Chapter Four Amund
Gods, it’s been a long day.
The stiff mattress does nothing to help my aching muscles. Rolling over makes my still-tender rib throb. I have Father to thank for that. He broke it while we were sparring weeks ago, and it hasn’t fully healed. It isn’t the first injury he’s given me, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.
Gritting my teeth, I try to focus on anything other than the pain. Like the witch I met this morning. Edith. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her and the way she smiled at me. She seemed so grateful we scared off the berserkir. Seeing her and her sister reminded me why I hunt.
To protect people.
For the first time in a long time, I felt good about myself. Edith was so warm and welcoming, she disarmed me. Those steel-gray eyes of hers were as beautiful as any blade. My heart jumped when our gazes met. No one has ever looked at me like that.
Not with fear but admiration.
For a moment, it seemed like she might be interested in me.
Of course I was mistaken. As our conversation continued, she quickly closed herself off. I must have done something wrong. But what? I go back over our meeting again and again until my eyelids start to grow heavy, but nowhere near as heavy as my limbs. Exhaustion burrows into my bones, and finally—
Sleep.
I don’t stir until the clock tower chimes 6 a.m.
Damn it. The sound grates on my nerves.
Bright sunshine floods through the window. With a heavy sigh, I climb out of bed, rubbing my face to wake myself up. Class starts soon, and I can’t be late. Tardiness reflects poorly on me and, more important, on Father.
Outside, campus is already crowded with hunters. Each student I pass carries a weapon. Once, we might have been warriors. Heroes from the sagas. Now we are trained to hunt. To kill. And we do, to protect society from berserkir who lose control. Like I protected Edith and her sister yesterday.
I keep my eyes straight ahead—
Only to spot familiar brown curls.
Nils.
Seeing my brother stops me in my tracks. It always does.
I remember when he used to run to me and throw his arms around my neck. How I used to do my best to comfort him after one of Father’s scoldings, when Nils would cry until snot ran down his nose, which only made our father more furious.
Now he walks toward me without so much as lifting his head.
“Nils?” I hear myself asking.
He’s the last person I’d ever expect to see on the hunter campus. Nils never goes this way, and I’m sure it’s to avoid Father and me. Even on patrols, I’ve never seen him cross this campus.
Our eyes meet. Tension coils inside me, but he says nothing.
He ignores me, passing me by like a stranger, though he surely heard me call his name. We’re nothing to each other now: not brothers, not friends, not even acquaintances. The thought sends a sharp stab through my chest.
All because Father refused to accept that one of his sons prefers magic to hunting.
All because I didn’t see what was happening until it was too late.
I turn, my eyes following Nils as he pulls out a book. A grimoire. He starts flipping through the pages, pretending he never noticed me. I’m glad for Nils. I am. I want to chase after him and say something more to him. Anything.
But I wouldn’t know where to start.
Nils disappears in the direction of the witch campus, where he now lives with Mother.
Some part of me hoped that my brother was here to see me. Foolish.
My legs keep moving in the opposite direction.
The training grounds are straight ahead.
Everyone is already gathered there, clad in combat leathers.
Father stands before them, along with Idris, our other instructor.
It’s fitting they teach Advanced Combat Training together.
Not only are they our two strongest hunters but they clash constantly.
While Father still hunts regularly, Idris retired long ago.
Father oversees all of Skallagrim’s security; Idris teaches Philosophy and Ethics.
Father hates berserkir; Idris married one.
As I take my place among the students, Father refuses to so much as look at me. He may not acknowledge my tardiness publicly, but I’m certain he will punish me for it later.
He always does.
“Now that everyone’s here,” Idris says, casting me a sympathetic smile, “Agnar and I will demonstrate the spear techniques we went over last class. Watch closely and see how we apply them in combat.”
After careful consideration, Idris selects a spear, testing its balance. He was one of the finest hunters Skallagrim had ever seen, until he traded his bow and arrow for books and pens. But just because he chooses not to fight doesn’t mean he can’t. Maybe that’s what true strength is.
Father cuts across the training grounds with self-assured strides, shoving a hand through his short dark hair. His close-clipped beard and mustache frame his scowl as he removes a spear from the weapon rack.
Father and Idris face off.
