Behind her, Vyion guffawed, and the shield circled tittered, no one quite meeting her eyes. They had not forgotten. “You do?” Vyion challenged. “She walked all over you and still, you are victim to the whore’s cunning smile.”
Sibba bit back her retort, keeping her eyes on her father even though a blush crept up her neck, warming her frozen skin. “I can pay the afrath to clear her of the charges.”
“You cannot afford the afrath!” Vyion's shout was not unexpected. For putting the horns on one of the chief's traders, the fine would be tremendous. But her mother's hoard had been large as well, and while it might not be enough to cover the cost of a ship and the afrath, Sibba would never be able to stand by and watch Estrid die. She had made the choice the moment she had decided to come to the trial, even though she hadn’t admitted it to herself. Love was painful, and worst of all enduring.
The chief watched them both, amused. He had not seen Sibba in five years, but his first reaction was not to embrace her or protect her but to see what she was made of. Sibba knew he thought her weak, always second best to her brother Jary, who was nowhere to be seen.
“I do not want your payment, anyway,” Vyion continued. “No payment can be enough to make up for the shame that my wife has brought upon me. Death is the only recompense.”
Estrid choked back a tortured sob, bringing a hand to cover her mouth. Ari was on his feet again, his back pressed to one of the shields, as far away from Vyion as he could get. Sibba couldn't blame him—Vyion could not be relied on for a fair fight. There was a tortured look on Ari’s face that Sibba hated. She wanted to knock him back to his knees, to shake Estrid until she understood that she was better than any of this.
Instead, Sibba turned to Vyion. “Are you prepared to die for your pride, then?”
He laughed again, the sound beginning to seep beneath her usually thick skin. When she crossed to Ari, no one stopped her. She took his shield, but when he handed her his sword, she waved it away, reaching instead to unsheath the crow blade. It was too big for her, and she had not trained with a sword in years, but she was empowered by her anger—her hatred—for this man, and for her own weaknesses. The sword and shield seemed to weigh nothing.
The crowd pulsed with excitement. This was what they came for—death. Estrid's or Sibba's or Vyion's—they didn't care. Sibba could taste it, feel her own blood race with it. She remembered Gabel, his hands around his throat; her mother, her wide-eyes glassy and still.
“You don't have to do this,” Vyion said, and she thought maybe he was finally a little afraid. The sword was a piece of art, the swirls in the hammered steel glinting along its length in the waning sunlight. “She could have divorced me. But she chose—”
Sibba lunged. The borrowed shield on her left arm met his nose with a crack, even though it was partly protected by an iron helmet. He stumbled back as her sword grazed his upper arm, leaving a shallow cut just under his sleeve.
He recovered too quickly and sidestepped to swing at her right side. She blocked, stepped and swung again. He got past the shield and the tip of his sword ripped the leather at her hip but didn't break the skin. Laughing, he stepped back, and suddenly the face wasn't his anymore but Gabel's. Dirty and chiseled, light brown eyes mocking her. Malstrom bitch.
Sibba knew she had to bury the rage and instead take advantage of her speed. Without taking a breath, she struck at him again, slamming the shield into his face for a second time and bringing the sword around to his gut. This time it sliced through skin. Blood welled through the gash in his stomach and from his nose where it dripped into his mouth. She thought Estrid might have screamed but she wasn't sure. There was nothing now except for this fight.
He spat red onto the ground and attacked, but he was letting his anger get the better of him. It was Sibba's turn to laugh; she was practically dancing circles around him as he swung blindly, the faceplate of his helmet having caved in from the second blow. The banging of axes on the shields around them grew deeper, faster, and she knew that she had to end it. But it was different than killing an attacker, this premeditated murder of someone she knew. Someone who had been wronged. She had said she would kill him, and so she would, and thereby prove Estrid's favor in the eyes of Domaris, whether or not her mother approved. Whether or not it made her heart clench with nerves.
She feinted to the left and then struck on the right, aiming for his already weakened arm and missing. The glancing blow knocked Sibba off balance, and next thing she knew, he was lunging for her. She made the mistake of raising her sword instead of her shield, and the force of Vyion's angry strike sent the blade flying out of her hands and skittering to Thorvald's feet. The chief bent to pick up the sword and stood holding it, smiling. Always smiling. Maybe she would kill him, too.
Vyion didn't waste any time, taking advantage now of her distraction and plowing into the shield, knocking her to the ground. The dirt was cold, slick mud, churned by their feet. She scrambled backward, grasping for purchase and finding none. He hit the ground again and again with his heavy sword, missing her each time by just a hair's breadth as she rolled back and forth. He was drunk with victory and that made him cocky, so he did not kill her right away, which would be his second mistake.
The ax was still at her hip, and instead of scrambling backward, she paused and reached for it. It came out of its halter easily, as if it had been waiting for its moment to shine. The base of the head was still stained with Gabel's blood, and now she would give it another taste.
Her feet swept beneath Vyion's and sent him tumbling forward so that he landed on her legs. The crowd bellowed and Sibba swung blindly, the ax biting through the flesh of his sword arm. He screamed like a dying pig, forgetting his shield and grabbing for the wound in his arm. She must have severed muscle and tendon because his fingers no longer closed around the hilt of his sword. She could have taken it from him, but instead, she knocked it aside and moved to straddle him.
Leaning forward, Sibba whispered in his ear, “This is for Estrid.” She didn't know if he heard her over his bellowing, but he was quickly silenced when the ax chopped into his neck. Droplets of warm blood hit her face as the crowd seemed to exhale with relief.
She couldn't say how long she sat there astride Vyion's body before Estrid came and dropped to her knees beside her.
“Sibba,” was all she said. Estrid put her arms around Sibba's shoulders, the touch breaking through the years of frost that had developed between them. The tears came without shame as Sibba realized that no matter how she tried to deny it, leaving Ottar would not be as easy as she had imagined.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rayne