Welcome, newbies. You might have seen that this book is now featured? (What? Why?) I'll try not to question it because I'm very happy but yass come on now we just need to climb the rankings. Mwhahaha. All of your comments are brilliant motivation for me nudge nudge wink wink.
"You're an idiot, Tem," I told him.
"At least I'm a handsome idiot," he replied.
Well, I couldn't deny that. "An arrogant idiot."
Temris Ragnyrsbane was running a whetstone down the edge of his sword. As a change from the confinement of the pavilion, we were sat outside in the sun by the smouldering remains of last night's campfire. A dog was barking somewhere nearby, distracting me from what would prove to be an enthralling contest of wit. A few more canine voices joined the ruckus, and the ensuring chorus threatened to tear eardrums.
He smirked with that unbearable smugness. "Aren't you supposed to be nice to me? You know, since I might die in half an hour."
"You might die right now if you don't stop making that infernal scratching sound."
He set aside the whetstone. "Well, I'm sorry for trying to sharpen my sword, Lyra. It's not like I'm going to be fighting to the death with it anytime soon."
It was the challenge which had sparked our argument in the first place. Temris was being a proud fool by refusing to watch Yarrow training beforehand. I had discovered that he had never seen the Brakin Warlord fight before. They had always been on opposite ends — or even sides — of the battlefield.
"Oh, would you shut up about your impending doom? Stop milking it, man up, and do your damn job," I snapped.
"Some might argue that my job requires a touch of sarcasm every now and then. It's far easier to be sarcastic about things that aren't funny."
I glared at him. "Yes, I'm sure every good warlord uses the possibility of his death as emotional blackmail."
"See?" Temris laughed. "You can do it too."
"You know what else I can do? Sneak over to the training rings and get a good look at Yarrow's technique. Actually, that's a great idea! How about we do it right now?"
"Even for you, that was a terribly indiscreet change of subject." The smile slipped straight off his face, to be replaced with a scowl. "For the last time — no. There's no honour in spying."
I braced my forearms against my knees. "There's no honour in losing either, Tem."
"Which is why I fully intend to win."
We stared at each other, interlocked in an unspoken battle of will. Two incredibly stubborn people, who could argue day and night when provoked. Yet, somehow, we had never exchanged more than a dozen angry words at any one time. Maybe it was because every time I looked into his eyes, it felt less like an argument and more like a game — the same game we'd been playing since we'd met.
"Incoming, Ragnyr," Colloe warned suddenly. He was such a constant, silent presence that I had forgotten he was even on duty until then.
The new arrival turned out to be one of the noisy dogs — a huge, scruffy mongrel. He barrelled into Temris with unnerving enthusiasm. The man and dog wrestled briefly until the mongrel settled down on the grass to chew part of the campfire tripod. I found myself edging away from a set of gleaming white teeth and hungry eyes. This was one of the hunting animals who would have tracked me down and ripped me apart after that first escape.
"Heya, boy." Temris ruffled up his fur. "How did you get away from the handlers?"
The dog gave a sharp bark without even removing his mouth from the wooden pole. Then he stood up in one smooth movement and fixed his attention on me. Temris finally seemed to notice my unease.
"Sit," he ordered gruffly. A northern accent slurred his words, thicker than his usual lilt. The dog obeyed grudgingly, every muscle in his lean body remaining tense and ready to spring at the slightest command. I did my best to ignore him.
"I pegged you for more of a wolf-person," I admitted quietly.
Temris chewed the inside of his cheek. "I am. They're a little difficult to tame — and wolf cubs are hard to come by. Did I ever tell you the story of how I earned my nickname?"
"The Wolf of Sierra. Do tell — did you bury a bone or chase your tail?"
He raised his eyebrows. "Dog jokes? That's mature, Lyra."
"Go on, then. Tell me the story. It's not like I have anything better to do, unless you feel like taking a walk over to —"
He clamped a hand over my mouth before I could bring up the taboo subject again, and didn't remove it until he had started talking.
"I was walking to the necropolis on the day of my ascension when we came across a dying deer. I knelt down to put the poor thing out of its misery, never guessing the predator was still lurking. A young she-wolf was lying in the undergrowth. She had been caught by a hoof for the recklessness of tackling such ambitious prey alone. She should have run off, really — there were a dozen of us, all armed. But when I got close enough, the damned beast did the opposite. She pounced and closed her teeth around my sword-arm ... but didn't bite down."
