“A benefit of fighting here for many long years,” snarled Thorir, “isIunderstand the rules. No blade can be brought into the ring by a combatant. But this”—he brandished the blade—“was not brought by either of us.”
Saga’s heart flew to her throat. Already the blade was slashing through the air as Thorir launched himself at Rurik. All honor and discipline flew out the window. The two warriors grappled, Rurik holding the blade off with sheer will. But his left side was weakened, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, and Thorir would always win when it came to pure strength.
Rurik pounded at Thorir’s forearm, trying to loosen the blade. But the bigger man surprised him with an overhand attack, the blade slashing through Rurik’s right shoulder.
With a shout of pain, Rurik threw his head forward, his forehead striking Thorir’s nose with a wet smack, then flipped over his opponent in aninhuman leap. Before Saga could consider the impossibility of such a feat, Rurik landed behind Thorir, delivering a swift kick to the back of his knees. With a shove from Rurik, Thorir landed with a bone-shaking thud.
The crowd quieted as the enormous man lay motionless. A pair of warriors rushed in and rolled him onto his back. Protruding from his stomach was the hilt of the dagger, Thorir’s hand still wrapped around it.
A hush fell over the room.
Thorir’s blue eyes were wide in his ruddy face, blood trickling around the hilt of the dagger. Rurik snatched the bell and placed it in the large man’s hand. And then, the unthinkable happened.
Thorir the Giant rang the bell.
“Healer!” Ivar’s gruff voice cut through the silence. He stepped into the ring, kneeling before Thorir, and handing him a cup of ale. “You fought well, Giant. And you will live to fight well again. Let the healer take out the blade.”
As King Ivar righted himself, his stern gaze met Rurik’s. He was silent a long moment, chewing on words he did not wish to speak. “And you, Champion,” he said with a decided note of bitterness, “you, too, have fought well.” His voice rose as he turned to the crowd. “It has been many long years since a champion has been crowned in this circle. Let us raise a cup to the warriors who fought valiantly on this night.”
Cups and horns and goblets were raised around the room.
Ivar turned back to Rurik. “And let us raise a cup to our new champion, Lord Kassandr Rurik, from the Kingdom of Zagadka!”
The crowd muttered in displeasure, parting in the back corner as a pair of warriors pushed through.
“And tonight, Lord Rurik,” continued the king, “we have a special ceremony. One in honor of the princess’s coming of age. Tonight, you will partake in an honor experienced by but a handful of my highest esteemed.”
Saga’s brows drew together as she examined the small chest carried between the two warriors. They descended the steps into the fighting ring and flipped the lid open.
King Ivar reached in. Pulled the item out for all to see.
Saga recoiled, her heart surging into her throat. Gasping for breath, she staggered out of the crowd. The room was spinning; the walls were closing in on her.
Out!her mind screamed.Escape. Exits. Must get out!
Her hands met a stone wall. Groped along it. Her gaze bounced from exit to exit, Thorir’s words echoing in her mind.
There are men at each doorway who will deny your exit.
Breathe, she could not breathe. But then she saw it—the doorway leading tothe outdoor courtyard. By some miracle, it was unmanned. She moved along the wall, trying to block out all sound. But as Saga staggered through the doorway and into the cool night air, the king’s voice chased her.
“Tonight, Lord Rurik, you will have the honor of drinking from King Kjartan’s skull.”
Chapter Seventy-Two
The rich smolder of the hall extinguished to a dark, moonless night. Raindrops spattered Saga’s bare collarbones, and her slippered feet stumbled along the flagstones. All of it felt strangely distant. Another girl in another time, fleeing from the monstrous people who’d killed her father and now drank from his skull.
The skies spun above, the fog of her breath twisting upward and catching in the castle’s light.
Laughter and cheers filtered through the door, sliding like knives into her skin. His skull. They were drinking from herfather’sskull, like some sort of game. As though sitting on his throne and dismantling his country stone by stone was not enough, they needed to degrade him further through this abhorrent ritual.
A burn crept up her throat, but she could not give in. Could not cry.
Away!her mind screamed.Escape.She needed to get as far away from that room, those people, this castle, this life.
Distantly, she remembered she would be leaving tomorrow. She needed only to make it through the daymeal. But the sight of her father’s skull had pushed her beyond reasoning. She could not think, could not wrangle her turbulent mind. The light dimmed…or was smothered by darkness as her feet carried her deeper, farther from those people. Saga found herself in a land of dark, twisted shadows and cool, crisp rain.
Rain.
