Demon-Killing Sword

22.2 Ash

"Where are you going?"

Sigurd stopped short, one foot out the door. He turned slowly, as if someone else might be standing there, as if it could be anyone else.

His brother raised his eyebrow back at him, leaned against the wall, arms behind his back, leg at a jaunty angle. He pushed off and glided across the carpet, each step deliberate, a big cat stalking in the jungle.

Despite himself, Sigurd flinched back. His hand tightened on his hilt. "Nowhere."

"Off to fight for Brunhild's hand," his brother surmised.

Sigurd twitched. He glanced at the door. If I run... He glanced back at his brother. The man was unarmed. His knuckles went white. The leather grip pressed into his hand.

His brother reached out. Sigurd backed away. His brother's hand caught him anyways, heavy as an anchor on his shoulder.

A smile. Sudden, unexpected.

Sigurd's stomach churned. He watched his brother, waiting. He was up to something. Nothing good.

"Your lady awaits her knight in shining armor. Here." He drew his arms from behind his back to reveal a helm. Rams' horns curled from either side. The faceplate was featureless, anonymous.

Sigurd stared at it, then looked back up at his brother. His hands didn't move.

"You don't like it? I've had a whole set made," his brother continued. On cue, a servant appeared from one of their passages, a rack of armor rolling after him. His brother held out the helm again.

Brows furrowed, Sigurd took it. It was heavy; proper armor. He turned it over in his hands. No obvious weaknesses. No flaws in the metal. He frowned and peered into its crown at the seal embossed there: two bricks, crossed by a key. He raised his eyebrows. Dwarven make. Demon-made armor? Father must have called in his connections. "What's the catch?"

"A catch? Dear brother," his brother started.

Sigurd raised his hand and cut him off. He tipped the helm towards his brother so the other man could see the seal as well. "Father is involved. Even if I trusted you, dear brother, we both know he doesn't acknowledge me unless he wants something."

The smile became a smirk. "I did say fight for her hand, not win it."

Sigurd narrowed his eyes.

"What would Brunhild's family think if their one and only darling daughter was stolen away by a half-demon? We can't have that." His brother shook his head. "We have gifted Gunnar the same armor. After you defeat Brunhild, Gunnar will take your place and claim her hand."

Sigurd dropped the helm and turned away. Metal clanged on marble. This is nonsense. His brother was making a mockery of him. He finally had the chance to court Brunhild in the open. No force in the seven realms could stop him.

"You have no right to refuse. Accept it, or this will be the end of Brunhild."

He froze. Slowly, Sigurd turned back around.

His brother bent and picked up the helm. Slender fingers feathered over the metal. They hesitated over a small dent, and his brother clicked his tongue. "Brand new dwarven armor. Must you ruin everything?"

"What did you do to Brunhild?" Sigurd demanded.

"Oh, just a little poison. Nothing major. She won't feel a thing... until tomorrow. It starts with bleeding from the gums. The teeth go soon after, and then the nails. She'll lose her appetite, her beauty. Her bones will become fragile, and then... need I go on?"

Sigurd clenched his fists. "You—!"

"But none of that needs to happen." He held out the helm. "Win her hand for Gunnar, and a friend will slip the antidote into her wine tonight."

Sigurd stared at the floor. Red colored his vision. He clenched his fists tight. His sword shivered in its sheath. One strike. One blow, and this man would be gone forever.

It wouldn't get Brunhild the antidote. It wouldn't change the fact that he was half-demon, or a bastard, or a million other things that made him unworthy of Brunhild's hand. Even if I won, what then? No one would accept their pairing. Brunhild's family would laugh it off as if it never happened.

A shadow stood in the corner. It had no eyes, but it watched him. Its shoulders were slumped, eyes cast aside.

Almost mimicking the shadow, Sigurd's head drooped. He closed his eyes, then opened them slowly. There was no chance. There had never been a chance, not from the start.

Sigurd took the helm.

His brother smiled.