“What did you feel when you watched them load his body onto the ship?”
Torunn almost choked on her mead. “What?”
Hallvard leaned forward in his chair and asked his question again. The flames of the nearby bonfire flickered in his eyes and Torunn coughed to hide her nervousness. She did not want to answer the question, and she did not want her brother knowing how she felt. He would use it against her—she was certain of that.
“Come now, Sister,” Asgaut said. “Our brother asked you a question. What did you feel when they laid our father upon his funeral pyre? Was it pride? Sadness? Does your heart ache for him?”
She narrowed her eyes at her brother. Though his words sounded sincere, Asgaut was mocking her.
“I felt nothing,” she said stiffly.
Hallvard looked disappointed, but Asgaut laughed. “And then the fire began to burn… Did you not feel some regret?”
Torunn tipped her cup to her lips, but it was empty. She frowned at it and held it out to be refilled.
“Come now, Torunn, surely you must have some emotion? Our dear father is dead. Slaughtered on far away shores by Saxons…” Asgaut sneered and spat on the ground at the edge of the platform. “They aren’t even proper warriors.”
She shook her head, took a drink, and closed her eyes. The world had begun to tilt, and she was grateful to feel some numbness creep over her. She would not have been able to tolerate this night if she were sober, but that did not mean she should not be careful.
“Father spoke of you often when we were away raiding,” Hallvard said casually. “I think he would have preferred to have you at his side.”
Torunn’s eyes opened slowly. He was testing her. “I do not think so,” she replied. Hallvard wanted her to agree, but he also wanted her to say aloud what she knew he was thinking. He wanted her to say that there was no one else who could have looked after Skaro in their father’s absence.
He wanted her to say that Asgaut could not be trusted to act in the best interest of the people who had been left behind, and that Hallvard was too impulsive to rule in their father’s stead. She could not say it aloud. She would not. But the glitter in Hallvard’s eyes told her that he already knew. Behind her, she heard Bersi shift his stance. Even he could feel that something was about to happen.
An angry shout broke through the mounting tension and Torunn breathed a small sigh of relief as her brothers’ attention whipped toward the sound.
More shouts followed and Hallvard got up out of his chair to see what was happening.
“A fight!” Asgaut cried gleefully.
Torunn dropped her cup and pushed herself out of her chair. Her legs were unsteady, but she pushed Bersi’s hand away when he reached out to steady her. Good-natured sparring matches were welcome at funerals, they were expected… But nothing about the shouts, or the ring of sword on shield, seemed good-natured.
At the far side of the festivities, near one of the bonfires, two men circled each other like wolves, low and snarling. One man held a sword and shield, the other just a sword. The man with the shield was already bleeding from a wound on his shield arm. His tunic was soaked with blood and he seemed to be holding the shield with an unsteady hand.
As they watched, the man with the sword gave a mighty cry and charged forward with his weapon raised. His opponent’s shield came up, but the block was weak under the strength of the other man’s strike.
The edge of the sword bit deeply into the man’s shoulder and he let out a howl of pain and dropped the shield into the dirt at his feet. Torunn looked at her brother’s desperately.
“You have to stop this!” she cried.
Hallvard glanced in her direction, but she could already see that they were eager to see blood spilled.
The priests who had lingered for the feast seemed uncomfortable as they conferred amongst themselves. A death—especially a purposeful one—on the day of her father’s funeral would be an insult to the gods, and to the former Jarl. An accidental death would have been excused—the dead man had a right to claim a companion for his journey to Valhalla—but this… This could not happen.
“Hallvard, you have to stop this!” Torunn cried. She gripped her brother’s tunic, but he pushed her hand away.
“Let them fight,” he snarled. “Varin has been too bold these last weeks. I would not mourn his passing.”
Varin—
She looked back at the fight and blinked to clear her vision. It was Varin. The aging warrior had the advantage now. He was not grievously wounded, but it was clear that he was tiring. His opponent was a much younger man, but the blow he had taken to the shoulder of his shield arm was a dangerous one.
“Take him, Solva!” Asgaut shouted. The wounded man let out a roar and kicked his discarded shield toward Varin.
Without thinking, Torunn unpinned her cloak and threw it onto her chair. She could hear Hallvard’s laughter as she jumped down from the platform and stepped into the crowd.
“Where is she going?” Asgaut shouted.
She cursed herself for the mead she had drunk and sucked in a deep breath of cold night air. She could not allow this to happen. She could not allow these men, or her brothers, to taint her father’s funeral.
She pushed through the men who blocked her path. Steel clashed against steel, and the shouts of the fighting men filled the air. All eyes had turned to the brawl and desperate fear drove Torunn’s every step. “Stop! Stop this!” she cried. “Varin! Stop this!”
The old warrior did not turn to look at her, and Solva shook his head and bared his teeth as Varin lunged forward. Solva narrowly avoided his strike and Torunn screamed for them to stop, but they were not listening.
Where had they found weapons? Who had allowed this to happen?
All around her men laughed and cheered, but there were those who were silent. This fight should not have begun. Weapons were not permitted at a funeral—especially the funeral of a Jarl.
A heavy hand fell on her shoulder and stopped her mid-step.
“You cannot do this,” Bersi’s voice rumbled in her ear.
“Let me go,” she snarled as she pushed his hand away. “No one else will do it. And I will not allow this to happen. Not tonight.”
“You cannot—”
“You do not tell me what I can or cannot do!”
She stormed ahead without looking back and pulled her knife from her belt. She was also breaking the rules, but she hoped that Odin would forgive her. It was a small insult compared to what might happen if she did nothing.
“Stop this!” she shouted but the two men barely acknowledged her presence. Varin’s eyes were narrowed in concentration, and Solva barely flinched when he heard her voice. Solva charged again, swinging his sword, but Varin blocked him easily and recovered quickly to strike again. Frustration and anger tightened her throat and pushed aside the fog of the mead she had drunk. She shoved her knife back into its sheath, pulled Solva’s discarded shield out of the dirt and charged between the men.
Her arm shuddered as Varin’s blow glanced off the shield and the man grunted in surprise to see her between them.
“You will stop this, now!”
“Get back,” Solva shouted.
Torunn stared into Varin’s eyes and ignored Solva. “Why are you fighting?” she demanded. “The priests—”