"Gods," I murmured.
Temris chuckled softly. "My thoughts exactly. We just stared at each other for a good minute, knowing all the while that she could have taken off my hand, easy as anything. But she let me go, and to this day I don't understand why. We backed off the kill and left her in peace. Once I was sworn in as warlord, the story spread. Eirac joked that I must be half a wolf myself, and the name stuck."
"There was a dying elk on the road when I was in chains," I remembered. "It looked like a wolf kill."
He frowned at that. "I may not believe in the gods, but someone is certainly trying to tell us something. Either the wolves are getting lazy at finishing the job, or they are omens..."
The dog gave a sudden yipping whine. I flinched at the sound. Our farm dog had made a similar noise when they ripped him away from Emri and—
"Lyra?" Temris asked, concerned. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Something like that.
I shook my head and forced a smile onto my lips. "I'm fine."
"Liar. What's wrong? Don't like dogs?"
No, I like them. It's just..." I couldn't even finish the sentence, damn me, but Temris nodded anyway.
"Colloe, kindly escort this trouble-maker back to his kennel," he ordered. The Iyrak moved to obey wearily. He had been up most of the night on guard duty, since his only replacement was even more sleep-deprived.
"Better?" Temris asked.
"Yeah," I said distractedly. My mind was reeling off the memories now, so it hardly mattered that the trigger was gone. That damned dog had made me think of my family, and it was difficult to stop. Pulling yourself together took an awful lot longer than falling apart.
"Good," he said, without looking entirely convinced, "because it's time to go."
Temris stood up and offered me a hand. When I was on my feet as well, we set off at a brisk walk. Colloe returned to trail a few paces behind. Bevan materialised from the crowds and fell into step beside us, and Samira was not far behind him. Most of the northmen were headed in the same direction — the Pass.
The entire army would line up on the cliffs at the top, Sierran loyalists on one side and Brakins on the other to discourage fighting between the factions. Only the corps leaders from each warband were allowed to be on the floor of the rift valley. They would swear their fealty to whoever won.
"Are there rules?" I asked as we navigated the streams of people.
"I'll let Bevan explain. He's supposed to have been studying the subject."
And Bevan did. "They're simple. One weapon each, no armour or shields. Supposedly, it's so neither competitor can have an advantage because of their upbringing or wealth. There was a time when the Iyrak fought each other, too, but we outlawed that in the Age of Seafarers. Long before that, it would be a wrestling match — bare hands only. Obviously, steel hadn't been discovered at that point. The first iron was extracted from the earth in the second millennia and successfully smelted a decade later."
"Alright, enough," Temris laughed. "She asked for the rules, not a complete history of Aenmia."
He was remarkably cheery for someone facing a fight to the death. Then I remembered — he had done this three times before. And survived, all three times.
The Pass was completely clear of bodies. The pyres had burned down overnight, leaving behind nothing but ashes and the smell of death. It was that stench which filled my nose as Temris ducked into a roped off ring which spanned a dozen paces in every direction. The corps leaders were already surrounding it, but Colloe secured a little patch of trampled ground for us. Yarrow had yet to arrive.
I played the coat stand while Temris stripped off his jerkin and cloak, leaving him in just a shirt and breeches. It was a warm day, and personally I was feeling the heat without completing rigorous activities. Both men would be sweating before this was over. One would be dead.
Finally, Temris implanted his sword in the dry ground at the centre of the ring before returning to talk to us. The others were beginning to arrive — Anlai and Melia appeared together and then a familiar head of dark hair slipped through the crowd.
"Go to bed," Temris told Fendur. "You can't have gotten more than an hour of sleep in the last two days."
Fendur grinned, but there was an undertone of worry in his voice. "And miss all the excitement? No, thank you."
Temris nodded. There was relief in his eyes, and I knew he appreciated the Iyrak's presence far more than he opposed it. "If anything happens, get my brother back to Sierra. If you" —he directed a harsh stare at Anlai— "won't challenge Yarrow and Samira isn't allowed to, you may want to get him out of the country before the king sets it alight."
"As you say, Ragnyr."
"I don't think Glyn's here," I added.
The warlord turned his full attention to me. "He will be. Oh, and Fen?"
The Iyrak raised an eyebrow.
"Get Lyra somewhere safe while you're at it."
