Page 115 of Blood Beneath the Snow

I couldn’t resist glancing up at the audience to where my father watched. He smiled, waiting for Björn to gut me so he could move on with his life. Without a disobedient daughter in his way.

An idea flashed through my mind, and without a second thought I turned and bolted, running as fast as I could away from Björn, dodging obstacles along the way.

The crowd’s noise overwhelmed my senses as I fled to the other side of the arena, breathing heavily. If I could get far enough away, maybe I could nail him with one of my daggers.

But I hadn’t counted on the strength of his Lurae. I felt the flameslick at my ankles as a path of fire formed behind me. My throat closed up. I pulled one of my daggers from my belt and turned, blindly hurling it in Björn’s direction. I missed, and the crowd laughed.

Exhaustion threatened to trip me, but I moved fast—until a wall of flame exploded in front of me, stopping me in my tracks. I turned to bolt the other way but was met by flames on all sides. Björn walked through the wall of fire, sword sheathed again. He held a single slim dagger, flipping it over and over in his hand. I threw one of my own in his direction. My aim was true, and it scraped across the side of his face, but he appeared not to notice it.

Blood dripped like tears down his cheek and he smiled. “Come, now, sister. Surely you never thought you could win this.”

Shame flooded my cheeks.

I had thought I could win. I’d counted on Björn’s arrogance being his downfall, but his Lurae overpowered me at every turn. There was no way out.

I drew my sword again, engaging him in battle once more. A step-ball-change kept the flesh of my leg safe from a more desperate strike of his. For a long moment it seemed I might be winning.

And then he disarmed me in a flash. His foot swept under my legs, and I couldn’t think fast enough to recover my balance. I stumbled, my palms colliding with the dirt. Rolling over was a mistake—within seconds, Björn had grabbed my wrists in one hand, and planting a knee on my rib cage, pinned me to the ground. A hiss made its way through my lips and Björn put his hand over my mouth.

“Shh,” he coaxed. “I have a gift for you.”

He held his dagger over my face and I closed my eyes, waiting for death, waiting to be incinerated, but instead a sharp pain pierced my cheek. I cried out as I felt the dagger draw a thin, sharp line across my face, right where my war paint decorated my cheeks and forehead. The X-shaped marking, so delicately drawn there that morning, now streamed blood.

I screamed and writhed under the knife, but Björn murmured, “Be quiet, little Revna,” as he carved my face like it was a piece of wood.

Eventually, he drew his arm back and admired his handiwork. He was kind enough to let me rub the blood from my eyes before he pinned my wrists in an iron grip once more. I sobbed, the incisions burning when my tears ran over the torn flesh.

Shame roiled in my stomach. Shame and fear. I was no warrior. No queen.

I hoped Søren had left. That the man who had ruined my life—the man I might have loved—wasn’t watching my last moments.

“Please,” I whispered to Björn as he lowered his knife to the base of my throat.

He clicked his tongue softly. “It’s too late for that.”

I took a deep breath—one of my last—and gathered my courage. I might die, but let them not forget the first Nilurae to fight in their Trials.

That thought sparked anger inside of me, replacing my fear, and without thinking I spat the blood and saliva in my mouth into Björn’s face.

He reared back and I slipped my wrists from his hold, grabbed the last knife in my arm sheath, and shoved it upward with all my strength through the gap in Björn’s armor, directly into his heart.

My brother’s eyes went wide, and he gaped at the weapon lodged in his chest. Our eyes locked for a moment.

“Youbitch,” he whispered.

I pulled the knife from his body, and with a cough and a spurt of blood he fell forward on his face.

Dead.

31

Silence descended like a blanketover the arena—but only for a heartbeat.

Snow began to fall from the sky as a raging war cry echoed from the stands.

I looked up just in time to see Halvar slit the throat of the priest sitting nearest him. In slow motion the body tumbled, white cloth stained red, through the crowd. With a sickening thud, it flipped over the edge of the stands and landed in the trench carved along the sides of the arena floor.

I pushed Björn’s deadweight off me and stood. Every muscle in my body trembled, and blood was still coursing freely down my face. But I raised Aloisa into the air, blade pointed high as cries began to echo through the crowd. “For the godforsaken!” I screamed, hoping someone—anyone—could hear me.

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