A black-haired man with very few teeth danced a jig, while the blond mansmacked Ketill on the back. “Well, I’ll be shitting pinecones. It’sher.Hiding in Kalasgarde. We’ll be rich, boys!”
Ketill’s just told me,Vig had said.Up near Archer’s Point.
But it’s only been six days,Rey had replied.
“There’s no missing boy,” she guessed. “You lured them away.” Goosebumps rushed up her bare legs.
Ketill didn’t bother to answer. He took a heavy step forward. She took one back. The hearthfire was between them. A bench. But the room was so small, and there was only one exit, and there were five warriors blocking it…
The blond man pulled a rag from his pocket, a sickly-sweet scent filling the air. Slowly, he rounded the other side of the fire. “Come now, girl. Have a sniff of this and then a good nap, and it’ll all be done when you wake.”
Silla’s hand found the patch of hair cut by Kommandor Valf. “Won’t go back,” she muttered.
Her gaze settled on a handaxe propped against the hearth. At some point, Rey would realize the missing boy was a ruse and would come back to the shield-home. If she could delay them, perhaps she had a chance. Because Silla knew even with all her practice, even with good odds, she could not bestfivemen.
On the other side of the hearth, the blond-haired man closed in on her. “If it’s money you want, then let us talk.”
“It has already been decided,” grunted Ketill. “We will take you to Kopa and collect a reward.”
Won’t go back, she thought desperately. And as Silla glanced the blond warrior’s way, she saw his tell—the flare of his nostrils. She lunged for the handaxe. Turned on her foot. Slashed it downward.
Blood splattered her face, hot and sticky, but she was already turning, swinging at Ketill. The blade met flesh, then bone. The man bellowed and drove his fist into her jaw.
Her world became nothing but white-hot pain, but she whirled, screaming. The handaxe was knocked from her grip. She was jostled, wrists yanked behind her back. Blinking, her vision came back, revealing Ketill pulling the axe from his shoulder.
“Oh-ho,” he sneered. “Got a feral one, have we?” His gaze fell to the figure lying prone on the floor—the blond man, a gash opened wide in his neck. Ketill’s eyes snapped to Silla’s, an angry flush creeping up his neck. “You killed my friend,” he growled. Ketill nodded at the men holding her. “Release her.”
“Need her alive, Ketill,” warned one of his companions, hand wrapped tightly around her shoulder. “Just give her the valerian and?—”
“She killed Bredi!” snarled Ketill. “Release her!”
With a heavy breath, the man behind her let her go. “No death wounds,” he warned.
Silla’s chest heaved, confusion muddling her thoughts. Ketill offered her the bloodied handaxe, pulling his own from the loop on his belt. And then she understood. He wanted a fight. Her gaze flicked to the door, then back to Ketill.
She had to draw this out. Give Rey time to return.
Silla took the axe. The warriors eased away, leaving she and Ketill in the space between the bench and the shield-home’s wall. The hearthfire cast harsh shadows on Ketill’s face, but his eyes burned bright with rage. And in that moment, Silla could only think of that cell in Kopa; the kommandor with his tapestries woven from human hair. She wouldn’t. Go. Back.
She rushed at him, axe slicing through the air. Ketill ducked easily, sweeping her feet out from under her. Silla landed hard on her back, her skull missing the bench’s edge by scant inches. The warrior’s jeers were distant, but she sensed what would come next. Towering over her, Ketill hefted his weapon. She rolled just in time—the axe hacked into the floor inches from her head, splintering wood in all directions.
“Alive,bog-brain,” said one of the warriors.
“Get up,” sneered Ketill, and Silla did not hesitate. Scrambling to her feet, she shoved into his injured shoulder. Startled, Ketill grunted in pain, giving her the opening she needed to drive her axe into his boot.
Ketill howled, stumbling into the bench. Silla pulled the axe free, ignoring the shouting warriors while she assessed Ketill. It seemed she’d wounded more than his foot.
Ketill charged at her with the intensity of a riled bull, and Silla’s swing was just a heartbeat too late. Ketill ducked, the full weight of him ramming into her stomach. She was airborne, slamming into the wall and sliding to the ground.
Her chest seized, unable to draw breath. As she tried to force air in, a dark form blotted out the light from the fire—Ketill, glaring at her with utter hatred.
“Get up,” he growled.
At last, she was able to draw air into her lungs. Gasping, Silla grabbed her axe, clambering to her feet. Pushing the hair back from her face, she took a defensive stance. Bared legs and feet, bloodied tunic, hair wild and eyes set. Fury churned in her veins.
“Won’t go back,” she said through gritted teeth, waiting. Watching.
A quick breath in, and she knew he’d be coming. Ketill swung, and she blocked him, but the force of his blow rattled down her arms. Another swing. Another block. Her teeth clanked together.
