“No,” she finally said, dismissing him.
“Gerrie and I are two of your best fighters,” he insisted before she could move on. “We can fight off anyone who tries to take us and stand a better chance of capturing someone useful to interrogate.” Exasperation bled in every word.
She was tired of having this same fight every time they had to select the “raid party.” Solveig hated when he and Gerrie called it that.
“If I give you an order you disagree with, will you follow it?” Solveig asked.
Latham’s silence ws the confirmation she needed.
“That’s exactly why I can’t risk bringing you. And, as we’ve discussed before, if I’m the one taken, you are my replacement. We can’t afford for both of us to go.”
She was as tired of this argument as he was. It always ended the same way. Latham insisted he go with her, she refused, he stormed off, and Gerrie made some joke about Latham’s inability to perform.
Solveig was about to shut him down—again—when he brightened as if an idea had crossed his mind.
“I’ll fight you for it,” he whispered.
“What?”
“I’ll fight you for it,” he said more clearly. “In the training ring. If I can land a blow, you have to take me with you.”
His voice rang with confidence. Latham knew her well, knew she had a hard time backing down from a challenge. She was honestly surprised it had taken him this long to suggest it. A smug smile crossed his lips, apparently thinking quite highly of himself, and Solveig scoffed.
“What’s that for?” he asked, frowning.
“You haven’t landed a blow in two decades. I doubt you were playing the long game to lull me into a sense of false security,” Solveig replied with a shake of her head.
“Who says I haven’t?” he asked indignantly. This time it was Gerrie who scoffed.
“Lath, come on. If you could land ablowwe both know you would’ve done it already,” Gerrie said, smirking. He balled his hands into fists, face reddening.
Solveig took her time before answering, assessing how earnest he was. Very, by the looks of it.
“If you manage to draw blood, you come on this raid. If you can’t after fifteen minutes, you are banned from going on this and any futureraids. No more discussions, no more arguments.” Maybe this would finally put a stop to his insistence.
“If that’s the case, then I’ll agree with one caveat. If I draw blood within fifteen minutes, I go on this andeveryfuture raid with you,” he countered defiantly.
Solveig tilted her head, taking his measure. He sat a little straighter in his chair as she narrowed her eyes. One. Two. Three.
“Deal.”
Atrainingringwasinthe centre of camp, up on a platform so lessons and duels could be visible to all who gathered around. Large tree posts at each corner were wrapped with rope and connected to create a square. The mounded platform was edged with rocks and moss, four stone steps leading to the bloodstained gravel.
The rules inside the ring were simple—stay within the confines of the rope. No death blows.
Two rules that should be easy to remember but were often forgotten.
Vanir were a hot-tempered race and could not always be trusted to follow even those simple directives. Fights over males, females, land, or food had ended in death—in and outside of the arena.
This would not be one of those fights, however, since neither Latham nor Solveig wanted the other dead or severely harmed. Each had their own reasons for wanting to win.
Solveig was ready to put this age-old argument to rest once and for all, tired of arguing with him twice a year over whether he would join the raids.
They entered the ring together, a crowd already gathered around, humming with excitement. Word had spread through the clan about the challenge Latham issued, and many were eager to watch the outcome. Solveig rarely fought in the ring.
She didn’t need to, even as General—she was usually able to mediate most issues that arose without being challenged. For that, Quillon Bjornson, the jarl of the Southern Wilds, the clan leader in charge of civilian issues, often expressed his gratitude.
Solveig stepped into the ring, relishing the feel of gravel under her boots. She hadn’t changed from earlier and wasn’t dressed in her usual fighting leathers. The clothes on her back would do well enough—it was only fifteen minutes. As a bonus, donning no armour would unnerve Latham, insinuating she did not consider him a threat.
