Page 149 of The Sun He Buried

His eagerness survives beneath the caution. Good. I have no use for a man who needs an order to strike me.

“You may refuse,” I tell him.

He studies my hands, the mask, and the bottle I’m still carrying.

“No, my Dróttin.”

“No, you refuse?”

“No, I’ll fight.”

“Excellent. We have conquered language.”

The circle widens.

He raises both fists.

I take another drink and pass the bottle to the woman by the fence.

“Do not finish it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She has been spending too much time near Ketill.

The man comes at me.

His fear shifts before his shoulders do. Right hand first. High.

I move inside it and put my fist beneath his sternum.

Air leaves him.

He tries the left. I catch his wrist, turn, and drive my elbow into his ribs. One gives.

He drops to a knee.

The clearing goes still.

“That was quick,” the woman says.

I hold out my hand for the bottle.

She gives it back.

The fighter gets one boot beneath him. Pain rolls off him, clean and sharp, followed by irritation with himself.

“Again?” I ask.

He grins through bloody teeth.

“Yes.”

Better.

The second attempt lasts longer.

He stops watching the mask and starts watching my chest. His first punch lands against my shoulder. The second catches my side.