Page 54 of The Speed of Lightning
Grufa crouched, hands spread. “We came for glíma. Perhaps you’d like to test your god against ours—unless you’ve been gone so long you’ve forgotten how to fight like a man.”
Murdoch shook his head, eyeing Grufa’s sagging frame. “I wouldnae?—”
Ragnall cut him off. “Mystical, both of you. Lightning and Thunder—faerie stories. Not one man here has seen proof of your worth. Let us see if our so-called tànaiste can even fight before we submit to him.”
Calum shed plaid, cuirass, tunic. “You wish to fight me?”
Grufa slapped his chest, laughing. “Call on your God, if you think you cannae best a son of Odin.”
Thunder rumbled over Ardlussa Bay. Calum’s pulse surged, a tingling thrumming through his veins. The Hound of War woke from his slumber, stretching, growing in size.
“Look at him!” Grufa crowed. “Observe his doubt. Prove you are the tànaiste we should submit to.”
Da stepped forward, voice cutting through the noise. “Then let it be tested. If Calum wins, you will apologize and train without further dissent—you, Ragnall, and young Balder. And you will respect his faith, no more talk of it.”
From the center of the practice yard, Balder lifted his head, meeting his father’s gaze. “A son of Odin will not be beaten. Agree to it, MacLean.”
Calum crouched, extending one hand. “Aye, I agree.”
War gathered in his senses as Grufa’s fingers clamped his forearm, the handsál signaling the beginning the fight. The Viking lunged, size and weight driving forward, but Calum dug in, heels set, arms locked around his neck.
Grufa wrenched free and charged again. Calum caught his arms, striking his side, searching for leverage. With a growl he heaved Grufa onto his back, aiming for a throw, but rain and woad made the man slick as a sturgeon, thrashing out of water
Heavy yet nimble, Grufa stuck, unseating Calum’s footing, and together they crashed to the ground. Thinking fast, Calum slipped from his grip, clamped around his midsection, and both shoved upward, forcing themselves back to their feet.
Chest heaving, Grufa barreled forward once more. This time Calum met him square, reading his weight and weakness. Power surged as he dragged the man’s neck down and drove forward, carrying him across the field before flinging him hard into the dirt.
A roar broke out. Men struck their chests in thunderous applause. Calum circled, arm outstretched for the handsál. “You wanted this settled. Now it is. Behold your tànaiste.”
Like a charging bull, something slammed into Calum from behind, driving him across the field. He locked onto the mass of man and twisted as they hit the ground—Ragnall above him, shaking him like prey.
Da’s voice thundered. “Ragnall, stop this at once!”
“Spoil my daughter and this clan, will you?”
In three swift moves Calum wrenched him off, but Ragnall clung to his neck, dragging them both down the slope toward the river.
They skidded to a halt. Ragnall tore at his boot, steel flashing as he yanked free a dirk. Calum caught the glint, rolled, and the blade sank into dirt where his chest had been.
“Are you mad?!”
“I will settle this!”
The knife slashed again. Calum shoved the arm wide, flipped Ragnall over his head with his legs, and scrambled upright.
“I dinnae wish to fight you. Think of Freya?—”
Ragnall’s eyes bulged, his face twisted in a spitting snarl. “You’ve taken her and spoiled her. Stolen her from her papa for your pleasure. You soiled her at sixteen, and now you’ve returned tup her again. Freya’s nothing but your harlot.”
Rage detonated in Calum. Thought vanished. The hound he held within sprang free, a savage aggressor loosed by the sound of Freya’s name. With an animal roar he charged, crushed Ragnall’s weapon arm to the earth, and drove a knee into his belly. He smashed the man’s fist against the ground until the knife flew free.
Ragnall spat, and Calum drove his fist square into his face. “Do you ken who you’re speaking of?”
“Aye—my daughter. The curse I’ve borne for twenty six years.”
The words split something inside him. Ten years of anger swelled into a black tempest. A howl ripped from his gut as he pummeled Ragnall’s cheek until his knuckles bled. Fury for Freya’s torment, fury for her shame, poured into every blow.
Feral, seething, he shook the man like a rag. It felt good—too good—to hurt him. To make him suffer. He squeezed until Ragnall’s eyes bulged, blood vessels bursting. “You nearly killed her,” he snarled, voice reduced to a harsh growl. “You nearly killed her.”
