Whispers floated up from the crowd, but Saga’s stomach tensed.
The king continued. “As most of you know, it is considered both an honor and a trial to be named the princess’s champion.”
Saga’s eyes flicked to Rurik, but he did not meet her gaze. A slow, tingling chill spread through her limbs.
“This warrior must battle through the most elite among us in order to claim victory. No mercy shall be granted. But if the champion succeeds, they will do what few have. Not only will they bestow great glory upon Princess Yrsa, but they will be honored in the best way we Urkans know how.” Ivar turned to his daughter, eyes gleaming. “What say you, Princess Yrsa? Have you selected a champion?”
Bile rose up Saga’s throat as realization dawned.No…
“Yes, Father.” Yrsa smiled serenely. “I’ve selected Lord Kassandr Rurik from the Kingdom of Zagadka as my champion.”
The king’s eyes hardened at that, whispers of disapproval whipping through the crowd.
Rurik, you muttonhead, was all Saga could think.How is this either careful or clever?
“It’s a dishonor to all the capable warriors in this room,” muttered the man beside Saga. “A foreigner fighting forourprincess?”
Beside Rurik, Rovgolod gesticulated wildly, the rest of the Druzhina scowling in disapproval. But even from across the fighting ring, Saga sensed the strange restless energy coursing through Rurik as he unfastened his surcoat.
“Are you certain of your choice, Yrsa?” asked King Ivar with a frown. “This is most unusual.”
But the princess, like Rurik, seemed set on her choice. “I am certain.” Color bloomed on Yrsa’s cheeks as she watched Rurik peel off his coat.
Saga felt sick. These contests were notoriously violent—in fact, Saga had never once witnessed a champion claim glory. Instead, they were rendered bed-ridden for weeks with broken bones and head wounds, if they survived at all. And from the indignation quickly gathering in the crowd, and the knowing look shared between King Ivar and Magnus Heart Eater, Saga’s nausea worsened. They would never allow him to win.
All it would take was a misplaced blade, a sleight of hand, and Rurik would be dispatched. The thought of harm befalling him was enough to make the blood rush in her ears. But as it dawned on Saga that Rurik’s downfall would leave her stranded, the very room tilted on its axis.
“The champion is to face five rounds!” called out the king. “Single combat within the boundaries of the circle. No armor, no weapons brought in by combatants. The battle continues until the bell is rung or one can no longer fight.”
Rurik grabbed the hem of his undertunic and yanked it over his head, tossing it carelessly at Rov. Torchlight in the hall caught the powerful surface of his broad chest, hard muscle toughened from years spent in rings just like this. Saga tried to remind herself that this was what he did. But another part of her argued at his brash, impulsive nature. What if he’d agreed to something more than he could handle? What if he didn’t walk out of that pit?
Leaping into the fighting circle, bare-chested and barefoot, Rurik prowled back and forth like a caged animal. Saga’s heartbeat reached a frantic pace.
“The first opponent,” bellowed King Ivar, “is Sida Spearhand!”
The crowd cheered, parting for a pale, raven-haired woman stripped down to her fighting leathers. After securing her long, ropey braids at her crown, Sida shook Rurik’s extended hand. The opponents backed to their respective corners of the fighting ring. Sólas passed hands. Ale was refreshed. The king raised his goblet, and the crowd hushed.
“Skál,” said Ivar.
And with that, it began.
Rurik and Sida circled the ring, two fierce predators studying one another. Though he had the advantage of height and brute strength, Sida’s movements flowed like liquid. The crowd soon grew agitated, shouting their displeasure.
“Enough playing about!” bellowed the man beside Saga.
With serpentine speed, Sida drove forward, attacking with a flurry of rapid kicks and punches. Rurik ducked low to evade a striking fist but took a heavy blow to the ribs. Sida took advantage of his momentary startle, launching a powerful kick aimed at his head.
Rurik bobbed backward in the nick of time, righting himself by some miracle. And with that, equilibrium was reestablished. The warriors began circling once more, and the crowd groaned.
“Get him, Sida!” roared a warrior nearby.
Saga studied Sida. The woman’s movements were powerful yet agile, and clearly, she had no fear of attacking first. And as Rurik and Sida made yet another circle around the pit, Saga understood.
Sida wasn’t meant to win this battle. She was meant to wear Rurik down.
Soon, both warriors were covered in a sheen of sweat as a cycle played out. Sida lashed out. Rurik retreated. And the dance began anew. It seemed Rurik was trying the same tactic she’d witnessed at the garrison hall—angering Sidainto attacking. But Sida was too smooth—too even-tempered to fall for such tricks. What Rurik needed was to break the sequence. Break her concentration. Lure her into a trap and go for the match-ending blow.
Before Saga could decide what to do with this knowledge, a gasp tore from her throat. Sida’s foot had struck out, Rurik’s response a heartbeat too slow. The kick landed with a sickening thud to the ribs and sent him flying back. Sida charged with new intensity, and an upward jab snapped Rurik’s head back. Stumbling, Rurik cradled his ribs, spitting blood.
