Disappointed mutterings were rising all around the circle of watching campers. Archie gave voice to the general discontent. “So you’re not actually going to fight?”
Ragvald cast the boy a puzzled look. “Friend Conleth is my shield-brother. Why would we fight?”
“Well said, Ragvald,” Paige said firmly. “Fighting is never a good idea. Tug-of-war sounds much better.”
Conleth did not share this opinion. With mounting dread, he realized Ragvald had hit upon the one form of contest where his own speed power would be completely, utterly useless.
“Let me help you with that, Ragvald,” he said for the benefit of the crowd. Under the pretense of untangling the rope, he hissed in the wyrm’s ear, “And how is falling flat on my face supposed to help me impress Archie and Paige?”
“Have faith, friend Conleth,” Ragvald murmured back. “I would not humiliate you in front of your mate. Trust me to have your back, shield-brother.”
Ragvald straightened, reverting to his usual deafening tones. “Hear me, o fortunate souls! Still your tongues and halt your breath, for you will not wish to miss a single moment of this epic battle. Surely your children’s children shall one day beg to hear you relate the tale of this day!”
The campers—all literal children themselves—looked somewhat dubious about this. Nonetheless, they settled down. An expectant hush descended.
“I shall draw out the boundaries, and explain the rules,” Ragvald continued. “We do not wish any unfortunate misunderstanding.”
Ragvald dragged his foot through the mud, scoring a deep line. Moving to one side, he made another, about five feet away. He laid out the rope so that the large central knot lay halfwaybetween the two lines. Several smaller knots were tied into each end of the rope, presumably to provide better grip.
“My territory, and yours,” Ragvald said, gesturing at the two areas he’d marked out. “The area between represents the sea, which belongs to none, yes? The first to claim the treasure knot shall be the victor, but he who strays past his own territory instantly loses the bout. Does this match your rules of—what was the phrase—war of tugging?”
“Tug of war,” Moira corrected. “And yes, it’s about the same. Though we usually play in teams.”
“Is that so?” Ragvald contemplated this for a moment, then shrugged. “How odd. But I suppose it is natural for you outlanders to always unite in a war band. Numbers are your only advantage. You are so very small, after all.”
Conleth was painfully aware that this was indeed the case, relatively speaking. He was no lightweight himself, but Ragvald was built like a pile of bricks. He ran a brief calculation of his chance of being able to dislodge the wyrm so much as an inch, and came up with a number that was very much not in his favor.
But he couldn’t back down now. Steeling himself, he picked up one end of the rope. “I believe we’re all on the same page. Shall we get on with it?”
“Not so fast, friend Conleth.” Ragvald’s expression turned more serious. “I do not know how you outlanders do things, but in my land, toga honk is a most revered and ancient ritual, and not to be taken lightly. I must insist we follow all proper form, as tradition demands.”
Oh God, what now?Conleth braced himself for whatever fresh horror the wyrm was about to unleash.
“We must face each other as the revered ancestors once did!” Ragvald ripped off his camp t-shirt, letting the shredded remnants flutter to the ground. “Bold and bare-chested, as befits true warriors!”
If there was one word Conleth had not previously associated with Ragvald, it was ‘guile.’ Now he was forced to revise his opinion of the wyrm. Perhaps he really was trying to help.
Conleth pulled his own t-shirt over his head, casting it aside. He deliberately didnotglance at Paige, but his acute shifter hearing picked up a distinct intake of breath from that direction. His opinion of Ragvald ticked up several more notches.
“I am Ragvald Ragnarsson of Clan Fyrgard!” Ragvald declared at the top of his lungs. He grabbed one end of the rope, winding it several times around one brawny forearm. “No man has ever defeated me at toga honk, nor managed to make me take so much as a single step! I shall emerge victorious this day!”
The wyrm looked expectantly at him. Hoping Ragvald knew what he was doing, Conleth picked up his end of the rope.
“I am Conleth Tiernach-West of… here, I suppose.” Since wrapping the rope around his wrist seemed like a good way to lose a hand, he settled for taking as firm a grip as he could manage. “I have never toga honked in my entire life, and I wish I wasn’t now.”
Ragvald shot him a broad grin of approval before glancing at Moira. “Will you do us the honor of giving the count, Princess?”
“Very well,” Moira said, though her face said she still had distinct doubts about this entire situation. “On the count of three, then.”
Conleth had worked out Ragvald’s plan by now. The wyrm had done everything short of spelling it out in semaphore, after all. He could only hope that Ragvald’s heavy-handed hinting about ’no one ever managing to make him take a single step’ meant that the wyrm didn’t plan to throw the matchtooobviously.
Moira lifted her voice. “One…”
The rope tightened as Ragvald took a step back, taking up the slack.
“Two…”
Conleth tensed, waiting for the final call. Ragvald might be more subtle than he’d previously suspected, but that was not a high bar to clear. He’d have to play this carefully.