Their spears smack together. They strike with precise, practiced blows, locked in a lethal dance. There’s something graceful about the way Idris fights. Father is all brutal efficiency, but Idris fights like it’s an art. He’s the only hunter who can rival Father.
If only I could be more like him.
I watch in wonder until their sparring match ends in a tie.
It always does. As exceptional as Idris is, even he can’t beat my father.
No one can.
“Who’s up first?” Father asks once the demonstration is over.
He doesn’t have to explain what he means. Every training session begins the same way. We face each other in a hólmganga. Outside these walls, the ancient duels are illegal. Too many died from them. But Skallagrim loves its traditions, no matter how dangerous.
Father walks along the line of hunters with a frown, glancing from our leathers down to our tall boots. His cloak sways as he walks by. “No volunteers?”
Everyone fears his judgment.
Father tends to have that effect on people.
He comes to a stop in front of me. “Amund,” he says, and I force myself not to flinch at the sound of my name. “Since you arrived last, you can go first.”
I wince. Between hunting and patrol, he knows I’ve had a couple of long nights. Unlike me, he shows no trace of exhaustion. How does he do it? And more important, why can’t I? Father must be wondering the same thing. No doubt that’s why he targeted me.
Idris gives me an encouraging nod as I step forward into the ring and stand before the class. More than a few of my classmates look resentful, mistaking my father’s targeting for favoritism. If only they knew the truth.
Father tosses me his spear. “Here.”
Of all the weapons we train with, spears have always been my favorite.
This one feels good. Balanced. I ignore the ache in my arms and spin the spear, passing it between my hands.
The class may have just learned these techniques recently, but I’ve been doing them my whole life.
Father has given me a brutal education. He started early so I could follow in his footsteps, but his shoes still feel too large to fill.
Idris looks out over the gathered class. “Amund still needs an opponent. Anyone?”
“Sure, why not?” My closest friend, Val, steps forward and shifts her weight to her other hip. Her black hair is pulled back into neatly braided rows, and her warm brown skin contrasts with her dark leather armor. She looks ready for battle.
Surprise ripples through me. Spears may be my favorite, but Val is obsessed with her knives. She has a belt full of them strapped across her chest. Her emotional support knives, she calls them. Usually with a smirk.
Val is the last person I’d expect to volunteer against me. We’ve trained together for so long, she knows all my strengths and weaknesses as well as I know hers. Still, judging from her relaxed posture, she’s confident she can win.
For me, facing a friend is harder than any foe.
“Very well, Valerie,” Father says.
Val joins me in the ring. The rest of the students close around us in a tight circle, cutting off any escape. Like many hunters, Val was recruited young after a berserkr attacked her family. She’s one of our best. I can’t go easy on her because she’s my friend.
“You both know the rules,” Father continues. “Fight until first blood is drawn. Step outside the bounds of the circle and be considered argr.”
Idris grimaces at the word while Val smirks.
Unmanly. Historically, it was one of the gravest insults a warrior could be given. To people like my father, it still is. And he isn’t afraid to use it.
Father looks between us, his expression hard as stone. “Let the hólmganga begin.”
We may no longer be hunting, but this is another test. Father will be watching my every move. Failure isn’t an option.
Val comes at me as soon as she picks up her spear. Just as I expected. I block the blow, the force of the impact traveling up my arms. Val always goes for the first strike. She’s impatient. Eager. She’s been like that since we were young.
I use her momentum to knock her aside.
Val jumps back onto her feet, rolling out her shoulder with a grin. “Come on, Amund. You could’ve gotten a counter-attack in there.”
“You can do better than that,” Father calls. A taunt disguised as praise.
But he’s right. I have to do better.
I have to be better.
I go on the offensive like I learned when training with Nils. Each time I strike at Val, I see my terrified brother. Our spears clash, far stronger than Nils ever could manage. Facing my brother never felt like a fair fight, not when I was larger and stronger. So I held back.
Or tried to.
Harder, Father would urge me. Don’t go easy on him just because he’s your brother. Coddling does him no favors. It will only get him killed faster. Nils was never good with weapons, but that didn’t matter to Father. He made us both train until we were breathless and soaked in sweat.
If I held back, Father would take my weapon from me and strike at Nils far harder than I could.
