Chapter 5 Solveig
Atraining ring was in the centre of camp, up on a platform so lessons and duels could be visible to all who gathered around.
Large tree posts at each corner were wrapped with rope and connected to create a square.
The mounded platform was edged with rocks and moss, four stone steps leading to the bloodstained gravel.
The rules inside the ring were simple—stay within the confines of the rope. No death blows.
Two rules that should be easy to remember but were often forgotten.
Vanir were a hot-tempered race and could not always be trusted to follow even those simple directives. Fights over males, females, land, or food had ended in death—in and outside of the arena.
This would not be one of those fights, however, since neither Latham nor Solveig wanted the other dead or severely harmed. Each had their own reasons for wanting to win.
Solveig was ready to put this age-old argument to rest once and for all, tired of arguing with him twice a year over whether he would join the raids.
They entered the ring together, a crowd already gathered around, humming with excitement. Word had spread through the clan about the challenge Latham issued, and many were eager to watch the outcome. Solveig rarely fought in the ring.
She didn’t need to, even as General—she was usually able to mediate most issues that arose without being challenged. For that, Quillon Bjornson, the jarl of the Southern Wilds, the clan leader in charge of civilian issues, often expressed his gratitude.
Solveig stepped into the ring, relishing the feel of gravel under her boots.
She hadn’t changed from earlier and wasn’t dressed in her usual fighting leathers.
The clothes on her back would do well enough—it was only fifteen minutes.
As a bonus, donning no armour would unnerve Latham, insinuating she did not consider him a threat.
Latham had taken the opposite approach, however. He arrived clad in his full royal fighting gear. It seemed he wished to make a spectacle of their fight.
His stocky build filled out the soft leathers, gold-stitched tunic tucked under the ornate chest plate, framing the armour. Braids twisted through his long beard, his light brown hair pulled back to showcase the shaved sides of his head, and a fur-lined cape slung over his shoulders.
As he entered the ring, he adorned his head with his Veks? helmet, the horns on either side gleaming as though he’d just polished them.
Solveig had to work to keep the smile off her face.
“Overcompensating?” Gerrie asked Latham as she slipped under the rope behind him.
“Prepared,” he replied. Gerrie smirked and took her place in the middle of the arena. Stepping up to Gerrie’s left, Solveig put herself in the honoured position of the previous victor as Latham stood on the right.
Gerrie cleared her throat, turning to the crowd.
“Citizens and soldiers of the Southern Wilds, today we have a challenge issued by Captain Latham Arlanson and accepted by General Tordottir. Terms have been agreed upon. Fifteen minutes in the ring to determine a winner.
“If Captain Arlanson draws blood within the allotted time frame, he wins. If General Tordottir evades the drawing of her blood, she will be named the victor. Warriors, your last words.” Gerrie took a step back to allow Solveig and Latham to face each other fully.
Each was to choose a phrase of wisdom to initiate the fight and make their sentiments known. As always, the challenger began.
“Never reproach another for his love: It happens often enough that beauty ensnares with desire the wise, while the foolish remain unmoved,” Latham called clearly, the proverb of old sounding unnatural in his stilted voice.
His eyes burned with the desire to prove himself, but the rise and fall of his chest betrayed his nerves.
Solveig didn’t want to fight him. It was inevitable that she would win. She wasn’t a humble person—when someone is so often proven right, they learn to trust themselves and their abilities.
“A person should not agree today to what they’ll regret tomorrow,” she said in a low voice, though she knew everyone could hear.
Chuckles reverberated through the still growing crowd. Latham lowered his brows, acting undeterred by her words or by the laughs, but Solveig knew better.
He raised his sword. She had yet to move, even to draw her weapon. On the other side of the ropes where she now stood, Gerrie raised her arm.
“May Tyr guide your sword!” she exclaimed, starting the duel.
Fifteen minutes.
Latham stalked Solveig, circling her as she remained still, feet planted firmly on the ground.
She closed her eyes, listening to her prey’s movements as he planned his attack.
