Saga’s hand flew to her mouth. His ribs, the ones he’d told her were healing.
The crowd went wild, tasting a hint of victory.
“Some champion he is,” snarled a man to Saga’s left. “Sida’ll take him out in the first round.”
Heart thundering, Saga thought of Ana, of how she’d taken her pain. Could she do this for Rurik to give him an edge? But she’d never been able to find the thread of Rurik’s thoughts, which meant there was nothing for her to latch on to. It seemed he’d have to win this match on his own.
Saga grew light-headed as Sida advanced, then launched a fierce kick at Rurik.
The match-ending blow.
And it was, only Rurik was not on the receiving end. Throwing himself down, Rurik rolled under Sida’s leaping body. His leg swept up. Caught Sida’s shins. She crashed toward the floor, an arm thrown out.
The wet crack of bone filled the air as Sida’s arm broke her fall, her skull colliding with the floor soon after.
The hall fell silent.
Saga held her breath, counted the heartbeats. But Sida did not stand.
“The victor is Rurik,” yelled the king, and the crowd jeered.
Rurik straightened as though his ribs did not pain him in the least. Their eyes met, and Saga stared in disbelief. Had he—did he just?—
And in that moment, Saga realized she’d underestimated Kassandr Rurik. Those first successful blows landed by Sida had been nothing but a ruse for Rurik to study her moves. And after enough time had passed, he’d brought her back to that very same sequence and used it against her.
It seemed the lout was smarter than he looked.
Saga felt herself smiling. Shook her head slowly. And decided a nerve-calming cup of mead was most definitelyin order.
Rurik quickly provedhimself to be a man of many tricks. His moves changed with each opponent, felling one within seconds of starting the match, and another after three-quarters of an hour. He used the crowd to his advantage, deliberately provoking his opponent to anger and using chaos to disorient them.
But Rurik was only a man, and as the matches continued, his energy flagged. He took more hits—to his jaw, his ribs, his knee—leaving him gritting his teeth. Yet he persisted. The crowd grew more agitated with each passing brawl, their thirst for his blood only growing.
“Victory to Rurik,” barked the king after the fourth match, irritation etched in his face. The crowd spat curses, howling with impatience. More sólas were passed around, warriors begging to be let into the ring.
Rov wiped sweat from Rurik’s brow, talking in rapid Zagadkian.
“Fifth round,” bellowed King Ivar, “will be fought by Thorir the Giant.”
The crowd whipped into a drunken frenzy, parting as Thorir ambled forward. Saga swallowed heavily. Of course it would be Thorir—undefeated in this very ring. She took in the warrior—arms thick as tree trunks, shoulders as broad as a grizzly bear’s. He was larger and far stronger than Rurik. Saga had seen the man fight in this ring before, had seen his lethal punch crush more than a few skulls. Thorir could take a blow like none other. And while the man might be dim-witted in conversation, he was anything but in battle. This ring was his domain.
Another wave of nausea hit Saga as she watched Rurik shake out his shoulders. The Zagadkian’s eyes had a mad sort of gleam to them. Thorir stepped into the ring, a linen undertunic stretched around his broad barrel chest.
The crowd quieted, every eye in the hall fixed on the two men in the ring.
“At last they are sending the red troll man,” said Rurik, flashing a sharp smile.
Thorir growled.
The king raised his goblet. “Skál!” he bellowed.
And with that, combat began. Thorir did not waste time charging at Rurik. But the Zagadkian deftly twisted away. Again, Thorir launched at him, and again, Rurik evaded.
“Fight, you coward,” snarled Thorir, swinging hard.
But Rurik rolled beneath Thorir’s lethal fist, springing nimbly into a crouch.
“Little frightened girl,” taunted Thorir. “Fight like a man.”
