that.”
“We can’t risk it. You—you don’t have your battle-fury under control. You were forbidden combat until after you come to full berserking.”
“By Modra Hadley, who only holds sway at the academy.” My entire body is tense. Even my teeth vibrate. “It wouldn’t have been difficult to stomp their pretty asses into the ground.”
Astrid clasps her hands together. “I’m only seventeen. The worst he can call is blood. Not death. But you—if you were entering the ring, you’d have to give your name. They’d know you, and he could have called to death despite your age. Besides, they’d have had guns at the ready in case …”
I close my eyes, seeing the kickback of a dozen rifles and hearing the thunder as my dad jerked again and again and then fell.
She puts a hand on my wrist. I grab her shoulders. “Astrid,” I say helplessly.
“Will you hold my shields?” They’re only more ritual words, but this time I feel like she’s asking me for my whole heart.
My hands tighten on her. I lift her up so her heels leave the sidewalk.
“You’re hurting me,” she whispers.
I drop her as though she’s caught fire. “I’m sorry.” I shouldn’t be here with her, where I can harm her so easily.
We stand still for a moment before she takes one step closer. “Soren Bearskin, will you hold my shields?”
Her voice makes me flush, because she still wants to trust me. Fortunately, there’s an official response, so I don’t have to find my own words. “I will stand at the hazel pole, Astrid Glyn, Freya’s daughter, and hold your shields.”
She takes my hands, the ones that held her too hard. I feel her skin cold against my fever, and as she weaves our fingers together, I stare as if they’re miles away.
Astrid says, “Come on, our sandwiches are waiting, and I’ll need the fuel.”
FIVE
THE HOLMRING IN Bassett, Nebrasge, spreads out within a grove of white birch trees. The black eyes spiraling down the trunks serve as nature’s witness. A shallow square ditch creates a border around the ring, and the grass inside has been stamped down into dust. I stand with Astrid at one corner, which is marked off with four tall poles of hazel wood.
Oz and his soldier friend David huddle together at the opposite corner. I study them, trying to determine how difficult a time Astrid will have.
All around us a crowd has gathered. Half the population of Bassett, I suspect. It’s not every day a holmgang occurs, especially one involving strangers. Adults and children sit on lawn chairs or stand around drinking soda and cans of cheap beer. Cell phones are out, clicking images of the ring, Oz, and us. I want to glower and glare at the culprits, to hide my tattoo even though it’s too late for that. When a guy my age turns on a handheld video camera, I can’t help stepping forward.
Astrid places a hand on my elbow. “There isn’t anything you can do, Soren,” she murmurs.
She’s right. I frown down at her.
Esmeralda found Astrid a pair of loose fight pants that tie at her waist and leave her calves bare. Astrid wears the pants and her own exercise bra and nothing else but the plastic pearls. After she dressed, I ran through stretches with her, and a quick warm-up. Astrid humored me, and waited until I was finished to remind me that she’d been training for holmgang all her life, just as I had. I gritted my teeth and had to acknowledge it. I didn’t like it, but I reminded myself that for most people, holmgang is not life or death as it would be for a berserker. Many of Astrid’s peers hardly even take it seriously, assuming they can buy themselves a champion to fight for them, or get away with only a scratch.
Finally, before coming to the ring, Astrid removed the seething kit from her canvas bag and unrolled it. A single long piece of leather with dozens of pockets sewn inside, the kit held all the ingredients necessary for the seethkona’s trade.
“You aren’t going in altered,” I said,
“We can’t risk it. You—you don’t have your battle-fury under control. You were forbidden combat until after you come to full berserking.”
“By Modra Hadley, who only holds sway at the academy.” My entire body is tense. Even my teeth vibrate. “It wouldn’t have been difficult to stomp their pretty asses into the ground.”
Astrid clasps her hands together. “I’m only seventeen. The worst he can call is blood. Not death. But you—if you were entering the ring, you’d have to give your name. They’d know you, and he could have called to death despite your age. Besides, they’d have had guns at the ready in case …”
I close my eyes, seeing the kickback of a dozen rifles and hearing the thunder as my dad jerked again and again and then fell.
She puts a hand on my wrist. I grab her shoulders. “Astrid,” I say helplessly.
“Will you hold my shields?” They’re only more ritual words, but this time I feel like she’s asking me for my whole heart.
My hands tighten on her. I lift her up so her heels leave the sidewalk.
“You’re hurting me,” she whispers.
I drop her as though she’s caught fire. “I’m sorry.” I shouldn’t be here with her, where I can harm her so easily.
We stand still for a moment before she takes one step closer. “Soren Bearskin, will you hold my shields?”
Her voice makes me flush, because she still wants to trust me. Fortunately, there’s an official response, so I don’t have to find my own words. “I will stand at the hazel pole, Astrid Glyn, Freya’s daughter, and hold your shields.”
She takes my hands, the ones that held her too hard. I feel her skin cold against my fever, and as she weaves our fingers together, I stare as if they’re miles away.
Astrid says, “Come on, our sandwiches are waiting, and I’ll need the fuel.”
FIVE
THE HOLMRING IN Bassett, Nebrasge, spreads out within a grove of white birch trees. The black eyes spiraling down the trunks serve as nature’s witness. A shallow square ditch creates a border around the ring, and the grass inside has been stamped down into dust. I stand with Astrid at one corner, which is marked off with four tall poles of hazel wood.
Oz and his soldier friend David huddle together at the opposite corner. I study them, trying to determine how difficult a time Astrid will have.
All around us a crowd has gathered. Half the population of Bassett, I suspect. It’s not every day a holmgang occurs, especially one involving strangers. Adults and children sit on lawn chairs or stand around drinking soda and cans of cheap beer. Cell phones are out, clicking images of the ring, Oz, and us. I want to glower and glare at the culprits, to hide my tattoo even though it’s too late for that. When a guy my age turns on a handheld video camera, I can’t help stepping forward.
Astrid places a hand on my elbow. “There isn’t anything you can do, Soren,” she murmurs.
She’s right. I frown down at her.
Esmeralda found Astrid a pair of loose fight pants that tie at her waist and leave her calves bare. Astrid wears the pants and her own exercise bra and nothing else but the plastic pearls. After she dressed, I ran through stretches with her, and a quick warm-up. Astrid humored me, and waited until I was finished to remind me that she’d been training for holmgang all her life, just as I had. I gritted my teeth and had to acknowledge it. I didn’t like it, but I reminded myself that for most people, holmgang is not life or death as it would be for a berserker. Many of Astrid’s peers hardly even take it seriously, assuming they can buy themselves a champion to fight for them, or get away with only a scratch.
Finally, before coming to the ring, Astrid removed the seething kit from her canvas bag and unrolled it. A single long piece of leather with dozens of pockets sewn inside, the kit held all the ingredients necessary for the seethkona’s trade.
“You aren’t going in altered,” I said,
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