In one swift movement, her eyes flew open as she unsheathed her sword, swinging it around to block Latham’s strike. His eyes flared. She smiled sadly.
They entered into a dance of swords and daggers. Latham knew where her hidden daggers were usually kept, but she was one step ahead, having rearranged them before the fight. He wasted the first five minutes attempting to get her to discharge them.
With ten minutes remaining, Latham had multiple scratches in his armour, and blood trickled from the few strikes that had managed to catch skin instead of leather or metal.
Seven minutes.
Latham’s own daggers had been disarmed, save for the one gripped tightly in his fist, the silver blade glinting in the sun.
The others lay outside the ring, out of reach.
His heavy breathing contrasted with Solveig’s steady rhythm.
She tried to mask the pity in her eyes, but the sight of it seemed to bolster his strength, and he increased the speed of his attacks.
Five minutes.
His face flushed with fury, blood rising to his cheeks as he glowered. Solveig made contact again, elbow driving into his stomach, and he blinked rapidly as if his vision had gone blurry. He appeared to be panicking, his movements becoming sloppier and his defences weakening.
Two minutes.
Latham’s bottom lip bled from where she’d kneed him in the face.
She ducked under his next swing and effectively dodged the wild stab of his knife.
She pinned him with a glare. Though he’d missed, his jab had been more powerful than necessary and would have done serious damage if it met its mark. He was getting reckless.
One minute.
She hardly recognized him as he swung his sword with abandon. He was putting up a good fight, and the small tear in her shirt told her he had gotten too close.
The fire in his eyes intensified as his time ticked down. Both of them were panting now, Solveig relishing the strain in her muscles. She hadn’t been challenged in a while and this was good practice for her. Too bad she had to end it.
With a quick duck and roll, she popped up behind Latham, sweeping his legs out from under him.
He landed on the ground with a hard thud as his knees buckled and hit the gravel.
He tried to get up, but Solveig was too quick.
She moved to stand in front of him and kicked him onto his back, putting one foot on his chest and the point of her sword to his throat.
“Time,” Gerrie called from the side.
Solveig had to hand it to the clan. As much as they’d been cheering and egging the two of them on throughout the fight, no one cheered now. Likely out of respect for Latham, not wanting to further his humiliation, as well as fear of her retaliation.
The crowd dispersed quickly and quietly, money exchanging hands as they went.
Waiting until they had no more audience, Solveig took her foot from Latham’s chest and held her hand out to him.
He didn’t snub her offer, but it was clear he was in no mood to speak with her, unable to meet her eyes as he grasped it and got to his feet.
He dropped her hand the second he was steady and grabbed his fallen helmet off the ground, taking off towards his tent without a word.
She watched him go, her heart heavy. Tucking those emotions away like she always did and instead focused on the relief that he wouldn’t be coming with them. Gerrie, ever the irreverent person, came up behind her and slapped her ass.
“Atta girl!” she said happily, slinging her arm around Solveig’s much higher shoulders, steering her in the opposite direction of Latham. “He’ll be fine,” she whispered.
Gerrie could be rude and abrasive, completely carefree in any situation, but she was also Solveig’s anchor. She needed to hear those quiet words, however small and insignificant they seemed.
Shorter by more than a head, Gerrie’s arm was comically stretched around Solveig.
She had rich dark skin and her head was sheared of any hair, making her appear exactly as fierce as she was.
Tattoos of feathered wings marked both her arms and the columns of her neck, a line of runes down her throat to her chest. The tattoos told the story of Gerrie’s loss.
Her family had been slaughtered in Vanaheim and she had been witness to the brutality of it. Gerrie had been only a witchling, her family spies for Asgard, when they were caught, The Midgard army shackled her to a post and forced her to watch.
The scars and tattoos entwined together, marking her as a free female shaped by her past.
Others often thought her humour was a way to cover her pain, but Solveig had known Gerrie before her tragedy and she had always been crass. She envied Gerrie’s ability to prevent past suffering from taking joy from the present.
“Thank you,” she whispered back. Solveig took no pleasure in defeating Latham, but she pushed those emotions down again and went back to the council tent to plan the raid.