
Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “It makes sense, I suppose,” he said. “All you Northerners are more straightforward about everything else. Why not this?”
When he turned to face Erik again, the king was studying him with concern. In a low voice, he said, “Oliver, you really can go to bed – to your own bed – if that’s what you want. Or stay here drinking. Or go to the library, or–”
Oliver cut him off with a smile – a sudden, irrepressible one that warmed him all the way through. Gods, but the man was adorable.
Heart of Winter (The Drake Chronicles Book 1) Page 28