Chief Braniel and Chief Rend stand side by side, their faces bruised, their beards still dripping. When Talia and I tossed buckets of water on them as they rolled across the floor, I thought maybe they’d turn their rage against us. But they sat up, looked at each other, then let out the deepest laugh I’ve ever heard. I’ll have to thank the bear-sisters of Sul for the water once this is over.
Talia is beside me, a small smirk still on her lips. She’s apparently found the whole thing greatly amusing. I’m still fighting the urge to slip away now that the entire room’s attention is focused on us.
“Nothing like a good brawl to lift the mood!” Chief Braniel bellows. He receives cheers in return, more wine sloshing from cracked goblets and cups. “But back to business. Kasten and Talia, step forward.”
We do as he commands, the room falling into a deep silence.
“There are dark times on the horizon.” Chief Braniel looks over the gathered warriors with serious eyes. “The cowardly Bladorians, always rat like in their resolve, have hired others to fight us in their stead.” Angry murmurs ripple through the crowd. “The whole of the Silver Serpent company is on their way from Eastern Arthan. They will arrive in Count Tanner’s city of Isren within two moons.”
“But,” Chief Rend adds. “We won’t let them strike the first blow.”
“Indeed. Chief Rend and I have already made an agreement. We will strike at Isren itself. We will kill Count Tanner, his soldiers, and all the people of his city. Nothing but ash and bones will remain. None will dare challenge our sacred right to raid again.”
There’s some enthusiastic shouts from the crowd, but more than one warrior looks to the brothers beside him with uncertain eyes. And I can’t blame them. The village we attacked was relatively small and undefended. Isren is the second largest city on the Bladorian coast, and Count Tanner is cousin to King Osten of Bladoria. Swordfather used to say that a wounded beast fights the fiercest, so what will Bladoria do after Isren falls? Even rats fight when cornered. I hope you know what you’re doing, Uncle.
“That is why young warriors such as these are needed in these trying times.” Braniel places one hand on my shoulder and another on Talia’s. “Unbloodied no longer, draw your weapons.”
Talia’s axe slips free from her belt and my sword takes to the air, both weapons held high.
“I, Braniel the Unbroken, Chief of the Sea Claws and slayer of southern fools, hereby declare you warriors now and forever more.”
A wave hits me. Joy, sorrow, longing, and excitement mixing, nearly taking my breath away. The warriors in the hall blend into a mass of cheers and shouts, cups clanging together and brothers embracing. I spot Briar in the chaos. His face is pale, his mouth a hard line. To think, after all your scheming and venom over the years, I was named warrior before you. I savor his misery and thrust my blade even higher in the air, a warrior’s battle cry on my lips.
“Clear away the table!” Chief Braniel strides forward and grabs the massive oak beast by its legs. “We have duels to watch and a blood price to be paid!”
I let my thrusting blade fall to my side. I’d forgotten about the duels and the prisoners. Talia is looking at me like she expects answers, and I hurry with her to the corner to escape the drunken men who jostle around us.
“Serpent prisoners,” I say. “There’s two of them held in the back.”
“Uncle Rend mentioned something about entertainment to me before the feast began. Though I figured he was talking about the mock duels you usually see at naming’s.” She laughs and gestures at the men piling chairs and tables into the far corner. “Oh, how quickly we’re forgotten.”
“Guess this is our welcome to adulthood.”
“Can’t say I like it so far.” She loops her axe back to her belt. “You said there were two prisoners? Guess that means one for each of us.”
“Wait, we’re going to be the ones fighting?” My heart races, the duel with Alden invading my mind. The fires and screams come next. Blood on my hands. Blood everywhere.
“Of course. We’re the real attraction.” She pauses and looks me up and down. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, fake smile plastered on my face. It’s like the air has suddenly left me, and the walls of the longhouse are too tight, suffocating me, boxing me in. What is wrong with me? I cross my arms over my chest in order to hide my shaking hands.
“Young warriors!” Chief Braniel calls us to his side, the table and chairs cleared away from the center of the hall. As we approach, he snaps a command to Gunner and Galmar to retrieve the prisoners. “Are you ready Kasten? It’s time to show the Yellow Tusk your skill.”
