Page 115 of Laird of Steel
“If ’tis too heavy for ye, m’laird,” Merraid teased, “I can find somethin’ lighter. Perhaps a straw hat?”
Brand’s eyes closed to dull slits. Her mockery was not lost on him. “Not a bad suggestion, since I’m likely to toss such a light bag right o’er your head.”
Merraid smirked. He might resemble Gellir with his dark hair and grave demeanor, but this sullen, sulking braggart was nothing like his respectful and chivalrous brother.
She hefted the canvas bag of mail up to her chest and tossed it forward in a gentle arc.
He caught the bag and sent it back with a grumble.
She tossed it forward again, this time with a slightly more direct trajectory.
He grunted when he caught it and returned it with an arc that was so high, it fell short of her. By the satisfied narrowing of his eyes, she could see he’d done it on purpose, to make her pick it up.
“Is the distance too great for ye, m’laird?” she jested. “I could move closer.”
His lips thinned at the insult. “Stand where you will. It makes no difference to me.”
She retrieved the bag and threw it hard.
Surprised by the impact, he fell back a step. Then, humiliated, he returned the bag with a strength born of anger.
One of the secrets of Merraid’s training was using an opponent’s power against him. This she did now. Rather than absorb the impact of his forceful throw, she stepped swiftly aside, catching the corner of the bag and letting the momentum spin her about. When she swung back around, she released the bag toward him.
The immediate return gave him no time to brace for the impact. The bag hit him square in the chest, and he staggered back several steps.
She was prepared for his rage. She’d fought his kind before. Men who thought women were useless. Powerless. And when they were quickly disabused of that notion, they expressed their displeasure with violence.
So when Brand sneered and hurled the bag at her with all his might, she sidestepped it again and swung it back at him with the same force.
This time he was ready, but he still issued a grunt as the chain mail hit him in the belly.
They completed several more exchanges. Merraid dodged his aggressive throws and sent them back at him like a Greek discus. Brand clung stubbornly to his method of absorbing the force of her blows, and he hurled the bag back at her with ever-increasing anger.
To be honest, after a time, she grew bored and almost as irritated as Brand.
When he launched a particularly vehement throw, she stepped back and let it hit the ground.
“What do ye say we abandon this child’s play, m’laird?” she suggested. “Draw swords and engage in a real fight?”
His eyes glittered as if he relished her murder. But enough Rivenloch nobility flowed in his veins to give her a civil answer. He snorted. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I doubt ye’ll be able to,” she replied, stepping atop the bag of chain mail and then hopping down as she drew herjian.
“Are you serious?” he scoffed. “I’m the brother of Scotland’s tournament champion.”
“And I’m the student o’ Darragh’s finest warrior.”
He muttered something under his breath that sounded like, “’Tisn’t saying much.” Nonetheless he drew his sword.
Merraid swept her elegant blade through the air and prepared to engage him. She was used to being underestimated. She might not be able to topple this up-and-coming second-best warrior in all of Scotland. But she could hold her own against him.
He motioned her forward. “Go ahead then, wench. Give it your best ef-”
She struck before he could even finish the word. Her light blade whistled through the air and sliced across his leather hauberd.
He staggered back in astonishment, frowning at the light diagonal scar she’d etched into the leather.
“Your turn, m’laird,” she said.
