Page 32 of Alliance Bride
The two men circled, swords flashing, each strike reverberating like thunder as the crowd roared, a wild, wordless sound that surged and dipped with every movement. Splinters burst from their shields with every savage blow. Runar’s shield split halfway down, a jagged gash cutting through the eagle’s wing. Still, he pressed forward.
The brutality of it turned Eadlyn’s stomach. This wasn’t some staged duel for sport or practice. This was pure survival. She couldn’t imagine either of them walking away whole if they walked away at all.
Staegar feinted left, swinging hard right. Runar blocked it but stumbled. Staegar hammered at him in a brutal assault that forced Runar into a hard defensive rhythm. Shield up, blade flashing, struggling to keep pace. For a breathless moment, Eadlyn feared he might fall.
With a roar, he countered. One brutal slash clipped Staegar’s arm. Blood flowed, dark against his leathers. Yet Staegar didn’t even flinch. He charged like a wounded bear, swinging harder andfaster. Their blades locked, and they strained against each other in a test of strength. Inch by inch, Runar shoved Staegar back.
And then a slip. Barely a misstep but enough.
Runar lunged. His sword bit into Staegar’s thigh. The man snarled. Runar’s sword and shield worked in a furious tandem, battering Staegar’s defenses. Their feet tore up the dirt, their faces contorted with effort. Staegar rallied and launched a brutal swing at Runar’s head only to have it blocked and answered with a shield to the shoulder.
Staegar reeled, and Runar pressed his advantage. He slammed the damaged remains of his shield against Staegar’s sword hand. With a clatter, the blade spun from Staegar’s fingers, landing a few feet away in the dirt.
A roar erupted from the crowd.
Desperate, Staegar clambered sideways, reaching for his sword, but Runar slammed into him with his shield. Staegar crashed to the ground, the breath punching from chest. His shield snapped up, but Runar was already there, knocking it aside and planting the point of his blade at Staegar’s throat.
Silence swept over them.
Runar stood, unmoving, his sword held steady. One thrust would end it. But he waited. The two men stared at each other, breathing hard, locked in a silent war of wills. Moments dragged. Every heartbeat boomed against Eadlyn’s ribs and in her ears.
Finally, Staegar spat out a word, and Runar withdrew his blade. The crowd exploded in wild, triumphant cries. Relief flooded Eadlyn so fast she swayed a little, but only as Runar approached his family did she feel as though she could breathe again. He had won and, for now, the alliance remained safe.Thank you, Lord. Thank you.
As quickly as they’d exited, everyone streamed back into the longhouse. Runar took his place on the dais again, and the other jarls settled into their seats. Staegar returned, wounds hastily bandaged, pride hanging off him like a tattered cloak. He limped toward the dais and paused. Slowly and painfully, he lowered himself to one knee. His voice came thick with resentment, but the oath of fealty was unmistakable.
The moment the last word left his lips, he hauled himself upright, the intensity of the fight still evident in his staggered movements. He limped to the vacant seat in the semicircle of jarls, his presence now marked by defeat. The oppressiveness that had gripped the hall since his challenge seemed to melt away with his submission. The council resumed, and Eadlyn realized Aevar had once again settled at her side.
She turned to him, keeping her voice low. “How exactly does someone become king? I thought it passed from father to son, but if anyone can challenge…”
Aevar’s attention didn’t leave the dais. “It passes down by blood, yes, but the other jarls have to agree, and anyone with enough strength or ambition can fight for it.”
She swallowed hard. “It must be difficult knowing anyone can challenge your father.”
Aevar shrugged, the motion detached and almost cold. “If a man isn’t willing to fight for the position, he doesn’t deserve it.”
Eadlyn’s thoughts shifted to Edward. Men like Galen held the responsibility of fighting to ensure her brother’s position as king. She couldn’t see her brother ever being willing or able to fight for it himself.
Chapter Twelve
Meadflowedfreely,fillingthe air with laughter as the evening stretched on. Alys and the other thralls wove through the crowd to refill horns and mugs. Aevar kept a watchful eye, ensuring no one forgot themselves. No hands straying, no roughness, or harassment toward the girls. Some might grumble, but everyone knew Fathir’s thralls were off-limits.
Satisfied for the moment, he took a long drink from his horn, savoring the sweet mead Móthir and Ranvi had prepared. It settled warmly in his chest and chased away the chill that lingered from the tense council meeting earlier.
He scanned the hall, finding Staegar sulking in a corner with those who tolerated him. His expression was all hard lines and bitter resentment. He had made his objections clear, but the majority of the jarls had agreed the alliance was in the best interest of Nordra. Those less favorable ultimately decided to give it a chance. Staegar’s acceptance—or lack thereof—no longer mattered.
Aevar found Sig next. Thedungalurked across the hall, worming his way into a group that no doubt wished he’d findsomewhere else to spoil with his presence. At least he was well away from Eadlyn. Aevar looked to where she sat beside Ranvi at the head table reserved for family. Satisfied she was under no immediate threat, he worked his way toward the front of the hall, weaving through the noisy crush of bodies. Near the doors, a loud group of men had gathered around a barrel of ale. Kian and Braan stood by, watching with amusement as Ulf and Skolli—two of Aevar’s cousins—prepared to square off in a drinking contest.
The moment Ulf spotted him, he waved Aevar over, sloshing ale from his mug. “Join us!”
Aevar shook his head. He’d had enough of the rowdy games tonight. Better to stay sharp, especially with so many guests—and grudges—packed under one roof.
He leaned against a pillar, watching as Ulf’s opponents, Skolli and a jarl’s son, downed their ale with reckless speed. Skolli’s face flushed crimson as he choked mid-swallow, while the jarl’s son, already swaying, collapsed in defeat. Ulf threw back his head and roared in triumph, arms raised like a conquering hero. Aevar chuckled under his breath but let his gaze drift again toward the tables.
The seat beside Ranvi was empty.
Prickles crawled along the back of his neck, and he swept the hall. The tables, the hearth, the clusters of men by the walls held no sign of her. His heart picked up pace. Sig was still making himself unwelcome where he’d been before. Staegar remained slouched in his corner, brooding into his drink. Neither seemed in a position to cause trouble, but where was Eadlyn?
A band of unease pulled tight across his ribs. He squeezed back through the crowd to Ranvi and bent low to speak to her over the din. “Where’s Eadlyn?”
