Page 150 of The Sun He Buried

Pain opens beneath my ribs.

Mine again.

I laugh.

He hesitates.

Poor decision.

My fist catches his jaw. He lands on his back and stays there long enough to decide the sky has earned his attention.

Two others drag him from the circle.

“Next.”

The taller fighter steps in.

Then the woman.

Then a guard with one torn ear and enough good sense to attack from the side.

I put all three in the snow.

The drink warms my blood. Bruises gather over my ribs, stomach, and left shoulder. The cut in my palm opens each time I make a fist.

Solveih remains.

The triumph has eased. Warmth takes its place, deep and loose. Baldr’s comfort closes around her. I’ve felt that too many nights to mistake it.

He holds her after.

“Again,” I say.

Nobody steps forward.

The woman by the fence looks past me.

Ketill walks into the clearing without a coat.

Snow has settled across his hair and the burn scars on one side of his face. His walls are high. Anger still finds the gaps.

He looks at the four people sitting in the snow.

Then at me.

“Productive evening?”

I raise the bottle toward the four in the snow.

It goes wider than that. Liquor comes out of the neck in an arc and crosses the drift, and the man nearest my boot takes some of it across the chest.

He decides not to mention it.

“They require practice.”

The man on his back raises one hand. “He is very helpful.”

Ketill points toward the path. “Inside.”