Latham had taken the opposite approach, however. He arrived clad in his full royal fighting gear. It seemed he wished to make a spectacle of their fight.
His stocky build filled out the soft leathers, gold-stitched tunic tucked under the ornate chest plate, framing the armour. Braids twisted through his long beard, his light brown hair pulled back to showcase the shaved sides of his head, and a fur-lined cape slung over his shoulders.
As he entered the ring, he adorned his head with his Veksø helmet, the horns on either side gleaming as though he’d just polished them.
Solveig had to work to keep the smile off her face.
“Overcompensating?” Gerrie asked Latham as she slipped under the rope behind him.
“Prepared,” he replied. Gerrie smirked and took her place in the middle of the arena. Stepping up to Gerrie’s left, Solveig put herself inthe honoured position of the previous victor as Latham stood on the right.
Gerrie cleared her throat, turning to the crowd.
“Citizens and soldiers of the Southern Wilds, today we have a challenge issued by Captain Latham Arlanson and accepted by General Tordottir. Terms have been agreed upon. Fifteen minutes in the ring to determine a winner.
“If Captain Arlanson draws blood within the allotted time frame, he wins. If General Tordottir evades the drawing of her blood, she will be named the victor. Warriors, your last words.” Gerrie took a step back to allow Solveig and Latham to face each other fully.
Each was to choose a phrase of wisdom to initiate the fight and make their sentiments known. As always, the challenger began.
“Never reproach another for his love: It happens often enough that beauty ensnares with desire the wise, while the foolish remain unmoved,” Latham called clearly, the proverb of old sounding unnatural in his stilted voice. His eyes burned with the desire to prove himself, but the rise and fall of his chest betrayed his nerves.
Solveig didn’t want to fight him. It was inevitable that she would win. She wasn’t a humble person—when someone is so often proven right, they learn to trust themselves and their abilities.
“A person should not agree today to what they’ll regret tomorrow,” she said in a low voice, though she knew everyone could hear.
Chuckles reverberated through the still growing crowd. Latham lowered his brows, acting undeterred by her words or by the laughs, but Solveig knew better.
He raised his sword. She had yet to move, even to draw her weapon. On the other side of the ropes where she now stood, Gerrie raised her arm.
“May Tyr guide your sword!” she exclaimed, starting the duel.
Fifteen minutes.
Latham stalked Solveig, circling her as she remained still, feet planted firmly on the ground. She closed her eyes, listening to her prey’s movements as he planned his attack. In one swift movement, her eyes flew open as she unsheathed her sword, swinging it around to block Latham’s strike. His eyes flared. She smiled sadly.
They entered into a dance of swords and daggers. Latham knew where her hidden daggers were usually kept, but she was one step ahead, having rearranged them before the fight. He wasted the first five minutes attempting to get her to discharge them.
With ten minutes remaining, Latham had multiple scratches in his armour, and blood trickled from the few strikes that had managed to catch skin instead of leather or metal.
Seven minutes.
Latham’s own daggers had been disarmed, save for the one gripped tightly in his fist, the silver blade glinting in the sun. The others lay outside the ring, out of reach. His heavy breathing contrasted with Solveig’s steady rhythm. She tried to mask the pity in her eyes, but the sight of it seemed to bolster his strength, and he increased the speed of his attacks.
Five minutes.
His face flushed with fury, blood rising to his cheeks as he glowered. Solveig made contact again, elbow driving into his stomach, and he blinked rapidly as if his vision had gone blurry. He appeared to be panicking, his movements becoming sloppier and his defences weakening.
Two minutes.
Latham’s bottom lip bled from where she’d kneed him in the face. She ducked under his next swing and effectively dodged the wild stab of his knife. She pinned him with a glare. Though he’d missed, his jab had been more powerful than necessary and would have done serious damage if it met its mark. He was getting reckless.
One minute.
She hardly recognized him as he swung his sword with abandon. He was putting up a good fight, and the small tear in her shirt told her he had gotten too close.
The fire in his eyes intensified as his time ticked down. Both of them were panting now, Solveig relishing the strain in her muscles. She hadn’t been challenged in a while and this was good practice for her. Too bad she had to end it.
With a quick duck and roll, she popped up behind Latham, sweeping his legs out from under him. He landed on the ground with a hard thud as his knees buckled and hit the gravel. He tried to get up, but Solveig was too quick. She moved to stand in front of him and kicked him onto his back, putting one foot on his chest and the point of her sword to his throat.