If either of us cried, it made Father more relentless.
Only the weak cry, he would shout. All I could do was stand and watch, hating every second of it.
When it was finally over, Nils would ask me, Why didn’t you just do what he wanted, Amund? Better you than him.
Val strikes, snapping me back.
With a quick spin, I bring my own weapon down, slicing through her spear’s wooden shaft. The tip drops into the dirt as Val clutches the useless end. There’s no way she can make me bleed now. But I can’t bring myself to harm her when she’s weaponless, either.
Not when I can still see my brother, knocked on the dirt and whimpering at my feet.
I hesitate now, just like I hesitated back then.
I can’t do it.
Father’s dark eyes glint with disapproval—
Val sends the wooden edge of the spear straight at my face.
I knock it aside easily.
A distraction. She’s crouching low, picking up the spear tip.
With a practiced motion, she throws it at me as if it were one of her daggers.
She’s clever. Just like Nils. What my brother lacked in strength, he made up for with his mind.
Too bad Father wanted both. Something neither of us could offer him.
I dodge—but not quickly enough.
Blood trickles down my arm.
With a grunt, I glance at the slice from the spear tip. Another scar.
Another loss. Great.
“That was fun,” Val says with a coy smile.
She walks over to me and quietly adds, “You know I hate losing. We good? No hard feelings?”
Nodding, I trade my spear for her broken pieces. “We’re good.”
Val grins, turning toward the students. “Who’s next?”
Father clears his throat. “Be seated, Amund.”
His voice is tight. He must be livid, even though his outward expression betrays no hint of the tempest within him. Unlike me, Father is a master at hiding his emotions. Sometimes I wonder if he has any.
As I leave the ring, Idris pats my shoulder. “Excellent technique.”
I shake my head. “I still lost.”
“Even so, you did well, Amund.”
Shame burns through me as I sit down. I can’t make myself believe Idris. Not when Father’s scrutiny makes me feel inadequate. It always does, whether I win or lose.
“My turn,” Dorian says as he takes my place.
He’s one of our strongest hunters, but also the most arrogant.
Each time my classmates strike their wooden spears, a new thought berates me.
How could I be so sloppy? I know better than to get distracted.
Or worse, let my guard down. It doesn’t matter that I was up all night hunting recently while they were fast asleep.
That’s not a reason; it’s an excuse. I have to be better. Stronger.
I sit there, stewing in my thoughts, until class is finished.
“That’s all for today,” Idris says.
Maybe now I can finally get some rest.
“Before you go,” Father cuts in. “Valerie, work on your control. Dorian, your strikes are powerful but too slow. Michael, don’t think I didn’t notice your complete lack of technique. Next time I see you, I expect you to do better. That goes for all of you. Now go.”
Dorian knocks into me as he passes, bumping my shoulder. “Didn’t hear Daddy criticize his favorite. Wonder why.”
I should be used to his derision. Most of my classmates think the same thing. They have no idea. Not even Val knows the extent of it.
Once everyone is gone, I start to leave.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Father asks, stopping me in my tracks. “Did I dismiss you, Amund?”
He hurls a spear at the back of my head.
As I spin, it nearly pierces my eye. I barely manage to snatch it in time. He isn’t just upset with me—he’s furious.
Fear wells up, but I tamp it down quickly.
Just like an animal, Father can sense fear.
“You were holding back again.” His expression turns severe as he rubs a large hand over his beard in frustration. “Because you think Valerie is your friend? Or is it because she’s a girl? None of that matters in a fight. She is your opponent. Nothing else.”
“I wasn’t holding back. Val—Valerie is one of the best—”
“Enough excuses,” Father says sharply. His dark eyes meet mine. “You must be the best. You are my only son.”
I grip my spear so tight my knuckles turn white. We both know that isn’t true.
When I remain silent, he continues. “You should be the first one here and the last to leave. Now come at me. And this time, don’t you dare hold back.”
“You have no weapon,” I point out.
He moves his hand in a come forward motion, challenging me. His message is clear: He can beat me weaponless. A lifetime of training has turned him into the ultimate apex predator, and he prides himself on it. Whether or not he should.
“For how long?” I ask, thoroughly exhausted.
“Until you draw blood,” Father says. “Or I do.”