"I'm right here," I protested. "And I don't want to run and hide."
"You won't have to," Temris promised. "Because I'm going to win. This is just ultimate precaution."
A ragged cheer from the Brakin side of the Pass told me that Yarrow had made his entrance. Now there were two warlords in the ring and two swords in the centre. It was beginning.
Temris gave me one last lingering look before smirking. "It's a real pity you can't give me a good luck kiss without forfeiting the bet."
"What's this? What bet?" Fendur asked sharply.
I explained in as little detail as possible. The Iyrak groaned audibly. "No, no, no. I won't allow it. You two are bad enough when you're together, let alone when you're stewing in unfulfilled hormonal desires. There are times when sexual tension really can kill, you know."
"Oh, hush. A little competition never hurt anyone," I scolded him. "Now go and kill that Brakin prick, Tem."
"You're really starting to sound like a northerner," Temris said wryly. I took that as praise.
He hugged his sister, exchanged a wild grin with Anlai and clasped hands with Fendur. Then, without any further ado, Temris Ragnyrsbane turned to face Yarrow and defend his title. The army whooped and whistled at the sight of their leaders facing off. It quickly settled to an excitable silence as they retrieved their blades and squared off.
A slight commotion behind me materialised in the form of Glyn. He squirmed towards us and slotted into line beside Anlai. I cast him a suspecting glance, half wondering if he had been deliberately late to avoid talking to his brother.
But those thoughts and all others faded from my mind as Temris and Yarrow began to circle each other warily. There was no formal announcement, no other customs to fulfil. The challenge had been issued. Now it was just a matter of fighting it out.
The two men watched each other with a predator's honed alertness. Temris ended the brief period of observation when he swung his sword so fast that I could hear the steel singing. Yarrow barely pulled up his cross-guard in time to catch the blow. The warlord's face set into a determined snarl as he disengaged and made his counter-attack.
Back and forth they went, trading blows with increasing violence and daring. My heart thundered in my chest, setting a tempo for the deadly dance. There was an immense satisfaction in watching two incredibly skilled warriors thrashing it out. They didn't just use their own weapons to dodge attacks — instead moving their own bodies as often as their blades. And soon, bare fists and boots were used whenever they got close enough to physically tussle.
Temris took a punch to the chin before the engagement was over, but his blade had caught his opponent's shin. Every step Yarrow took sprayed red blood onto the ground beneath him. He began to move awkwardly, avoiding motion unless absolutely necessary. A feral grin graced Temris's lips when he noticed this, and the fight changed rapidly.
His blade swung left, right, up and down. Attacks came from every direction and angle until Yarrow could barely defend himself, let alone produce his own offensive. As good a swordsman as the Brakin was, he was beyond outmatched by his Sierran counterpart. Temris was playing with him.
The fight only lasted a few more blows before Yarrow made a mistake. He fell for a feint, leaving his legs wide open. Temris cut low, yet turned his blade at the last minute so it was the flat which struck Yarrow's ankle. Some people might have thought it was to show off, yet I recognised it for mercy. Temris didn't want Yarrow to leave this world as a broken man. The Brakin Warlord toppled like a felled tree, landing flat on his back. A studded boot pressed down his wrist, and an instant later, Yarrow was unarmed.
"It didn't have to be this way, you know."
Temris flipped the sword in his hand and touched it to his opponent's unprotected throat. Yarrow froze in place and spat. His face morphed from anger to resignation in a heartbeat. Warriors — I would never comprehend their relationship with death.
"I made my choice, and I stand by it. At least let me die on my feet, Ragnyrsbane."
He nodded and rested the blade on his shoulder as Yarrow rose to his full height, slowly, clumsily. Then, while Temris's guard was lowered, the vanquished northerner seized the opportunity to slash at him with a flash of silver steel. The dagger, I later learnt, had been strapped to his forearm. Cheater. A thousand throats jeered in unison at the attack. Honour aside, it was the action of a coward. Yet Temris just stepped backwards and swept his own sword down in a smooth, lazy arc.
Yarrow collapsed into a pool of his own blood, well and truly dead. I couldn't bring myself to care. He had died on his feet, as he had wished, but with a stain of dishonour that could never be washed away. I supposed I should have seen it coming. He had been desperate to emerge victorious, at any cost.
Temris considered the lifeless body with an uncharacteristically icy look in his eyes. "I win."
No one disagreed.