by Lauren Dawes
Letting out a breath, Taer weighed her options. She had to trust him at least a little. He was training her, after all. Against her better judgement and every instinct she had, Taer closed her eyes.
Aubrey shifted closer to her, making Taer stiffen in response. She brought the blade up, tilting it in his general direction. “Relax,” he whispered. “I’m not going to touch you until you ask me to, Taer.”
“That’ll never happen,” she spat back. Aubrey chuckled and moved away.
“I want you to get a feel for this weapon. Unwrap your fingers from the hilt and let the knife find its natural balance in your hand,” he ordered gently.
Taer relaxed her hand and let herself feel the metal, how the steel felt against her skin.
“Can you feel it?” he asked beside her.
“Yes.”
“Good. Open your eyes. Now, the trick to throwing a blade is having a firm but not too tight grip. These blades don’t have a guard, so be careful with your fingers.”
“Am I holding it properly?” she asked, stretching out her hand to show him.
“Don’t worry about that so much. I want to see what your instincts are when it comes to a blade. You might just be a natural.”
“All right,” she submitted. “We’ll try this your way, I guess.”
There was a low chuckle behind her. “Throw the blade.”
Taer drew in a deep breath, concentrating on the steel in her hand. She had no idea of the correct technique, so she just brought her arm above her head and threw the blade with as much power as she had.
The ring of metal slicing through the air sounded for a moment before a loud thunk and an even louder clattering sound made her eyes open wide. The blade was lying on the bare floor about three feet from the wooden target. The hilt had hit the target but then bounced away. She looked at Aubrey.
“You do not have a natural ability for throwing knives.”
“No shit,” Taer muttered, going to collect the steel from the floor. She handed it back, being careful not to brush his hand as she did. “So, clearly I can’t use a throwing blade. But that’s not what I want to know.” Taking a step towards him, she watched his eyes widen and nostrils flare. “I want to know how to defend myself against one. What if my opponent has one? What then?”
Aubrey’s clear eyes narrowed on her face. “You know who killed your brother, don’t you?”
“And I’m sure you know who killed him, too,” she retorted, holding back the grief that threatened to spill out with her words. How could he not know? He wasn’t a fool. She was looking for Darrion, and although she hadn’t told him why, he must have put two and two together by now.
She said, “Teach me how to defend myself against someone who uses throwing knives.”
Aubrey studied her for a long minute. “You’ve got balls, Winter Fox. I’ll give you that.” He walked a few paces away and then turned to face her again. “You can’t defend yourself unarmed against someone with a throwing knife who attacks from a distance, especially against someone who is as … proficient with the blade as Darrion is. But if you can get close to him—inside his guard—then you can defend yourself.”
Taer’s eyes locked on Aubrey. “Drill me on that then. I want to attack Darrion in a way that will leave him unable to fight on his terms.”
Aubrey gestured at her hoodie and sweats. “What have you got on under there?” he asked.
Taer looked down at herself. “A singlet and underwear,” she replied, brazenly meeting his gaze.
Heat flared in his eyes. He reached out a hand and plucked one of the strings from her hoodie, playing with the end. “Lose the hoodie. Keep the sweats.”
Taer’s mouth was suddenly dry. She didn’t want to expose her scar to Aubrey, but she really didn’t have a choice. Sliding her arms from the sleeves, she pulled the hoodie over her head and threw it against the wall.
Aubrey’s eyes were focused on her chest when she looked back at him.
“Enjoying the view?” she asked, turning his own question back on him.
His pale gray eyes met hers. “Would you hold it against me if I said I was?” he asked.
“That’s so not going to happen,” she muttered. “Can we get on with this?”
Aubrey’s eyes drifted down, and she could see the moment when they found the scar at the base of her throat. “Who did that to you, Taer?” he asked darkly, his hands clenching tightly at his side.
Taer’s hand automatically rose to her throat. “I’m not discussing that with you, Aubrey,” she warned. “You said you’d train me, not interrogate me.”