My mouth is sand dry and my tongue flops uselessly in my mouth. In the end, I simply nod.
The prisoners arrive within moments. The youngest of the pair is still red eyed, a purple welt on his mouth from Uncle’s backhand. The elder warrior holds a steady glare, his chin held high, the same bored expression on his face. Shoulder to shoulder, Galmar brings them before Talia and I, chains rattling from their ankles.
“Since you are the eldest,” Chief Braniel says, grinning. “Rend and I decided you would get first pick.”
“Pick,” I mumble, stomach sour like the word is poisonous.
“Yes, either one is yours to claim.”
Just like when we arrived and set fire to that Bladorian village, my heart screams at me to flee. The great oak doors of the longhouse are open a crack at the far end of the hall. If I really push myself, I can make it through them before anyone can stop me. Getting off the island after will be difficult, but I can hide in the forest. Stealing one of the small fishing boats wouldn’t be too much trouble after that. But where would I go once I hit the water? Hafthan, Bladoria? Maybe even Arthan in the south?
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“Having trouble?” Chief Rend asks, a cup of mead held close to his lips. “Let Talia choose if you cannot decide.”
I look to her, finding only calmness. Her shoulders are proud, her chin held high. Not an ounce of fear about her soft features. Letting her choose would be the easy option, but I know Uncle would be disappointed in me. What would father do? Instinctively, I search the crowd for Einer or Bear-sister Ryka. But I can’t find them. Einer is gone and Ryka is probably still tending to Sarl. I’m alone.
“Him,” I say, pointing to the younger warrior.
Chief Braniel’s shoulders sag. “Are you sure?”
The older warrior stares at me, cold eyes regarding me like the fox does the hare. I can tell by the way he holds himself, the way his feet move. He’s skilled, probably far more skilled than me. Still looking at him, the fear twisting in my chest answers Braniel’s question.
“I’m sure. I will fight the younger serpent. Talia can have the old man.” I say old man like an insult in order to soften my shame. But as I walk to the center of the room, I can tell the other warriors know I picked the easier opponent. Even drunk as they are, they know a coward when they see one.
“Very well. Gunnar, you have the serpent’s weapon?”
Gunnar appears from behind Talia, a thin blade in his hands. “I do.”
“Galmar, remove the boy’s chains. Everyone else, give them some space.”
The world moves slowly. Galmar unshackles the young serpent, Talia behind him. She’s looking at me with such sad eyes. My chest burns, my decision eating at me. She’ll have to fight the other serpent when I’m through. What if she ends up injured, or worse? What will they think of me then? I’m a warrior now. I repeat it to myself over and over again, but it feels like a lie, a ruse that everyone is in on but me. My breath catches in my throat, the air becoming thinner as they hand my opponent his blade. It’s about as long as mine, but thinner—Much thinner, with a gleam to the edge that shines in the firelight. Still staring at it, I realize I haven’t yet drawn my sword. Pulling it free, the blade feels so foreign to me, like it belongs to someone else.
“Your name, boy,” Rend says. I’m so distracted I think he’s talking to me at first. But I’m a man now, right? No longer a boy.
“My name is Jarell,” the young serpent says, taking his position across from me.
“I am Kasten,” I say after a moment’s hesitation.
Then silence. We watch each other, swords out in front, the crowd melting away. I’ve been here before. But this is different. The warriors of two tribes watch me, and as the boy sets his stance, I can see he is no stranger to the blade he wields. This will not be like it was with Alden on the beach. If I take this boy lightly, it will be me bleeding out, killed the very night of my naming. What a sad story that would make.
As if some hidden trumpet sounded, the silence is shattered. The young serpent dashes ahead with blinding speed, his thin blade jabbing. I step back and to the side, my blade arcing down, sending the first thrust wide. But he recovers quickly, steel flashing out in a blur. I knock away the first lunge, but the second grazes my cheek. Hot blood drips from my chin, and we circle away from each other, both searching for an opening.
