Father and Idris face off.
Their spears smack together. They strike with precise, practiced blows, locked in a lethal dance. There’s something graceful about the way Idris fights. Father is all brutal efficiency, but Idris fights like it’s an art. He’s the only hunter who can rival Father.
If only I could be more likehim.
I watch in wonder until their sparring match ends in a tie.
It always does. As exceptional as Idris is, even he can’t beat my father.
No one can.
“Who’s up first?” Father asks once the demonstration is over.
He doesn’t have to explain what he means. Every training session begins the same way. We face each other in a hólmganga. Outside these walls, the ancient duels are illegal. Too many died from them. But Skallagrim loves its traditions, no matter how dangerous.
Father walks along the line of hunters with a frown, glancing from our leathers down to our tall boots. His cloak sways as he walks by. “No volunteers?”
Everyone fears his judgment.
Father tends to have that effect on people.
He comes to a stop in front of me. “Amund,” he says, and I forcemyself not to flinch at the sound of my name. “Since you arrived last, you can go first.”
I wince. Between hunting and patrol, he knows I’ve had a couple of long nights. Unlike me, he shows no trace of exhaustion. How does he do it? And more important, why can’t I? Father must be wondering the same thing. No doubt that’s why he targeted me.
Idris gives me an encouraging nod as I step forward into the ring and stand before the class. More than a few of my classmates look resentful, mistaking my father’s targeting for favoritism. If only they knew the truth.
Father tosses me his spear. “Here.”
Of all the weapons we train with, spears have always been my favorite. This one feels good. Balanced. I ignore the ache in my arms and spin the spear, passing it between my hands. The class may have just learned these techniques recently, but I’ve been doing them my whole life. Father has given me a brutal education. He started early so I could follow in his footsteps, but his shoes still feel too large to fill.
Idris looks out over the gathered class. “Amund still needs an opponent. Anyone?”
“Sure, why not?” My closest friend, Val, steps forward and shifts her weight to her other hip. Her black hair is pulled back into neatly braided rows, and her warm brown skin contrasts with her dark leather armor. She looks ready for battle.
Surprise ripples through me. Spears may be my favorite, but Val is obsessed with her knives. She has a belt full of them strapped across her chest. Her emotional support knives, she calls them. Usually with a smirk.
Val is the last person I’d expect to volunteer against me. We’ve trained together for so long, she knows all my strengths and weaknesses as well as I know hers. Still, judging from her relaxed posture, she’s confident she can win.
For me, facing a friend is harder than any foe.
“Very well, Valerie,” Father says.
Val joins me in the ring. The rest of the students close around us in a tight circle, cutting off any escape. Like many hunters, Val was recruited young after a berserkr attacked her family. She’s one of our best. I can’t go easy on her because she’s my friend.
“You both know the rules,” Father continues. “Fight until first blood is drawn. Step outside the bounds of the circle and be considered argr.”
Idris grimaces at the word while Val smirks.
Unmanly.Historically, it was one of the gravest insults a warrior could be given. To people like my father, it still is. And he isn’t afraid to use it.
Father looks between us, his expression hard as stone. “Let the hólmganga begin.”
We may no longer be hunting, but this is another test. Father will be watching my every move. Failure isn’t an option.
Val comes at me as soon as she picks up her spear. Just as I expected. I block the blow, the force of the impact traveling up my arms. Val always goes for the first strike. She’s impatient. Eager. She’s been like that since we were young.
I use her momentum to knock her aside.