He stared at her again, the set of his jaw firm and unyielding. “Fine.” Bending his knees, he lowered his body into a fighting stance she recognized well. “Just remember that you wanted this.”
They were the last words he spoke to her as he became of blur of shadows and silver arcs, his smooth, sinuous movements silent except for the whoosh of steel cutting through the air. She had known he’d be proficient with a weapon, but she hadn’t realized just how good he’d be. It was almost as if he were a completely different person when he had a blade in his hand.
Taer did her best to dodge each attack with a well-timed pivot, or by ducking the swipe of the blade, but she quickly became aware of how futile fighting at close quarters was. Still, Aubrey barked orders at her, correcting a stance, or trying a new position. Angry and frustrated, Taer tried again and again, but his strikes kept landing, opening up yet another wound.
By the time they were done, Taer had shallow cuts on her forearms, the tops of her hands, her throat and face. The superficial damage was already beginning to heal, but the smudges of her dried blood served as a reminder of just how lethal Aubrey really was.
Taer doubled over, her breaths coming out in a harsh staccato rhythm. She could hear the pounding of blood in her veins, feel her sweat mingling with the blood that covered nearly every inch of her upper body.
“Again,” Aubrey said—not even a little bit breathless.
They were continuing? Aubrey gave her a look that told her to toughen up and face him again, and she suddenly wished for one of his seductive smiles, his usual teasing tone.
“You’re letting your emotions get in the way,” he said matter-of-factly. “Remain detached. Remain unaffected and you can overcome any enemy.”
She hauled her body upright, ignoring the sharp protest of her muscles and readying herself for the next onslaught.
With every movement, she was aware of her injuries, aware of how Aubrey was cutting her in the same place two or three times. Fresh blood tainted the air, somehow fueling her to fight harder, to move faster, but her arms and legs screamed with each contraction of her muscles.
She forced all rage, anger, grief and pride from her body, focusing everything she had on the fight, and suddenly found that she could anticipate his next move, and counter it, but she was still too slow.
They continued in this way for what felt like hours, until her entire body begged for release. Taer had just been knocked down and was picking herself up again when Aubrey abruptly stepped away. “Good,” he muttered, wiping his blade with the end of his T-shirt. “Enough. We’ll start again tomorrow.”
Taer was disinclined to argue with him after the beating he’d just dished out. She pulled the slick fabric of her singlet away from her sweat-drenched body to wipe her forehead.
“Put this on before you get cold,” Aubrey said, handing her the hoodie he’d retrieved from the floor.
“You’re asking me to cover up?” she said incredulously, taking the sweater and pulling it over her head.
“I promise it’ll never happen again,” he said teasingly.
Finally, the womanizer was back.
“Regretting asking me to train you now?” he asked gently, his expression serious.
“Why would you ask that?”
He reached out a hand to brush against her cheek, but Taer dodged it, glaring at him.
“Because it appears
as if I’ve hurt you.”
“You haven’t hurt me,” she replied, turning around and walking to the door. She stopped there, not turning back around. “Because you can’t hurt what’s already broken.”
With her words still hanging in the air, Taer went down the stairs and left the War Hammer, a new sense of accomplishment unfurling in her belly.
Chapter 16
Vanaheim—904 AD
The fire in the corner of the room was the only source of light. Darrion grunted as the first slice of the sharp blade ran through his skin between his shoulderblades, the skilled hands of another god carving out the words that would forever be inlaid in his skin.
Njord was standing beside Darrion’s head, naked from the waist up. In his hand, he held one of Darrion’s newly forged throwing blades, pressing the tip against the inside of his own wrist.
With each stroke of the blade in Darrion’s back, Njord made another stroke against his own skin. The sharp tang of blood filled the room, but Darrion didn’t know whether it was his blood, or Njord’s, or perhaps it was both of them blending together.
“Blood for blood, Darrion,” the Vanir told him.