He lowers and comes again with another lunging strike, but I step back and curve my blade in an arc. The impact of the two blades sends a shiver up my arm, but his lighter sword is knocked away. Not giving him time to recover, I press the attack. But he’s too fast. He moves away and my sword slices nothing but air. Another jab nicks me on the arm as I try and regain my footing, and another is knocked away at the last moment, the tip only a hairs length from my throat.
Our skill is nearly even, but he’s much faster than I am. And judging by how steady his breathing is, he’s in better shape too. I can’t win in a battle of speed or attrition. He comes again with a flurry, and I do my best to keep distance between us. He’s reading my blocks now. Soon he’ll start throwing in feints, and if my timing is off by even a single second, I’ll be skewered. I search my memories, looking for some answer to his speed in the many hours I spent practicing in Swordfather’s hall. Then it comes to me.
When a child of Hafthan turns five summers old, they are brought to a table with an axe, hammer, spear, and sword. They must pick one, and the type of weapon they choose will be sworn to them, and they will spend the rest of their lives learning to master it. No one is allowed to influence the child’s decision, and yet almost all sons and daughters of the Great Bear and Wolf pick the axe, spear, or hammer. The sword is considered a southern weapon and is not favored by my people. How shocked Father was when I picked out the longsword. He introduced me to Swordfather not long after that, one of the only men in Hafthan who mastered the blade. It was in his hall I met Einer, the most skilled warrior I’ve ever known. The long days sparring with him come at me in a flash, his ability to mimic southern fighting styles forming in the front of my mind. And as the serpent lowers for another attack, I recognize in his movements a style I’ve faced before.
“Arthan fencing,” I say, the serpent pausing for a moment.
“You’re familiar?” he says, circling me.
“I know someone whose got a knack for mimicking your people’s fighting styles." I let my eyes drift down to his feet. “Not a lot of people in Hafthan fight with swords. If you brought an axe or hammer, my odds would be better.” I draw in a breath, waiting for the moment I know is coming. “But I know how to beat you."
The serpent huffs. “Unfortunately for you, I was taught by Jonas Longclaw himself. You northern dogs could never compare.”
Arthan fencing relies on quick thrusts and aggression, their attacks meant to slip through their opponent’s overwhelmed defenses. But their flurries always start with a single stiff thrust, one that has to be propelled with great force to close in on their foes. That’s why I watch his feet. The moment he widens his stance for that first thrust, I’ll step in close and throw the shot wide. Doesn’t matter how fast he is so long as I can get to him before he’s ready.
Then it happens. His front foot flashes out and his knees bend. I step forward and to the right, getting in close before he makes the thrust. His eyes go wide, and he tries to correct himself, but I bring my blade down, then up in a small, looping arc. His sword is thrown high, and he goes for a quick step back, but my foot is behind his lead leg. He trips on it, rolling to his side, then his back. Before he can bring his sword up to defend himself, my blade slices down his face. Then, before he can scream, I drive the tip of my sword through his heart.
I pull my blade free with a wet squelch, blood ringing in my ears and breath hot in my throat. But as the warriors around me erupt with cheers, I smile. Why was I ever so afraid? I thrust my sword high and cry out in victory. My boot presses on the dead boy’s chest as I roar, feeling like Father Wolf must be smiling down from the heavens.
“A good fight,” Chief Braniel says, clapping his hands.
Whatever shame I felt prior to the duel evaporates. Energy buzzes in my veins, and I want more. More battle, more victory. I search for the older serpent, ready to claim him as my next quarry.
But voices from the longhouse doors draw me away. Standing there is Einer, grim faced as usual. But a man I’ve never seen stands beside him. He’s short with hair black as the night sky, and darker skin than I’ve ever seen. He wears a strange robe of purple silk, the edges hemmed with golden leaves. He makes no sound as he approaches, the metal rings in his curly beard tapping together silently. The air around him simmers and shifts, sparkling here and there like light through a crystal. He smiles, his teeth a perfect shade of white.
“Hello good people of Hafthan.” His voice is soft, but the accent is guttural, almost harsh to my ears.
“Who are you?” Chief Braniel asks, all eyes on the newcomer.
“I am Vezitar of distant Zandalor, and I come with a declaration of war.”