“It’s ready,” the other god said, his voice like gravel under the heel of a boot.
“Good.” Njord moved from Darrion’s line of sight, coming to stand over his back. “Mix my blood with the ink, Aurvandil, then rub it into his skin.”
Darrion felt the ink being dribbled over his back, pooling between the muscles and sinking into his skin. Aurvandil’s rough fingers began prodding and pushing it into the shallow grooves in Darrion’s back. Darrion clenched his jaw in agony as fire and ice mixed together surged through his body.
“How do you feel?” Njord asked, wrapping a swathe of cloth around his own bloodied wrist. Darrion pried open his eyes and stared at the god.
“As if on fire,” he gritted out. “Is that normal?”
Njord’s face was serene. “I have not done this before,” he replied. “But I hope any discomfort you’re feeling will subside soon.”
Darrion ground his teeth against the pain. “Why am I the first?”
The god smiled fondly at him, the look paternal and loving, but he did not reply. “Come. I want to show the others what they all will want.”
Darrion maneuvered himself off the table, looking back at Aurvandil who had scored his flesh, standing there with the blood and ink on his hands. Aurvandil stared back blankly until Darrion looked away. Picking up his shirt, Darrion followed Njord from the room, stepping onto a small landing that looked over the great hall where twenty Mares were waiting.
“This is what those of you who pass the Final Test will receive to show your loyalty to me and to Darrion.”
Turning his back, Darrion showed the other Mares the ink on his back.
“Blood for blood,” Njord boomed. “Odin has hunted you down for as long as I have been breathing. He has killed your kind in unprovoked attacks. He has decimated villages. He has slaughtered your mothers, your fathers, your sisters and your brothers. He has murdered your wives and killed your children.”
Grunts of assent and growling rage greeted the Vanir’s words.
“But that’s not going to happen anymore. We will hunt them down and slaughter their families.”
The small group of Mares roared in agreement, fueled by the vehemence of Njord’s speech.
“I have brought you all here. I have trained you so that you may fulfil your deepest desire—revenge on the Aesir, who have taken from you what you most love.”
Darrion could feel their growing thirst for blood. They were building themselves into a feral frenzy, and he couldn’t help but be dragged along, joining them in the calls for revenge.
Njord turned back to Darrion, triumph shining in his eyes. “Let the Final Test commence.”
Darrion turned back to the Mares, still crying out for blood. He called out the names of those who had been training for the ultimate battle. Each one knew there could only be one victor in this fight, and they were all more than willing to give up their lives if they should fall.
The five combatants lined up in front of Darrion, bloodlust, fear and writhing hatred of him shining in their eyes.
Darrion called for calm, addressing the five Mares awaiting their deaths. “Each of you may choose the one weapon you would like to use in this fight. There are no rules. This is a fight to the death. Each of you will demonstrate to me why you should be part of this army. Only the strong survive.”
The Mares all grunted their assent, taking the opportunity to size each other up.
“Blood for blood,” he said under his breath, staring down at them, then stalking away to join Njord. They stood together on a raised platform overlooking a section of the great hall barricaded off by wooden palings, benches circling the outside of the ring. Sand had been thrown on the floor to soak up the large amount of blood that would be spilled.
The five dark elves filed into the ring, each of them armed with the weapon of his choice—a sword, a war hammer, a mace, a battle ax and a scythe—and Darrion began to wonder who would be left standing at the end.
The Mares stood in a circle around the arena. Some were dressed in nothing more than a loincloth, while others wore a sort of armor over their chests. The crowds’ excitement was palpable, the yells and chants making everyone crazed, making them salivate to see the first blood shed.
Njord raised his arms in front of him, calling for a silence that came in an instant. “The fight ends when only one Mare is left breathing.” His voice pulsed with power. Turning to Darrion, he said, “At your master’s command, you will start.”
Darrion could feel every set of eyes on him. He stared at the five Mares, each of them twitching or shuffling from foot to foot … except for one. Arthon stared hard at Darrion, waiting, watching for the signal for the bloodbath to begin.
Darrion gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head. Arthon was the first to strike. Wielding his battle ax like it was an extension of his hand, he slammed the blade into the rival Mare standing directly on his right. The weapon lodged in his back, but Arthon was already there to pull it free, bringing it down once more across the back of his opponent’s neck as the Mare fell to his knees. Bone and metal collided and his head went rolling across the sand. The amount of blood that poured from the wound was astounding, but Darrion watched on blankly.
He kept his eyes on Arthon, only occasionally letting his attention drift to the remaining three. The Mare with the scythe was battling the mace-wielding elf, unable to deflect the blows from the much heavier weapon. Despite his clear disadvantage, he moved the scythe with a grace and expertise Darrion had not expected.
Narrowly avoiding a mortal blow to his head, the male swung his long-handled weapon in a smooth arc, the air whistling as the blade cut through it. At first it looked as if he had missed his target … until the other Mare began to stagger around wildly, dropping his mace to the sand. Darrion wanted to slide forward, to get a better look, but he stayed where he was, watching as the injured Mare dropped to his knees.
A river of blood began to flow from his neck, streaming down his chest. Darrion’s eyes cut back to Arthon to see him make his killing blow, his battle ax becoming lodged in his opponent’s sternum.
Standing on the fallen Mare’s foot, Arthon wrenched the weapon up through his opponent’s sternum and out through his chin. The Mare’s chest and neck split open, blood now flowing like a swollen river down his body and into the sand.
Covered in gore, and with his last victim toppling over behind him, Arthon turned around to face his final challenger.
One half of the small crowd was chanting Arthon’s name while the other half were calling out the name Zarail. The male with the scythe—Zarail—surveyed the crowd for a second, before locking his eyes on Arthon.
Zarail was relatively unscathed other than a small slice to his upper thigh. A rivulet of blood ran down from the wound, getting matted in the hair on his legs. Artho
n didn’t appear as if he had just fought for his life at all; his breathing was steady, and a smirk pulled up the corner of his mouth.
He was cocky, but Darrion knew that cockiness could get you killed. As soon as you thought you were better than your opponent, you gave them permission to be just that.
The watching crowd was clamoring for more blood now. The screams were deafening. Darrion’s gaze landed on Njord, who was watching him intently rather than the fighting before them. He looked back in time to see Arthon fade and then rematerialize behind the other Mare. Arthon brought his arms above his head, as if to strike his opponent in the back of the head with his ax, but Zarail was too fast. Spinning around, he brought the long handle of his scythe up horizontally above his head, blocking the attack, but sacrificing the length of his weapon. The ax’s blade bit through the staff easily, leaving Zarail with a simple curved blade and a foot of wood.
Backing away, Zarail stripped the wood from the blade and readied himself for Arthon’s attack. A cocky grin pulled at the corner of Arthon’s mouth before he struck at Zarail with the speed of a viper. Driving him backwards with blow after blow, Arthon pressed the other Mare up against the wooden barrier, holding the razor-sharp blade of his ax at Zarail’s throat.
Zarail’s fingers released the curved blade in his hands, the steel falling noiselessly to the sandy floor. The crowd began to chant for Arthon to make the kill, to finish the fight and claim his title as the first of the agarwaen.
Arthon looked over his shoulder first to Njord then to Darrion, looking for instruction. Darrion’s eyes flickered to Zarail, seeing that he had already faded from Arthon’s hold. A split second later, the Mare spun back around, but it was already too late. Zarail had scooped up a discarded sword and, with a beautiful arc through the air, removed Arthon’s head with one movement.
The crowd erupted, clambering over the wooden barrier and rushing into the arena to give their congratulations to the last Mare standing.
In Darrion’s ear, Njord confided, “I did not see that coming.”
“I did. Arthon was too sure of himself. Vanity and pride will get you killed every time.”